Duard’s luxurious black Qian Fission slipped through the air with the speed of the best military stunt crafts. This multilevel aircraft was his home away from home. It was as soft on the inside as it was intimidating on the surface. Soft tan cushions and carpeted floors made this craft a flying apartment. The envy of all but the elite.
He sat comfortably in a rear compartment of the craft viewing West Drop’s city cameras and reading stories of semi-current happenings in the city. He didn’t drive. He didn’t need to drive. The Fission, like most elite level air cars, could fly itself. He only gave the destination and speed. After that, eventless flights were all but done.
There was an interesting news feed about some criminals ambushing fighters bound for a tournament. Duard’s only wish was that Jaquan was one of the unfortunates. It would serve the ignorant ruffian right. An arrogant prize fighter fooled and slain by thugs? He’d be revived of course, but with the loss of his pride and hopefully, some of his precious gear. Brisa, of course, would be safe from that threat entirely. However, she had probably found herself a whole other set of problems.
What ditch could his sandwich-girl possibly have found herself in? Lost? Of course; and broke no doubt. So, hungry too? Possibly. She obviously didn’t have enough money to manage a call to headquarters. And since she needed money for a call, her handheld must be out of power, broken, or stolen. It was slim odds that she’d find and cling to him as he searched the city for Jaquan. But, if Brisa was lucky and begged correctly, she’d be allowed to follow along again. Of course, he’d ditch her unless she had gathered some useful information in her misadventures.
Duard’s focused went back on the news story and he couldn’t help but chuckle. It was shamelessly biased toward the “brave” and “intuitive” actions of West Drop’s Security force. The animated photos clearly showed a different story. The intuitive security forces waded cluelessly through the huge pile of stolen equipment. A pile too large for an intuitive police force to allow.
As the police waded through the gear, they separated some of the more impressive items into a second pile. The reputation of the West Drop Police Force suggested that this pile would be the “lost” equipment that would later be “found” on the black market.
Two familiar looking people stood in the background looking incredibly bored. Not at all surprised at the scene, they obviously had been there the longest. Possibly, giving their testimony to a tired detective. If any intuitive work was done, it would have been through them; the ‘helpful citizens.’
Duard took a quick glance through a window. The sun was setting quickly as his airship flew over the ocean. In a few short minutes, the ship would prepare for the final leg of the journey.
Duard headed for the showers and then to the supply closet. There was work to do. He’d need to be rested and clean to withstand West Drop.