NationStates Jolt Archive

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3643/3398925918_8c732f1761_b.jpg
Bon Temps, Tanaara
Dusk

Dark green eyes gazed out over the rims of dark sunglasses. Maui Jim Bayfronts perched on the nose of the observer, not more than a quarter mile from the beach, and elevated on a low hill. His right arm hung down by his side, clutching a half empty green bottle, the Dos Equis label drenched in condensation. The observer leaned back in the wooden lounge chair, his feet kicked up on a foot stool, cheap flip flops lying on the ground beside it. His left hand came up from the bathing suit and brushed back the shorter cut black hair. Robert had no idea retirement, if you could call it that at all, would be so nice.

In front of him was the view of a lifetime. The Tanaaran coastal city of Bon Temps was everything that Northampton had been, and more. The view coming in from the water reminded him of trips to Miami from the days when he lived in the US. Casinos ranging from the semi gimmicky Las Vegas style theme tables to those rivaling the best of Monaco dotted the beach, attached to respective hotels. Even this early in the night, the music from the night clubs rose into still air, the only breeze a light brush off the ocean. The beaches were both clearing and filling at the same time, the young starlets and who’s who leaving to clean up for the clubs and bars, with older adults and college students moved in for beach parties and bon fires. Coming out of the cliffs, the distinct sound of turbo four and six cylinder motors bounced off cliffs as one of the local clubs attacked the twisty roads. The traffic on the main road through Bon Temps visibly was increasing.

Robert didn’t miss the pollution that was prevalent in Northampton but missing here. Northampton had had an in city industrial district that, while making for fun underground party locations, had made the air a slight irritant. Nor did he miss the ever prevalent police force, their lightly modified 5 Series BMWs rolling along the interstates and side roads, wasting their time looking for racers and those driving arguably too fast. But the Imitoran did miss a few of the clubs that had been local to Imitora, and a few choice citizens of his old home. Still, he had fully adopted Tanaara as his new home, and his feet nudged against the stack of papers sitting on the foot rest. An importation license was the final bit of paper work to file, and he’d be ready for his newest business venture. That wasn’t to say that the three cars, two Ferraris and a Carrera GT, were not any less customer cars than the ones to come. Nor did it mean the two Z race cars, Robert’s big single E46, or the shop’s twin’d M6 were not RPM vehicles either.

Rogue Performance Motorsports. RPM. It was what he had wanted NIAS to be, a more exclusive specialty shop, putting out the best work, and not just installations of distributed parts. However, Northampton Import Automotive Specialists grew too fast, out of control of Hoot and Robert’s desires. So it was sold off, and brought along Black Owl. It too, wasn’t quite what Robert wanted, far too small and specialized, and the Imitoran shut it down after the third run.

The runs. They had been what it was all about, hadn’t they? Robert lazily counted the cars rolling out of one of the beaches parking lot, enjoying the warm salt air as it washed over him, another light breeze pushing the scent of the water out to his porch. He had forgotten how much he had loved the smell of the ocean. No, it was bigger than just the driving. Wasn’t it?

His eyes dropped down to the rear drive way of the house, the main drive. Inside the garage was his own Z4, an M coupe version, sitting on a lift, hood open and engine exposed. It was almost finished, it just needed a few tugs on the fender and some other body fixes to fit the wheels and suspension, and the ridge racer would be complete. The E46, his big end race car that had already taken a few names in Bon Temps at the 60-150 races, was still at the as of yet unopened shop, sitting in the large, fifty car underground garage. Tucked in between the wall of the garage and the MZ4 was his bike, a 2009 S1000RR in factory racing livery. Following the trend, behind the two near dedicated race vehicles were another pair of Munich’s finest, an E60 M5 and E92 M3. The M5 was Robert’s daily driven car, and faster than most weekend warriors after he had finished working on it. The M3 was to be a new test mule for a stage program similar to the one he would offer for the M5 once Rogue was open. However, the M3 had also been his latest obsession, and had hardly driven the M5 in the past few weeks after picking up the Jerez Black coupe.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The voice belonged to Victoria Reynolds, one of the first hires for Rogue Performance. The native Tanaaran was just over 25, and a few rumors had been floating around that she and Robert had been involved, or still was, though nothing had come up to prove or disprove the rumor. She pushed back her dark brown hair, and held out her hand, another dark green bottle to swap out the now empty one in his hand. He took it, and placed it on a table next to the chair.

“You're what, 25?”

“Yeah,” the young brunette replied. She laid out on another lounge chair, catching the last few minutes of the sun to work on her tan. “26 in four weeks.”

Robert nodded. “So you are too young then, missed out on the Imitoran Runs.”

Victoria nodded. “Yeah, by a few years for the last Players Run. Got the DVD, though, and the Thirteen hour race. That looked like a fun one.”

“It was,” he said under his breath. It could all be traced back to that one race. Everything. The more he thought about it, the more he found that everything that had happened to him, to Imitora, could be followed back to that one race. Alliances, wars, trade, technological development, lives changed, lives ended, new lives brought into the world.

“I’ve been on a few here, when it wasn’t interfering with school,” she said, brushing a stray hair from her face. The young woman was Tanaaran, born and raised, and had been picked up for RPM not just because of her beauty, but because of her intelligence. She had been in the top quarter of her class in business school, and Robert’s offer of an obnoxious weekly pay with a low intensity yet fun job was irresistible. That, and he offered to pay off her student loans. After the Tanaaran monies owed pay out to the last surviving Imitorans, and the money made from selling off his last business, it wasn’t like he was hurting for money.

“Yeah. Gotta get yourself on a good team, and a good car. It’s all I did in most of my free time.” Fortier consulted the Dos Equis bottle, picking it up and swirling it around before taking a long pull. “But you gotta know what you are racing for.”

“I was a navigator on one of the last runs, my sis and I took her Audi S6. Made good time, but it was a money race.”

Robert nodded. “Money races are fun, but you gotta be really racing for something good.”

“Like?” she asked, standing up from the lounge. The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, and the night air would soon turn cool. She retreated inside, returning out with a light jacket covering her bikini top and board shorts.

“Bragging rights.”

Northampton, Imitora
You know what I mean. Something big. Shit, when was the last time we drove to Jameston?
Fuck man, dont tell me you wanna make that long ass drive down and back. What is it, 16 hours round trip? Entire fucking day just for a few hours of fun. Nah.
Well, it summer here. Sun down is at 8:00, sun up at 9:00. That’s what, thirteen hours?
Yeah, I fucking hate that number too.
So, let’s make the drive in thirteen hours.

Hoot was gone now, as were most of the racers from that night. Still, the memories from that night were clear. Robert was amazed at how much thirteen hours could change a person. He exhaled slowly, taking in the entire world in front of him, looking out over the water. Suddenly, Robert pushed himself up from the chair, and pushed the Maui Jims up his nose.

“Go home, get changed. Call up Ryan, Azrayl, some of the others. Tell them to be at the shop in two hours.”

Victoria stood as Robert did, following him back at the house. “What’s going on?”

“Just get them there. McManus, for sure,” he said, mentioning the only other surviving Imitoran that he had known personally. “Azrayl, too, we’ll need him. Maybe Scott and Blake, too.”

Victoria nodded, pulling a Blackberry out of her jacket pocket and bringing up the text application. Soon the initial message was out, with a promise to call all with more details. Robert disappeared into the main bathroom and the sound of the shower starting up was heard.

“You be there too,” he called out, shutting the door. He could just hear the sound of his own phone buzzing on the bedside table with incoming texts.

Just two hours later, Victoria was leaning against her car, the red Audi RS4 glistening under one of the parking garage lights at the Rogue Performance Motorsports building. Next to her was a dark titanium Mercedes CL65 AMG, the motor still running, the twin turbo V12 burbling quietly as it cooled.

An oddly dressed, and equally odd looking man stuck his head out from the passenger seat of the Benz.

“Yo, Vicky, what are we doing here again?”

The girl shrugged, stuffing her hands into the pockets on the tight fitting black leather pants. A snug fitting white Affliction tee showed off her frame underneath a short cropped brown leather jacket. She had done her hair up, and a pair of Ray Bans hung from her shirt line.

“Stuff it Azz,” the driver of the AMG said, walking over from a Red Ferrari. Ryan McManus, one of the few handful of Imitorans, and one of the many who had relocated to Tanaara, had been checking out his handy work on the Ferrari he had been working on earlier. The exhaust was settling in nicely. “If Robert called us in from having a good time, I can promise you it’s worth it.”

“You Imitorans and having a good time all the time.” Azrayl chuckled. His real name was Alex Cohen Silverstein, and he spent what time he wasn’t manipulating car ECUs spinning at some of the local psi trance clubs.

The former sniper, and underground Tanaaran hero for his participation in the coup, started towards the DJ, before the sound of a high revving vee-eight punched through the garage. The gate at the far end slid up, and the Jerez Black M3 rolled down the ramp and towards the other drivers. In the fluorescent light, the unique black paint looked an almost impossibly dark bluish purple, the recent detail giving the paint a near liquid look. The sound of the Eisenmann race exhaust, hooked up to an Active Autowerke’s signature X Pipe echoed loudly off the garage walls when Robert punched the gas, the tires chirping.

He lifted, and let the car idle into a spot. Robert opened the door without killing the car, and more vocal ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBJ55C417eQ) mix of Paul Van Dyk’s Crush could be heard over the sound system.

“Good track,” Azrayl said, stepping out of the Benz.

Robert nodded, and looked back over his shoulder as a multi colored Honda Repsol rolled down the ramp. The bike too rolled slowly up to the other drivers, and the rider killed the ignition. Scott pulled off his helmet, and eyed the M3.

“Crap. I was hoping for the ess one kay. I still wanna shot at that thing in the canyons.

Robert shook his head. “Soon enough. I got something bigger planned,” he said, shaking his head. The Imitoran now wore a designer tee shirt with some sort of graphic on it, and a pair of comfortable fitting jeans that hung down just past the tops of his Piloti driving shoes. He was still under shaven, but he had attempted to comb his hair this time.

“Carnival is about what, Azzy? Distance wise?”

Azrayl had grown up in Carnival and it was there he learned how to spin. He had made the drive a few times before. It was a much better flight. “Uh, as the crow flies just a hair over fifteen hundred. Why?”

Robert did the math quickly in his head. Though he had always been more of a political and business thinker, he could still do some decent math when it was car related.

“Any of you up for a drive?”

Two Weeks Later
TanItallia Italian Restaurant
Carnival, Tanaara
Midnight

A light fog had settled over the parking lot, not enough to obscure vision, but enough to give an other worldly feel. It rested just above ankle level, and brought an eerie feeling to the all but empty parking lot in front of the restaurant. In three spots closest to the front door, four vehicles sat, ticking as they cooled off from their most recent drive. A space grey M5 took the center spot, heat still emanating from under the hood even an hour after it had been shut off. On its left was a liquid black Mercedes Benz CLS63 AMG, its tires, though brand new, already showing noticeable tread wear. On the right were two sport bikes in a single space, a Honda CBR1000RR with a large nitrous tank hanging underneath the straight cut exhaust, and a black ZX-6R Monster Energy.

Inside the restaurant, Robert and his small group occupied a large circular table, loaded with food. The service was family style, so instead of individual meals, there were two large bowls of pasta with a pot of sauce, and a dish with a pesto chicken sitting in the center. The group was working on its third bottle of wine.

In between bites, Azrayl looked over at Fortier, and shook his head. “It’s fast. It’s too damned fast for a sedan. It shouldn’t be able to move like that.”

Robert washed down a bite of chicken with another swig of the house wine. “Well,” he countered, “it’s not too hard to believe I could pull your bike. It’s a 600cc, and it isn’t the most aerodynamic. It only takes about five fifty to five seventy five to be able to pull a six hundred bike. On the spray and cut outs, I’m easily putting down six twenty to six thirty,” he said, referring to the M5.

Scott spoke up next, contemplating a bread stick. “And no offense bro, but you’re a shitty rider.”

Scott and Azrayl were two of the many Tanaaran workers at the shop, and could be easily considered the two top Tanaaran employees. Azrayl had been one of the top hackers for the TMI when he left to pursue private interests. Robert had found him at a party the Tanaaran was DJing, and offered him the job to get in and do the ECU tuning. With the increasing complexity of ECUs the manufacturers were using, he wanted someone who could handle cars well, but more importantly get into tight systems. Scott Hammond had been in the Tanaaran military when he met McManus at a joint regional military training exercise. The two had become quick friends, both as their respective team’s snipers, and had stayed in contact. Scott had also spent plenty of time in Imitora in the cross country races and rallies, and had made quite an impression with his 2005 Repsol CBR. Victoria had gone along as well, riding with Robert, memorizing the route.

A good hour had passed, the group still joking and commenting on different situations as they ate, before Robert brought up the underlying subject, and reason for being in Carnival.

“So, we’ve done the drive five times now. We have a handful of side routes to match the main course. We know the traffic. What else do we know?”

Victoria spoke up first. “Under thirteen is a no go. Won’t happen, just not enough time or room. Hell, it takes thirteen just to get one way.”

“Bikes that push it can handle traffic,” McManus spoke next, playing absent mindedly with the key to his brand new CLS. “But there are some parts where the cars are just gonna have to back route it to get in.”

Scott nodded. “Hell, under thirteen for a bike would be a close call. The cars, if you guys can do it in fifteen or less, it would be amazing.”

Robert nodded. “So, we know doing a thirteen hour round trip run won’t happen. We’d have to average well over two hundred the entire way, and we know that just isn’t possible. A few sprints, yes, but average? No. So we make it one way. Bon Temps to Carnival, in thirteen hours. We leave at dusk, that will give us just enough time to hit it before dawn. We’ll set up a big party at the finish line, get a club and rent it out. Should be pretty good. Thirteen hours, sun down to sun up, to go 1500 miles. Everyone good?”

All the others at the table nodded. As a fore though, McManus made a mental note to be sure to call his lawyer when he got home, just to be safe.

“Alright then.” Robert paused to observe the table, taking in the world as he saw it. He thought back to the first run, the very first, and to this day, only Thirteen Hours Till Sunrise race.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time.

“Send out the invitations.”

OOC: This thread is a continuation of an RP I ran several years ago. This thread is closed, and if you have not received a telegram regarding your involvement, please do not assume its ok for you to post. If you would like to be involved, and did not receive a notice, then please contact me via telegram and we will discuss your involvement. Thank you.

OOC: LInk to Bon Temps page embedded within...
http://www.atddm.com/Tan8_small.jpg (http://www.atddm.com/Bon Temps.htm)

Bon Temps glowed in the wan midday light of high winter. The rolling hills of the Sierra Lune gleamed a patchwork of deep evergreen and dark gold - the groves of Tanaaran Yggdrasil which often grew five hundred feet tall, dark and lush, in contrast the bare brown limbs of walnut, red oak, willow, pecan, and the gold of gamma and pampas grass.

Here and there, widely separated towers pierced the sky, rising past even the Tanaaran Yggdrasil's. Some -the new ones- reaching over a mile in height, but those were but a handful. Most, as Tanaarans preferred, hid leaving the vistas unmarred. But the day was alive as the residents, close to twenty million strong, spread out over two hundred and fifty thousand square miles of megalopolis.

The Kadeena Station, close to Point Zephyr Military Air Station at the far south end of Bon Temps, was bustling with flights and liftoffs, as it was now- of-days a combination and airport and spaceport.

An Antonov 225 in private livery touched down with surprising grace for such a massive airplane and shortly there after rolled into a hanger just big enough to hold one of the largest air transports about.

A few hours later a small convoy rolled north.

The driver and navigator would be arriving later, as it was their honeymoon.

Leaning on a rail that had been placed by the harbour, the man looked out over the many fishing boats that were moored to the wooden piers. Two fishermen were busy repairing their nets by their boat, as the sun slowly went down behind the horizon. Several hundred meters to his right, the rich and famous in this local town relaxed on their expensive yachts. On the boulevard that bordered the yachting club, lots of people resided on the open air terraces of the local restaurants, Some simply admiring the undergoing sun, others enjoying their three courses, often served in no less than three to four hours. Not due to the inability of the chef to cook his food quickly enough, but simply because the people here liked to enjoy life and take it slowly.

Giancarlo Moretti liked going to this town. It was only several kilometres away from the more tourist-minded city of Venezia, which was busier than ever before since shipping had increased, thanks to the recent worldwide success of one of the more prominent Van Luxemburger automobile manufacturers. Perhaps it was because Giancarlo was somewhat patriotic, that he had bought one of the cars of that brand. Or perhaps it was because he was employed by them, in one way or another.

As he turned around and walked back to the coastal road, where his car had been parked on one of the many parkings by the side of the intercoastal lifeline, and looked back to admire the view once more. Then, he looked at the Monteluci Ducareale that waited for him, which had been painted in a traditional Grigio Vela lacquer. The driver’s door was opened, as if it was inviting him to take her for a spin.

As he got back behind the wheel again, he quickly admired the choice of colours he had made for the interior. He was still in love with the Pelle Timone/Wengé combination, and of course with the engine sound of the powerful V12 that powered his car forwards. As he closed the door, he already pushed the clutch and started the engine, which produced an aggressive roar as it came to live.

Now, the interested reader would have noticed something – A V12 powered Ducareale, undoubtedly a SFS, had no clutch, seeing they all had semi-automatic gearboxes. And this was true, for most cars, but did not take into account that Giancarlo Moretti was in fact the head of the Lepanto workshops in Venezia, where the V12 of the Ducareale had been born. After this particular car had been assembled, it was returned to the Lepanto workshops, as ordered by Giancarlo, and then modified somewhat to his own likings. The 7-speed semi-auto offered by Monteluci was swapped for the 6-speed manual that was installed by Lepanto in their 650 Moiano, which made use of the same engine. Furthermore, the SEM1 suspension of the Ducareale had received a new configuration file, meaning it would behave like the very same 650 Moiano. Slightly uprated brakes from the Moiano, still the size of entire pizzas, and a new stainless steel exhaust system, finished the slight modifications made by Moretti and his team of mechanics.

Checking his mirrors before reversing out of his parking place, Giancarlo noticed the white envelope on the passenger seat. Suddenly, he realised that he had forgotten to check his mail, as he had planned to. He moved the stick back to neutral and moved the key in the ignition back to shut down the engine, but leaving all electrics on, before picking up the envelopes.
Amongst them were some electricity bills, a ticket he received for driving too fast on the – how surprising- Via Lepanto, and a letter which had undoubtedly been delivered by airmail, looking at the colourful envelope. While opening the envelope with the help of his finger, he noticed that the letter came from Tanaara, and that the letter was written by a man named Robert Fortier. He had heard that name before, somewhere.

Several minutes later, he read the letter once again. It was not so much an actual letter, it was more of an invitation. To a race, nonetheless. Moretti had participated in such road rallies before, and, well yes, he enjoyed them. But to travel to Tanaara for one?

Of course, he had experience with rallies in the regular Van Luxemburger scene. But here, in the Grand Duchy, the police did little to intervene in the high-speed trips of the gentlemen in their high-powered sportscars, since they kept themselves to the traffic regulations for most of the time, and speed-related violations were not really enforced by the strong arm of the law. No, the Autobahnpolizei sometimes even did a short sprint together with the gentlemen racers, just for laughs. Their Maseratis, Porsches, Montelucis, and everything else European, Japanese or Van Luxemburger that was powerful enough to serve with the motorway cops, were perfectly capable of doing that. However, they were more focused on apprehending the drugs runners that were ubiquitous in the southern regions, and enforcing traffic regulations on the kids that thought that they could participate in the next part of The Fast and the Furious.

But, considering it had been a while since Moretti had last participated in one of these trips, he would take part in this. He would have to look up some things about the Tanaaran law enforcement on the Internet, but he would participate.

Some days later, Tanaara

Walking with a luggage trolley, Giancarlo looked out over the aircraft parking, and waited until his vehicle would actually be unloaded from Lepanto’s Monteluci C350 cargo plane. The plane was in Tanaara anyways to unload a Lepanto for a customer there anyways, so why would he ship in his Monteluci if he could do it the easy way?

Some minutes later, the Ducareale rolled down the aircraft’s cargo ramp, and Giancarlo loaded his luggage into the luxury saloon. Seconds later, he got into the car’s driver seat, started the engine, and drove off.

Only several hours later, Giancarlo parked his car again, this time outside the building occupied by Rogue Performance Motorsports.

He'd always had a passion for Chevys. Sure, he could afford anything mounted on whatever number of wheels, treads, skis, what have you, but classic American styling always won out over European pedigree. He owned two, one 1964 Impala that could only be described by the term 'Pimp', the second a 1976 Camaro SS. It was his project, his baby, his money pit in some cases, but RPM had made it a reality. Starting with bone stock, they'd done little to the exterior...

From the outside, the car looked no more special than any other 1976 Camaro SS. Except for the raised cowl induction hood, no one in their right mind would think anything of the old muscle machine.

Under the hood, however, is a totally different story. No one can argue that the good old fashioned carburated motors had their time and place in history. And yes, now a days, a good LSx motor would be perfectly appropriate for this. However, when running cross country, it must be done in style. Sitting in the engine bay (with a little help from a sledge hammer) is a Stonewall Motorsports 396 cubic inch V8. Each custom built motor is capable of a rather impressive 520whp and an equally impressive 514ftlbs of torque. The exhaust gas spits out a custom set of Hooker headers into a set of exhaust dumps that release the burnt fuel into the atmosphere just aft of the front axle. The Holley 4150 street power carburetor has been tuned perfectly to fit the nature of the race, and at the request of the owner, a little bit of the giggle gas was added in the form of a 150 horsepower shot of nitrous. He'd seen it used on everything from the movies to street bikes and figured more speed was never a bad thing.

The power is put to the rear wheels via a Richmond T-10 Four Speed transmission, hooked up to a 12 bolt Moser rear end. The actual gearing itself was unknown to him, all the builders at Stonewall would tell them is that "Ya know, those Corvette guys sure learned alot about gearing on the Muslanne straight at LeMans." It is doubtful if the aerodynamics or tires will allow it, but it can be safely assumed that the engine and transmission are able to see something well above the 150 mark, nearing that elusive second century.

The suspension is built up from the Global West and KYB parts bin, including Global West control arms and coils, with KYB shocks. Wheels are Polished American Racing Torq Thrusts wrapped with BF Goodrich Rubber.

Of course, it had to have all the trick goodies. Street slicks on the back end tucked up real nice, lavishly comfy interior, line locks for super easy drift and burnout action, and the like. All in all, he'd been really pleased with the massive amount of cash he'd dumped into the old Chevy. 'Wealthy' didn't describe his bank accounts, and 'lavish' wasn't quite the word for his lifestyle, but Jackson Bray didn't think they'd ever appreciate his use of the term 'Nigga Rich' seeing as he was of the Caucasian persuasion. Ah well, he had more than enough money to shut up Al Sharpton. Jack Bray was indeed 'Nigga Rich'.

A house in Malibu, another in Santa Monica, a cheatu in Colorado, a penthouse in New York, and finally a summertime retreat in the Grand Caymans. Getting to all those living establishments was a pain without your own personal aircraft, and Jack had made sure he had a private Gulfstream on hand to take him where-ever he might want to go. How did he make this sort of money, you ask? If he told you, he'd have to kill you. All he'd say was that he'd done a lot of investing in Russian imports, which was a fancy way of saying he was well-connected within the Russian Mafia. No, he wasn't Russian. The Kentucky boy was one of two sons of the Bray family, and the other sibling wasn't doing too bad either. Dekker didn't have Jack's expensive tastes, but then again Jack didn't have a money-hungry ex-wife and child support payments.

After he'd recieved his vehicle back from RPM's home office in Tanaara, Jack had recieved a letter informing him of a little contest the custom shop was going to be hosting. It wasn't like he had anything better to do, so how could he refuse?

He'd bought a C-130 cargo plane for the exact purpose of getting his baby over the oceans to the starting point. Riding for hours in a military aircraft wasn't a new thing for him, however. The Russians hadn't picked him up because of his snazzy sense of fashion. Jackson was a pistol prodigy, the product of excellent genetics and top-of-the-line military training. After a short stint with the US Army's CAG (Delta Force), he'd taken up the family business of private sector (read: mercenary) employment. He'd chewed dirt in all the hotspots; Africa, the Eastern Bloc, South America, and a lot of domestic work for his less-than-legal ex-KGB friends. He'd saved, invested, and most important of all, hired a bad-ass stock broker to handle his finances and his alone. It wasn't cheap, but the results spoke for themselves. Now he owned car lots, hotels, casinos, strip clubs, and a record label: Hitman Records Inc.

The ride had been made a lot easier through a large dose of Ambien, and Jack had awoken more than a little groggy from his drug-incuded mini-coma. He'd come dressed to impress. The suit he wore was custom-tailored, ice white with slightly darker pin stripes on the pants and coat. The shirt was short-sleeved, keeping in mind that it was going to be warm where he was going, and without the jacket showcased a pair of tattooed sleeves that had cost about as much as the pair of Nighthawk Dominator M1911A1's holstered at the small of his back in a custom shark-skin rig that held both pistols plus three magazines for each. Both weapons showcased heavy engraving, hard chromed finishes inlaid with tasteful gold accents on the control levers and in the engraving itself. The grips were ceylon ebony, like the wood in the car, and showcased a stylized 'JB' on each side, again in gold. The paintjob on the car, not surprisingly, matched the suit perfectly, down to the irridescent color to the slightly darker dual racing stripes that ran down the length of the vehicle. Gawdy? Maybe, but the man had the money and really didn't care what the rest of the world thought about how he spent it.

Continuing with the clothing ensamble he'd chosen to wear this day, the tie matched the suit and the fedora to result in that 'Clean' look some hip-hop artists so loved. The shoes were white Lugz, of all things. On seeing the outfit and the car, one might wonder where exactly the cane and the 'hos' had disappeared to.

Stepping off the loading ramp of the C-130, Jackson threw on the jacket and a pair of mirrored Oakley Aviator-style shades. He lit up a Cohiba Mini cigar, waiting patiently as the crew unloaded his prized muscle car, handing over a stack of currency he'd promised the pilot and the crew if they handled his ride with the care it deserved. The former merc took one last drag on the Cohiba before tossing it to the tarmac to burn itself out. Within moments, he was off to the birthplace of his automotive masterpiece: Rogue Performance Motorsports...

OOC: I am not the GM of this thread, but this is my nation and y'all are about to get some notes that are major league important, so please read this carefully...

Linden Sandoval McCoy (http://img208.imageshack.us/img208/4313/linden.th.jpg) looked at the small group before her and repeated herself, as some of the people weren’t local.

"Firstly - Tanaarans drive on the same side of the road as Americans do, so if you are British, please take note of that and make your plans accordingly.

"Secondly -Tanaara has NO speed limits for Throughways. There are speed minimums for certain lanes. If you see a pack of vehicles overtaking you from behind you must either merge with the pack in a manner that does not decrease their speed in a dangerous fashion, or move into a right lane and let them pass.

"Thirdly -Throughways are multilane, and widely divided, so you won't have traffic coming against you on the open road unless there is something very wrong happening. And by widely divided, the divides are often so wide and treed that you can not see the Throughway’s opposite direction All Throughways have twenty foot wide shoulders on either side, and they are all constructed to the same high quality and safety standards that Germany's autobahns are."

"Fourth -You will Not find the usual heavy transport traffic like you would in many other nations. Very few tractor trailer rigs either box or tanker. Long haul across the country transportation has been decimated by Transport technology, but you can still find some who use it locally but they mostly use smaller panel vans and ten wheelers."

"Fifth -but definitely not least, while there many not be speed limits, the LEO's will snatch you faster than you can believe for driving in a hazardous manner. They are deadly serious about that and will use any means necessary to bring vehicles driven such to a halt."
She caught and held each of the drivers and their camera operators’ eyes "If the fog is up, you need to drive in a manner consistent with safety. If the rain is pouring down so that you can't see ten feet ahead of you, you must take such considerations into account. If you get yourself stopped, I will deny all knowledge of you. I Do Not want to be embarrassed by any of you and I am worse than any Tanaaran Judge. And remember they have the death penalty here, no appeals and sentence is carried out within three months.”

“Now get out there and get us some film that will be world class. This is the first race that Fortier’s sponsored since the Fall, and I want this to be worthy of all the trouble we’ve gone to, to get this set up!...and drive safe!"

Linden watched the drivers and cameramen scramble with a faint pleased smile on her lips. Most of them would miss the prerace festivities, catching last minute powernaps, and checking their rides one last time. It wasn't feasible to have teams trying to film from start to finish -as the driving and such required was more tiring than simply being part of the race itself.

The destination wasn't known, but there were only so many places that could be reached in thirteen hours. The minute the destination was revealed, a number of the teams had been assigned take off, using Transportals to get ahead and in place to hopefully intermingle with the racers as they moved through the video teams assigned zones.

Once they were all off she slid into her cobalt blue rebuilt Orion and headed towards Rogue Performance Motorsports, and what whould prove to be a fascinating race. Of that she was absolutely certain.

Robert sat astride the blue, white, and red liveried sport bike, watching as from the over look in the as the cars slowly started rolling into the parking garage beneath Rogue Performance Motorsports. The hill gave him a clear view as some of the employees of the soon to be opened shop directed the racers towards the underground garage. He saw McManus roll up in the CLS and down into the garage, his latest female companion riding shot gun. As usual, he had the windows down and the latest hit rock song blasting over the speakers. He and Robert had spent all last night putting some finishing touches on the unique Benz, including a set of 350forged wheels, recalibrating the ECU for a larger nitrous shot, and a custom fabricated header back exhaust.

He exhaled silently, smiling briefly as he surveyed the vehicles on hand. "I wish you were coming with us this time D."

"Yeah, me too," the solidly built bald man nodded. Dominic Caparza was one of many American expats in Tanaara, running a security consulting firm. He had found Tanaaran business laws far more favorable to his outfit, and had set up shop in the nation a few years earlier. He had been a long time fan of Fortier's work, and had recently taken his car, an Alpine White M6 with a few tweaks from Thor Forge to Robert for the finishing touches. Of course, business had been good, at it was no secret that after the grand opening of Rogue Performance Dominic's Corsa Rossa F430 would be receiving a Novitec twin super charger set up from the shop. His daily driven Audi had also received some special treatment from Thor Forge, and there was an ugly, black Buick in his garage he was hand building.

"Well, we'll miss ya. When am I gonna get a shot at the Butt Ugly in Central Kentucky?"

"Once you get your hands on one."

Robert nodded. "I gotta get home and get ready, make sure that McManus doesn't piss too many people off down there.

Dominic laughed. "I hear that. I'll see in a few days." He slid into the big GT, reversed out of the side spot on the road, and turned away, laying into the gas. The V10 revved quickly as it sped away from Robert.

Fortier just nodded, the headers, cam, and ECU tune complimenting the rest of the exhaust, intake, and suspension that Thor Forge had installed nicely. He backed the BMW super bike out of the same gravel side pit, and turned down the road towards his house, taking in the route as hard as he could push the bike.

Half an hour later, the racers, now joined by a handful of locals, some more foreigners, and a complete pack of bikes ranging from full custom choppers to built and boosted sport bikes loitered in the garage. A catering company had a full spread of Texas style BBQ had been laid out in one corner, and Azrayl, staying home for this run, had begun spinning a light house mix to set the atmosphere.

Victoria had parked her car, a red Audi RS4 with a Tubi Style exhaust and ITG drop in filter, next to McManus's Benz, watching the cars roll into the garage.

He pointed to a shocking blue custom Orion. "That is based off of one of the last New Owl Custom cars. Probably one of the last out of Imitora. Serious engineering in that."

Victoria nodded appreciatively. The sleek lines caught the florescent over head lights perfectly. "Ya'll really liked your cars, didn't you?"

Ryan nodded. "Yup. Almost as much as our guns."

She chuckled, and glanced down to the Tag watch. It was getting close to dusk. "He gonna be here soon?"

"You know Robert. He has to make an entrance."

As if on cue, the black form of an E92 M3 rolled down the ramp into the garage, liquid black paint appearing at times deep purple, and in some places an impossibly dark blue. It stopped in an open space, backing in with a deep growl, and a loud bark from the four liter V8 every time he punched the gas. Near solid black tint allowed little view of the interior, but it was already well know that Robert, disappointed at how boring car interiors had become, had chosen the somewhat louder Fox Red, trimmed with the carbon fiber look leather.

The M3 was, compared to what Robert had usually run in these races, quite tame. He had taken delivery of and installed an Active Autowerkes Signature Catless X Pipe and Exhaust. Air was scavenged from the motor by a set of custom fabricated Rogue Performance Motorsports headers. Air was pulled into the motor by a completely custom air intake system. Robert called it the V.1 Dual Intake Plenum System. It was the first of four manufactured, and one of the only four that would be, two others belonging to customers in Tanaara, and one to a customer in Tarlachia. He had found the system to require too much to mount and set up, and would be advertising a V.2 as part of the RPM Stage Three kit at the grand opening in a week. The set up removed the single upper intake plenum, and mounted a box that was internally split into two halves. Each half was fed from a separate carbon fiber air box with ITG filters on either side of the engine bay, and separately fed each bank of throttle bodies. The throttle bodies had been worked over by Thor Forge, RPM not yet having the proper machining tools for the job. Schrick had worked with Fortier for a set of more aggressive camshafts, and Azrayl had worked his magic on the stock ECU.

On the suspension front, KW coilovers lowered the car and tightened up the ride, keeping all four BBS RS-GT wheels on the ground. The super light BBS wheels were wrapped by Robert's favorite rubber, Michelin Pilot Sport Cups. The red calipers of a Brembo GT brake kit were easily visible through the spokes, as were the slotted rotors. Satisfied with his parking job, Robert turned the car off, opened the door, and stepped out into the crowd.

He pushed his dark black hair back, tossing the Maui Jim's into the car, pushing the door shut. He was dressed casually and comfortably, a white linen button down short sleeve shirt worn unbuttoned over a black Affliction tee. Loose but well fitting jeans dropped down to just below the tops of black and white Puma Driftcats. He smiled at a few familiar faces, and headed over towards Victoria and Ryan. On his way he noticed a few familiar cars, including an older 'Maro SS that had plenty of work done by a number of Imitoran tuners before The Fall.

He leaned up against the Benz next to Ryan, careful to keep the grip of the well concealed Sig Sauer P229 away from the body. He looked over to the Ducareale, appreciating the Van Luxembourgian machine.

"Looks like a good turn out. Almost everyone show up?"

Victoria nodded. "Almost everyone is here, and Scott and his crew are out tonight, spotting some other hot cars rolling in. Should be a fun race."

Robert nodded. "Lets hope so."

Mercy turned on her side and looked over at her new husband as he dozed. She ran a finger down the slope of his nose and watched as his arctic blue eyes snapped open. “Time to get up and get dressed, Handsome. We land in half an hour.” She’d already taken a quick shower herself. “I’ve left you plenty of hot water.”

Without a word in reply he’d brought one arm out from under the sheets and dragged her to him, claiming a thorough kiss. “I suppose that puts us at…what? The hundred mile high club?”

Mercy nipped at his chin as she grinned “Yes, you wretch”

“But you love me being a wretch”

“That I do” She stretched out along his length and snuggled into his warm embrace. “But, come on Errant, up” Her words the complete opposite.

Just minutes before they were scheduled to land Errant was singing in the shower, though exactly what tune he was trying to carry was lost in the rush of water. Mercy grinned. No one would ever faint and clamor for Errant’s golden pipes, but he sang with gleeful gusto. She slid into a pair of body hugging, stone-hued jeans, loving his singing in all its off-key sincerity. She topped the jeans off with a silk, long sleeved tee in deep amber. Once Mercy’d settled her shoulder holster comfortably and checked on the Diablo that it was built for, she pulled a silk and cashmere sweater wrap on for warmth. She’d bring a heavier pea coat for when it got really chilly. Which considering Bon Temps, it most certainly would.

The hypersonic transport touched down with a barely noticeable thump as Errant came out of the upper decks lavish bathroom toweling off. She looked his buff physique over and gave him a teasing wolf whistle. Errant puffed out his chest proudly and strutted towards his bags. As he began dressing she checked through her shoulder bag one last time. Satisfied that she had every thing she needed she slid into her driving mocs and stood.

“Errant, I’m going down stairs”

He gave a muffled assent as he pulled on a crème Aran-knit sweater. He was being such a baby about going to Bon Temps, or the Great White North as he called it. But considering he’d lived all of his life in the tropics, she’d go easy on him…for the first hour. Mercy watched with a smile as her husband bent over pulling on a pair of thick khaki cargo pants. He straightened and returned her smiled with a cocked eyebrow. He went up to his pillow and pulled his pocket holster out and checked his POP gun before sliding it and the holster into his right cargo pocket.

Mercy grabbed the pea coat, and trotted lithely down the curving stairs that led to the main level. There the Miraaderic guard who'd be riding aerial herd on them through the race had passed the flight honing the witty repartee they’d be exchanging as they pretended to be videographers recording the race from a helicopter. Pepper and Mird, the two who’d won the toss, were looking insufferably pleased with themselves, sure sign that they had had a productive flight. The others of the Guard, who’d be lurking out of sight as a rapid response team, were making the best of the situation, but they also knew that Mercy’s transport team had a world class chef on hand. They might not have as much fun, but they’d eat better. Unless things went awry.

Romeo and Juliet, her senior protection team, toggled off the electronic map they had been referring too and stood as the flight attendants began opening the HST’s door, once connection with the private jetway had been made. Shrugging ever so slightly to check how their shoulder holsters sat they headed out of the plane. They would be among those racing, providing the on the ground aspect of the protection detail for Errant and Mercy. Like the Guard, they too hoped things did not go awry, but both groups, ever vigilant planned for the worst.

Errant joined her as Gold and Salva, two of Errant’s primary team followed Romeo and Juliet out. Then the honeymooning couple debarked hand in hand and shortly Mercy was doing a walk around of the Djinn (http://www.atddm.com/djin1a), her newest road racer. This would be the car’s first true race, but Mercy was satisfied that custom designed, hand built car would prove it’s mettle. The TVR Speed Twelve mid engine displaced 7.7 liters and produced over 940 bhp (700 kW) 600 lb-ft of torque. Due to the carbon fibre body the car only weighed in at three thousand pounds, and when asked went from zero to sixty in two point nine seconds.

Errant had settled himself in the passenger seat and pulled out the key board of the build in laptop. He wasn’t about to fool with the tuning programs, but he’d mastered the Tanaaran specialty GPS program easily. He shut his door quickly for as far as he was concerned, though dusk was a couple of hours away, it was already too cold. And he was happier when Mercy finished talking with Romeo and Juliet and slid in beside him.

The drive to the Rogue Performance Motorsports Garage was an eye opener for Errant who’d never ridden in the Djinn before. Mercy put the limber car through it’s paces, enjoying the variety of driving terrain that Bon Temps offered. “We should be here just in time to enjoy a bit of relaxation before they send us all off.” Mercy commented as she wheeled the car into the underground garage. ..and ooh I just know that’s Fortier’s new baby” She had spied the liquid black M3 and gave it an approving glance. “But we’re still going to win” She added confidently..

The silver grey Djinn slid into an open spot and Mercy killed the engine. “Some I know and some I don’t” she commented to Errant as she looked at those assembled and stepped out of the car sniffing at the tantalizing odors of top quality BBQ. “Lets go make the rounds …Oh and grab some food, that smells fantastic.”

She saw Fortier and waved to him, then reached out and grabbed Errant’s hand as he joined her, sliding it around her waist. Then she was guiding him toward Fortier with a wide smile on her face. “I never got to thank you for the wedding present.” She said as they strolled up to where the Imitoran chatted with a couple she didn’t know next to a very nice looking Benz. The wedding, only a few days ago, had been a lavish social affair and she had not had a chance to spend as much time visiting with old friends as she would have liked. As they got closer though Mercy was sure she recognised the man, her memory providing a tidbit of information on his having been part of the team that helped stop the Coup all those years ago. Though she wasn't absolutely certain.

OOC: Damn you WA, classic muscle cars are my forte when it comes to Lance. :P No worries. I've thought of something else.

Dim lighting illuminated the beige cover that hid the latest, and most secret project of the renown street racing legend that most only knew as Lance. His last name was not necessary when spoken to the right people. All that Lance's son knew was that his father was trying something different, a slight departure from his known calibre cars, and yet...not quite. Evolved was perhaps the better word. Still, the old muscle cars of Lance's youngest years that later became beloved and well-known by the teenager in only a way that a prodigy mechanic could, and later still to become the legend he was now.

Still, his son knew better than to question his old man on why the car's outer form which so obviously was not anything from the pre-80's time. Hell, he was pretty sure it wasn't anything from the mid-nineties and back. He never could get close enough to lift that skirt of that not-so-dainty monster, and see the virgin novelty of the car, and more importantly, what lay beneath the hood. He hadn't been able to get close because his father had, of all things, installed a superior surveillance system to wrap the project in its mystery. Even the parts that had come in as per special order, were code-worded, per a small green tinted request from Lance to the appropriate senders.

The son crossed his arms as he sat on the hood of his own ride, something he had customized himself, but not his greatest work yet. No, like his father, his skill was increasing, but his knowledge and training in the field had started a bit later in life than for his father. Nevertheless, he was his father's son.

"Dying inside again, I see." a voice called from a few paces away belonging to Lance. He watched as his son nodded in agreement, then shook his head in exasperation. "When, Dad?"

"Today." Lance replied, watching as his son practically fell off his car in surprise. "It's ready to roll, at last." The envelope was tossed across the hood of the son's car, spinning until it stopped a few inches from him. "Seems someone's set up a race, one sure to draw a few legends, and a few up and coming legends, for a thirteen hour run out west."

"West? Tanaara?" the younger man replied as he read the invitation. "Sweet. So you're going then."

"You too. Something you should experience. You'll see a real race finally, not those bullshit ball scratchers you're too good for against those ricers that are so afraid of the police that they hide at the first mention of a squad car within a mile radius. For once, you're going to see why the police fear us. The Tanaarans civil brass are tough, but how tough, we'll see."

Lance smiled a mite second before removing a remote from his pocket and keyed in the combination to the security system. At once, the cloaked car was illuminated in brighter light and the shop's emblem, Red Moon Customs on the back wall became more visible. He waved a hand toward the car, "Take off the cloth."

As the cloth was removed with care, the car's rich cobalt blue coat shone passionately beneath the lights. Lance watched as his son's eyes lingered over the car for several long moments, trying to identify it. He spoke up a few moments later, "2010 Camaro SS. Partially a blend of Corvette body features with cues from my personal favorite, the '69 Camaro," He walked around toward the driver's side, unlocked the door and pulled the latch for the hood. A few moments later, he lifted the hood and set its restraining bar in place. "6.2-liter, V8 base-Corvette engine, supercharged, brings it to about 638 hp on stock alone. A little extra work on my part allowed me to push that to 657hp. Redid or upgraded a number of other things as well to handle the stress this baby's gonna be pumping out and that's pretty much it."

"Sweet mother of God." came the expected response from his son. "But...what's that there? I've not seen that type of intake before."

Lance looked where the fingers lightly touched. "Ah yes...gift from a friend of mine from another shop. A prototype intake system. Told her I'd test it out and let her know how it works, give her some advice later. I've got to say, it's so far performed quite well to my expectations, even surpassed them. However, friend of mine in Imitora sent me a different intake system. Not meant for this car though. I'll use it on my next project I've got in mind..." He allowed his son to take a look for a few more minutes, poking his head about the bay, trying to commit to memory the genius of his father's mind, the finest in Tarlachia, and on par with the finest in the region. Although...the very finest were those of Imitora, but the tragic dark events surrounding that nation were well known. Still, some had escaped devastation, so the Imitoran spirit remained alive as long as they lived.

The hood clicked closed a moment later and Lance gestured to the doorway, "Get your bag packed. We're leaving tonight. Deadline to be there is tomorrow."

The Next Day

The powerful V8 rumbled beneath the cobalt hood and even if it hadn't been for that, the very shape and appearance of the Camaro was attention grabbing all by itself. Some had heard of the new model Camaro coming out after the model was retired in 2002, but few had actually seen it, and none knew just how this grizzled old man behind the wheel had obtained it. He whom sat with an arm balanced on the open window sill and seemed quite comfortable where he was. From the speakers; customized to give clearer sound when the car became 'aware' when the windows were open even from outside the vehicle; the powerful, fast paced heavy rock song "White Knuckles" of Alterbridge's Blackbird album rocked the surrounding atmosphere.

It cruised smoothly to a halt a few car lengths away from the sleek black M3, and shut down into silence. Lance and his son emerged a moment later and the father took the lead as he made his way toward the man whose sole signature was on the bottom of the invitation, Robert Fortier. The invitation in question was held up as the approached group's attention was drawn to the two newcomers. "Thirteen hours again? Shit man, last time was bad enough! I did pack a little more than some paint though."

Lance laughed a little then turned serious, "I hate dirty racers, after all." The smile returned a moment later. "And, if you're still wondering, yes I'm still alive, and yes, I've made sure to note the location of all oceans that could possibly be the resting place of my ride and have planned accordingly. As in, it ain't happenin'..."

"You sayin' that's a true story, Dad? The drive off the cliff?" his son questioned with an eyebrow raised. "How the hell did--"

"Boy, shut up before I stuff you in the trunk of that ugly ass civic over there. Who the hell invited that clown anyway?" Lance responded as he stared at the car in question. Turning to the others again he glanced down at himself as he realized they were all far more better dressed than he. He had come in a black and red 'Red Moon Customs' teeshirt, a pair of slightly worn jeans, and New Balance running shoes. Looking up at them, he just shrugged as if it were acceptable.

Jackson locked the old 'Maro up, departing for the sign-in desk and to rub shoulders with some of the other contestants. He didn't recognize any of them, save Rob Fortier, the guy who owned the shop that had made the old Chevy more than the sum of its parts. He kept the jacket on, aware of the fact that flashing a pair of flashy forty-fives wasn't the best way to make friends.

The garage was a literal Rogue's Gallery of different makes, models, and the drivers that owned them. He also became aware of the fact that it looked like he was the only guy riding solo. Everyone else appeared to have a second member. Perhaps he hadn't read the letter all that thoroughly, but fuck it he was here to race. Thirteen hours in a seated position would mean a numb ass for the flight home, but then again he could use the vacation in a foreign land so he might just stick around. Casting about, he located who he thought was the owner of RPM and walked over to make an introduction...

"How ya doin'? Name's Jack Bray. I'm hopin' you're the guy who mod'ed my baby over there..."

Jack jerked a thumb back over his shoulder at his car before extending his hand. A handshake was most definitely in order. The workmanship was top-notch, the timing flawless. It had also occoured to Jack that he might be a little over-dressed for the occasion, since BBQ was involved and sauce didn't mix well with an all-white getup like he'd assembled for the evening...

OOC: I hear ya man, but MO (Rob to the rest of us ;) ) already had this monster drawn up for a previous race. Figured I'd just pull it out of the garage and slap a new coat of paint on it :)

OOC: Just to let every one know - when I'm relating Tanaaran faq's I'll highlight 'em in dark red

Actually Linden was running solo, though if it had been a rally style race she wouldn't have been, and like every other Tanaaran in the garage she was armed. It was optional, but since all Citizens were required to own firearms, and train with them regularly - most carried them, if discretely. Linden had a Rock River Arms Elite Commando in an Uncle Mikes GunRunner fanny pack.

She knew the Queen Mother, but not well and certainly could not claim to be any sort of a friend, having met and competed against her at a few of the more prominent rally races. She had never met Mercedez’ new husband though. She knew he was the Miraade, or ruler of Catawaba, one of the other Fatal Terrain nations. She knew that it was a fairly paradisiacal tropical island nation and relatively new to status as an independent nation, but that was about it.

She had mingled companionably with the tuners from Thor Forge, Hard Times, FTM, Valhalla, moving from car to car discussing the pros and cons of each, or simply drooling- though they all subtly snubbed Viktor Helwulf, the owner and head designer of Gold Coast . He’d not endeared himself to any one with some of his past antics, and his open avowal of ‘if you aren’t cheating you aren’t trying’. There was some serious automotive eye candy in the garage, but everyone just knew theirs would be proven the best in the end. She found it amusing that many of the best Tanaaran drivers were also, either past or present, fighter jocks. The need for speed tended to rule more than one facet of their lives.

FTM, Five To Midnight and Hard Times had their own classic American Muscle cars, Thor Forge had a custom made that they tentatively designated a Starfire that looked dangerous just sitting still and Valhalla had two, their updated Valkyra, and the Queen Mother’s Djinn. Though who had designed and engineered the Djinn hadn’t been publicized, just as the fact that Mercedez Merrideath Hexx- Mira’ad owned Valhalla since Viktor had made the mistake of betting against her, was not widely known.

Starfire http://www.atddm.com/starfire_small.jpg (http://www.atddm.com/starfire.jpg)
Valkyra http://www.atddm.com/ccb1_small.jpg (http://www.atddm.com/ccb1.jpg) ]http://www.atddm.com/ccb2_small.jpg (http://www.atddm.com/ccb2.jpg)
Djinn http://www.atddm.com/djin1a_small.jpg (http://www.atddm.com/djin1a.jpg)

“Lance!” Mercy spun about at the sound of that growly voice. She hadn’t seen him since the TMZ automotive Expo, but she was glad to see him. Though she had to laugh at his threat to his son, Josh

"Boy, shut up before I stuff you in the trunk of that ugly ass civic over there. Who the hell invited that clown anyway?"

“Yes he did drive off a cliff” She nodded and ignored the notorious Tarlachian’s glower “but he hasn’t repeated it since…Lance, Josh this is my husband Errant.” She introduced the two to him and looked for Jason “Jason couldn’t make it?” She had only met the two young men at the TMZ Expo, some four years ago but she had a knack for names and faces.

How ya doin'? Name's Jack Bray. I'm hopin' you're the guy who mod'ed my baby over there..."

That accent definitely wasn't Tanaaran - American maybe - and Mercy looked over at the newcomer as he walked up to Fortier, sizing him up carefully. She noted the ordinance under both arms and raised a mental eyebrow on seeing an American carrying, even it it was allowed in Tanaara. Though the jacket was cut to conceal, she had a practiced eye in spotting such. If she hadn't. Romeo and Juliet both just a few discrete steps away, would have never let her out of the house.

Robert checked his watch, there was just under an hour till the official sunset time. He had planned a special launch, one that would make the launch of the first Thirteen Hours look tame. He had even budgeted aside a small amount should there be any damage to the garage during the take off. Of course, Robert hoped there wouldn’t be any to pay for, but it had been accounted for, all the same.

“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing out a blue Orion. Very few of the racer’s he had personally invited, the rest had often been on recommendation lists.

“Her name is Linden McCoy. Autobroker and representative outa the US, but she lives here now. Least, that’s how I think it goes. That is ona’ Hoot’s, right?”

“Yeah, looks like it was at some point,” Robert replied, eyeing the Orion. “Autobroker, uh?”

“Yeah,” Connor replied, shoving a piece of corn bread soaked in barbeque sauce into his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, and looked at Robert. “Why?”

“I need to find some cars that a broker might have a better shot of locating. I have contacts, but they have, well, contacts.” He put an accent on the word, not so much as to say it in a bad way, but to underline the more expansive list of phone numbers most brokers could call.

Victoria pushed herself away from the Benz, and reached into Robert’s back pocket, pulling out his wallet. She flipped it open, pulled out a card, and then stuck it back in his jeans. “Be right back.”

Connor looked at her funny, cocking his head to the side.

She shrugged. “It’s part of my job.” She dove into the crowed, seeking out Linden.

“Personal secretary for the win,” Connor joked. “I gotta get me one of those.”

Robert looked up just in time to see Mercy and Errant coming towards him.

“Shit, its Mercy? I didn’t know she still slummed it up with us low lives,” McManus said, watching them approach. “I mean, after everything that happened.”

“Things change,” Robert replied, watching the couple approach. The Imitoran moved slowly, bending slightly at the waist, then pushing up through his feet to stand fully upright. He smiled, taking a few steps forward, and extended his hand to shake theirs.

I never got to thank you for the wedding present.[/quote]

Robert shrugged, smiling as he cocked his head ever so slightly. “It was nothing, really, just a little something I thought you two could use. I’m just glad you liked it, never really bought a wedding present before. I had to have some help.”

Robert had enjoyed the wedding; it had given him a little bit of a break from working on the cars and planning a grand opening. Of course, he couldn’t really call it work. He could leave whenever he wanted, take time off, and made his own hours. And he enjoyed it, too.

“Please, though, don’t tell me your spending one of your honey moon nights racing around with a bunch of anti social deviants hell bent on getting themselves killed in some sort of blaze of glory.” Robert looked back to where they had walked from. “And I assume a new car? No Hex or Spellbreaker this time, eh?”

He turned back to the Benz, noticing Connor looking off at another car, his mouth full with food. “And I’m sure you remember Connor McManus? He was my team sniper, and was with us during the coup.”

Connor choked, turning after hearing his name being said. Hastily, he put the plate on the roof of the CLS, and grabbed a bottle of water, washing down the meat, bread, and sauce in his mouth down with a painful swallow.

“Asshole,” he muttered quietly as he passed Robert, hand extended. “It’s good to see you again, Mercy,” he smiled. He then offered his hand to Errant. “Connor McManus, please to meet you.”

“And somewhere around here is my personal assistant, Victoria Reynolds. She pretty much keeps everything running and on schedule.”

[color=green]Thirteen hours again? Shit man, last time was bad enough! I did pack a little more than some paint though.

“Lance God Damned Freeman! Its been too long!” Robert exclaimed, stepping forward. He gave the Tarlachian a firm, welcoming handshake, grinning. “It’s good to see you again Lance, and how did I know you’d be here with a 2010 SS? How do ya like it so far?”

How ya doin'? Name's Jack Bray. I'm hopin' you're the guy who mod'ed my baby over there...

Fortier turned to see Bray, and extended his hand. “Jack, it’s great to finally meet ya.”

He followed Jack’s thumb over his shoulder, and nodded. “Well, I drew up the plans for it, if I’m thinking it’s the one I’m thinking of, but Connor here did the wrenching. Jack,” he said, looking to McManus, “this is my buddy Connor McManus. Does a good bit of muscle tuning when he isn’t trying to get his Mercedes to run right for once.”

Connor McManus (http://z.about.com/d/movies/1/0/K/d/N/jackass2prem2.jpg) stepped forward, sticking out his hand. “Well, not all of us are just as lucky as you are when it comes to reliability,” he replied. The former sniper turned to Jack. “Pleasure to meet ya, almost as much as it was to build that car.”

Lance smiled as Mercy greeted him, pulling her in for a respectful kiss then parted to shake hands with her husband, "You're going to have to tell me what she promised you in order to marry a fire-hearted gal like her." he spoke with a grin. Returning to Mercy he answered her question regarding Jason. "Not this time. Boy's gotten himself some thoughts on serving a stint in the corps, and so gone off to serve his country, boots and all. He's stationed in a troublesome area out east, so I'm sure he's always on his toes. He's a good kid though and tough enough."

“Lance God Damned Freeman! Its been too long!” Robert exclaimed, stepping forward. He gave the Tarlachian a firm, welcoming handshake, grinning. “It’s good to see you again Lance, and how did I know you’d be here with a 2010 SS? How do ya like it so far?”

Lance chuckled, "How'd ya know? Probably the same way you know when shit goes down. Little birds on your shoulder and all. Seems even for all my secrecy surrounding this project, you still found out. Bastard." The serious face that had taken up for a few moments was broken with another smile. "Car's running great, though I think I might do a little work on it tonight to fine-tune a few small things."

Josh looked around at the others and nodded to a few glances passed his way. He let his eyes fall on an older Camaro and gave a grin. "Check it out, someone's edgin' into your domain, Dad." he said as he elbowed his father and pointed out the car.

Lance looked and sensed that there was more there than the eye could tell from this distance. "Ain't nothing wrong with that, son. It's nice to see another with an appreciation of the cars of my youth." A glance around to the group again, settling on the man who introduced himself as Jack Bray. "Lance Freeman, Red Moon Customs. I should've known Rob here had his greasy thumb fiddlin' in your engine." He grinned.

Giancarlo looked around, while leaning against his Monteluci. It seemed that all participants knew each other here. Of course, this seemed somewhat logical, as it looked like a closed society, this. Now, he still had to find someone he actually recognised. He didn’t do all that internet searching for nothing, after all.

He scanned his surroundings carefully, playing with the key to his car. He opened and closed the stiletto-like mechanism of the key at least a dozen times, a mindless game that he liked to play when busy or bored, it didn’t matter.

There were lots of cars around, which was not a surprise, as this was supposed to be a race. He spotted some American muscle, some German Autobahncruisers, but also some supercars that were supposedly of Tanaaran origin. Giancarlo’s attention mainly went out to the latter two, as not many Van Luxemburgers preferred vehicles that came ‘from across the pond’, and generally bought cars that came from a domestic factory, or from any European nation.

Pushing the keys to his car back into his pocket, he decided to go for it. There was a rather large group of people standing together, so he figured this would be the place to go to introduce himself and get to know some of the other participants. Dressed in black Armani trousers with a matching shirt from the same designer, he represented the target group for the Monteluci Ducareale, and he hoped this would also identify him as the guy belonging to the Ducareale. He’d have a lot to explain if that wasn’t the case, since his car wasn’t parked in the most convenient of places and English certainly wasn’t his first language.

‘Goodmorning, I say. Mind if I introduce myself here? Giancarlo Moretti, I’ll be your resident Van Luxemburger for this trip, if you don’t mind.’ He said as he stepped into the group.

OOC: The Fatal Terrain Regional Timeline (http://atddm.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?p=3022#3022)

Linden

Linden looked up from making a note in her PDA about the Starfire that Thor Forge had brought as Fortier’s assistant, Victoria Reynolds approached. If the Starfire did well in the race she knew an investor, and besides any group that had the smarts and the balls to break away from Helwulf had gold stars in her book.

Catching sight of the business card in Victoria's hand she smiled - while she hadn't been introduced to Victoria yet, Fortier's personal assistant had been discretely pointed out to her. "Let me guess... Mr. Fortier wants to know about the Orion?" She cocked her head to one side slightly, her eyes warmly amused.

Mercy and Errant

"And I assume a new car? No Hex or Spellbreaker this time, eh?”

She just smiled when he joked about wasting a night of their honeymoon. Mercy didn’t consider it a waste at all. She was going to get some totally alone time with Errant – while their security was discrete and tried hard to be unobtrusive, it was still security. Plus Errant got to see one of her favorite past times up close and personal. Catawaba was lovely but they had no where near the racing culture of Tanaara. Though she was a growing part of the racing that was found on the island, that being mostly off road racing. Which was very challenging driving in its own way, given the islands mountainous terrain.

“Of course I am, what better introduction to racing than the second Thirteen Hours, though I don’t think this one will end with us breaking you out of jail.” Her voice was both reminiscent and teasing.

Mercy shook her head at Fortiers question about her two previous ‘special’ cars "The Hexx I donated to the museum when they asked, and the Spellbreaker's Rob’s now. He's sorry he couldn't come but Thom..." Robert Ryan Fortier~Hexx and Aeris's son, Thomas St. James Robert Fortier Greenwood - Hexx, named, in part. for Thomas 'Hoot' Gibson "...got loose, got out to the stables, managed to climb up on his pony bareback, fell and broke his arm." The three year was incredibly precocious and accident prone, where his fraternal twin sister, Avanya, was not. Accident prone that is, both children were at the developmental age of about six or seven despite barely being but toddlers. They’d already had to lock the garages, even with the Palace’s outstanding security, both children had proved to be highly adept at ‘getting lost’. But then again both had inherited their mother’s Elvin ability of not being seen when they didn’t want to be.

“It’s good to see you again, Mercy,”

She shook Connors hand and her smile was warm “Yes it’s been a long time and it’s good to see you hooked back up with Robert. And Robyn would want me to pass on her ‘welcome to Tanaara’ too.” She mentioned the woman he’d met during the coup attempt, who had gone on to become one of her Four Horsemen, her special Ministers without portfolio, while she held the throne.

“You're going to have to tell me what she promised you in order to marry a fire-hearted gal like her."

She chuckled at Lance's words as she returned the kiss and gave him a brief, tight hug to boot. “I’m sure he’ll be back with nothing but interesting tales to swap over beer and pizza” she sought to reassure Lance when he spoke of Jason’s enlistment.

Mercy moved back slightly so that Errant could shake hands with Fortier, Connor and Lance.

‘Goodmorning, I say. Mind if I introduce myself here? Giancarlo Moretti, I’ll be your resident Van Luxemburger for this trip, if you don’t mind.

"Oh Pleased to meet you Mr. Moretti. I'm Mercy Hexx- Mira'ad, and this is my husband Errant." She looked over at his car and nodded, smiling "Oh that looks like a lovely mover. I was impressed with the Ducareale's specs when I got them, and the models I saw at the TMZ expo a few years ago were every thing they were advertised to be. It will be fun racing with you."

Errant was never much of a car guy. He hadn't grown up with them. The orphanage moved the kids around in busses. When he'd been a Marine, he'd driven HMMWVs for his needs. He'd never had enough to buy one in the car-poor era of Togovian Catawba. Now as Miraade, he didn't drive himself nearly at all, and when he did he drove Maureen, his lovingly cared-for nostalgia-tied HMMWV that he'd stolen and driven during the Rebellion.

A vehicle was a utilitarian tool of transportation to him. He'd never fostered the love of fast cars like most Catawabans. That lacking love was a survival adaptation to Togovian Catawaba as excessive speeding was a capital offense, the sort of offense that precluded trials in favor of 70mm rockets from Togo gunships. Street racing in Catawaba was a synonym for insanity. However that definition is changing with the public support and encouragement from Mercy and recent movie portrayal of heroic street racers who moved messages and intelligence between rebels in the cities and those fighting in the mountains.

However it was still a fledging sport, the actual number of surviving street racers being very, very low due to Togovian persistence. A larger number of back roads supply drivers and messengers surviving both their mountain routes and Togovian interdiction has secured off-road and cross-country racing as the predominate form of auto racing on the island. The accompanying support and yearly pace HMMWV driving by Errant himself for the grand prix of the circuit, the Andywight Gullywasher, hasn't hurt. Recreating Errant's tide-changing charge down the mountain roads above Andywight, the race is popular Catawaba Day event.

He drove to get from place to place. He loved Maureen for bringing him through some rough spots. His idea of fun with transportation was sailing, but he loved Mercy. This was her hobby, one of her loves. He wanted to give it a chance and feel it vicariously through her. He'd wanted to go with her, be able to kick back and be with her without being in control of everything.

And counter to being his lord high muckety-muck back home, he liked second banana with Mercy in her place, the garage. Here she was number one, and he got to be no one special. As much as he liked his job...it's nice to be no one some of the time. Never thought he'd miss being Staff Sergeant Nobody.

Lance smiled as Mercy greeted him, pulling her in for a respectful kiss then parted to shake hands with her husband, "You're going to have to tell me what she promised you in order to marry a fire-hearted gal like her." he spoke with a grin."

Errant smiled and shook the Tarlachian's hand. "Dee-lighted!" He flicked his eyes to his wife. "She promised me herself. What else would I want?"

“Please, though, don’t tell me your spending one of your honey moon nights racing around with a bunch of anti-social deviants hell bent on getting themselves killed in some sort of blaze of glory.”

“If we don’t spend some time outside the bedroom on this trip, folk will think we’re the anti-social deviants.” Errant’s smile transformed into a lopsided grin. “I figured run in amongst with some true-blue, proud anti-social deviants, like yerselves, and we’d be keep our shiny reputations.”

“Asshole,” he muttered quietly as he passed Robert, hand extended. “It’s good to see you again, Mercy,” he smiled. He then offered his hand to Errant. “Connor McManus, please to meet you.”

Errant happily and firmly shook McManus’s hand. “Errant Hexx-Mira’ad, and I’m honor to meet anyone who helped Mercy back then.”

“Good morning, I say. Mind if I introduce myself here? Giancarlo Moretti, I’ll be your resident Van Luxemburger for this trip, if you don’t mind.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever met a Van Luxemburger, but I’m Dee-lighted to meet you, sir and couldn’t mind in the least. Hopefully, we can talk at some point.” Errant answered warmly.

Let me guess, Mr. Fortier wants to know about the Orion?

"Miss McCoy, Victoria Reynolds," she replied. "I'm actually not quite sure what Mr. Fortier is looking for, exactly, but I have a few ideas. He asked me to speak with you, and if possible, I could set an appointment date, or introduce you to him."

Victoria smiled politely, and extended first her right hand to shake Linden's, and then her left, holding what looked to be a simple business card. It was a soft white, with light texture to it, and in the center was the Autobahn logo, as well as the words Rogue Performance Motorsports stacked on top one another next to the logo. In the upper left corner Robert's name was printed, and opposite it read President/CEO. Centered along the bottom was the main phone number for the shop. On the back was his personal home line, cell phone, and email address.

Then, from behind it, Victoria produced another card, in similar design, but it read Executive Assistant and had her contact information on the back and name on the front.

"I know he is seeking a very particular Ford, as well as an Aston of sorts. More for a personal collection, though, not for street use as it were."

Victoria Marie Reynolds (http://www.wallpaperez.net/wallpaper/models/Heidi-Klum-91.jpg) smiled, knowing very well what Robert had wanted, but she also knew it wasn't her place to make any suggestions or official dealings. Though she ran just as much of the business that Robert did, and could very well make such a call, she would let Robert handle it. After all, they were to be his cars.

On the other side of the garage, Robert chuckled at Lance. "Well, I know many little birdies. All over the place."

He turned back to Mercy as she explained the situation. "Well, its good the cars are still around. I hate to think of how many cars I built or worked on that ended up getting crushed. Its a shame. Though, I've been working on moving a few. Just picked up my import export license, trying to move the few surviving cars around. Little extra income to help pay everyone's paycheck!"

He laughed at the statement, and returned Errant's handshake, as did Connor.

"I have to say, it looks like just about everyone is here. Shouldn't be too long in starting now," Connor noted.

Goodmorning, I say. Mind if I introduce myself here? Giancarlo Moretti, I’ll be your resident Van Luxemburger for this trip, if you don’t mind.

Robert shook the Luxemburger's hand. "Pleasure is all mine, Mr. Moretti. I've always enjoyed your home's vehicles, excellent selection and great performance numbers. Looks are up with the best as well."

Jack returned the handshake, before readjusting to accept the hand of the other guy, MacManus...

"Hell yeah man, my ride is the baddest thing on four wheels speed-wise back home. Doesn't quite match the style of my Impala, but then again you guys tweaked it for speed and not for sexy..."

Jack flashed a rare smile, a friendly one at that...

"You don't have a relative by the name of Tyson, do ya?"

He was very pleased with the workmanship on his vehicle, but he'd clashed with a Tyson MacManus on a few occasions. The crazy fucker worked primarily for the Aryan Brotherhood back in the 'States, and Jack's Russian employers had had some issues with the skin-heads more than a few times. Odd, yes, but back when Jack still did the illicit shit meth was hitting the big time, and since Aryan Bros were usually from some hillbilly Hellhole they were already making the shit themselves. The Russians, only slightly more refined, had bet the farm on the importation of cocaine. AB dealers sold the meth cheaper, and finally they had Jack travel to whatever backwoods shithole the crank was coming out of and shut it down. Kill a few heavy hitters from one organization and pretty soon they send their best button man to deal with you.

In the AB's case, that had been Tyson MacManus, an ex-Ranger with a taste for free-running and a nasty habit of beating his victims to death bare-handed. The two had clashed several times, neither really emerging the victor since Tyson had been able to exfil himself every time Jack had winged him before the merc could get close enough to finish the agile bastard off. He wanted to be sure he hadn't almost killed his new favorite mechanic's cousin on more than one occasion...

You don't have a relative by the name of Tyson, do ya?

Connor thought for a second, and shook his head. "I dunno, don't think I do. Only kith and kin I can think of is Uncle Charlie, but he's never left Ireland. Something about not wanting to go out to much in public or some such non sense. Had a brother, but he's not with us anymore."

Robert nodded. "His brother Ryan was one of the best demolitions men I worked with. He was with a good buddy of mine, Hoot, trying to save the world I guess you could say. Unfortunately, didn't turn out to well."

Robert checked his watch again, waiting for the final countdown. Of course, the thought to pass on some good luck had crossed his mind more than once, and he figured it wouldn't hurt. At least not with a decent group like this.

"You all have maps, right, and GPS stuff to work with?"

"He asked me to speak with you, and if possible, I could set an appointment date, or introduce you to him."

Linden's grasp was warm, firm and brisk as she shook hands with Victoria. “Pleased to meet you Victoria. Please, call me Linden.” Her soft southern American drawl was mixed with the similar yet subtly different Tanaaran accent – her voice was dark honey on the ears. She looked over to where Fortier was surrounded by friends and acquaintances as she took the two cards “I wouldn’t want to intrude right now. But, if you would, please let Mr. Fortier know that I’ll be glad to meet with him anytime after I win this race.” Her eyes twinkled as she twitched her nose as she grinned - and it was obvious she was actually here to enjoy the race rather than to push any agenda. She pulled a slender titanium and carbon fiber card case out of her jeans pocket and returned the favor, handing Victoria one of Front Runners cards.

"Just picked up my import export license, trying to move the few surviving cars around. Little extra income to help pay everyone's paycheck!"

“Then you’ll want to speak with Linden McCoy. I saw her earlier…” Mercy went up on her toes and nodded in the direction of Linden and Victoria “There she is over there.” She thought she recognized Fortier’s assistant with the young woman.

"You all have maps, right, and GPS stuff to work with?"

Mercy chuckled “Yes and a phone number to call to get roads closed upon request” She looked innocent and failed. Any one who knew her would know she would never take that sort of advantage.

“However, Robert, Since you haven’t registered this race, I’m pretty sure you haven’t been notified, and I don’t know where you’ve planned for us to end up but we all need to be aware of this - Inner Alt. 1 has been closed for an eyeahdah race.” She spoke so that her voice carried.

I.A.D.A. – International Auto Dueling Association. Cars with gun, or perhaps it was guns with cars, was illegal in most places, but if you were willing to pay the huge indemnity fee, sign a stack of waivers several inches thick, then you too could go out, drive insanely fast ( yes even for Tanaarans there was such as thing as insanely fast ) and risk your life shooting at other racers – who were also shooting back at you, and driving insanely fast.

Inner Alt 1 was the original coastal highway north of Bon Temps running roughly north and south through the vast plains between Bon Temps and Point Vista and continued on – just as Coast Route 1 did, -on to Port Royale. And stretches of it ran relatively parallel to Coastal Route 1 but several miles inland, east. There were a few roads that ran between the two Throughways, but for the duration of the IADA event they would be blocked - but still one never knew when someone might want to take advantage of a savings in miles.

IF Port Royal was indeed their destination, drivers would need to average roughly 125 mph, but if they stayed primarily to CR1, that was eminently doable, for the road was designed for even higher speed driving than that, and saw such regularly. It had been well planned and there were numerous fueling depots along CR1, as well as spectacular vistas. Yes the race was to be held at night but the moon was full and the skies, cloudless.

Applicable Map (http://www.atddm.com/croute1.jpg) - not quite to scale, my apologies - the dark blue line is CR1, the dark purple line is Inner Alt1. Please remember that this is all properly graded, spectacularly well maintained, and has no oncoming vehicles -this Throughway has a very wide divide -the southbound side is actually close to a thousand feet way and the divide is a green belt of sorts -there are plantings -grass,trees, etc.

Coast Route 1 is three lanes wide with broad, well graded and paved shoulders. There are also regularly placed rest stops with restrooms and vending machines.

"You all have maps, right, and GPS stuff to work with?"

Mercy chuckled “Yes and a phone number to call to get roads closed upon request” She looked innocent and failed. Any one who knew her would know she would never take that sort of advantage.

"Not to mention intel satellites, recon drones, and a few fire-breathing eggbeaters along the race route." Errant made no attempt to innocent. He went to the other joking extreme and all but cackled. However just like Mercy, he had a widespread reputation for being truthful to a fault, even so far as to turn himself in for beating up on an assassin he had in custody.

Pleased to meet you Victoria. Please, call me Linden. I wouldn’t want to intrude right now. But, if you would, please let Mr. Fortier know that I’ll be glad to meet with him anytime after I win this race.

Victoria nodded, pocketing the card. She was cocky, and that was good. She'd need that in trying to deal with Fortier, especially when it came to picking up a few collector cars. She would need to able to tell him 'no, it isn't going to happen' if it just wasn't going to happen. She had an excellent idea of exactly what Robert wanted for his own private collection, and it would require more than just a small bit skill to retrieve the vehicles. That was, of course, assuming either were still in any working condition.

Then again, most manufacturers liked to keep their winning race cars around for a while, just to re-live the glory days. It also helped with some of the image. Nothing like reminding people what you could do when you really wanted to win. Of course, the cars that Robert had chosen came from companies that specialized in showing what could be done if they cared enough.

"Miss McCoy, the pleasure has been mine," Victoria said, pocketing the card. "I'll be sure to relay the information to him, and I know he'll be looking for you at the finish line."

Victoria smiled, politely, then turned to bring the card and challenge back to Robert.

Then you’ll want to speak with Linden McCoy. I saw her earlier. There she is over there.

Robert followed Mercy's eyes to Linden, Victoria now walking away. "Good hire, that girl. Smart as all get out, twice as intuitive, and can all but read my mind."

Victoria approached, hand out with the carbon fiber and titanium card. "She said that once she wins the race, she'll be willing to talk."

Robert nodded. "Good then, I assume we will see her at the finish line."

Yes and a phone number to call to get roads closed upon request.
Not to mention intel satellites, recon drones, and a few fire-breathing eggbeaters along the race route.

Robert chuckled. "Really, all that just to beat little old me in a bolt on BMW? I'm flattered."

Victoria laughed. "Bolt on my butt. You had to move half the engine bay around to get that dual intake manifold to work."

Robert nodded. "Well, if they had mounted the engine bay like the V10 in the first place, this wouldn't have been an issue."

Victoria just rolled her eyes. "I'm sure when they put together that motor, they thought hmmm, lets see how we can make Robert Fortier's of Rogue Performance Motorsports life even harder."

Robert just smiled. "Mercy, Errant, I'd like to introduce Miss Victoria Reynolds, my personal assistant, second in command on the business side, and all around great help.

She turned to the couple, extending her hand to each. "Pleasure is mine," she said, shaking each of their hands. Her accent was Tanaaran, she was a native, but hidden somewhere in there was a touch of German. Her blond hair, recently died back to its natural color, and blue eyes confirmed as much.

Mercy politely broke in.

However, Robert, Since you haven’t registered this race, I’m pretty sure you haven’t been notified, and I don’t know where you’ve planned for us to end up but we all need to be aware of this. Inner Alt. 1 has been closed for an eyeahdah race.

Fortier nodded. "I figured as much. All you crazy Tanaarans and your dueling. Like horny teenagers. Just less angsty. I'll be sure to keep side ways of that mess, just hope everyone else has the heads up."

The conversation between the four was interrupted as a sound described by some as "akin to the end of the world" echoed through the garage. The V10 powered M5 rolled down the entrance ramp to the garage, and Robert smiled.

"Its one of our first. Rogue Performance Motorsports stage kits. I'm doing them for the M5, M6, and soon the M3. Three stages, with a custom forth available. That's one of the Stage Fours right there."

He turned back to Errant and Mercy. "If you will excuse us, I need to go speak with the driver, make sure everything is running just right. A custom stroker motor, nitrous, cams, and the works can get touchy at times. Mercy, Errant, Lance, it was great to see you all again. Jack, I hope to see you at the end of the race. Good luck to you!" he said, shaking everyone's hand one last time, and moved away, Victoria close behind.

McManus watched the two walk away for no more than a handful of seconds before turning back to the group. "If you think that was mean, wait till you see what he is working on now. Insane, drivable, usable, workable thousand plus. At the wheels. It'll put his forty six to shame. I swear Mercy, your kid made the wrong call giving all that money back. I used it to buy a house, a few AMGs, and a Harley Sportster. Invested the rest, probably give it all away. That screw ball is using it to build monster cars. Hand of God to come down and flick it in the ass to get it going."

He shook his head again, and watched the crowd grow. "So none of you really know the final location yet?"

Jack returned the handshake, glad he hadn't offed one of of the guy's relatives on more than one occasion.

He had the requisite tech for such an endeavor, namely a Garmin GPS with enough Tanaaran maps to make any international cartographer jealous and a few live traffic updates. As he climbed back into the car he made a point to unholster both pistols and stuff them into the glove box. No sense in having a pair of uncomfortable lumps of steel riding in the base of your spine for eleven hours when you could avoid such hangups and take care of the issue right now.

This was going to be interesting, thought the former merc as he buckled himself in and kicked on the stereo system. He'd sacrified a lot in terms of audio performance to save on weight and space, after all this thing was built for speed and not for sound. The jacket was thrown into the back seat, out of his way. Now all he had to do now was wait for the 'go' order and he'd be off...

Robert just smiled. "Mercy, Errant, I'd like to introduce Miss Victoria Reynolds, my personal assistant, second in command on the business side, and all around great help.

She turned to the couple, extending her hand to each. "Pleasure is mine," she said, shaking each of their hands. Her accent was Tanaaran, she was a native, but hidden somewhere in there was a touch of German. Her blond hair, recently died back to its natural color, and blue eyes confirmed as much.


Errant shook her hand lightly and gave Victoria a warm smile. "It's good to see the brains behind the Unkillable Man and his Racing Follies. I've got two like ya at home, and I'm sure Will and Jess are just gritting their teeth with me out from under their watchful gazes."

~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile in Catawaba...

William Churchill, the Miraade's aide...yes, I know how it sounds, slept in. And his cancellaria, Jessica Lepur, took a day off to go shopping with Errant's sister Dal'ika. Frankly, Errant and Mercy's honeymoon was a vacation for them all.

"Mercy, Errant, I'd like to introduce Miss Victoria Reynolds, my personal assistant, second in command on the business side, and all around great help.”

"Pleasure is mine,"

“Victoria, good to meet you – some one has to play bear leader.” Mercy’s eyes twinkled as she shook hands. “I’m glad he’s got you to show him the native ropes.” And she honestly was. Mercy had never cared for the majority of the Imitoran women she had ever met.

" I'll be sure to keep side ways of that mess, just hope everyone else has the heads up."
Mercy snorted, “Eyeahdah is a sport, or so it’s proponents claim, not real dueling, and you know it. It’s just nuts in cars shooting at one another while driving too fast and too furious. But at least it thins the gene pool.” I.A.D.A. participants trained in holographic simulators or with dummy rounds, but competed with the real thing, though missiles and rockets only carried ‘paintball’ or ‘road slick’ warheads and the vehicles’ guns were ‘down powered’ as well. But each rally had injuries and deaths happened more than occasionally. It was an expensive sport and was popular only within a relatively small section of the Citizenry. There would probably be only twenty to twenty five teams competing in this regional meet5.

“I swear Mercy, your kid made the wrong call giving all that money back. I used it to buy a house, a few AMGs, and a Harley Sportster. Invested the rest, probably give it all away. That screw ball is using it to build monster cars. Hand of God to come down and flick it in the ass to get it going."

“Connor, it was the right thing to do, and I’m proud that he did. You all” Mercy spoke of the survivors of The Fall as she answered McManus. “are the rightful heirs, And your oming here, becoming a part of us, it strengthens us.” She looked after Fortier and Victoria for just a second. She’d asked him to marry her once, long ago, but he’d said no. And that was for the best, Mercy reflected. He would have been miserable as the husband of the Queen of Tanaara, and she would have been guilty and miserable. Life works in mysterious and wonderful ways. Being miserable then paid dividends now She glanced at Errant and slid her arm about his waist.

Her son, the Archon, had decreed that any debts owed to Imitora or Imitorans – whether it was nation to nation, nation to corporate, corporate to corporate or individual, and so on was to be divided among the survivors, and that any who wished it were automatically granted Citizenship. An honor that was as rare as hen’s teeth. But there was a practical side to his actions. The survivors numbered maybe two to three thousand and all but a tiny hand full were military or governmental operatives, who had been out of Imitora at the time of The Fall. And those were only a small portion of those who had been out of the nation – most of their fellow Imitorans had died even though they had been thousands of miles from the doomed nation. What ever Portal Arklay had opened, and whatever had come through, it had not confined itself to national boundaries, but had targeted Imitorans both around the globe and even in other solar systems.

"So none of you really know the final location yet?"

“No, but there are only so many places we could end up in thirteen hours, but I refused to ask where you all have been driving to of late. That wouldn’t be fair.” Mercy chuckled as she looked over at the Djinn “But I can make it wherever it is out in front given half a chance.” She looked over at Fortier who seemed to be finished talking to the UGM’s driver.

“Lets roll Veryon Slayer!” She called, harkening back to one of the opening events of the first Thirteen Hour Run all those years ago, where the two had first met.

Victoria looked at Robert. "Veyron slayer?"

"Don't ask. I was mad and dumb."

Victoria's eyebrows went up. "Oh, I must know now."

Robert quietly shook his head. His eyes were fixed on the E60, but he was observing everything in the garage. The way people were standing, organized about the cars. Where cars were parked. How they were parked. Cars that were running, and those that weren't. The way the concrete felt under his Pumas, the way others watched, or ignored, him. The air temperature even down in the garage, how it felt outside earlier, how it probably felt now.

He finished speaking with the owner of the M, and then turned to look out at the garage. Victoria handed him a PDA, and he clicked through the screens in front of him. Nothing much had changed from what it was normally like at this point in the night. The clubs were just started to open, and the usual street light crowd was slowly giving way to the more serious racers.

His pocket chirped, and he pulled out his phone. A text from Scott and the rest of the "biker boys" on traffic and police conditions. The lights were on the usual pattern, so if Robert timed it just right, he and some of the first out would hit nothing but greens all the way to the highway, again dependent on traffic.

"Everything ok?" Victoria asked, not quite concerned but not fully convinced he was.

Robert held his tongue for just a moment, as if surveying the whole world around him. He had that luxury. Robert had no problem making the world wait for him, and he looked out over the entire gathering, his sunglasses hanging from his shirt. He exhaled slowly, thoughtfully, and turned to Victoria.

"Perfect. Lets round 'em all up." He punched in a text, selected a few numbers, and hit send.

On Scott's, Connor's, and Azrayl's phones, the text Corsa flashed on the screens.

He moved into the crowd, ducking and weaving in between the racers, moving up behind the previously identified blond. Victoria moved around the side, slowly and deliberately moving towards the black E92. As she approached, she tapped Lance on the shoulder and leaned in close to his son.

"Might wanna get in the car sweetie," she whispered, then moved on her previous path towards Robert's black BMW.

Robert moved up behind Linden, tapping her on the shoulder in an arguably polite manner. She turned, and he smiled, hand extended. "Miss McCoy, might I recommend moving to your car?" He pushed a piece of paper into her hand, and in a manner befitting his previous career, slipped quite unnoticed into the crowd.

He shoved a hand into his pocket, and hit a key fob just as Victoria extended her hand, opening the door, and slipping into the passenger seat of the M3. Robert ducked in behind her, into the driver's seat. He reached behind his seat, pulled out a lap top, and plugged it into the car via a cable he had installed in the glove box. Flipping it open, he activated a diagnostic program, and then tucked the lap top under Victoria's seat.

The driver of the M5 begin to rev the motor, easily drowning out (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRYYe0kLCto) the sound of Robert turning on the M3. He kept it in neutral, waiting for the in car clock to hit the exact time.

Connor noted the text as well, looking back over to the M3. He smirked, and turned back to Mercy and Errant.

"Mercy, it was great seeing you again. Errant, good to meet you. You take care of Mercy here, or your gonna have a few angry Imitorans after ya. I'll see you guys at the finish line, so stay safe." He turned, and opened the door to the Benz before pausing, and turning back to the couple. "Take it as friendly advice, you might want to get your car up and going."

He slipped into the CLS, and turned over the motor, checking to make sure the nitrous system was on and ready for the on ramp he had been practicing for the past few weeks. If all went according to plan, he'd be able to hit two ten, maybe two fifteen and hold it up for the first few minutes. He and Robert knew there were cars faster than theirs, and were well aware the best tactic was to get out in front fast. But they weren't going to leave their friends hanging.

Josh's eyebrow rose a moment as Victoria leaned in, whispered her suggestion, then swept away with a few strands of her hair hitting him in the cheek. Her perfume lingered, and Josh just gave one of those stupid grins typical of a young man whose imagination was already getting the better of his mind.

Lance glanced at him, then slapped him up the backside of his head. "Get your head out of the porno, boy. Let's go." He turned back toward his car, making his walk casual, yet paced. He seemed to just be observing the other cars, but he knew it was going to happen soon. He had seen it in Robert's mannerisms, seen that almost unholy look in the man's eyes.

Josh grumbled as he rubbed his head and soon settled into the passenger seat, just as the engine rumbled back to life, still quite hot from their arrival only minutes earlier. "Think we can stop by a burger joint on the way?"

Lance shook his head negatively. "Cracker Jacks in the glove box." He pointed a finger at Josh, "And if you get any in the car..."

Josh held his hands up in submission. "Got it dude. No need to elaborate." He buckled himself into the racer seatbelts, tightening them down firmly before finding the aforementioned snack and ripping it open. He popped one into his mouth and mumbled between bites, "She likes me ya know."

Lance rolled the car backwards into another parking spot, giving himself a clear shot toward the entrance/exit. His attention was on the various gauges at hand, split only marginally to spy on Robert's own activities. As soon as the man floored it, he'd be sure to be right beside him at worst case scenario.

Let the boys watch how these races by the men really began.

"Son, you know I love you, but you're so full of shit." Lance replied.

(OOC: Damnit, time to catch up..)

‘Well, thank you, Mrs Hexx-Mira’ad. I’ll try not to let you down.’ He grinned, as he also nodded towards Errant. ‘For you the same, of course.’

Next he, shook hands with Robert. ‘I have heard a lot about you as well. I’m hoping on a great race, Sir.’

Suddenly, he sensed some vibration is the pocket of his trousers. He immediately realised it had to be his mobile phone, and stepped back out of the group with a faint ‘Mi scusi’ to answer the call. As he walked back to his car, he spoke with a low tone, as he answered.

‘Moretti.’ He looked somewhat disturbed, as he realised that he had forgot to turn the damn thing off.

‘Moretti! Napolitano, Autobahnpolizei. Listen, we’ve got some problems with our Panteras… Engine trouble.’ The voice on the other side was friendly, as if he wanted something from Moretti.

‘I’m sorry, Lucio, but I’m having a vacation.’ Giancarlo said, as he got into his car and connected the phone to the handsfree kit onboard the Ducareale.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem, isn’t it? I’ll drop by your house later today. Corso Dogale 10, isn’t it? I’ll let you take a test drive in one of our cars, they’re behaving somewhat awkward.’ The policeman answered, not aware of the fact that Moretti was out of town.

‘I am out of town, Lucio. I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you right now. Drop them by the Lepanto workshop, they know about the Panteras. Besides, why don’t you take them to Monteluci themselves? They made the car, after all.’

‘Well, if it’s not too far out, I can let someone else drop by? I’ll send one to Lepanto anyways. Those Monteluci guys seem to be too busy these days, it’s hard to squeeze in.’

‘I’m in Tanaara at the moment, so I don’t think you can send someone over here. I’m on a business…’ Moretti wanted to continue, but saw movement in the racer crowd.
‘….Trip. I’ll need to go, Lucio.’ He said, just as the M5 revved.

‘That doesn’t sound like a business trip to me, Moretti. Don’t do anything illegal – at least not when it isn’t fun. Take care!’ The policeman said, as he ended the conversation.

With a sigh, Giancarlo fastened his seatbelt and moved around somewhat in his seat to find a comfortable position to wait for the start. Having started the engine, he manoeuvred the stick into the neutral position, and took his foot from the clutch. He set up the navigation system of the Monteluci in such a way that it could accept a destination as Giancarlo received it, or could be set to map mode as soon as he knew he wouldn’t. After that, he put his secondary Becker GPS in place, and set it to map mode. Both were set to accept TMC, and he himself would be listening to the radio, as opposed to a CD, in order to listen for traffic info.

Admiring the inside of the Ducareale again, he quickly checked the instrument cluster for burning lights, before initiating the Head-up Display. As he saw the engine was still relatively hot after his drive towards this place, and was coming up towards the right temperature again, he revved the car twice in quick succession, letting the Lepanto 12-cylinder spit out the sound of 8,500 rpm, and producing just under 650 horsepower at that moment. It was time to start, Giancarlo thought.

There are any number of ways out of Bon Temps, one just has to remember that when driving in residential areas the police are going to be seriously looking for those who aren't driving safely. The speed limits are liberal on the surface streets, generally they are in the 40-45 mph range but drive overly around a playground, or a cross walk with people about and they will come down on you like the hand of a merciless god.

However it is winter and most of the activities have gone indoors. And what children or others who might be shortcutting it home as night begins to fall are far more likely to be found in the climate controlled pedestrian tunnels. Bon Temps, in fact the entirety of the Sierra Lune hills, is a micro clime and might never get seriously cold, but on winter evenings there are often showers as the airflow at sunset brings in damp waters from the M'hendo Kai.

No, it's better to save the petal to the metal for the Throughways - where instead of limits, there are minimums by lane. You don't get on a Throughway unless you are willing to go a minimum of sixty five mph.

The full moon is just a handspan above the horizon and is vying with the last of the twilight gleams to brighten the landscape though, and there is no significant cloud cover forecast locally. Thought once out of Bon Temps that may well change.

Current Temperature: 65
Barometer: 29.99 in and rising
Humidity: 49%
Visibility: unlimited
Dewpoint: 50°
Wind: W 10 mph
Sunset: 6:03 pm
Sunrise: 8:04 am

Take it as friendly advice, you might want to get your car up and going."

Mercy knew what Fortier was looking for - the advantage, and it made her laugh inside. She simply hip bumped Errant and said in a low tone, "Slide on into the Djinn, I don't want some idiot turning you into garage floor road kill." One she'd tagged the doors unlocked she then checked a read out on the more than a watch on her wrist - a quick handshake with a sensor in the Djinn and she knew what temperature the engine was at. It was within acceptable peramaters, she wouldn't need to wait too long after turning it over.

Mercy had not scrambled out with the surge at the first Thirteen Hours and she didn't intend to now. Now she'd let every one else think they needed to play front runner. She knew what the Djinn could do. But as Errant followed her advice she sauntered over after him and slid in behind the wheel. She turned the Djinns smooth running Twelve over then powered the windows down, so that every one could see the interior. Mercy reached to a picknic basket stowed in the rear and brought a thermos, causally pouring coffee for Errant then herself. Her lips turned up in a faint smile as she watched every one else scrambling to get to their cars.

"Miss McCoy, might I recommend moving to your car?"

Linden smiled her thank you as she turned toward the rebodied Orion. Tapping her own fob, unlocking the vehicle as she strode over to slide gracefully behind the wheel she paused a second to take one last assessing look about. Once within she turned the engine over and brought up the GPS unit. Grinning at the fact that some people know the destination and were withholding it from every one else. Well some advantages would end up being negated with in the first few miles. But she wouldn't hold it against them.

Jack's final ritual before putting the key into the iginition was to pull on a pair of fingerless driving gloves, the better to grip the smooth wood of the steering wheel with should his hands perspire, and they most certainly would if they were spot-welded to the wheel for upwards of half a day. Looking back, the suit probably wasn't a great idea. A pair of sweats and a tank top would have made the trip much more comfortable, but there was no way in Hell he'd look half as good.

They should be starting soon, so the key was inserted into the ignition. All he had to do now was crank the motor, and crank it he did. The old Camaro roared to life before settling into the idle purr associated with such a well-tuned machine...

The music, a more relaxed house blend, rolled into a harder trance mix. The garage goers could feel it, that feeling that resonated through the air. Energy. Unrestrained pure energy.

"Hey guys, its been great spinning for ya," Azrayl said over a microphone, cutting in over the music. "And I hope you've been digging the food. Its decent for cheap, ya know. But hey, the party is only starting. Ya see, I got another gig, a big one for some big club out up North. But hey, you guys are invited. Hell, I'd love to see you all there. You've been a great crowd. But the show starts kinda soon, I'm flying out as soon as we leave here, ya know to get it all set up. It starts tomorrow morning, at eight oh four in Carnival at Club Sanguine, so I'll see ya there!"

There was a strange silence that resonated through the garage. A quiet that weighed on the shoulders of all the drivers. The type of quiet that was fueled by anticipation, adrenaline, and nerves. A few of the cars idled anxiously, as if each car knew exactly what was about to happen, exactly what was brewing.

Az reached forward, and flicked a switch, killing the music. The garage was completely quiet.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked. He paused for just a second. "Go."

The sound of the S65B40 of Robert's M3 roaring towards redline wailed throughout the garage, the pulse wave of the air dumping out the custom Rogue Performance headers, through the Active Autowerke x-pipe and exhaust, bouncing of the wall. The exhaust note was punctuated by the ka-whump of air being sucked in through the ITG filters, up the carbon fiber plumbing, and into the dual intake manifolds, through each of the modified individual throttle bodies. The symphony of engine noise was quickly acentuated by the sound of French rubber tearing for traction, and the acrid scent of burning tire filling up the garage as he used the M-DCT's launch control to rip him out of the parking spot and into a hard drift. He pulled the rear of the M3 around, rocketing forward towards the garage entrance.

The BMW cleared the exit, airborne, and sparks shot out as the differential cover scraped along the concrete before the car settled. Robert was clear out the garage. The roar of a bigger German V8 followed close behind, and McManus flew out behind Robert in the Benz.

Corsa.

Race.

"Josh."

*crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch*

"Josh..."

More crunching answered Lance as he glanced over at his son, busily inhaling the Cracker Jacks. In the kid's ears were earbuds hooked up to his iPod. His head bobbed in tune with the beat he heard. It seemed the kid hadn't wasted any time fishing the gadget out of his pocket.

Lance closed his eyes a moment, sighed, then reached over a moment and punched the kid in the knee.

"Hey! What?!" came the startled cry as Josh glared at his father accusingly while removing one of the buds.

"Close the box." Lance replied quietly, turning his attention to the scene around the car. It was then, finally that Josh noticed the silence. Quickly, he closed the box and held it firm in his hand. His attention darted around at the other cars, but only for a moment.

Roaring engines filled the garage as the first two cars; naturally Robert's own; rocketed through the doorway as if a fire had been lit under the man's seat.

In a way, it had been done.

Lance didn't give it a moment's thought as he shifted into gear rapidly and ground the pedal to its full range. Josh's cry of surprise at the power beneath the hood of this car was drowned out by the roaring car.

Practically sitting on the bumper of the second Beemer, they kept pursuit like a wolf on the hunt of a well chosen prey.

The box of Cracker Jacks?

Left behind on the cold concrete.

Moretti was quick to enter the name of the club into the navigation system of the car. He would certainly need to speed quite a bit, looking at the expected arrival time quoted by the system. He would set the Becker for the destination later on, he thought. First, he would need to leave this place. It would not be as easy as he had hoped, seeing his position in relation to the exit was certainly not ideal.

The sound isolation of the Ducareale protected the driver against the sound of the M3 and CLS leaving, followed by several other cars. Yes, it was true that Giancarlo also saw them leaving, but he wasn’t in a hurry. Not yet, at least. Shifting into first, he exited at what could be called a gentle pace, as compared to the others. Still, the rev counter climbed to 6000 rpm in an instant, before Moretti shifted into second. Not using the full potential of the car while driving off, he knew he would lose the first part of the race: getting off the line.

But then, as he followed the other drivers onto public roads, he accelerated in full, accelerating to a massive 8500 rpm before shifting up again. Still, he was used to driving at a relaxed speed when in town, before giving it everything when he would go out on the motorways. But today, he had decided he wouldn’t come in last with this group. He would have to give it everything he could, probably.

"Nice launch" Mercy commented softly as she watched Fortier make his move. There were some near fender benders that had Mercy wincing as the crowd of vehicles spewed forth from the underground garage. Taking a final sip of her coffee. Setting the cup in a holder she slid out her cell phone and tapped in a quick dial code.

"Barry it's Mercy do a quick check in TCM for Bon Temps and tell me if any unusual switch codes have been applied."

While she waited for a reply she looked at Errant and explained "The Gold Coast Auto specialties - the nice porsche? The man no one talked to." Errant would remember one man who stood aloof, seemingly welcoming his isolation. "Victor Helwulfe, excelent automotive engineer, designer and tuner. And as crooked as a snake with a multiply broken back. Not many know it but he'd done shabby before." Errant would also remember that the man had spent most of the time with the light on his blue tooth showing him as being 'on the phone'.

She turned her attention back to the phone and nodded at the reply. "Be so kind and authorize a purge to put them back as before. Yes I know how long it will take. Can you ecm me the routes around them?...Good."

Mercy rolled down the widow and called to Azrayl "Hey Az Let Fortier know that the sequencing for the most direct route to Coast Route 1 heading north have been bulloxed. They are going to be fouled for at least half an hour.

Linden had made it one of the last out of the garage, having taken a moment to enter the destination in the GPS. She wasn't that familiar with Bon Temps yet, having spent most of her time in Montguard. However she quickly realised that like all the others - or so it seemed, that the lights were interestingly enough, against them.

Players please note: Sent every one a tg and the traffic signals will be against them for a time on surface streets if they choose to take the most direct route to Coast Route 1

Jack had been hamering the name of the club into his Garmin when the squeel of rubber on asphalt grabbed his attention by the balls.

It was time...

Without a second thought he floored the gas pedal, streaking out after a few of the others and onto the street proper. The route popped up on the nav system, warning him that construction was going to be an issue, or some other such nonsense. With a few taps he'd routed around the obstruction and the route was now free and clear for his speeding pleasure. The vintage (he'd never say old) SS roared in delight, and Jack had no intention of letting up on the gas until he'd crossed the finish line...

The beauty of the DCT was the ease of use and the sharp, crisp shift that kept the needle right in the meat of the power band. And Robert could control it all with both hands on the wheel. His right foot was planted, wide open throttle on the surface streets, and Connor wasn't to far behind. The bigger Benz was right on the tail of the M3, and wasn't letting up.

Robert expertly piloted the M3 around traffic, noting the strange mix. He slid left, around the fourth period car, his right middle finger extending out an inch, tugging on the up shift paddle. On the side street, the speedometer registered one twenty. "Was that a Dusenberg?"

"Yeah," Victoria responded, her head on a swivel, watching for cops. "Crackerjack Grannies. Bunch of old laddies driving around in period costume and cars. Once we get outa the city and on the high way SHIT!"

Robert looked up. The light that was supposed to be green was solidly red, and he was still standing on the throttle. He looked fast right, then left, light traffic. "Hold on," he said, watching in the rear view. Connor quickly shrunk in the mirror as white smoke poured off the tires, the ABS system pumping the brakes to keep the Mercedes under control. From behind him, a Porsche Carrera GT and 430 Scud exploded into the side lines, chasing after Robert. The CGT should have been out in front, but the driver was holding back, and the Scuderia was pulling in Robert.

"What the hell are you doing?" Victoria demanded. She watched as Robert dove into an empty turn lane, but came off the throttle, letting speed bleed off.

"Don't worry," he said, his voice not rising above a calm, easy tone.

One more look, and Robert tugged the wheel left. The tires barked in protest as Robert pointed the car around the front end of another racer coming in from another direction. The Scuderia dodged right, going behind the cross traffic. The Porsche wasn't so lucky, missing the other racers, but plowing into the side of a Range Rover. The GT was moving fast, the rear end jumping off the ground as it tried to continue forward movement. The SUV was having none of it, and the rear end of the Carrera dropped unceremoniously to the asphalt.

Robert didn't look back, instead, managing to catch a yellow light, the rear end of the Bimmer hanging out wide through the left turn. He pushed the wheel back around hard, counter steering as he dropped his arm, pushing the shift lever forward, downshifting the double clutch box. The Ferrari was still on him, but backing off now.

At the light, Connor swore, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. He jumped the shoulder, taking a quick right, and punched in a request for a new route in the GPS. He would loose time going one of the back ways to the high way, but it was better than catching every light, and the new accident would seriously create issues for those behind them.

Victoria pulled her cell phone, and glanced at the text. "Its from Az. Someone went in and messed up the lights."

"Where is McManus?"

"I saw him stop at that first light."

"Ok. Damnit, so much for that strategy." He kept his focus on the road ahead, it was open and a long, sweeping high speed turn. The next light, from the test runs, was just a mile ahead, and Robert had slowed to sitting at eighty five on the surface roads. "Shoot a text to Connor. Have him call me when he is on the highway, we will link up then. Right now, gotta get outa the city."

Victoria nodded, and went back to texting. The next light came into view, a bold, glaring red. Fortier looked ahead, no clearing. On coming traffic on the other side of surface road, all the lanes on his side jammed up. He didn't have choice this time. Robert laid into the brakes, the pads locking into the rotors, the engine barking as Robert clicked the downshift paddle, downshifting almost faster than the motor could react.

This was going to make things difficult.

Yes the lights for the most direct routes and the most frequently GPS'ed alternatives were completely bollixed. But Viktor had planned for that, had planned it in fact, as there were only so many places that that jumped up Imitoran slug Robert Fortier would target as the end of the race. And Viktor was pleased to see that his number one guess had been indeed the chosen.

All it had taken was a speed dial and a word and his ace in the hole had hit the key entering the sub routine. Oh it'd get noticed eventually, but for right now, Viktor didn't care, and if it got his inside connection burned, well there was no direct link back to him. He took a route he knew wasn't frequented, and hadn't had the problem of suddenly mistimed lights. And if a few accidents came out of it? Well they should have been paying more attention.

He cursed though as he had to slow, then whip into the parking lane briefly, to pass a pair of white haired ladies in well done costumes of the last century as they motored side by side in equally immaculately kept Model A's "Damned old women think they can just take up the streets" he growled as she left them behind and while most of the other 13 Hour race participants were still contending with recalcitrant, mistimed lights and the accidents they caused, he was sliding on to a minor Throughway that would take him quickly to Coast Route 1. His Porsche rumbled like a well fed lion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Linden swore as she watched Fortier make the light by the skin of his teeth then an accident close it completely. Right behind Fortier’s friend McManus she watched him jump the curb, considered for a moment.. then followed him with a war whoop.

Ten blocks back ahead as she remembered was the Parkland SV - scenic view-.. It might wiggle like some parts of the legendary Tail of the Dragon, and was considered off limits by most the racing community - save when it had been closed for racing - given the number of slow drivers who were more interested in watching the views than the other drivers – it carried a full red diamond hazard rating, but it was winter, wasnight and should be safely mostly empty… and yeah it’d add close to fifty miles on to the projected route. Nothing to sneer at, but she thought time could be made up later.

She whizzed past McManus like at bat out of hell, heading for the Scenic View route. His Mercedez might be fast and tuned to a faretheewell, but then again the Orion under the rebuilt body was too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mercy finished her coffee and stowed hers and Errant’s empty cups in the back, then proceeded out of the garage in lonely splendor, moving fast but nothing spectacular. “Errant, tell me if the Scenic View is on the compromised list.” Checking it against the list that Mercy’s contact had sent them showed that it wasn’t – there were only three lights along it’s serpentine route that rolled up and down many steep hills.

But there was -as always when anyone checked on the SV – the red diamond ‘hazardous’ road warning. Speed wasn’t necessarily considered ‘hazardous’ by Tanaaran laws and culture -but in conjunction with other factors it could have the cops down on you in a heart beat. It was a risky move to take and one that would add 50 miles, however it had always been one of Mercy’s favorite drives and she knew it well.

The time she'd lost sitting for everyone else to clear would be made up by her heading directly to the SV.

The thing about wrecks is that they happen fast, really fast. What made it a certain hair-raising event was that Lance had been practically riding his Camaro on the rear bumper of Fortier's own ride. Josh's cry of fear fell on deaf ears, "WHOAAAA! SHITTT!!!!" His fingers gripped a handgrip, the other planted firmly against the armrest. Lance however, kept his cool, though his arteries on his neck were practically popping out.

Ripping the wheel around the first wrecked vehicle, he kept a hand on the shift knob, downshifted, hit the pedal, and felt the Camaro slide sideways, narrowly missing the next few cars that swerved out of the way themselves. One car slammed parallel into the side of the heavier car, but bounced off with hardly an effect, clearing a little space in that moment. Then, he punched it harder on the pedal and the wheels gripped asphalt like teeth to bread, spewing pieces out behind the car as it roared forward, swerved again on counterbalance, then straightened out as they cleared the wreckage.

He then risked a glance toward Josh and grinned as he noted the pale and sickly complexion the boy held on his face. Josh looked at his father, "You're fucking nuts man, fucking nuts!"

Lance laughed aloud, releasing the tension in his whole body, "And you're my son!"

"Fuck me..." came the defeated reply.

Errant eyed compromised list and then the nav screen again. "So...this Viktor dikut...he's done this sort of thing before?" He reached back and grabbed his jacket and pulled a radio out. He turned it on and turned it to a particular channel. "Cosell One dash One, this is Terrier Six. Sitrep, please."

The radio squwacked, actually it didn't. It had very clear reception and signal strength, a male voice on the other end squwacked and then hissed for sound effects. "Terrier Six, this is Cosell One dash One. We're west of you, watching you wander off from the pack."

Another voice chimed, this one very much like the first but female. "Shut it, Mird. Terrier, You've taken a good route. Traffic's insane. No one's sure where they're going. Intersections are backing up, and we're seein' some start treating them like four way stop signs."

"Figured so, Pepper. Do y'all have eyes on a Porsche headin' north, probably free and clear?" he glanced over to Mercy and took his finger off the send button. "What color was it?"

Jack's short jaunt through the streets at excessive speeds was cut rather short by what looked like an antique putt-putting down the road in front of him at something around a negative miles per hour count. The road seemed to be clogged with them up ahead, and he really didn't have the distance to slow down.

Downshifting quickly and slamming the brakes sent the old 'Maro into a sideways pseudo-powerslide, ending with Jack's car balanced on two wheels nearly resting on one of the old vehicles he'd been trying desperately not to hit...

"Shit shit shit shit..."

He was bucking wildly in the driver's seat, trying to tip the car back in the opposite direction and get his ass back in the race. With what felt like a consigned groan, the vintage ride finally settled itself back down to the pavement in its natural state, allowing Jack to try to navigate around the congested mess...

Mercy's lips quirked and she shook her head, but she never took her attention off the road as she slewed the Djinn agilely around a slower driver "Red, but then again probably half the ‘prancing ponys’ on the road are. And no you can't have them shoot him just cause he cheated, that’s Fortier's call... to challenge him to a duel later"

Then she was shifting and running free, a long stretch of road open and mostly clear, but she also knew the turn on to the Parkland Scenic View was coming up. And after that it might be best to find something to occupy Errant, as the crooks and curves of the SV while providing spectacular views at slower speeds were nerve wracking at higher ones - the ones she fully intended to keep the Djinn in.

PL SV map (http://www.atddm.com/rmap1.jpg)