[hr] [center][h2][b]Joel Nicolosi[/b][/h2][/center] Joel was not in the finest of moods. He’d slept for most of the day again, but his rest had been fitful. It happened from time to time. He’d work for days on end and his body would compliantly adjust to the lack of sleep by simply producing more time awake. It seemed to be the reverse of most people. He never really burned out; the work merely kept going, pushing him into a near robotic state. Normally the cure was a healthy vacation, some fresh air away from the shop, but that wouldn’t really be an option until the race was over. The car, back at Apex Designs was broken down to several distinct, but highly organized sections. There wasn’t much room for more customer jobs when the Grand Prix neared which was what brought him presently to a small picnic table outside the Lighthouse. He’d finished a “breakfast” of sorts and was working on a third cup of coffee that steamed in the night air. Sitting on top of the table looking out over the expanse of the river he could see the lights of the Matthews Bridge to the south and in the distance to the north the glow of Center Point and it’s skyscrapers reflected against the calm water. Across the way, Western Shore was settling down for the night where most people were relaxing in bed or already asleep. It was quiet save for the beat of the river water and the waning rhythm of night traffic on the bridge. Only a few silver clouds broke up the sky and the moonlight was such that just the faintest of shadows were cast behind Joel and the car parked behind him. Not long after he’d first been in business for himself he’d built a few cars from the ground up to make his mark on the Sol car scene. He’d initially stuck with what he knew best, imports, mostly from Japan, and expanded into higher-end European cars. However, the old notchback, Fox-body [url=https://farm6.staticflickr.com/5468/9600346373_363c496a29_b.jpg] Mustang[/url] behind him was an exception to all that. It was not refined, nor truly even visually appealing by most standards. It had come to him one day on a rollback with a blown engine, four bald tires and a myriad of other problems. The customer was a railroad accountant who’d only heard of him through word of mouth. The man had spoken very plainly: the goal was to make the fastest car in the city. Joel regarded him strangely as they’d started the project. He had no children, no wife and rarely spoke of any other extended family throughout the months it had taken Joel to tear down and rebuild the car. When he was finished, only the roof sheet metal was still original, the rest had become no less than a Frankenstein street monster. The Ford crate engine sat back nearly a foot and a half from the stock position, nestled into a custom built firewall and cradled by a modern suspension. Joel had taken care to give it nearly perfect 50/50 weight distribution so that when the mounted supercharger unleashed its full fury the front wheels stayed on the ground. The rear was tubbed out and fortified to accommodate wide street slicks and the massive translation of power. A [i]much[/i] bigger braking system and a solid roll-cage were mandatory. Under the moonlight, the custom painted panels, almost entirely composed of carbon fiber gleaned in ballistic blue chrome each one chopped and curved to make the maximum amount of downforce possible out of the blocky, angular body-style. Both men knew a rear wing would have added more stability over 200mph, but this car devoured its prey much sooner and the wing would have spoiled the look of it. Joel had tuned and built up several Porsche for members of the Icarus Angels, even an odd Ferrari or Lamborghini, but [i]none[/i] pulled with the visceral ferocity of this car. It was like driving an explosion and was the only machine that had ever given him a twinge of fear. No matter how much a driver gave it, it merely kept winding. It was nothing more than polished coffin with wheels. Every year around the same time the owner would hand the key back over to Joel for a thorough tear-down and rebuild inspection before he went out to make his trade for the season. It was a process not dissimilar from the current operation on the 300ZX and like that car there not a single piece of the machine that Joel had not personally touched in one way or another. Though not as rigorous as the Formula GT requirements, Joel had a critical eye for detail. The car had netted him a significant amount of business and keeping it undefeated was good for his name. As he watched a lone barge pulling steel coils upriver he couldn’t help, but view himself against this terror he’d created and the man who owned it, which, as he knew, was the main source of his discontent. Somewhere in his mind Joel saw himself being much like this man. Sure, he wasn’t an accountant, he was a mechanic and a damn good one, [i]but maybe that guy was a damn good accountant[/i]. He seemed like it from all their past conversations. He had this Mustang and Joel had the 300. After that neither one was married. The man had several years on him, but Joel had no prospects presently. Sure his parent’s lived close by on the Western Shore, but that was it. Growing older and having nothing but a damn racecar to take credit for, even if they won Grand Prix, felt very empty sometimes. He shook his head a little. He honestly didn’t know what else he’d rather be doing. He glanced back at the car thinking another pass over the bridge might clear his head a little. [hr] [h2] [centre] [color=f6989d]Marinalia (Romus) Olympus[/color] [/centre] [/h2] [color=c4df9b][h3] [centre] Old Sol Airport . Wednesday Evening [/centre] [/h3] [/color] Marilania was Sat at the cargo desk, it had been a pretty slow day and most of the customers where just there to collect and go. After recent events and the actions of the jazz night the company had insisted she was transferred to light duties and one of there doctors check her out for whatever the drug was. You could never be too careful and was waiting for her blood tests to be approved flight status again. All in all thr company had looked after her well and had been kind, most of the staff here where junior admin, cargo side, and a fellow aviator who had a broken ankle and was on light duties too. Sitting back after handing over a package to a polite woman and logging it, she watched out window as jets took off and roar of emerges echoes over for miles. Flying was a big part of her and it felt odd to watch with feet on ground instead of Freedom of the air. Having time to think was both good and bad. The shock had taken time to hit, at first she was numb then she relised how close everything had come, the danger and risks. Her father had brought the point home though stopped shot of judging her, supportive and kinder than normal, there relationship had improved alot since she was 18 when they first met. Shaking her head she cast aside the thoughts as someone entered the cargo office. [hr] [center][h2][b]Joel Nicolosi[/b][/h2][/center] Everything about the interior of the Mustang was reduced down to the lowest denominator and startup required independent activation of major components from a small pedestal next to the shifter and on the rollcage mounted overhead. With acceptance of the key, one switch activated the battery then another for the fuel pump. Joel watched the pressure come up as other buttons began to glow softly for attention. A police scanner strapped to the cage crackled to life reporting a fight in progress at the 501 Club, a stopped car was on the shoulder of I-23 near the 923 Connection and someone had phoned in a domestic call farther up Southside Boulevard. It was a pretty quiet night overall on the southern band. Joel’s thumb hovered over the ignition switch briefly. He glanced around in the darkness before depressing the button, sending a short impulse of electricity that summoned the engine to life. Flames burst from the side mounted exhaust and the ground shook with the low churning rhythm that followed. The plate was the standard Sol City registration reading “MSTKHSS” or [i]Mystic Hiss[/i]. Joel thought it was silly, but still a little catchy. The car had never been a Cobra Mustang, but considering the amount of money expended, the man could call it whatever he wanted. Joel eased through the sequential gearbox as he approached the ramp for the bridge. A small display behind the steering wheel reported on various engine parameters and clutch operation. It was one of Joel’s personal touches that he added to all his built street machines as it cleaned up the dash of numerous needle and dial style gauge clusters and condensed the majority of reporting to a single, easy to use, digital unit. It even flashed the Apex Designs logo when turned on. A quick signal and a lane change put him on the long, ascending ramp towards the bridge. The sparse night traffic seemed to instinctively react by moving aside as they eased up the curving slope. He set the proper gear and RPM range and glanced down briefly at the display to see the affirmative “LAUNCH” command blinking as it sensed all systems in order for a rolling start. The racing seat prevented a good look back and he leaned against the belts to inspect the side mirror carefully as he moved to the left lane. Joel began to feel his pulse beat as he crossed over the four lanes. First one a single car and a few more in the distance, second empty mostly clear ahead, third a tractor-trailer a few lengths back. All ahead looked clear in the left. The trucker flashed his lights in affirmation preparing to enjoy the show. Without another thought Joel stomped the pedal to the floor. The engine roared and the supercharger let loose its banshee-like scream as gallons of air were rammed into the combustion chamber. Neck snapping acceleration held him against the seat as he slammed through two more gears without looking down. He knew he was doing well over a hundred long ago. The bridge joints clapped under him like a drum roll and the lights flashed by like fence-posts on a country road. The end of the bridge was already coming up when he blasted by an unmarked SCPD cruiser on the opposing side of the bridge. The blue lights came up almost immediately, but Joel was already a quarter mile away before the officer could even think about doing a U-turn against traffic. He’d be on the radio for sure. Joel stayed in the pedal. Standard procedure would be to exit the loop and quickly make his way to his parents’ house in Western Shore where he could hide the car, but he had pulled off that stunt enough times that he was concerned one day an SCPD unit would be waiting in their driveway. He kept going. It was always amazing how much ground one could cover in a short amount of time when they were moving more than double the speed-limit. He knew he had to get off the freeway [i]now[/i]. He picked a familiar exit that he knew would be fairly quiet and prayed he could make it through a couple stoplights without being spotted. The sign on the exit ramp simply read: “Solaris County Regional Airport - 6” with a left arrow. It was late, but the Daedalus Cargo terminal was always open until midnight if one had a pass. After Joel had creeped through the initial traffic off the ramp he’d floored it again to get out of the city as quickly as possible and making the run up the old road had been accomplished in seconds rather than minutes. The supercharger howled as he downshifted and swung up into the parking lot where he whipped around the office building and parked next to a white Land Rover. Though he hadn’t received any texts or calls about any drops for his zone, it was as good a place as any to kill some time until the heat wore off. People here were looking up, not down and he had a few items stored on site that he could check on while he waited. Being totally familiar, he swiped his security card at the door and casually strolled through the front office. The normal scent of cardboard and hand sanitizer hit him as he looked around. The office was nothing special, mostly utilitarian, but with some nice touches of old airline posters and photos and a few models. It seemed to double as a lounge area for crew-members as well with sofas and a television. He bullshitted with a pilot who had an ankle injury the last time he stopped by and the regular admin staff knew him by his unique shipments of auto parts from Japan. However this time a younger female sat behind the counter that he didn't recognize. He assumed his appearance most likely came off as sketchy at best: a black [i]Bridgestone Motorsport[/i] hooded sweatshirt, cargo shorts and sneakers. He also faintly smelled of racing fuel- A reminder that he needed to pull the car around behind the gate and fill up after having traveled [i]much[/i] farther than he intended. He and Tommy had already staged a fuel bowser for their testing on Saturday. He placed his ID card on the counter to hopefully calm any apprehension she might have felt. “What’s up?” He said nicely enough. His nerves were still easing down from the drive. “I’ve got a few things holding in the warehouse, mind if I take a look?”