Hmmm… Vos as seen Jack. Vos has seen Jack. And he did look at him weirdly. Vos could get suspicions, if he just saw Cossack on the race line next race, joining the competition mid-league mysteriously, and stalking on him mysteriously. Obviously, suspicions due to the former thing were unavoidable, but he could avert suspicions due to the latter. He walked up to Vos, and began talking with a smile on his face:
“VosNox, aren’t ya? The founder of this company?” then Jack began whispering, still smiling “The BSLL competitor? See, I just got accepted into this league, I wanted to say hello to at least SOME of the fellow racers before the race, ya know? I mean, it’d be awkward if I showed up out of nowhere at the event itself, huh?” And then he went back to normal, cheerful voice “Look, I even have gifts for everyone. For you, I got my mother’s cheeseca-” He then looked at the half eaten cake “Oh. Sorry. I kinda got hungry waiting for ya… Well, there’s still some left!” And he handed the cake to Vos, and then pointed at Vos’ car - “A Kodiak, isn’t it? A great car, I’ve driven one, it was a truly unforgettable experience!”
“So… yeah” Vos paused. “What’s with the hammer?” After a split second, he interrupted Kubbos’ attempt an answer with yet another question. “What bothers me is… Firstly, the BSSL isn’t common knowledge, it’s an industry only race meaning…” He trailed off with a skeptical look on his face. "The BSSL is an industry only race, the invitations for which, were sent upwards of two weeks prior to the event even starting. Which makes me wonder two things. A: How the hell you found out about it, and B: what makes you so damn special as to, completely ignoring the fact that is nearly race 4, gain entry to an invitation only race that you weren’t even invited to? "
“And another thing.” He demanded, slamming the Kodiak’s door shut. “You are not affiliated with any of the companies participating in the race, but that really doesn’t bother me. What does bother me, is the fact that you show up, ON MY PROPERTY, in a piece of shit retrofitted Skoda, claiming entry in a competition for the owners of automotive companies.” At this point, his demeanor turned from one of curiosity to one of attack. “On top of all that, you look at me as if you and your hammer think I’ve done something wrong. So unless you have proof of said something, I’m going to need you to pack up that shit-eating grin and go.” He barked in a challenging manor.
feisty 
Need more gin…
[ooc] I’m a bit delayed with writing the next part and releasing the next set of results but I’m nearly done. In the meantime however I do need to find out how the above Kubby-Vos altercation pans out before I write Tulsa itself!
Jack had the ability to talk in such a way that annoys other people, he knew that. But nobody does such an atrocity as Vos did. No one implies his mum’s cake is shit. Jack did wipe a smile of his face, and said in a less friendly manner:
“Look, you DID something something wrong. You see. Nobody calls my car a piece of shit. She can sting others just like I can.” - And then he went to grinning again - “But of course, you’ve got a point. It’s not for a retrofit car, even if the donor chassis is something as legendary as a '70 Camaro, a Supra, or an E30, even if the engine is a heavily tuned RB26DETT, or a tuned LS7, even if the said car consistently defeats some moron who owns a shady garage and calls it an “automotive company”. Surely this league is not for such a car and its driver. Oh, and to answer your question. I’m a COSPONSOR of this very league.” This was a lie obviously, but Jack was used to “cosponsoring” some barely legal events in his career. Under other identities of course. “Good luck in Tulsa”. And he got back in his Felicia and drove away.
Several minutes later, after ensuring he was followed by no one, he stopped at some parking lot, pulled out his laptop, reported his findings to strop in an encrypted email, noting that even though Vos could not be behind the Hasira’s wheel, he almost immediately got so defensive there surely was something shady about him, and that he (Jack) and strop should add him to possible suspects, and investigate him more thoroughly. Perhaps by catching the driver of the mysterious car. He then drove to Tulsa, waiting for the race to begin.
It seemed like a good idea with a change of clothes, perhaps washing up a bit, stuff like that. Which had then turned to be the most stupid idea, when the truck stop’s restroom looked like someone had used it for stuff that restrooms should not be used for, and further, when he had to conclude two out of three of his jackets were currently in someone else’s possession, and the last one was matching his Mephisto. In the middle of North American late fall, and trying to keep a low profile, that was not a combination that would work out. At the very least, he could change his t-shirt and try to look less like someone on the run. It didn’t go well.
A pale young boy skulked through the front entrance of the diner attached to the gas station somewhere along the highway between Albuquerque and god knows where, New Mexico. Only Kai did not even know which state he was in, only that it was nearly impossible to find a pump that had 98RON, the bare minimum for his Mephisto, the other love of his life. The sheer size and number of trucks at this particular station, however, seemed like a more likely bet than most and thank goodness it paid off, because his HUD was blaring at him that the engine was about to choke on air, which was pretty telling, since the Mephisto was supposed to have two thirty gallon fuel cells stashed somewhere in the space behind the seats. And once he had attended to that, it suddenly occurred to him that he had his own needs to attend to.
Such as it were that he realised, exactly three steps too late, how incongruous he must have seemed to the dozen odd truckers sitting around the table in a booth in the diner directly adjacent to the counter. A motley bunch of various beasts of the north Americas, from hog to wolf to stag, they immediately stared at him at precisely the same moment the realisation hit him. Inwardly, he froze, but outwardly, he sauntered in as casually as he could, keeping his gaze down and averted, hands in the pockets of his jarringly bright red leather jacket with the devilish logo and the giant embossed MEPHISTO beneath, and attempted to sit on one of those swivelly stools at the counter. His façade almost failed when, slightly too short to slide onto the stool, it swivelled from under him, almost pitching him onto the tiles, but he barely saved himself by grabbing onto the counter. Smooth.
“Howdy!” the ridiculously affected voice of the waitress (or maybe that was just how she was) suddenly made more sense when he looked up and saw a Golden Retriever wearing the frilly apron and flared skirt of the 50s diner waitress. He almost did a double take as he imagined Tesla in the same getup, then shook his head, not sure he wanted that mental image to hang around, not least because Tesla was in her late twenties and this waitress appeared to be somewhat more advanced in the years, slightly weathered, slightly homely, all smiles and warmth and vaguely reminding him of his mother. “What’ll it be hon?”
“Uh…” Kai swished his hand around the jacket pocket, finding a couple of crinkled pieces of what he hoped were dollar bills. He looked up at the board and his heart sank. A couple of dollars was barely enough for a black coffee, and that was not what he needed right now. “Trouble deciding?” The waitress gave him another of those warm, heartfelt smiles, and leaned forward with interest. He stopped his hand from inching up towards the persistent cut on his cheek, and returned her smile with an apologetic one of his own. “I’m sorry, I d-” “Breakfast’s on me son.” Kai started as the deep voice boomed directly beside him, and whipping around, he came face to chest with a huge man, a shire horse at least twice the size of Strop, and apparently more ninja too.
The waitress giggled. “My, aren’t-cha generous this morning, George. Then it’s your pick, hon.” She gave Kai a questioning glance, like some giant man walking up to you and offering to pay your food was a normal, everyday thing that happened, and not super confusing and, with no sleep for the past 24+ hours and a car chase later, filtered through paranoia as a clear trap. Or something. “I- It’s migthy nice of you, sir. But, you really don’t have to waste your money on me.” Except, now, in the middle of the food smells of the diner, it seemed like an awfully good idea. “Ya hear him, George. A kid driving a car like that doesn’t need a handout.” One of the truckers, a wild boar who probably couldn’t have scaled the bar chair either, added loudly from his spot behind them, and from that corner erupted a consensus of guffaws.
“It’s really-” Kai mumbled, but the shire gave him a look that made him shut up. “Up to you son, but you probably need it with all the driving’s you got left.” The shire said, as casually as he had been talking about the weather. Kai’s blood ran cold and he also got a very sudden craving for a smoke as he hit the limit for stress for the day. “Excuse me?” He tried, though it seemed fairly obvious what the trucker had been talking about. George tossed his head at the Mephisto, sticking out like a red hot sore thumb amidst the road trains and massive truck cabs. “Ain’t nobody got wheels like that round here.” Nope. “So I was set to thinking you weren’t from round here. Long way away, from the looks of things. And since this is the middle of nowhere, I’m betting you’ve some real tracks to make.” That was awfully convenient assuming there, bro.
George gave him a short look, before turning towards the counter properly. “Or is that a load o’ horseshit?” Kai sat for a moment and stared at the horse, while the people behind them had fallen silent to hear the response. And it was far too early for these stunts, but slowly his mind started up again after the initial shock of fear. “No. No, that’s right. That’s very… astute of you.” Kai tried to smile, but it didn’t work out right. The waitress had jumped at it right away, however, laughing at how observant it was indeed, and saying that George had logged thousands of hours on America’s highways and of course he would know about these things, and thankfully she started up a one-sided conversation with the shire, rather than going back to questioning Kai about the menu. Or worse, the car. Where was Strop, when he was needed for crazy ideas… or even for that matter, Sam. Sam, that incorrigible player, would have been all over this shit. What would Sam do?
“And then, coming down the mountain, this car here, it’s a real supercar, so it has so much downforce I might as well be glued to the road, so I said fortune favours the brave and floored it!”
“Oh my goodness! What happened next?”
“Well, because I’m a professional race driver, I can maintain the balance well around the corners, you see. That’s the secret of racing, you have to know the limit and stick to it as much as you can. Anyway, my opponent couldn’t keep up and I totally left him in the dust.”
Leaning against the dirt-caked carbon monocoque Sleipnir, Sam casually gestured as he spun his wild and disturbingly true tale of the Barely Street Legal League. He had strategically placed himself directly next to the window so that, under the low-rising late Autumn sun, nobody from the growing crowd could peer into the cabin and see all the snack wrappers and empty cans of guarana-laden energy drinks he had consumed. Fuelled by dangerous doses of stimulants, Sam had failed to realise the fuel situation until it was too late, and now he was pulled up at another gas station god knows where, with not enough money to pay for the good stuff, having spent it all on snacks, and had resorted to bumming cash off unsuspecting passers-by, who naturally wanted to know what the hell a guy in such a flash car was doing panning for petrol money. Also, he wasn’t sure, but he had an inkling that he was going in the wrong direction, seeing as Tulsa was in Oklahoma, which was heading southeast, and now… actually he had no idea where he was. Anyway! At this stage, he figured the truth was so ridiculous it was the best kind of lie, so he gave the account, unabashed, unadulterated, and it had everybody hanging on his last word.
“When we got here we were planning to have a race on the Bonneville Salt Flats only our idiot host forgot you can’t drive on the Salt Flats any time other than summer.”
“So THAT was why there was a high speed chase in Utah?”
“Oh you guys know about that already? My, we’re famous!” He half-joked with a laugh, and the crowd laughed with him. “There was some crazy super-cop there too, crazy car faster than half of us, took one of us out with some kind of alien technology before we ran them off the road. I swear the government is hiding something out here somewhere, where was that place, Area 51? Nevada’s right next to Utah isn’t it?”
“Yeah, them goddamn government got no business meddling in our affairs!” someone mostly obscured by facial hair shouted from the back.
“Yeah!” Sam pumped his fist in automatic affirmation. “When those cops dropped in on us I had to drop everything and summon every last bit of my professional skill to get away, but get away I did. Now I’m just your friendly fugitive, with no cash and no petrol, and I need your help in my quest to stick it to the man.”
“Stick it to the man!” rose the cry. “U-S-A!” Sam shouted. “U-S-A!” the crowd echoed, and pretty soon, the chant was resounding through the station, and dollar bills were being passed forward and into Sam’s hands.
That turned out way better than he expected.
Yeah no, Kai didn’t have quite enough gumption to pull that kind of stunt. So he decided maybe it was just better to stick to some more innocuous half-truths.
“I’m on my way to see my girlfriend. She lives out East, and we haven’t seen each other in… forever, it seems… And, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time to just go, right? Not so much now, but I’m half way, so I can’t stop now.”
While some mocked him with a sarcastic “Awww,” clearly the sentimental story struck a chord with most, and they nodded, muttering various things like “I feel that,” and “Amen brother.” They were all road warriors who know the rigors of the long haul. Meanwhile, George was intently staring at Kai, nodding to himself.
“No you best not. And I best not hold you up else your grits’ll get cold. Eat up son.” He patted Kai on the shoulder with a meaty hand, then went back to sit down at the booth. Kai stared at his food, suddenly feeling ravenous, and thinking actually, for once today, something just might be going his way. That feeling persisted all the way past the food going down the hatch and now warming a nice spot in his tummy. Kai didn’t want to push his luck, so made good his departure and was out the door and just about to thumb the switch to unlock the Mephisto when the deep booming voice of George issued behind him again.
“Fancy seeing you out here, Mister Kristensen.”
Yep, the feeling had just vanished, right there. For the second time that day, Kai froze. He didn’t remember mentioning his name at any point in the diner, which meant-
“I did suspect Gryphon Gear had something to do with this, but boy, that chase across Utah, I didn’t want to believe you guys were involved in that, it just seemed like too much of a coincidence to be true.”
Kai’s mouth was still hinged open. “How did you…”
It was as if somebody had flipped a switch in George, for he came to life with an intensity almost worrisome in a horse his size. “There’s a blog that came up on the Speedhunters radar, related to this Barely Street Legal league or something, it’s photos and videos only but I recognised a few things in it. Some Gryphon Gear cars. The Hulk. Mephisto, I didn’t realise that it was your own! And I knew you were in the US of A, but I never imagined that I would run into you like this.”
Of course. Noah’s blog. Kai, suddenly self-conscious, tried slicking his hand through his hair again but to no avail. “Eheh, about that.”
George clapped a hand on Kai’s shoulder, almost crushing it in his vice-like grip. “Don’t worry son, I won’t tell a soul. I don’t really talk to nobody about this anyway, ‘round here it’s all NASCAR… don’t get me wrong, NASCAR is great, but there’s something about what Gryphon Gear do. Anyway. Good luck with it all, wish I could be there but I gotta be on the road and seeing as it’s not exactly cop-friendly… still it’s an honour to meet the driver in the flesh, please, tell Mr McHorseguy I’m a fan and, hang on…” George fumbled in his pocket for a pen and a napkin and hastily scrawled something onto it. “Here’s my email, just in case, you know.”
Kai pocketed the napkin, gears still grinding in his head, not sure what was going on anymore. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll do that.” He popped the wing-door open, and it swung forwards and upwards. “Thanks for breakfast, really.”
George swung the door shut and let his fingers linger on the body of the Mephisto just that little bit too long. “Nice to see horses in the industry. Racing was always in your blood, you know.” He gave the car a little pat. “Alright son, I won’t hold you up, you better get to your girl.”
Despite still feeling sticky and dirty, sleep-deprived and nerves jangled by his renewed desire not to get in any more tangles with the authorities, Kai smiled briefly. “Yeah you bet I will.” Then he shifted into gear and rolled back onto the highway.
It was around dinner time, and about four hundred miles later, that the CB radio crackled to life. “Aaaaaand we’re back! Testing testing, come in!”
Kai bolted upright and grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Noah! You have no idea how glad I am to hear from you.”
On the radio, Noah was heard to mutter something like that was nice for a change most times people were telling him to stop being a dick, before there was a muffled ‘oof’ and Hannah’s voice crackled over. “Crash! Hello! How are you travelling?”
“Hey. I was getting lonely.”
“Aw, did you miss us?”
For once in the span of his career with Gryphon Gear, Kai did not have to be facetious, sarcastic or in any way disingenuous: “Of course.”
“Me too?” a new voice crackled over the radio.
“I’ll have to think about that, Sam,” which was met with a derisive “Pfft!”
“Anyway, how are you holding up, Crash?”
“I have two dollars in my pocket, and I could do with a shower and a nap, but my car is running and I’m in good health. Could be worse.”
“You sound almost optimistic!”
“I guess so. How about you guys?”
“We’re back in business. We should be in Tulsa by tomorrow morning, provided the truck holds out that long. It’s kind of making funny noises we don’t even know how to diagnose.”
“Well good luck with that, hopefully I’ll see you there then!” Hopefully indeed. Provided nothing else went wrong and no more crazy cops showed up, England beckoned.
But first, time to get to round four.
Okay, we’re just about ready to get back on with this shebang, so I’ll probably be posting the events and results of round for in less than 24 hours!
I wonder how terribly i end up doing
When Jack arrived to Tulsa, there already was someone at the meeting place. He would recognise the design anytime, anywhere. The wonder of Austrian engineering, the AMW. Which one was this one? A Mantis? Hahaha, nah. The founder of this company actually had named this one a Brimstone. Jack knew that sort of shit before he even looked into the BSLL. He was AMW’s fan He stopped his car, and walked up to his idol and his lady.
“Hello there! Are you THE Tom? Whoe, your company is hella awesome!” he unbuttoned his outfit, revealing a jumper with a giant Mantis picture on it. “Man, could you sign this fan-art drawing I’ve made?” - And he pulled out a drawing of that prototype of the GT cruiser joint-developed with BMW “I’m so, so, so happy to meet ya! Wait, on the other hand, heep the drawing. Treat it as a gift.” And he pulled out a clean piece of paper for Tom to sign. “Good luck in the race!”
The sunrise blasted in between the gaps of the drapes in the motel room, warming Kristina’s face as she awoke. It was 8am, and she needed to get going if she was going to be ready for Tulsa. After a long hot bath, she dressed and was out the door, ready to hit the highway once more, on . After she started out, her stomach growled ferociously so she decided to grab a bite to eat at a small truck stop, the LNM, in Minneola, KS. She filled up and then went into the diner for breakfast at 10AM.
Aside from the rumble and whizzing from the engine bay, her car didn’t attract much attention. It was basically a lightly modified, stock M3 by appearances. The stiffer springs didn’t even give away the extra ~225 lbs sitting on the front of the car under the hood. When she came outside, however, there was a small crowd around the E30. She quietly moved closer to investigate the gathering, as inconspicuously as one can in full leathers and combat boots. Her long dirty blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail draping halfway down her back. There was a low chatter which could not be heard from still 20 feet away.
One of the onlookers turned around and spotted her standing there. “Is this *your *car?”, she shrieked. Kristina just stared at the woman. She was pretty but unassuming, dressed in one of those typical Midwestern moo-moo dresses with the obnoxious floral pattern. “It’s rude to not speak when spoken to,” the woman pipped.
“Yes, it is my car. What the hell is going on here?”
“My son was telling me about this group up in Utah who were chased by the police. There was television pictures and everything about it. He was going on and on about a dark green BMW, and then I see your car. I was wondering if it was the same one my son was babbling about. It’s obvious you are not from around here, and I was wondering if we could get a photo of us with your car.”
“As if the Georgia tag on the back of the car wasn’t the obvious clue?” Kristina really needed to work on her snarky attitude, but she just didn’t have time for this right now. The woman stared back blankly, along with the others. “It’s just an M3, nothing special about it. Why would you want a picture of a common M3? They’re everywhere.”
“Oh, my son said this one was special. He said it was going over 240 miles per hour, and that a BMW couldn’t do that, so it is special!”
“Fine, take the picture and move on so I can get to my destination - [murmured under her breath] far away from here.” The lady grabbed her arm and dragged her over to be in the picture with her. How humiliating to be a sideshow freak in the middle of Kansas! She forced a grim smile as an onlooker snapped a photo. Suddenly everybody wanted a photo. They obviously had no idea how painfully camera-shy Kristina was, as the smile had to be forced for 8 more photos.
As the last one snapped a picture, she broke free and told everybody she was going to be late. She jumped into the car and started it up. A whirlwind of dust and debris shot out from around the car as the engine roared to life. The onlookers gasped and stepped back, as this was like no other BMW any of them had ever seen. Indeed it was special, but she sure as hell didn’t need more attention! She sped off, back onto US 283 heading south. The last thing the crowd saw was the dust from her wheel-spin and a Georgia tag “LNUXGRL” disappearing into the horizon.
She had to stop 2 more times along the way to Tulsa. Each time a similar gathering took place, and each time she cursed the tuning on the LS7 for being so fuel inefficient. She also cursed the internet for being so efficient at disseminating information which would otherwise be completely localized. It was 7PM when she finally arrived in Tulsa. She checked into a motel near the airport and went to eat dinner at a place called “Hank’s Hamburgers” on Old Route 66.
Later that night, the shit with hammer man finally sunk in with Vos. He sat in a plastic chair in his dimly lit garage, his only company being the Kodiak and a bottle of vodka. He stared deeply at the Kodiaks’ front end and thought. He remember what made the original Kodiak so famous. It was so shoddily built and even worse to drive. But in the entire run of the car, there was never a case of one breaking down due to any mechanical failures that weren’t the owners fault.
No. He thought. It will not go down like this. He downed the bottle like a champ, tosses it at a near by wall, and made a call.
“Mr. Camden. You ready?” … “Outstanding.” … “Meet me at ICT.” … “Get Fiona ready, we’re going to Tulsa.”
[size=150]7:01PM, 23th November, Tulsa, USA[/size]
Enry finally arrived in Tulsa, sweating and with an aching back, his mp3 collection just made the trip slightly more comfortable, an 8.1 liter racing v8 humming along at 80mph is pretty dang noisy if you listen to it for several hours.
He had arrived only thanks to some familiar taillights, the E30 LS7 M’s taillights, since the GPS system in his phone stopped working halfway through for some reason…
There were a few other racers already in the meeting place, including… a Felicia Combi?!
Enry parked the Achernar next to it, and walked out. There was a guy with the mother of all hammers strapped to his back talking to Tom. “Yep, that’s the owner”, he quickly thought, and approached them…
“Oh, my name’s Jack Cossack, by the w-” And the one-sided conversation between Tom and Jack was interrupted by an enormous V8 arriving to the place. “Hey, it’s Enry, isn’t it?” The Moderator said as he noticed the EGT, affectionally called “the tuned out Daihatsu” parking next to his beauty.
Enry got out of the car and took a surprised look at Cossack’s Skoda and then at Cossack himself.
“Yup, he likes my car…And my hammer” Jack said to himself. And then Enry approached him.
“Hiya!” Jack greeted the Seishido owner “How’re you doing?”
Sebastian machado arriveds to Tulsa with no major dificulties except people asking what sort of car he was carrying he took advantage of the opportunity to promote YCB’s work
In which tensions rise and questions don’t get answered.
[size=200]T[/size]he sun had just dipped below the horizon as all the cars were finally assembled in the lot of the Tulsa raceway bathed in the white of the spotlights. Strop eased himself out of his Peapod, stretching out his creaking joints. Despite everything, it seemed that everybody had made it here, including, he noted, the Kodiak of Vos, and the new Felicia of Jack Cossack. He hoped that Jack would have been more discreet, unfortunately judging by the correspondences, it seemed that Jack was kind of being anything but. And now, in the distance, he could see the eccentric mod doing his effervescent best to blend in, and doing about as well as soda water in Irish Cream. Looks like he had some explaining to do.
The horrendous screeching of fingernails being dragged violently down a blackboard accompanied by a cough and a splutter had him rolling on the ground covering his ears. When he recovered, the noise had died down with a deathly rattle, and Noah, Tesla and Hannah clambered out of the Gryphon Gear truck, looking very much on its last legs.
“Oh thank Dog we made it!” Tesla exclaimed, shoving the door open, whereupon, the hinges having rusted, the door departed from the cab and clattered onto the ground. Noah promptly jumped out, made the sign of the cross over his chest, and started reading the truck its last rites.
“That bad huh?” Strop asked.
“You didn’t just drive fifteen hundred miles in it, you wouldn’t know,” Hannah replied, poking him in the hip as she waddled by. “More importantly, what are you going to do about that new friend of yours? Waxwell looked and looked and couldn’t find any real intel on him whatsoever.” She pointed at the conspicuous Jack, where he was busy shaking the hand of every confused person there.
“Oh that…” Strop sighed and rubbed his head. “I think I know how to handle this one. As for the rest of this trip, I guess we’ll see.”
One of the greatest things about Tulsa Raceway was its midnight drags, which were extraordinarily casual by most standards, and very easy to access. As long as the cars had a seatbelt (and most of the rides here had six-point harness), and each rider had a helmet (okay, so that might be a problem), it seemed they’d let just about anything run with very few questions asked, and because they happened so often, there wasn’t all that much of an audience. Of course, tonight just happened to be one of those nights where all the cars would be doing sub twelve and about half of them sub ten. And fortunately, while Strop was aware that news of the league was abuzz underground and it had perhaps surfaced a couple of times in their travels, due to their disruptions in schedule, it wasn’t as if there was a crowd of thrill seekers hunting the league down and tipping the cops off. Or that crazy supercop for that matter, but that was another thing to keep in the back of his mind. At any rate, he figured he better step in and ‘explain’ things before anything else spiralled out of control.
“Lady, gentlemen, good to see you all here. I trust your travels were not too difficult and you are ready for round four!”
Everybody was equally divided between staring at him, and staring at their newcomer, who, still in the throes of awkward fanboying, was wearing a grin as wide as his face.
“Before we begin, though, I would like to extend a warm welcome to Jack Cossack, our, er, co-sponsor. Originally, Jack refrained from entering himself as a racer, as there was an issue with his car’s elegibility and registration, but now those have been rectified, he will be joining us on the track, though of course not as an actual competitor so much as experiencing the racing itself. And believe me, that Combi may not look it, but it is certified Barely Street Legal League material. So I do hope you’ll make him feel welcome.”
There was a smattering of polite applause and a shuffling of feet, as well as a few more stares at Jack’s oversized hammer which he insisted he kept strapped to his back at all times he wasn’t in the car, it seemed. But really, he couldn’t be that much more eccentric than most of the loonies who turned up for the league in the first place? Could he?
“Now, it’s around about nine o’clock, so that gives you three hours to prepare, change your tyres, inspect your cars and so forth. Then at midnight, the lanes open and we’ll be doing single runs, head to head, but of course fastest time wins the round. So get to it and see you at the start line!”
Everybody scattered, jumping back into their cars and puttering off to the garage. Vos, however, was clearly loitering, staying put and fiddling aimlessly as the numbers dwindled. Just as Strop was walking back to his car, he skulked up to Strop.
“Hey, horse guy, come with me for a sec, I got something to show you.”
Strop eyed Vos, looked around, then shrugged. “Okay sure.” They strolled across the lot as casually as they could appear, turning the corner and walking around an office to a gap between the office and a ramp truck, shrouded in shadows, away from the night lights.
Strop suspected that Vos was up to no good, and figured that if Vos was going to try anything funny, it’d be the moment they disappeared from view. But as they stepped into the darkness, Vos kept walking forwards, hands in his pockets. As they went further in, Strop started second guessing himself, wondering if Vos had something else hidden away deeper in the darkness. He had to act soon. And besides, he’d been meaning to jump Vos and ask him a few questions of his own. He just hoped his ninja past wasn’t too distant a memory.
It figured that Vos was a veteran of dark alleyways and shady jobs. The moment he sensed a quickening in Strop’s hoof steps, he whirled around, hands up. They grabbed each other’s collars simultaneously, twirling around in an ungainly ballet. Strop released one hand, snaking it under and through, breaking Vos’ hold, but Vos quickly withdrew his hand before Strop could pin it. He barely blocked Vos’ knee rushing for his groin, the impact jarring his wrists, then whipped his arm up to parry a backfist headed for his temple. This time successfully closing his fingers around Vos’ hand, he locked the wrist, looking to gain control of his arm, but Vos spun inward, negating his leverage and coming in for the counter, so he braced on the ground and pushed hard, sending Vos flying into the trailer of the ramp truck. Vos grunted, winded but unhurt, and Strop stepped forward, hoping to press the advantage, only to be stopped by outstretched palms. He was a tough customer when sober.
“What the hell are you trying to pull?” Vos gasped. Strop froze. “That’s MY line.”
Vos turned his push into a grip and hauled Strop down close enough that he could smell Strop’s hay breath and Strop could smell the vodka on his. Okay, so maybe he was never quite sober. “No, that’s MY line. I just want to show you something and you try to jump me?”
Strop narrowed his eyes, glaring at Vos. “You could have just as easily been preparing an ambush.”
Conversely, Vos’ eyes widened and he shoved Strop off. “An ambush? Whatever the hell for you crazy horse!?”
Strop brushed his shirt off, but stayed standing side on, half in stance. “Don’t think I don’t know that Hasira was a Normandy job. And appeared when you conveniently happened to be away. A neat coincidence to be sure.”
“Are you kidding? I had no idea that stupid super cop car was going to show up then! And you saw how my car’s been doing in this tournament, the brakes were completely melted by the time I got down Mount Haruna!”
“Ah, so you don’t deny that Normandy made a super cop car.”
Vos snorted derisively, “Bitch please. I don’t know shit about what happens to the cars after we make them. Hell, I don’t even know who asks for them. They could turn it into Batman’s next ride or a weapon of mass destruction or both and it won’t be any of my business.”
Strop hesitated, realising that he was just hearing the same things Jack had conveyed to him. In the opening, Vos sprang up, pushing Strop against the wall of the office. “And now I have some questions for you! Who the hell is Jack Cossack?”
Strop blinked. “Weren’t you paying attention? He’s a co-sponsor who turned up late.”
“Bullshit!” Vos snarled, tightening his grip on Strop’s collar. “That jackass had the nerve to stroll up to my secret garage and start poking around, harassing my clients, and then tried to pass it off as saying a friendly hi to everyone, all while eating his mom’s shitty cake. At my secret garage, which nobody was supposed to know about. So do you care to explain THAT?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Strop protested, trying his best to look confused. “It’s not like I have a dossier on all the people involved in this tournament, I only checked their cars! Maybe Jack is a bit of a weirdo, but all I know is that his car’s papers came through earlier this week and he was on his way. Anything else he did is, as you say, none of my business.”
They stared each other down in complete silence for several seconds. Finally, Vos released his grip on Strop’s collar again. “Fine, if you’re going to play it like that.” They stood there for another awkward few seconds, before Strop cleared his throat. “If you weren’t going to ambush me, then what were you going to do?”
Vos blinked, then recovered his swaggering composure. “I was going to show you something, dumbass. Now you wanna see it or not?”
Back in the open, Vos pointed to the lone vehicle parked on the tarmac. “Behold, the other reason I was away from round three!”
Strop peered at what looked very much like a Transit van, except with a lot more ventilation, a lot more body kit, and a hell of a lot more tyre.
“For this whole tournament,” Vos explained, “I’ve been looking at your company truck and thinking ‘God, what a shitbox’. And looking at the state it’s in, it was good timing too, because it looks as if your truck has just bought the farm. This, on the other hand, is one of Normandy’s finest creations to date, with a build quality that’s second to none, and the best brakes and suspension we’ve ever developed. Your girls will love this.”
“Eh, yeah we’ve been meaning to replace that truck.” Strop shrugged before he did a doubletake. “Wait, you’re giving us a van?”
“Consider it a service and an apology for my, er, behaviour after the second round.” Vos did his best impression of a consolatory pat on the shoulder. “I just hate losing.”
“Wow, er, thanks.” Strop was now genuinely confused, but suspicions aside, it was rude to look a gift horse in the mouth. “That’s mighty generous of you.” Though of course… one might have done well to look the Trojan horse in the mouth. “I’ll get the girls to check it out after the race.”
“Oh yes that.” Vos was wandering off back towards the paddock where the Kodiak was parked. “Better bring your A-game, coz this Kodiak’s a new car. See you on the drag strip.”
The race results will be posted tomorrow!
[ooc] I had no idea that I had a background that would make me so versed in hand-to-hand combat. I can dig it.
[Bic] “Ingrateful prick…” Vos thought to himself as the Kodiak roared to life. It was a good mile or so to where he’d set up camp off the tracks property, so it gave him time to calm down.
A few minutes later he arrived at his makeshift base of operations. It wasn’t very big but it was packed full. A barbed wire fence, armed guards and one building. His team of scientists worked away the hours on projects they were assigned. Statistical analyitics of each competitors vehicle, current weather conditions, simulations on various things, typical mad scientist stuff.
Right behind this shed was Fiona, and shit was she ever enourmous. She was as black as the darkest of nights and looked like a cross between a Marine Osprey and a Harrier. Nearly 200 feet long with a wingspan nearly the same. Ending each wing and between the two tail fins was a powerful prototype rotating jet-engine VTOL system Normandy had orginally designed for the SAS. They were very interested until he quoted then much more than they wanted to pay.
Between Fiona and the shed, were two large semi’s that lacked any cab. Effectively, they were self driving and used primarily for loading operations. It was in one of thses trailers that Vos would hole up for the night.
It’s VTOL (Vertical Take Off and Landing)
[Ooc] Thank you sir.
[OOC] I had to take a stab, and guess that Vos had plenty enough experience with shady places and unsavoury characters (and possibly getting his ass handed to him) to know how to at least punt someone in the nuts, poke someone in the eyes, and not get his arm broken. Also one has to wonder where the hell Normandy get all their money and tech from, so I extrapolated a bit.
Also in an unauthorised account of a fight I felt it only fair to make it relatively even, nobody likes getting their ass kicked without warning, cause or permission! The circumstances are to strop’s disadvantage, though… Reflecting real life, he strongly favours striking in a fair fight, and his grappling is kind of rudimentary.
**[size=200]U[/size]**nder the night lights, the cars of the Barely Street Legal League formed two files behind the starting line, engines idling and exhausts spitting smoke and steam in the frigid night air. Crews in each lane bustled around, scrubbing tyres and doing a last minute check. As per venue rules, all the drivers donned helmets, including Kai, who was notorious for forgetting his.
The Gryphon Gear crew had seeded the cars according to the reverse of the current standings, but had thrown their own cars into the mix to make things a little more interesting. As a result, Kai and Sam in the Mephisto and Sleipnir languished all the way up the back row, only closely matched in performance by the Baltazar Thanatos Estate. Seeing as each race would take maybe five minutes to set up, do the burnout and stage (and mostly less than twelve seconds to run), they had plenty of time to argue between themselves, over the radio, because the combined din of the engines was far too much to shout, let alone talk above.
“Hey, what’s the score so far? Two-one my way?” Sam hinted at Kai, flashing him a winning grin through the window. Kai scowled. “Don’t you worry, I’ll beat your ass this race, guaranteed.”
“That’s boring,” Sam complained. “How about we up the ante?”
Alarm bells rang in Kai’s head. This had the potential to get really out of hand, because Sam’s enthusiasm for all things insensible was particularly infectious, especially among the bunch of people doubtlessly listening in on the same channel who were notorious for being insensible. Himself sort-of included. “Uh. How about we don’t?”
“Awwwww what?” Sam’s voice took on a decidedly mocking tone. “Are you a chicken? Bawwwwwk-bawk-bawk-bawk-bawk-“
Inwardly, something ignited within Kai and his eyes lit up with the fire. He gripped the wheel and revved the engine, feeling the body shake. “Nobody calls me chicken.”
“That’s the spirit!” Sam exclaimed gleefully. “So I was thinking we would play for keeps.”
“That’s not even your car, Sam.”
“I know I know, I’m not talking about pinks. I’m talking about something a little more permanent than that.”
So much for the alarm bells. “I’m listening.”
At this point the Gryphon Gear channel lit up with clamouring advice. “Dye your hair green!” “That’s not permanent enough!” “Amputate a finger!” “Are you nuts, this isn’t the Yakuza!” “Genital piercings!” “TESLA!” “But Bianca would love that!” “TESLA!!!” (that one belonged to Kai), “Wait, who’s Bianca?” (and that one was Sam.)
“Wait wait wait guys,” this time Strop interjected. “You haven’t actually figured out how you’re going to decide the winner. You have to do it properly or this forfeit won’t be meaningful.”
“Destruction derby!” Sam promptly volunteered, to which Kai barked “NO!”
“You’re missing the point,” Strop explained with all the patience of a parent lecturing an over-sugared five year old. “We already have a scoring system in place. The only difference is that we didn’t include the Gryphon Gear affiliated cars in the count, because we’re hosting this thing. But we seeded the cars in this round according to the progress scoring if all the cars had been scored. And that’s the system I propose you use.”
“Which one of us is winning right now?” Kai asked.
“You’re pretty much a dead heat,” Strop informed him.
“ALRIIIIGHT!” Sam punched the air with his voice, “I like it! Whoever has the lower hypothetical score at the end of the tournament has to tattoo LOSER on their forehead.”
There was a brief lapse in conversation, and in the background the roar of engines bouncing off the rev limiter and tyres shredding took over.
“I kind of like that,” Hannah said. “Yeah that’s a good one,” Tesla agreed. “Nothing says regret like an indelible reminder of your poor life choices,” Noah added, in his own special form of approval.
“Alright, we’re settled then. We’ll hold you to it when we get back to Australia!” Strop warned them.
“Fine by me.” Kai smirked. “But Sam, remember to make sure the tattoo’s flipped, so you can read it nice and clear every time you look in a mirror.”
Race 1: Škoda Felicia Combi “F3L1C14 C0M81” –vs- Testis
Newcomer Jack Cossack’s Felicia Combi, with its stock 1.3L OHV MPI 8v 4-pot, put out a modest 50-60 horses. Finding this somewhat lacking, out went the buzzer and in went an eight-banger boosted to just over a thousand horses. Just right for its desired purpose, which, apparently, was to rival the ancient Testis for number of people asphyxiated by tyre smoke.
Both cars snaked around on the starting line considerably, lack of traction hampering their takeoff. They were a dead heat at the sixty foot, though the Combi finally hooked up once it had shifted into third. The Testis, tyres smoking all the way down the quarter mile, valiantly hung on, but was eventually beaten to the post by just over two car lengths.
Race 2: Normandy Kodiak –vs- RB-02
Vos had sworn the Kodiak was a new car after its upgrades, but it still looked like a dinosaur sitting next to the brand new RB-02 of Harizvet. Both had no traction control, but the RB-02 had more tyre to weight ratio, and despite only being able to put a fraction of its six hundred plus horses to the tarmac, by virtue of judicious throttle control, was simply faster off the mark, through the initial sector, and all the way to the line. With his foot planted firmly through the firewall in anger, a quarter mile didn’t seem like enough for the Kodiak to really stretch its legs, with no real traction until it was well into third, and had it been the full mile, it might have blown past. But as it was, the winner was the RB-02 by nearly a second.
**Race 3: BMW M3 “E30 LS7 M” –vs- Decker Annihilator **
Kristina had some real race points on the board, for somehow keeping on the road during the top speed run. With a slightly more sensible build, Sturt Decker Junior’s Annihilator was ahead of its time, with a trick all-wheel-drive up its sleeve. Struggling to launch right, with the boost threatening to run away with the car and steer it into the barriers, the E30 LS7 M simply struggled, whereas the Annihilator put four to the floor and shot off unlike any other competitor before it, slamming through all five gears to pass through the finish line a good deal faster than anything before it, posting the first sub ten time of the day. Kristina did well to post a sub twelve.
Race 4: Leeroy Lunatic –vs- AMW Brimstone
Two rear wheel drive cars with very different approaches. The blood was running hot through both Tom and Matt’s veins, and they both let loose in tandem to pull out massive long burnouts, setting the tone for the race. With the significantly shorter low gears, the Leeroy tuned coupe somehow managed to get into the zone first, drawing the slightest of leads at the sixty foot mark. Every time the turbo AMW hatch changed up it clawed back inches, but the lead grew by feet as the cars barrelled down the strip, and finished at five car lengths, a relatively slim margin considering the cars crossed the line doing in excess of two hundred and sixty kays.
Race 5: Cottam Elegance DA –vs- HFF
This was the matchup of the bizarre. The oversized limo (which wasn’t really as comfy as it looked, judging by Pleb’s face after driving halfway across the US of A), versus the coupe which was front wheel drive when it really ought not to be. That drivetrain choice proved to be crucial in this match, for the HFF made like a rocket: slow to start with lots of fire and smoke, but picking up momentum as it went. The Elegance, on the other hand, had all wheel drive up its sleeve and took off much faster, but had much longer gearing and a power to weight ratio that could be described as deficient only in a place like the Barely Street Legal League. As the HFF picked up speed, the Elegance seemed to slow down, and the HFF started to close the gap at a rate of knots. Alas, Rayyan ran out of track and the Elegance crossed the line by barely three car lengths.
Race 6: Necronia Emperion –vs- AED Griffin
The Necronia was one of the prettiest cars of the competition, and was certainly not lacking for power. However, the Griffin, one of the ugliest cars of the competition (according to Strop, though several agreed with him), was all wheel drive, had more power, and more gears. It took off the fastest anybody had seen so far, blazing through seven of its eight forward gears, leaving the Emperion far behind. By the time blitzed the finish line clocking over two hundred and eighty kays in the first sub-nine time of the round, the Emperion was barely two thirds down the runway.
Race 7: Centauri Vindicator –vs- Dalora Infernalis
The Vindicator had already proven itself to be a well-balanced marvel in the corners, despite its lumbering sixteen hundred plus kilos. The Infernalis was lighter, and had much more power. The paladin held up strongly against the hellish onslaught, its well-tuned setup making the most of what it had to stay even up to the sixty foot mark, but after that, its longer gearing and lesser power became more and more telling as the cars sped up and aerodynamics became a greater factor. Slowly but surely, hell prevailed by a good forty meters at the finish.
Race 8: Ruby –vs- Honda Civic “Peapod” GG Tune
In a battle of the front wheel drives, traction was always going to be a problem. Strop thought that the decision to squeeze the ever-loving boost out of the block would cost him, and for the most part, he was right, the car prone to pushing wide on the corners and letting go if he went too hard on the throttle. But to be sitting next to somebody who insisted on putting fifteen hundred horses through the front wheels, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be around when the car plowed into the barriers. Unfortunately, the ridiculous 2.8 bar of boost causing a surge of torque and his extra-long first gear proved to be once again troublesome getting of the line, and by the time he was properly rolling, Ruby had inched ahead. However, the short spacing of the higher gears proved to be crucial, and he slammed through the next three gears with more throttle, hauling in the larger estate and passing it two seconds before they hit the finish to post just shy of a ten second quarter mile. Pretty damn good for an FF.
Race 9: X90 YCB Yacare ULTRA X –vs- EGT Achernar X90
Despite the loss in the head to head round, Enry was overall very pleased with his car’s strong showing, the all-wheel-drive and rebuilt engine making up for a lot of the natural deficiencies in his older car, allowing him to run in the top tier of the competition across the varied tracks. However, against the crazy mid-rear speed beast of Ybarra Coach Builders, piloted by veteran driver Seba Machado III, he knew it was going to be a challenge. It was a dead heat off the mark, with the sixty foot being covered in well under two seconds. From that point on, the superior power of the ULTRA X took hold, and inch by inch it crept ahead. Even with Enry hitting the shifting points perfectly, the aerodynamics of the ULTRA X kept it in front all the way to the finish, both cars posting blazing sub-nine second times.
Race 10: Raggari Mutant –vs- Banks Debrauna Gumball Edition
Rubik had Mister Greasepaws to thank for the extra power in the engine, and hopefully it was enough to seal the deal. If not, well, there was also the crazy hookup power of all wheel drive, and that ought to keep it ahead of what was now dubbed “The Strongest FR Coupe”. Riley Banks had done something mysterious with that car (it sure didn’t have anything to do with the mysterious ventilation), and there was no telling what kind of upset it would pull next. Fortunately, it seemed those concerns were not substantial, as all four wheels lit up and the Mutant catapulted forth with a screech of tyres and a screech from Mister Greasepaws. The gap opened up wider through the middle section, but peering in the mirrors which their mystery Italian driver resolutely (and rightfully) ignored, it seemed that the Debrauna was closing in at the end! What!? But fortunately they crossed the finish line with over a second in hand.
Race 11: Cadillac Series 62 “The Hulk” –vs- AR.MA. SD-01R
In many ways this was the most anticipated race of the night, mainly for the most powerful car of the tournament, the Hulk, with its unprecedented three thousand plus horses. But it was also the heaviest, and with some of the skinniest tyres in the competition, none of the Gryphon Gear crew were holding their breath over the quarter mile. The AR.MA. SD-01R on the other hand was a dark horse, an extremely competent if slightly dated car hidden underneath an impossible name, and it doubtless had superior dynamics. Sure enough, it was faster off the line, with better traction and shorter gearing. It drew out three car lengths over the first half of the course. But fearless Reece “The Jaws” Parsons gave it the beans, and already flying down the runway at two hundred, the Hulk started smoking all four wheels, bearing down on the SD-01R like a nuclear warhead. The SD-01R lost a car length but clung onto the lead at the post, but the speed of The Hulk as it went by was astounding, well in excess of three hundred and twenty, and it took almost the entire remainder of the runway to slow to a stop.
Race 12: Gemina XIII GTX –vs- Baltazar Thanatos Estate
Two of the strongest cars of the tournament squared off against each other for the first time: the uncompromising road racer, the Gemina XIII GTX, and the fastest estate wagon in the world, the Baltazar Thanatos Estate. One was an MR supercar with superb speed and balance. The other had all wheel drive and tyres so fat the tyre tracks could have been mistaken for a semitrailer’s. One of the rare cars with over two thousand horsepower, the Thanatos concerned itself not for things such as weight, lugging its nearly fifteen hundred kilo frame with the force of a Jules Verne lunar launcher. With the fastest hundred time of the league, even including Gryphon Gear’s own cars, it opened up a crack of a lead at sixty feet, pried it apart in the middle sector, and opened it wider in the closing stages, besting the Gemina by a fraction of a second as both cars rushed past the post doing nearly three hundred.
Race 13: Sleipnir –vs- Ascension Mephisto
The final race with what appeared to be the fastest overall cars in the league ended up being a Gryphon Gear showdown between the two best-worst friends-rivals, Kai and Sam. In all truth, the car most similar to the Thanatos Estate, was Kai’s own Ascension Mephisto. With a similar drivetrain, similar outputs, and similar tyres, the main difference was in the gearing, as the first gear in the Mephisto was long, geared to precisely one hundred kays, which, in theory, gave it fantastic responsiveness in the middle ranges and higher speed sections, but in reality was bloody terrifying spending much of the entire time going through sweeping bends well in the two and a half bar boost range and pushing a potential twenty three hundred Newton-metres of torque. Sleipnir, on the other hand, followed a purer track racer type philosophy, with a huge naturally aspirated V8 that gave it massive torque from the get go, and a nice smooth power curve.
“Remember our bet,” Sam taunted as they inched towards the line.
“Too bad for you, I know the specs of both cars, and it’s not looking good for you,” Kai gloated.
“You’re bluffing,” Sam scoffed. “Nothing beats an MR car for pure speed.”
The lights flashed green and they dropped the clutch, launching off the line. Much to Sam’s dismay, Kai was not bluffing, and he was just that bit quicker every step of the way, to the sixty foot, the hundred kay mark, and indeed all the way down the rest of the quarter mile, pulling out five car lengths ahead as he crossed the line doing precisely three hundred.
“No fair!” Sam complained. “You must have jumped the start!” But the lights were still green, and their run was legitimate.
“Remember, tattoo mirrored,” Kai simply said.
Two in the morning, and the fog from everybody’s breath was illuminated by the spotlight. The air was abuzz with the excitement of the duels, but now that the round was done and they had to be moving again, there was a sense of urgency. Quickly, Strop called everybody together for a huddle.
“That’s the end of round four. I’ll post the updated standings to you all later, but given the events of this last week, I fear we may have to hasten our departure from America.
“Our fellow competitor Rayyan here has used his connections with Sabre Automotive and the Air Force to offer us private passage, for both our cars and us, on board his carrier. The Gryphon Gear crew will be accepting this offer, but by no means is it mandatory. Whether you do take this offer, or make your own arrangements, is entirely up to you. It’s about a five hour drive, so I’m advised that we’ll be departing at noon, should you accept.
“The only condition is that you arrive at the Dunsfold Aerodrome by eleven o’clock, twenty-seventh of November. We have an appointment to make, and since we’ve already renegotiated the booking, we can’t push it back any further.
“Okay, that’s it for now, let’s move out. Good luck, and Godspeed.”
“It’s not bad,” Hannah said, her nose scrunched up in appraisal at the replacement van sitting in the car park. “But why does it look like a Ford Transit?” She said disdainfully, conveniently forgetting that the old Gryphon Gear truck was a Ford F-350.
“Oh get over yourself,” Strop ribbed Hannah. “Your days of being a Holden girl are long gone.”
“Hey! It’s in the blood!” Hannah bristled, but with a smile. Gryphon Gear had come a long way since her original vision, a shed in country Victoria, retuning and refurbishing the old VL Commodores of many a bogan and aficionado alike, after Holden had declared their intention to pack their bags and leave Australia after over six decades of automotive history. And promptly laid her off. “Fine, let’s take a look.”
The cabin of the Transit by Normandy was simple, but ergonomic and wasted nothing. The fittings were crisp, the fabrication seamless, and the dials clicked with that satisfying weight of things just happening. A far cry from the so-bad-it-was-iconic Kodiak that Vos had elected to take to the tournament, this was more in line with the vision of such things as the Echo. But in the form of a van.
“Hm, you could put four Mephisto wheels on this,” Tesla mused, inspecting the ultra-wide bodykit. “The ride’s going to be a lot firmer for sure though.”
Noah pressed the START button mounted on the driver’s controls, and the HUD lit up with a soft glow. In high contrast blue, the display belonged more to a supercar than a van. Flicking a few switches, Noah discovered with a start that the van ran telemetry. What kind of van needed telemetry? A quick prod of the gas pedal quickly revealed the true touch of madness: a turbo boost that produced something like, if the telemetry was telling the truth, seventeen hundred Newton meters of torque at five thousand revs.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Noah muttered. “What kind of van needs all the power up in the high end?”
“No, no, I like this,” Hannah said, barging Noah over and settling herself into the driver’s seat. “It has great potential. Let’s get the gear moved over and torch the truck.”
“I’ll get the gasoline!” Tesla yelped, scampering off to find a jerry can.
Minutes later, the old truck was parked in its final resting place in a barren field. Flames consumed its body, licking at the metal and peeling the paint, rising up high into the sky as a memorial to the two and a half years of faithful service it had devoted to the company.
The Gryphon Gear crew stood in silence, the flickering orange lighting their forms. Then as one, they clapped their hands. “May you be plagued no more by rust, may your filters collect no more dust, and your pipes no more leaks,” they intoned. “Rest In Peace.”
Somewhere in Nevada, a blip appeared on an LCD screen displaying a map of the world with an accompanying beep. A sleepy eye cracked open, then the operator of the console stirred, neck cracking ominously as he straightened. He pressed a button, dozens of inset images flooding onto the monitor, and reaching up, he flicked through them one by one. Twirling his moustache, he gazed impassively at the monitor for a few more seconds, then rose, thumbing a device in his chest pocket.
“Time to move. We have a lead.”
In an instant, a familiar severe visage with the pulled back bun materialised from the shadows. “Ready when you are.”
They marched through pitch black and into a dimly lit garage, where a menacing black low slung coupe awaited them. As they approached, the lights flashed on, an unearthly shade of neon blue, and the gullwing doors hissed open, revealing the panels covering a multitude of weapon hardpoints. In the darkness, the letters of the numberplate could barely be read: HASIRA.
“Nobody outruns Agent Black and Decker.”
The engine roared to life, a demonic orchestra of blips and pops and whirring, and tyres screeched as the Hasira powered up the ramp, through a sliding door, and emerged onto the desert highway, the thunder heard long after it disappeared into the night.
[ooc] Gosh the further we go into this, the more and more story there is that comes out.
Right now you have to make one decision: will you take up Rayyan’s apparent offer of passage from an airfield in Texas, courtesy of Sabre Automotive, on a private carrier, direct to a private airfield in England? I’ll make this an opt-out thing, so if you don’t want to do that and have alternative plans, just RP it here.
Results, as (IC) Strop said, will be posted once they have a moment to get everything documented properly, but right now, time is of the essence. Get moving!