PrinceAlexus

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

@Pilatus

Cue team America freedom is not free.

Have you put in your 5 cents?

Hogwarts: Before the War

I don't think I have a preferred house over another; it's the actions of it's current members that would make one seem more or less favourable over another. Slytherin gets a bad rap thanks to Voldemort and his followers (And I guess, it's founder) but some of the greatest witches and wizards came from Slytherin house. Merlin, for one!

Oh, and if anyone is torn between putting their character in a certain house, I'll likely be allowing multiple characters. :D

@Peridot

True. The class of voldenort, Belatrix and others set its reputation in modern books..

Before that the last major dark wizard would be grimdalwwld.
Durmstrang, I'd imagine that slytherin of that era would still have superiority complex, still be somewhat asshole, still be arrogant. Just not straight up evil.

Durmstrang rep would be worse by far.

Pure blood bias just less violent, more disdain than warfare.

Also given 50's some other houses might carry a few traits in less dedicated and strong form as they do then in modern.

Hogwarts: Before the War

I've always wanted to lean towards a slytherin character.

Because well, the other houses get to me to death at times.

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

Glad to be rolling again, we had a nice little holiday break there

@Pilatus

aye, well once you manage to wake from your food comas and pregnancies.

Hogwarts: Before the War

hmm, consider my interest peaked.

Let's B!tch. I feel it's a healthy release for our roleplay annoyances 2.0

<Snipped quote by Superboy>

And then people bitch about people bitching about other people bitching.

Working as intended.

@ArenaSnow

Bitchception

Hogwarts: The Next Generation

Room for one more at the Inn?

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

---

Joel Nicolosi

As Joel stepped out the door the temperature difference was noticeable even after just a few minutes inside. The night was peaceful enough though and there was little ambient noise like the constant hum of the city. Somewhere a radial engine turned over in the distance and it made him take pause and glance up. He exhaled lightly to see his breath vapor form and then dissipate in the crisp air as he looked up able to actually see stars without the wash of light pollution. For a fleeting second he thought of places that he’d rather be, but the thought, like his breath, was gone in less than a second. “Alright Miss Mali, your chariot awaits.” He said opening the passenger door for her not because he was chivalrous, however mostly because the handle was flush with the door making it hard to see at night and he wanted to observe the look on her face. She was still apprehensive and he thought briefly that maybe he should’ve just left it alone and went on about his business. His mouth had got him into trouble many times before.

Admittedly like her, being cooped up in that shop for days on end wasn’t any good for him either and this casual rendezvous after running from the police was a nice change. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard it, the expression, No man is an island came to mind. He merely listened to her talk as he went through the same start up procedure. In this setting he was in his element, but he stopped short of pushing the ignition to let her finish; smirking a little at her threats, more interested in her story of the jazz night. “Someone tried to drug you?” He questioned with some astonishment. He hadn’t been able to see anything that actually happened on the inside. He’d read the news of course and that particular item had not been mentioned in the local rags. He reached up and turned off the scanner then pushed the ignition waking the engine from its momentary rest. The sound reverberated in the cold as he reversed and headed for the gate.

The gate opened automatically and he eased out to the flight line. It was a view he rather enjoyed: The scattered markers of the taxiways in blue and green, the rotating beacon atop the old control tower in the distance and the soft glow of Sol City back to the east. Various aircraft were nosed up to their cargo stands. A Daedalus MD-11 was being loaded while the DC-3 they heard earlier was taxiing away, most likely bound for a dirt strip up north. In the distance he could make out a newer Gulfstream parked and two Navy P-8’s. “I was at the Jazz night, so to speak.” He said. His tone more even than before and his eyes scanned around for any unforeseen obstruction. “But I wasn’t inside… I had a truck to work on and needed a part from the warehouse up by the record shop, all I saw was the chopper parked out front.” He stopped and gave-way to a lift truck returning a wave from the driver. “Read the rest on the news, I’ve heard of the company, didn’t know those delinquents had a pet name for themselves, though.”

Joel pulled up to some parking outside the warehouse. She’d at least saved him a walk in the cold. The warehouse featured some heat, but it fought against the constant opening and closing of bay doors. Inside he strolled along the high aisles examining the multitude of items boxed and wrapped and crated in various configurations being completely content with its perfection in organization. “I thought I read that Cuban was on some kind of probation, had ankle tether and everything. You gonna press charges?” Joel was an ardent devourer of news and often knew more than he let on and things were starting to come together in his head as they walked.

---

Marinalia (Romus) Olympus

Old Sol Airport . Wednesday Evening

She saw the car, and it was perfectly smooth, flush handles, lights, thr lot. If it was welded doors too, nope that would be rather undignified to say the least. The airport was never quiet even on night shift the sound of engines, machines or people never stopped.

Climbing in the racing seats and harness where not made for comfort, no carpets, even the dash was bare holes in a metal framework. Marinalia much preferred air con and having a cup holder. He seemed to be hesitant, well she had kinda unloaded on him, and dispute being a stranger it seemed almost easier than having to tell her family at times. Yeah it was true and it never made any tabloid as all the chaos, the only ones who knew where Milo, Ren, Victoria, her family and the scumbags.

It took a few goes to secure the racing harness, similar of a aircraft but different ernough to have her take several attempts at getting the harness order right.

thanks, though my chariot has air con and a cup holder.

With a slightly voice tone shift, he was Suprised, but those jerk seemed to think they ran the city.

honestly, yes. Some foul mixture in a gold goblet. His idiot freind, I'd rather become a nun than even hold his hand.

They where headed into the airport proper now, the cargo office was inside the first ring of fencing but the active runways where fenced and gated for security. In recent years armed guards had started to become more regular as Sol city was worried about the remote airports security half an hour or more from main police HQ. Trucks, aircraft. He was taking care to obey rules. Well when a employee with you it was hard not to have a choice.

you where outside. Better off. First time I get a night out with my sister in months and well. Cursed. Yeah. Perfect pose or some nauseating rubbish. .

The chopper, yeah, some civilian mod version of a medium lift, Marilania could tell it was not regular from afar and it's pilot was definitely skilled though had little fair for his rotar position. He could of killed alot of people.

I could tell you the model if it was lighter. They broke multiple flight rules. How they even keep there damned liscense to run that thing.

Entering the warehouse, it was brightly lit and almost every corner was rigged with cameras, the value of goods coming in from Asia meant security here was higher and felt a bit safer, knowing the spots she stood exactly in line of one of the main camera arrays. He was checking his slot, alot of people used the place for storage and everything was insured here. There must of been millions of dollers in cargo in this single warehouse. Leaning against a rack of large pallets stacked up.

I contacted police. They waiting on my blood test to see of I was... Even then. Daddy will probbly try and bail the fat ball out.

The regular cops hate it, they love to throw them in cells.

Adfing thr last big with disgust. Had he not had his private army someone would of beaten him up, helicopters and a bunch of goons make a big difference. She had rambled on, and on. Turn around time..

so whilst I have vented half my life at you... Hwho is this Joel and what does he do in this fine city bar import alot of money in Japanese car parts.

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

---

Marinalia (Romus) Olympus

Old Sol Airport . Wednesday Evening

Marinalia's shift was getting to the end of things and beginning to think about heading home, she was not new to the office and had done a few shifts in the training phase at the cargo office. Part office, part lounge and part a little museum of posters and old deadalus nick macks. She had found it on training and did far better coffee than the trainee centre.

From the way staff had treated her kindly, checks and one of the women offering to walk her to her car after work it seemed someone had quietly told them to keep a eye out for her Deadalus seemed not be taking many chances.

Relaxed in a neat shirt, skirt and jacket hung over the top of a chair, one of a few general female deadalus uniforms she had option of and generic company badge. The one difference to other staff was a set of gold wings and a delicate silver necklace dangling down. Tapping away she had left her ring at home having nearly lost it a few times in filing cabinets and such last time. Her name was on a neat ID badge with the company logo, "Marinalia R Olympus, Deadalus cargo,". They had run out of room to put Romus on there and the name was picked out in gold representing flight status.

A stranger was aproaching now, no buzz so they must of had a Id card for the airport, hearing a loud growling sound earlier it seemed that he liked some horsepower.

Turning first to a pair of flight crew sat round a table with a half dozen coffee mugs and boredly waiting for a shuttle to Neo city after there's broke down..

hey got a flight to Neo. Bay 12A. Two seats free on a old DC6.
Flight engineer slots.

Both wished her gruff ly thanks and slowly grabbed there bags walking out the office and heading out to the flight line where the cargo flights and older aircraft oporated. They always had a pilot on duty in regular hours to help arrange flights for crew, expertise useful on ground and air.

A female security guard checked in with her after the incident every so often, it had not been a massive ask and just changed her office she stopped at between patrols of the perimeter fences. Sat reading a newspaper she was just one more employee in the still fairly busy cargo airport and other hangers rented to locals who had aircraft. Fees where alot cheaper than at Sol International.

Turning to the man who aproaching, dressed pretty casually and eyes flared slightly though she had other staff here the past experience had cut deep and slow to heal. Checking the ID carefully, probbly far more carefully than normal for this office. Easing up as the ID was current and matched codes though her English accent was more clipped than normal of late, though did warm slightly as he seemed to be a regular ID and everyone who was had to pass security checks.

sure, Mr Nicolosi. From your card, warehouse 9. Be careful there's a few flights due tonight, 18.15, 19.37 and 21.45.

I'm... OK ernough. So yours is that rumbling monster out there?

My regular DC7 might give you a run for your money with 8800 HP, 74 optinal turbos and 200L of power.

It was a distraction, but it got away from the uncomfortable are you alright question, and she could push the old plane to nearly 10,000 but engine life was far longer running lower power. Even then most cargo barely tasked the massive old fashioned radial engines.

Ending on a lighter note, he had import card, mostly mechanics and others seemed to have those so he might give a abit of banter back. Hopefully she was more comfortable talking about aircraft than pretending to be OK.

ou D JP8. Latest colone?


Adding a slight joke to try and make her seem less like the ice queen of Deadalus, grey eyes, and her accent made that act a tad too easy. It was meant to be a customer service job, and much as she felt, it was not this man's fault what happened to her.

---

Joel Nicolosi

Joel regarded the young woman carefully and immediately knew to whom the white Land Rover belonged. He’d been around cars long enough that it was easy to tell which body belonged with which vehicle even when the two weren’t together. Cars said more about the person than most were willing to admit. She seemed a fairly clean-cut type upon first impression, but uneasy for some reason and only doing a fair job at covering it up. He didn't want to pry and just briefly glanced at her ID. What a mouthful. In his mind he started working on the correct pronunciation. It was very regal looking at least. Wings meant she was a flyer, which would explain how she paid for such a sheek ride, but the fact that she was here on the night shift shuffling boxes and booking schedule meant something else. He wasn’t an expert on aviation regs, but figured it had to be health related like the other guy he’d dealt with before.

Adrenaline was wearing off as he leaned back slightly on the counter and she checked his ID. He gave a cordial nod to those stepping out who seemed to regard him strangely. It was the first time anyone had run the complete check in quite some time. She could see all of his past shipments, mostly from Japan and their declared value, some of substantial amounts that probably didn’t befit his appearance. He was slightly surprised by her aviation quip and cocked up one eyebrow. He was used to the flyers and their horsepower jokes. “Yeah? We can line them up for the quarter-mile sometime and see what happens.” He replied with a confident and growing smirk. He enjoyed talking trash immensely, particular with women. “More like 118, leaded, from this morning.” He said referring to the fuel smell she’d detected. It must’ve been more obvious than he’d thought.

“That reminds though,” He continued, “Think you could open the gate so I could fill up? We have a fuel bowser around back.”

---

Marinalia (Romus) Olympus

Old Sol Airport . Wednesday Evening

Marinalia knew it was obvious why she ended working out of this office, fliers never came here by choice mostly assigned while unfit to fly for various reasons, it was quiet, the work lighter and alot less busy than the main terminal at the International airport and 99% of clients where either business, private jets, importers and such. Thr man fell into that bracket. Everyone knew the drill, had ID. No real angry customers.

His account came up as exports and some not small amounts of cash listed, car parts, engines, custom components and race parts all from high end Japanese companies. Certainly not thr man's look. Giving a somewhat Suprised look at the imports, well.

Then came the jokes, he gave back as good as she gave. Ground racers and there engines had nothing on aero engines.

well, maybe when my wings not clipped. Il have to show you why wings beat wheels.

Trying to stay customer focused, but she loved her job, flying. The freedom of being able to go almost anywhere. It was not his fault she had to wait on blood tests and her voice tone gave away her frustration at being grounded and thr jazz night incidents.

l sorry.... I just miss my job. And stuff. Should not take it out on you. Gates. Yeah there's a note on your account. Gimme a minute.

You need this, swipe the pad. Flight line pass. Always give way to the left to traffic and to aircraft. Speed limits 30mph... I should know... I got fined for breaking it!


Handing him over a pass, they had been arranged by someone before her for the race team test, it was still not safe on flight line and mostly was a staff only area. Adding the speed limit with a fake Stern tone, she tried to least be freindly to the man. Plus he was likely to try and race a DC7 and DC4 that was due to take off in 15 minutes.

---

Joel Nicolosi

Joel felt his suspicions realized as she shot back and then quickly backed off her retort. He liked that he could get a little rise out of her so quick. She was uneasy and it had to do with the fact she wasn’t flying. He could appreciate someone that was passionate about their work and it made him wonder a little how serious her condition might be but also didn’t want to be nosey. She didn’t seem to have any obvious symptoms of anything. However, being in a situation where he needed to kill some time, wandering the cold warehouse pretending he was there for something important didn’t sound like much of a good time while he knew she was sitting up here shuffling papers. He figured he would just be playful and he liked her accent. There was no loss if she shot him down. He was stuck here for a while either way.

“Why don’t you take a break and get some fresh air?” He said accepting the gate pass. “I’m a little curious how you got your ‘wings clipped’.” He turned back towards the door figuring she understood his implication. “Don’t worry, I always drive the speed limit.” He smirked. If she didn’t meet him at the gate, it was no loss. He was here for a while anyway. It would be nice to have someone to talk to other than the rampies for a change.

---

Marinalia (Romus) Olympus

Old Sol Airport . Wednesday Evening

He had a point. She was shuffling papers, and despite a good part of her after the previous night screaming, a small part peaked in intrest. Damn it, what was up with her recently. She did have a taser and CS spray hidden on her person, and the airport was secured to hell and back these days. She still was torn, part of her realising the last risk was massive, this time it was more calculated, he had security checks, she had met most of night staff and they'd likely not make it off the premises of someone hurt her.

The flight schedule, minesweeper and flight roster had not changed in past 2 hours... If needed 3 million volts would have him drooling into the tarmac for about 15-20 minutes.

Grabbing a jacket, and a logo marked high visibility coat to keep warm on the exposed runway, it was a colder night and the flat tarmac offered little shelter, neat uniform contrasting with the bright yellow jacket streaked with some oil resadue from a leaking engine, prominent logo and flight crew emblazed on back.

Then throwing him over a high visibility vest marked "Civilian" in big letters. , rules where rules even for civilians.
OK, and you'll need that. Rules are rules.

Call me Marlin, Mali. either Don,t mind.

Walking out into the cool night air. Things where quiet at the runway, the sound of the DC3 warming its engines up broke the quiet and calm at the old cargo airport.

Why she was here. Might as well be honest, if he ran away his fault for asking, cool grey eyes glinting slightly in the powerful flood lighting, accent struggling to hide somewhat the turmoil between her two minds.

why... Its... Not nice.

Some jerk at the r jazz night tried to drug me, some cuben expat, rich kid. Derailed daddy's presidential bid... Perfect poss pose...?

Trying to being back some control to voice, she had not had chance to open up to anyone but her dad and sister, and spent the past day turning it over again and again. Leaning against the land rover she sighed somewhat. Apart from blood tests they insisted she take time off flight status, it made sense but only pissed her off more with a rather peaved English accent.

flight rules. Blood tests. Until I'm cleared safe, I'm not allowed to fly.

With slightly more resolve, it was somthing to be able to least say it. A weight lifted even of just a fraction..

I have 3 million volts if you a jerk, so hands on the gears not my knee.


OK, she thought that came across abit crazy, bit it set a boundary, and a line, his car was a frankenstein creation even to a non petrol head, bucket seats. No single pound wasted or unnecessary. Blimey, it made her DC7 look like a limo.

ready? Or I scared you off?

I'd apologise, I'd be lieing.

Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

---

Joel Nicolosi

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 Mustang 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 much 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 none 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, but maybe that guy was a damn good accountant. 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.

---

Marinalia (Romus) Olympus

Old Sol Airport . Wednesday Evening

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.

---

Joel Nicolosi

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 Mystic Hiss. 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 now. 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 Bridgestone Motorsport 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 much 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?”