Barreling through a tangle of clothes hang-drying on the 5th, a squadron of police vehicles scattered them sideways. They appeared out of the blue, flashing their blue and red lights, blaring sirens, and momentarily bringing bedlam to a peaceful residential neighborhood. When they disappeared, following closely after them appeared Corby’s fatass Buick and scattered the rest of them drying clothes–not a bullet but a cannonball.

“It’s a hot day in hell!” Corby murmured under his breath, directing his Buick forward. “You better get used to it.”

His computer screen flashed with information the little magic box was giving it, in spades now that the reports on the red-haired boy were pouring in. The city map was now peppered with the marks of his most recent appearances. And, looking at the screen, Corby wasn’t surprised. He figured as much. He knew from the start the boy was going to be in trouble. From the first moment he saw him, he knew as much; he knew he could bet on it. And judging by the commotion, he was right. The boy was in all sorts of trouble.

Following a large squadron of police cruisers that was starting to resemble a small army now, Corby wondered if the entire NYPD corps were up in the air today, converging on a single redheaded target.

“Jesus, Loo, what did you do?” he asked and shook his head disapprovingly. He’d never seen a tussle this big before. And–in this city–he’d seen a lot. He guessed, in the end, it couldn’t go any other way with someone like Loo. He just wasn’t any sort of ordinary type of person.

Buick shook and shuddered with Corby pushing its speed limit now, though turbulence was a small price to pay if he wanted to keep up with the police and get to the boy the same time they did, or maybe even before that if he was lucky. He wasn’t sure though how long the old rickety Buick was going to be able to hold on for; it wasn’t taking the speed all too well. But, for the time being, it was holding. Corby missed this. The chase, the adrenaline, the smell of burning insulation. He grinned; he really missed this.

“You just hold on, buddy,” he muttered to his metal friend. “You just hold on a little while longer.”

“Your vehicle’s rental agreement expires in…Forty-two minutes,” the computer chimed in again. “Please return your vehicle to the nearest Alamo station.”

“That’s where I’m going, shut up!” Corby sputtered, aggravated. The darn speaking box was stressing him out. He wished he had the money to buy not rent; the model that was on the market right now came without the speaking box.

Usually, he was good at keeping it cool in situations like these (it was his job to keep it cool actually), but not today. He was majorly out of shape and he knew it. That was why he was feeling like this, stressed out, over a darn speaking box. He really did let himself go over the last few months, didn’t he? And now he was finding it hard going from zero to a hundred.

Following the police squadron, he turned the corner on the 58th, and on the 58th–as if there weren’t enough of them there already–even more police vehicles joined in, merging into the prime swarm like bees, and together headed for the same target. Corby found himself right in the middle of all this. But at least, he knew he was going in the right direction.

His heart was beating uneasy in his chest. This wasn’t anything like one of his regular missions. And he was feeling unprepared and clumsy, which contributed even more to his unsteady heartbeat. Him being clumsy was rich. General Monroe would have had a good laugh. The best soldier in her squadron, his ass.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, strengthening his resolve. No matter how bad he felt, he wasn’t going to abandon his mission. The boy needed him. He couldn’t back out on him now. If only he was flying his spacefighter, not the Buick. His spacefighter would have been much better at this. It was a darn good Buick, but it wasn’t a spacefighter! Turbulence, for one, was squeezing it like a can of sardines; parts of its chassis kept falling off voluntarily. Corby could see them go off in the rearview mirror.

He’d sooner let it smash into smithereens though before he failed another mission, as much as he loved his Buick. He wasn’t going to fail another mission so long as he lived; he promised himself as much. And he intended to keep the promise.

He stared intently at the map on the screen. “Come on, Loo! Let me see you.”