Pockmarked columns of concrete with white peeling paint spread out at even intervals on the second floor of the parking garage, humming and flickering white lights cast the night away into wavering shadows. Nervous shivers pass over Waylon's neck. Just channel the Bond movies and this meeting will all go according to plan. He fixes his eyes on a distant point. A lone junker of a sedan on the other side of the garage with a man sitting cross-legged on the hood staring at something in his lap. Waylon slinks up to a column and glances behind himself. No one following, but an orchestra bellows tones full of heavy brass from the direction of the sedan.

Waylon's heart jumps to his throat. His hands clinging to the edge of his concrete column, he peeks back around. Nothing is different besides the sounds coming from whatever is in the man's lap, then silence returns. Waylon slips one column closer. Blurry features coalesce into a brick-shaped man made of pure muscle with a bright red burr sitting atop his head. Relief pulls Waylon's heart back down; that's definitely Ronan. Waylon shuffles out from the column and shoves his hands in his leather jacket's pockets.

Ronan doesn't react to Waylon's sudden appearance, but his thumbs tap dance across the screen of the phone in his lap. The pupils of his eyes dart from point to point and his thumbs follow moments after. Confusion gnaws at Waylon's steady walk, he hesitates. This doesn't make any sense; why is this guy so casual about this? Shouldn't he be sitting in the driver's seat brooding or something? Waylon pushes forward one more step.

Without fanfare or warning, Ronan shoves his phone in a pocket and stretches, his arms shooting into the air and his back arcing. Crackles of joints ping around the concrete everything.

Waylon's blood turns to ice for a moment and tense muscles linger in his legs. Ronan's just getting up; No need to be on edge. Waylon waves with one hand still in his pocket and calls toward the man over several empty parking spots. "Ronan, right?"

Ronan calls back without looking, keeping his arms high in the air. "Hello! Waylon?" He bends over his crossed legs, his face now right up against the scratched green paint of the sedan's hood. "Apologies for not making eye contact, lad. The neck position is important for this stretch, so fifteen more seconds..."

Relief washes away Waylon's tense muscles. He closes the gap in the silence of those fifteen seconds and hovers near a concrete column next to the car; directly underneath a flood light fixed to the decaying urban monolith.

Ronan lifts back up to his previous sitting position and starts rolling his shoulders back in slow, powerful motions reminiscent of the grinding stones in a wheat mill. He turns his head toward Waylon. "Alright, I can talk through the rest. How are you doing? Excited for the thrill? The payout? I didn't hear about you before this so I guess you're new, right?"

Waylon's forehead wrinkles with confusion anew; this is too different from what he expected. Too friendly, too familiar, too casual. He rubs the ribbed pattern of the beanie in his pocket. "What does it matter to you? We don't need to know each other's life story, we just need to work together. It's safer that way."

Shifting his gaze forward, Ronan closes his eyes and snorts a laugh. "We're all small timers here, lad. No need for all that secrecy with something this low risk. We'll be fine, don't twist your britches about it."

"And if we get caught, what then?"

Ronan arcs an arm over his head in another stretch. "I suppose we go with the flow then?"

Confusion begins to boil away with the rising heat of anger. Keep cool, this is a criminal; no telling what Ronan could do if provoked. Waylon pushes his hands deeper into his jacket's pockets. "That doesn't work for me."

Ronan arcs the other arm and glances at Waylon. "Stop the lights. Ain't nothing going to happen to us as long as we stick to the plan."

Waylon shrinks back to lean on the column with a whisper. "It's not me I'm worrying —"

The distinct clack of heeled shoes reaches their ears and a woman walks out from a stretch of darkness. An all black, knee-length trench coat hangs from her shoulders and a massive sunhat's brim conceals her face in shadow. Their last team member.

She struts into their midst, revealing ruby red lips and an upturned nose with a tip of her head. "Evening boys! Be a bunch of dears and hold these for me."

She rips off the sunhat and flings it toward Waylon's chest like he's a goal in a game of disc golf. Surprise tangles Waylon's hands in his pocket. He wrenches them free, but he fumbles and the hat tumbles from his arms onto the floor.

The woman doesn't skip a beat. She rolls the trench coat off her shoulders and tosses it at Ronan, where it drapes over his arcing arm and covers his face.

He uses his other arm to pull it down into his lap and keeps stretching. "Evening, Catnap. Got to say: love the energy, love the costume."

Waylon's brows furrow again. Costume? He grabs the hat and brings himself back up to get a good look at her.

Catnap's entire body below her chin is clad in a skintight black jumpsuit reinforced with rubber pads on her knees, arms, and the back of her hands. Two furry mock cat ears sit right at the crest of her head.

A sigh escapes Waylon's throat. Really, coming dressed like that when they're trying to avoid attention? He tosses the hat back and shakes his head at her. "I didn't say anything about the name, but the cat ears have to go. They'll make us stand out too much."

She rips the hat out of the air and glares at Waylon. "Who are you to say what I can or can't wear? I'm making a name for myself and that's that!"

Ronan pushes himself off the hood and reaches toward his toes, his head cocking toward the other two. "Sorry lad, but I'm going to have to side with Cat here. Costumes are important for branding."

Catnap shifts her glare toward Ronan. "It's Catnap to both of you, but yes." She strides between the men and puts a hand on the rear door's handle. "Waylon here is in the wrong and I'm in the right. Deal with it." She pulls and the lock of the door resists her attempt to open it.

Frustration searches for purchase in Waylon's mind, but he shakes his head. He needs to take a step back. To be objective. To get rid of his preconceived ideas about how this should be going. Shame it isn't as cool as the movies though... He walks around to the other side of the car and sweeps a dismissive hand through the air. "Fine. Can we get on the way then? We're all here and the sooner we get to the stakeout point the better."

Ronan straightens up, then bends over and touches his toes again. "Give me a minute, almost done with this set."

With a sigh, Waylon pulls on the handle only for the lock to stop it from opening again. "Can you at least unlock the car while we wait?"

—

Out of the garage, streetlamps pass by at highway speeds. A full moon illuminates the stretches of cracked and crumbling asphalt in between lamps and the sedan's suspension only hides the most minor of blemishes upon the road.

Strange calmness veils Waylon's nerves, something about how the other two are nonchalant about this whole thing maybe. He traces the horizon with his eyes. Evergreen spruces mix with nighttime shadow; deciduous bur oaks pepper the canopy with warm tones where their leaves have yet to fall. Soon. A couple weeks left until they're bare by Waylon's guess.

Ronan's eyes dart to the mirror, his gaze prompting eye contact from the other two. "Still a few minutes until we get to our spot. If I may, I've got a suggestion for conversation."

Waylon rolls his eyes and focuses them on Ronan. "Please no."

Ronan ignores the retort. "Leaving out old mister life of the party there, what brought you here Catnap? You're new to this too, right? What are you all about?"

Waylon lets a sigh escape and rests back on his headrest. He glances at Catnap from the corner of his eyes.

Catnap studies the ruby nails of a hand covered in a fingerless glove. "Fashionable mischief. But also riches; fame. The usual really."

Ronan snorts and returns his eyes to the empty road ahead. "That's not exactly what I mean... Why riches, why fame? There has to be something else in this for you or you'd be palling it up with licensees in that getup instead of us."

Surprise forces one of Waylon's eyebrows to twitch; oddly insightful for a man so preoccupied with exercising.

Catnap drops her hand into her lap and pouts out a huff. "This isn't my idea of fun, I don't need your psychoanalysis ruining my good mood. If you must know, it's all for fun. Just fun. Nothing more, nothing less. That good enough for you big man?"

Ronan eases on the brakes and the momentum shifts in the cab, carrying all of their stomachs and chests forward. "Not exactly. It doesn't sound like you're interested in talking about it, so I'll drop it. Do you want to give an answer to the question Waylon? I think we could be good friends if you all would just talk about yourselves."

Waylon rolls his eyes behind closed eyelids. "Sick family, that's all you're getting."

The sedan rolls to a stop behind a billboard and Ronan pushes the gearshift to park. He turns around in his seat and flashes a smile at Waylon. "Yeah! That's what I'm asking! We'll become quick friends at this rate. Oh, and sorry about your family by the way. For me —"

Why is this man so persistent. Maybe the shipment will pass soon and rescue Waylon from getting to know these people. He looks past Ronan and shakes his head. "Not interested."

Ronan bulldozes through Waylon's disinterest. "For me, I want to experience it all. We have so much time to live; why should we restrict ourselves to what's legal at any given time. Isn't it weird that we do that? Like those alcohol and cannabis prohibition days."

Anytime now. Waylon stares at a point on the road, willing the aluminum-carrying semi into existence through sheer force of mental effort. It doesn't appear of course. That'd be too helpful.

Ronan rubs a hand over his red-tinted burr. "Don't get me wrong though, I'm no revolutionary. It's all just interesting to think about." He stretches his arms out in front of him and studies veins bulging against musclebound forearms. "To think that I wouldn't be experiencing this adrenaline coursing through my veins or the anticipation of our score appearing from the other side of that billboard at any moment. We could all be sitting at home drifting off to sleep just like we have thousands of times before; soaking in an experience that won't leave a lasting impression. Something we'll forget right when we wake up. But we're here, making memories!"

As if the end of Ronan's monologue was the shot of a gun calling athletes to sprint forth, a semi races past the driver's back.

Catnap gestures with a ruby claw. "Speaking of our score: it looks like it's time to stop being so full of yourself, Nietzsche."

Adrenaline rips the veil of calmness from Waylon's heart. The beating thing hammers away in his chest like an old prospector searching for gold. He braces himself on the door's armrest and pulls a gas mask from the floor between his legs. "Yeah, time to go. Stop the chatter and let's get a move on."

Ronan turns back to the controls and guides the sedan onto the road. The semi's container doors stand out against the backdrop of its headlights as a shadow. A box of darkness following along behind cones of yellow and moonlight scattering across metallic walls in sweeps of blue-tinted reflections.

Waylon clips the gas mask to his belt with a carabiner. "Pull up near the gap and we'll hop over."

Ronan snorts a laugh, none of his carefree demeanor dulling with the goal in sight. "Leave it to me, new friends. I'll get old Aisling right up next to it." His eyes dart back to the rear view mirror. "You all see that old Interstellar movie by the way? The 2014 one, not the remake. This is kind of like that docking scene."

Catnap adjusts the position of her fake furry ears. "No. Is it any good? I can't handle old fashioned stuff like that, the special effects are always garbage. Theater is more my speed anyhow."

An odd hole appears in Waylon's chest at the exchange. He's read about the sensation before... Sonder, was it? A realization that the other people in this car have hopes and dreams and hobbies just like him. Anger flashes too: how could she say the special effects were bad? They did what they could with the technology of the time. He shakes his head, casting away thoughts of relating to these people. "Stop the small talk. We've got a job to do."

Grass, trees, and streetlamps turn back into blurs as the sedan gets up to speed. Then the gap is there. All of Waylon's feelings drown in a rising tide of nerves; his hands tremble and a lump appears in his throat. He has to jump that gap. He's no action movie hero with plot armor, what in the world is he thinking with this daredevil nonsense?

Catnap pulls her door's handle and the silence of the cab flies out the crack in a torrent of wind. She pushes the door all the way open, braces herself in its frame, and calls back over the noise. "See you on the other side, boys!"

Then she's gone. She sails through the air with a grace that's a match for any jungle cat leaping from tree branch to tree branch. She lands between the gap and slips into the shadows.

Waylon's stomach twists in nervous agony. Damn it, he can't back out now. He edges toward the open door and peeks his head out. Passing wind turns thicker clumps of his shoulder-length hair into flailing whips and they strike his face: eyes, ears, cheeks. Everywhere. Pain overcomes his nervous push and he falls back into the cab.

Catnap peaks out from the shadows and waves an open hand in a beckoning gesture, then Ronan glances back for a moment and calls over the roaring outside. "You've got this, lad! I'm keeping her steady for you."

Pain disappears and nerves return, sending new trembles through his hands. Fine. He'll do it. Waylon ties his hair into a tight bun near the crown of his head and pulls a beanie over it.

The open door looms in front of him, like a monster's gaping maw dripping with spit from every tooth — straight out of a japanese kaiju film. He pushes the image out of his mind. He can do this; this has been on the horizon for weeks now and some nerves can't stop him. He edges back past the frame on quivering legs.

Asphalt flies past, its usual white dots blurring into an unbroken line. Waylon gulps in air; none comes. The stationary wind smacks into his face at the speed of a barreling car and steals any breath he can get into his mouth. Panic raises in his chest, but he can't stall any longer. He leaps across the gap.

The middle of Waylon's feet land on the edge of the semi's bed and his weight teeters backwards. His stomach leaps into his throat. Grab something, anything.

His body falling backwards, he flails his arms out with wild abandon but only swipes through air,. Wind roars against his side and threatens to rip him from his precarious perch, but Catnap appears from the shadows and slaps a hand over his and tugs.

All of his weight falls forward and he crashes onto the floor at Catnap's feet, his limbs sprawling out like a flying squirrel mid-glide. Waylon groans a breath through the pain. "Ow."

Catnap rubs at a broken nail. "Not all of us can be as agile as me, I suppose." She turns back to Waylon gasping on the ground. "No thank you? What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

An involuntary cringe racks Waylon mind, what's left of the panic washes away with the woman's horrible taste in one liners. No better than a comic book. He pushes himself up into a crouch and heaves gulps of breath between words. "Spare me the wannabe villain humor. But thanks."

She leans on the cab's back wall. "I'm nothing if not gracious, you're welcome." She traces a circle on the wall with one of her unbroken ruby nails, sending a soft grating shrill for a couple feet. "So, are you going to get to it? I've been baking this batch all day and it's getting uncomfortable holding it in."

Waylon unhooks the gas mask from his belt and slips it over his beanie. Catnap sweeps her hands toward the cab like she might present a prize to a game show audience. Now the easy part. Hopefully. Waylon kneels down and exhales onto the metal wall.

An invisible wave of air flows over the metal surface and condenses into water droplets that twinkle with each pass of a streetlamp. His stomach crawls back up into his chest with the anticipation, the fear.

It's nothing. It's the easy part. It's what everyone will forget when they get home tonight. Or it's one of those possibilities that he didn't plan for, infinite and unknowable as they are.

Then he's fucked.

In spite of chance, Waylon presses his exposed forearm against the wall and scrubs with counterclockwise motions. "Now it's you, Cat."

The metal under Waylon's forearm fades a little after each scrub of his arm, then fades into nothing. He falls through a couple inches, but he reels back and scoots to make room for Catnap.

A deep voice from inside the cab flows out. "Did you crack your door Mike? It's —"

Catnap kneels in front of the hole and opens her mouth much wider than a human should be able to, like a snake unhinging its jaw to swallow a meal larger than itself. A cloud of dust flies out in a stream for half a minute and she sounds like she's puking the whole time.

Waylon's stomach claws it's way up into his throat with a bout of nausea. No wonder she said it's uncomfortable. The stream stops with a sputter; then with a burp, she pounces through the hole. Waylon crawls after her.

A bulky man lies on the floor fast asleep and a woman in a cat costume sits behind the steering wheel: where the man was moments ago. Another — less bulky — man sits on the passenger side, his face rubbing against the door's window and him snoring out trumpets that would make more sense coming from the bear on the floor.

The nausea weakens, but doesn't disappear. It hangs around Waylon's midsection with the sight of the unconscious men. They're fine. Just sleeping, not dead, and no need to feel weird about it. Waylon unbuckles the man still in the seat and tugs his body into the back of the cab.

Catnap glances back. "Piece of cake!"

Waylon's heart still pounds in his chest with the adrenaline; he needs some calming quiet. He eases the man's head onto the floor and slips into the passenger seat. "Yeah. I'm just going stare ahead and not talk if you don't mind. Too many near death experiences."

Ronan's green sedan speeds off down an exit and an arm waves out an open window. Now they just need to deliver the goods.

Thirty minutes into their trip Catnap breaks the tranquil silence.

She twists her hands around the steering wheel, furrows her brow, then darts her head to the side. "At least that other guy was interesting to talk to, we're just going to sit here like a couple bowls of fruit the whole way there? Just turn on the music if nothing else."

Frustration stabs behind Waylon's left temple. Whatever, he can relax to music too. He leans forward and fiddles with the console trying to find whatever button or knob turns on the accursed thing.

A cover of Thriller from a newer boy band blares from the speakers around the cab. Then thick-fingers grasp around Waylon's ankle.