[center][hr][hr][h1][color=red]If I Die, I'm Gonna Die Historic.[/color][/h1]
[hr][hr]
[hider=Ol' Reliable]
[img]http://consumerguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/90114071990916.jpg[/img]
[/hider]
[b][u]Location;[/u][/b][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XCiDuy4mrWU]Runnin' in the 90's[/url]
[b][u]Interacting With;[/u][/b] A Ford Ranger, a GPS, a hard left turn[/center][hr][hr]

It's often thought that Ares children take naturally to war. That they thrive in visceral, man-to-man combat, and are some of the most naturally gifted and instinctual fighters on the planet. They are either the most feared, or most welcome sight on the field of battle, a sentiment that was wholly dependent on whose side they'd taken beforehand.

[color=a187be][i]"Ｉｎ　ｆｉｆｔｙ　ｆｅｅｔ，　ｔｕｒｎ　ｌｅｆｔ．" [/i][/color]

[color=red][i]Dammit, Yuki![/i]

"Warn me sooner!"[/color]

None of these things were false at all, and in fact are known to be the quickest, simplest way to describe a demigod of this particular lineage. However, they neglected a crucial detail.

The massive twenty-year old cut to left as directed. At this speed, merely turning hard to course correct would undoubtedly flip Old Reliable over and spell her final undoing.

She deserved no such fate. Not at his hands.

A python shot for the handbreak, her position memorized so thoroughly that he felt comfortable grabbing forward and pulling up at his full speed, the action less looking like something deliberate and carefully calculated, and more just a blur of instinct.

War could be thought of as any competition.

Including a race.

[color=red]"[i]EAT MY DIIIIICK RELOOOOOOOOOOOOO![/i]"[/color] he roared, as the rear end of the venerable Ranger slid outwards into his turn. The two had verbally agreed, over the course of the preparation week, to a land race to the Academy, one starting from California, the other from Texas. 

They figured it would be close enough to even to have fun with it, apparently not expecting northern Arizona to be backed up like the sphincter of a man who loathed dietary fiber. Dallas's snapchats had grown cockier and cockier, smugger and smugger, faster and faster as he'd realized he was sitting on a lead.

And that, of course, nettled Jonas.

Ever the competitor.

Pulling into straight driving once again, he gunned it and she gave every drop of go she had. His GPS, a gift from his beloved little Japanese sister with a wry sense of humor (and a surprisingly accurate sense of his tastes in anime), was leading him straight to a specific set of coordinates that he'd had to input himself. As Yuki Nagato's soft monotone informed him his destination was getting closer and closer, he raised his phone—

And captured a perfect video.

There was the scenery through the window, changing abruptly and with a flash, from somewhat barren Utah shrubbery to a forested road that wouldn't look out of place in front of Maine.

There was the Ranger herself, a gallant steed that wore the snapchat's measurement of 114.6 MPH as well as any old girl could in her suspension.

There was the blaring audio from the speakers, with poor GPS-chan's [color=a187be][i]"Ｙｏｕ　ｈａｖｅ　ａｒｒｉｖｅｄ．”[/i][/color] being all but drowned out by the Eurobeat flowing in through the AUX cord.

And there was Jonas, screaming at the top of his lungs with a war cry that would quake the hearts of man's finest.

[color=red]"Yep, that's going in the Story."[/color]

We won't get into how he managed the parking job three minutes later.

It must have been something, though, considering what Dallas deemed acceptable for his shitty Bratmobile.