<div class="floatleft">(http://onlinerpgs.chrisbradleywriter.com/images/7/76/Cameron1a.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>James O'Sullivan<br/><strong>Location:</strong>House foyer<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Open<br/><br/><hr/><br/>James' bicycle was the nicest thing he owned.  It got more attention than the rider.  It was Nazca Fuego short wheelbase recumbent bicycle, strange looking, pretty low to the ground (not as recumbents went, but as bikes went, quite low) with a clear fairing in front and bike rack with bags hanging off.  James didn't own a car but in the city, he was faster with the bicycle most of the time.  (Though he also owned a bus pass and the bike fit on a normal bike rack, which is part of the reason he got the bike he had, though functionally it was faster for him to ride almost anywhere and endurance wasn't a problem he had.)  The bike cost as much as a decent used car, but there was no ongoing costs - no insurance, no gas, and if tended properly, it would last decades.<br/><br/>He pulled up to the house.  He had just come back from his second daily workout, he wore black lycra shorts and a yellow lycra shirt.  He was between fights, but he was one of those guys who always trained.  He liked being in the gym more than just about anyplace else.<br/><br/>His apartment . . . he did not so much like.  He viewed it merely as the place he slept and kept his stuff.  Since coming to the house, he either slept very long, very deeply, with strange and chaotic dreams, or he hardly slept at all, jerking awake every hour or so, a feeling of dread on him.  But it was fairly close to the gym and the price was right . . . and he was locked into another year of a lease.  Before the end of his lease, he hoped to be fighting in a big show, get some decent sponsors, so he could afford a real place; absent that, he would probably move in with a couple of other fighters who were stuck in his same spot.  But he was going to move.  In nine months.  Until then, he made the best of it.<br/><br/>He picked up his bike, set it on his shoulder, and said, "Hey, Charlie!  That unit finally rented out?"<br/><br/>He entered the foyer and checked his own mail.  "Crap, bill, crap, crap," he said, going through them.  "Was there a time when good things came in the mail?  I doubt it."