(no subject)
Trevor flies along Interstate 80, his foot held down as hard as he can, the speedometer of his dilapidated car long since buried. He's only had to deal with one cop so far, and a single statement spoken into his borrowed JSA communicator had made the state Highway patrol car slow down and let him go. "My name is Hotshot. I know police can pick up on this frequency, and recognize it as a JSA frequency. I'm in the blue car you're following. I'm busy, go away."
As he sees his exit coming up, he forces himself to slow down. No use getting himself killed less than three miles from his destination. The rest is instinct, his hands turning the wheel left and right in response to familiar sights and feel of the road beneath him, and in minutes he kicks up a spray of dust as he locks his brakes in front of the cabin. He nearly skids into the mailbox, and before the dust has died down he's sprinting through it toward the cabin, his mind suddenly finding the leisure to worry. What if Aditsan was out? What if Caleb had decided to go after Aditsan in retaliation for all those distrustful looks they had shot each other, and for Aditsan's constant reference to him as 'Chindi'?
"ADITSAN! AD!"
As he sees his exit coming up, he forces himself to slow down. No use getting himself killed less than three miles from his destination. The rest is instinct, his hands turning the wheel left and right in response to familiar sights and feel of the road beneath him, and in minutes he kicks up a spray of dust as he locks his brakes in front of the cabin. He nearly skids into the mailbox, and before the dust has died down he's sprinting through it toward the cabin, his mind suddenly finding the leisure to worry. What if Aditsan was out? What if Caleb had decided to go after Aditsan in retaliation for all those distrustful looks they had shot each other, and for Aditsan's constant reference to him as 'Chindi'?
"ADITSAN! AD!"