Pedal to the Metal
Los Angeles, Neuva Republica de California
January 22, 2053
7:35 PM
It was rather unusual for it to be cloudy in Los Angeles, winter or not. It was more unusual still for rain to be expected, but expected it was, and a full two inches at that, provided by the remnants of a recent Pacific typhoon that was forcing its way against the Santa Ana wind.
The winds would only be a minor nuisance, though the rain would be more troublesome: Los Angeles was a decayed city, with rotting edges that would be susceptible to the rain. Overpasses with support structures rusting at the core. Chunks of freeway lying on the ground, some of which that had fallen with cars still on them. Century-plus old houses with plywood panels filling in the holes in the outer structure. Public housing complexes eleven stories high that looked to have been transplanted from Beirut. Where people lived, and the dregs of society hid. A buffer zone between the remnants of civilization in the Nueva Republica and the wilderness of the open roads beyond, where bandits roamed effectively free.
Somewhere between this buffer zone and the upscale center of the city was the expanding Chinatown, a mess of mostly red and yellow neon lights casting an orange glow on the streets at night. A pillbug-like police armored vehicle rolled quietly along on its eight electrically-driven wheels. People of a myriad of races and tongues milled about the busy streets, most of them opting to walk rather than crowd the city's busy streets.
A rather neat means of alleviating this traffic that worked wonders for Los Angeles and other huge cities in North America [such as Atlanta or New York] was to stack streets in more important districts on top of each other, with an upper level street two stories above the lower one, supported by thick concrete pillars where trees and grass once rested in traffic medians. While the upper level was already somewhat dingy in the city's extremities, the lower level was even worse throughout, with notable exceptions being Hollywood and Beverly Hills.
Here, beneath the topstreets, the only light was provided by the plasma tubes in their myriad of colors, mostly yellow to 'mimic the sun's light' according to the city government. Sure it was.
In an out-of-the-way corner of the lower level, there was a large warehouse, reaching all the way up past the toplevel an extra two stories, and covering two entire blocks. It had a large garage, suitable for storing dozens of vehicles and trucks, which it usually did. It was the regional office of a smallish, but reputable, transport company known as Clipper Transportation company. It had offices in most of the major cities of North America, at least those north of the former Mexican border.
Inside the warehouse was typical warehouse stuff: Rows and rows of boxes on pallets or in trailers, a few trucks, some diesel, some electric, and parking spaces for the mercenaries or drivers hired to protect the trucks when they left.
Speaking of which, two vehicles bearing mercenaries arrived just then: A black 1970 Pontiac Firebird, and a more recent Harley-Davidson Sportster, both heavily modified. They squeezed past a blunt-nosed truck parked a little too close to the garage door, then parked in the designated mercenary area. It wasn't too hard to find, it was the only area of the garage floor that was completely empty.
The driver of the Pontiac was an exceptionally busty French-Confederate by the name of Marceline Olivier. And, unlike many French-Confederates, she was actually from Alabama, not Louisiana, as indicated by the Alabama license plates on both ends. In the passenger seat was one Bridgette Charlotte Steckfeld, a native of Deseret and quite different indeed from Marceline, namely in how much luck the two usually had.
The rider of the motorcycle was one Kiana Māhoe, who was most definitely unlike the girls in the Pontiac in that she was a) Polynesian, b) Hawaiian, c) Agnostic, and d) About as openly bi as one can get without being obnoxious. While she rode a Harley-Davidson, the exhaust note was decidedly non-Wisconsonian, and close inspection would reveal the motorcycle to be powered by a Suzuki's inline-four. She wore a simple red-and-black latex bodysuit, with matching helmet.
"So, we're here," said Marceline, as Kiana removed her helmet.
"Now where's the truck? And where's this 'important load' it's carrying?"
