"Get in, sit down, shut-up, and hang on!" That was how it always started. I had her in gear, and I popped the trans-brake the second Hamasera's ass was seated. The slicks dug into the pavement and I got four inches of air under the front tires, good enough to slam the door all on its own. I could already hear klaxons going off, not the good KPD kind, but the bad SLJ type. This guy was lookin' pretty cool for someone wiping bloody handprints along my roll-cage, but he had the green. So I put us into traffic and wondered how many people this dude had wasted to merit an SLJ alert. Whatever he just did, from here on out it was gonna be my job to get him far away from it, as fast as possible. I don't do this because I have to. I don't do this for money. I do this because it's what I was born to do. My grampa did moonshine runs, and my dad was big on the outlaw street scene before he got into stunt work. I guess with a family name like Driver, it ain't that unexpected. There's nothing of that left now, so this is what I do. A little more dangerous, a little more illegal. A lot more of a rush. It's just my life, that's all. Am I the best? I wouldn't know. Let's just put it this way: my name is Jim "Getaway" Driver, and I haven't ever been caught.
Master Training: Standard
I had to spend the first fifteen minutes to half an hour of any job doing nothing, just sitting there, thinking. I'd been building cars since I was old enough to walk. I'd been driving since my feet could reach the pedals. It was sad really, but there just weren't any street outlaws anymore. I suppose I could've done a lot more, but frankly that's just not my life. It's all about the run, the speed, the chase... And right about then my client had come crashing out a second floor office building window, and was making a run towards the car. I was already unlocking the doors and putting her in gear.
The Miracle Mile
Now, what's happening here is pretty complicated. I've got the guy with the cash to my right, getting blood on the plastic I put down. I got a busy city street, so I think these people must be happy to see twenty-five mph. I got some SLJ, or maybe some other super-someone who intercepts the call first, whatever, I got this on my ass. All this is okay, not great, but this is why Mr. Hamasera to my right has put a lot of cash in my hands. This is the part where we leave. So what's happening here is it's about one and a half seconds since I released the trans-brake, and I'm putting my ride into third gear, and the tach is already telling me to shift again, and the speedometer is reaching past sixty already, and as it happens there are some cars I gotta dodge around. I call my ride the Miracle Mile. My grampa did some fun stuff with V8s. I've done some fun stuff with V16s. But that's not what I have in the Miracle Mile. Sorry, trade secret. Let's just leave it at that I've already put 30 miles between me and point zero-zero-zero. If I were dealing with KPD, this would be settled.
Faster Than a Speeding Ticket
Super Speed: Superior
But that's not who I'm dealing with. Let me tell you, not many people can handle a ride that grazes the sound barrier in rush hour traffic. Yeah, my tailpipes shoot fire, and yeah, there's four, and yeah they cross. Not only have I got every last horse under that hood jammed flat to the ground, courtesy of more torque than god. Not only that, but this baby handles. I check my mirrors and find we've already hit the edge of Lowtown. And, right on cue, I catch a sleek lookin' jet cutting the distance. That's not KPD, and it answers my only other question when it fires off a missile. Yuu gets his face against the glass when I pull a two-seventy turn and head up an unpaved alley. Check the tach, and drop us to second again. It's nice to watch that punk in his hyper-whatever-jet blast by in the mirrors, and then the rear wheel drive crushes me back in the seat.
Mr. Hamasera is getting himself righted in his seat right about the same time as missiles start pounding the walls, the sidewalk, and just about everything but my car. I'd like to say it's because the guy in the jet isn't SLJ, but I can see their emblem on the wing. This guy is just a rookie, or incompetent, or both. I've got one hand on the wheel, and with another I'm switching the fuel metering (what do you mean "At a time like this?"), then it's back to third gear as all two and a half tons, seventeen feet of car spin around in an alley less than fifteen feet wide. I get my tires up on the walls and then we're out the other side, still on two wheels for a second, back into traffic. I don't have the time to check, but I think I heard the unflappable Mr. Hamasera make a noise.
Kinetic Absorption: Superior
About then the pest with the jet almost nails me again. It lifts the rear wheels off pavement and half a sec later the Miracle Mile slips its reigns for a quarter sec while I fight the wheel. I assume Yuu's got ahold of something solid and I crush the brakes into the floor. Time for my little ace in the hole. This car ain't got no ordinary brake system. Buffers suck up the energy expended and I watch the needle on the tach go wild, hit a switch, and try to imagine the pilot's face when he sees a foot long jet of fire exit the exhaust as I break the sound barrier.
About all I can do now is hang on for dear life and try not hit anything. Even my little buffer system won't take that much. Yuu seems to be grinning, but that could be the G's. After a couple of the hairiest seconds anybody's every likely to experience, the weight lets up, the car straightens, and we're back to something like normal, the tach is holding steady out of the red. And then my brain gets back in gear. Some people say Industrial's laid out like someone took a very carefully designed grid and dumped a plate of spaghetti on it. Can't disagree with that, and it's been worth my time to know this entire city almost as well as the Miracle Mile's engine.
Lose That Tail
Smoke Screen: Standard
- Area Affect
- Weakness: Not usable in terrain - Desert
Right on schedule that jet comes cruisin' up. Too bad he's about eleven seconds behind, or he might've had a chance. I let off the gas pedal, watch the rpms drop down to normal, listen to the engine growling low now. I keep with traffic, moving like I belong there. You'd think a car like mine would be pretty distinctive, but it's just a little trick I picked up. I know traffic. I know the ebb and flow of it. Anywhere there's traffic, let me outta sight for a few seconds and you'll never find me again.
Do the Job
Closed Mind: Standard
I watch the jet circle in confusion for a while before it peels off. Mr. Hamasera is starin' across me, and I'd like to think I widened his eyes maybe a bit. After an hour or so of cruisin' Industrial, I head to the highway and make my way back to one of my garages. I check my watch as I shut down the car. One hour, seven minutes, and fifty-three point two nine seconds. This getaway wasn't going into my record books, but I'd got it done. I felt my brain relax, steppin' out into the shop. Yuu Hamasera gives me the second half of my fee inside the office and heads out the doors, off down the gravel road on foot. I go back down to the Miracle Mile, and roll up the blood-coated plastic, put it in the trash. I pop the hood. There's still a few hours of work before I can really call the job done.