Observing the steady foot traffic around the streets of Riverside reinforced Joel’s feeling of being [i]completely[/i] out of place. Riverside carried an air of exclusivity, like most of downtown Sol City, but tonight they seemed to have dialed it up a notch for this apparent “event”. He’d been around before when it was going on, but never once sat in attendance. Not his scene. Sitting across the street from Swan Song’s in his white thermal shirt and weathered leather jacket he stuck out considerably along with his windblown highway hair. He took a spiteful pleasure in his appearance and the faint aroma of brake fluid and exhaust on his clothing. When he’d ordered nothing but a black Americano, the girl in the coffee truck looked at him confused.

It would be a little bit before the traffic would die off and he didn’t care to exercise his hands and feet any further on the clutch and throttle. The ride back to Southside would be cold enough on the bike once the sun had completely set. He took out his phone and began thumbing through his standard lineup of news and conspiracy websites along with a few technical forums he frequented from time to time: Typical divisions in politics, more arguing, less freedom, [i]blah blah blah[/i], then there was an article about underground submarine bases in Nevada that looked interesting, but was a mile long. He saved it for later then perused over a technical bulletin from Porsche. He glanced up to admire a few well-dressed females passing by. [i]Bored.[/i]

He flipped over to his messenger application. Tommy was the last person he’d talked to three days ago when he’d pulled the car out of the shipping container behind Apex Designs. It was Monday night so that also meant Monday Night Football was on at Footsteps. He rolled his eyes at the thought. Over there grown adults would be shouting at television screens while other grown men, hundreds of miles away, manhandled one another over an oval-shaped, brown ball. He compared that crowd to those currently swooning over mediocre jazz and fluffy drinks and shook his head lightly. [i]This whole fucking country is doomed[/i]. He thought. [i]You hate everything, Joel![/i] A past female acquaintance beckoned from the back of his mind. [i]Yeah, pretty much[/i]. He smirked a little.

The coffee went down along with the temperature. Joel watched the traffic hoping for an opportunity to see it lighten up. He could hear the festivities going into full swing and hoped that meant he would soon make his escape as the regular crowd filed in. Not content to look at his phone for very long in public, he mostly watched the cars as he waited: Majority newer European, Land Rovers, Mercedes & BMW, all patently uncreative. He saw one guy pass by in an older SL convertible, credit to him for at least being different, then another in a little Impreza that made him chuckle when he saw it. Someone was out of place and didn’t quite realize it. He mused.

There seemed to be a slight ruckus brewing inside the record store while outside he could hear the sound of a helicopter moving closer. Maybe someone already had a little too much fun and the Medevac chopper had to be summoned, but on a closer listen Joel realized it was not the usual hospital chopper on approach. The engine sound and rotor-beat was stronger, near militaristic in pitch. A noticeable effort to clear the streets was also apparent. Everything was suddenly getting [i]very[/i] entertaining. Suited figures dashed around scurrying people out of the rotor wash like worthless peasants. They seemed not to pay any attention to him and he sat back enjoying the last few gulps as the landing gear deployed.