Razer's Edge

AN: just a one-shot thats been floating around in my head the last couple of days.

i needed a break from Marauder Child. i've been stuck on the same thought pattern and that not a good thing for me. u__u



so yeahs, some sort-of-but-not-really-love for Razer. just coz the dude has some nice threads and an accent, most of us assume he's all rich and suave. doesnt mean its true

live, love and bleed



~Tarza

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Razer’s Edge







Razer cleaned the grease from his hands and threw the soiled cloth onto the workbench before pulling out another cigarette from his pants pocket and lit it in one smooth motion. Inhaling the tar stick with a long steady breath and leaning a hip against the wheel arch of his Havoc.



He really should stop smoking these things. Health issues and all that hype. But Razer had become addicted to them at the age of fourteen and now, just into his thirties, it wasn’t likely he would be able to quit. Sucking in another lungful of smoke, he reasoned with himself for the millionth time that it wasn’t lung cancer that was going to kill him. Just like it wasn’t going to be any other disease or even the bless of old age.



He would be murdered. From a rival gang most likely, out to weaken Mizo’s hold on this backwash of a city. Or perhaps even one of his own men would deliver the killing blow and end his miserable lot in this world, hopefully it would be quick and he could leave this world with nothing more than an almost unheard gasp. He hoped there was nothing after death. He hoped that one round at life was all anyone got because the thought of being reborn and having to put up with all this shit for another lifetime was almost enough make him want to drive the wrong way around on the track and actually try to get in the way of flying missiles. Hopefully turning him into nothing more than a spray of blood and bone so there wouldn’t be enough left of him to piece together for the next life.



Sure, there was always the possibility that he could die on the track or suffer under some freak accident. But the odds of something like that were painfully slim and every day, every deal he made under Mizo’s name, every threat he made or every handful of money shoved into an untrusted hand was just another step closer to the end he already knew to be coming for him.



A sane man would lose sleep over knowing something like that. And on many occasion Razer had dealt with a hysterical lackey screaming of his paranoia that someone was coming to kill him. To which Razer had always reasoned yes, someone was coming for them. But the question should not be who or why or even how such a thing would happen. But when. Because somebody would always be out for someone else, it was just a question of when such a thing would happen and whether or not you were man enough to look your death in the eye and accept it. Because no one lives forever, not even the precursors. And only a fool would think otherwise.



Razer flicked the butt of the cigarette to the floor and crushed it under heel. He picked up his red and blue coat from where he’d hung it and climbed the nearby ladder to the loft of the garage. Unbeknown to anyone, this is where he slept. On an army cot that had to be dug out from behind a box of parts and folded out in the small space. From an unmarked box he pulled a single blanket and a duffle bag. In said bag where exactly four changes of clothes and what little cash he’d managed to save for himself.



Despite appearances and what people thought when they seen him, Razer was not rich. He did not own a large house or a flashy apartment with a bed large enough to sleep twelve. He did not own expensive silks or colognes or come from a well off family.



The bitter truth was that Razer owned only a few changes of clothing, his boots, a coat and a butterfly knife. Most of which he had stolen from men he’d killed. The coat was the only thing he had brought honestly. It had cost him more than anything he’d ever brought and he did his best to keep it clean because wearing it gave the illusion that he wasn’t dead poor, filthy and near staving. He showered when he could under the garages emergency shower, quickly scrubbing up with hand soap from the bathroom so he could go another few days of hiding under the smell of grease and smoke.



He had never been rich, never held money that he could keep for himself. Thousands upon thousands of dollars passed through his hands but most went to keeping his cars running, all of which Mizo actually owned, paying entry fees into races or using it to get information that usually turned out to be something he already knew. Razer was paid no more than anyone else who worked for Mizo, despite being a so called “second in command”.



In the end, he held onto enough money to continue his chain-smoking habit, drink at the local bar to keep up appearances and buy the occasional meal so he wouldn’t actually starve to death. The men beneath him held onto more money than he did, because appearances were everything in this game and only he was the one expected to play it. Because he was the one who represented Mizo while the tattooed crime lord hid under everyone’s nose and pulled strings from the shadows.



Even his heritage was nothing more than a glorified lie. He was not a foreigner that had come to Kras in a haze of wealth and power, he was born and raised in this city under a name that was painfully plain. A name that he had given up long ago because it meant nothing and Razer was a name that people remembered and respected. His accent was only slight, mimicked from parents that were peasants in the old country and less than that in Kras.  But for some reason people responded to the accent, assuming he was something he wasn’t. It was what had first grabbed Mizo’s attention from the ranks of goons Razer had once been a part of, from there leading the crime lord to discover that this harsh tongued youth was an exceptional racer and capable of more than just providing muscle. So Razer learnt to lay the accent on thicker than what was natural for him until eventually it did become natural. He had successfully turned himself into the perfect charade.



And what was there to regret about it? Nothing. If he wasn’t doing this, if he wasn’t holding a blade to someone’s neck every other day, or doing everything underhandedly possible to ensure Mizo remained in control of this city and that floating blob that was once a man remained in the cesspool that was Haven city.



Yes, he went hungry more often than not. Yes, he expected and was ready to be killed off at any moment and yes, most of what he was, was nothing more than a lie. But he chose it to be that way. Because it let him race. It let him push a roaring machine to the edge of the sound barrier and beyond. It let him live on the razors edge of life and let him soak his very soul in what very few would ever experience.



And that was better than not living at all.  





End