The waypoint led me to an abandoned industrial lot tucked away beneath the shadow of the stadium's towering light structures. The space was mostly empty, save for a few piles of discarded tires and one very recognizable, gleaming silver R34 GT-R.
Parked beside it, leaning against the hood, was a tall man with impossibly blue eyes and a casual air that belied his obvious alertness. He wore a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. Brian O'Conner. The system confirmed the identity with a small, floating yellow health bar over his head and the designation [KEY ALLY – HIGH TRUST POTENTIAL].
I pulled my car to a smooth stop, the engine ticking as it cooled. I cut the ignition. Silence fell, broken only by the distant hum of LA traffic.
Brian pushed off the car, arms crossed. His eyes scanned my Skyline, then me. He looked cautious, assessing. Word travels fast in this underground network, but reputations have to be verified in person.
I opened my door and stepped out. No rush, no nervousness. Thanks to the Instant Mastery of "Confidence and Maintaining Poker Face," I radiated cool professionalism.
"You Michael?" Brian asked, his voice easy, but firm.
"That's me," I said, nodding. "You must be B. O'Conner. Archie gave me the rendezvous."
"Archie?" Brian raised an eyebrow, suspicion flickering. "We talk about this job, we don't use codenames from video games. You got a name, use it."
"Fair enough. It's an internal system designation," I explained smoothly. "Look, Brian. I know this is sudden. You got a call from a mutual friend—someone who said I could handle heavy lifting. I'm here to prove it."
Brian chuckled, a short, dry sound. "Prove it? You know what this job is? We're talking about hitting a convoy transporting a classified item. It's security clearance three, maybe four. They'll have air support and tactical response units. We're not boosting Civics off the docks."
"The Encrypted Quantum Drive prototype," I replied, pulling the specifications straight from the GTA System's internal data log, bypassing any need for external notes. "It's being moved from the JPL facility in Pasadena to the corporate vault in Santa Monica, estimated travel window between 0300 and 0430 tomorrow morning. Standard twelve-wheeler escort, three dedicated security vehicles—two in front, one tailing—and two motorcycles flanking the cargo carrier. The lead security vehicles are armored level two. The cargo truck runs on reinforced steel plating."
Brian's eyes widened slightly. He hadn't expected the detail. "Who's your mutual friend?"
"Someone who owes me a very expensive favor and recognized that your crew needs speed and precision that maybe… isn't quite up to par since you lost the last guy."
That was a subtle jab, a risk I had to take. Brian's expression hardened.
"You need to show me something," Brian said, moving toward his own R34. "My guy said you were fast. Fast is relative. If you're going to run point on this, I need to know you won't fold when the choppers come out."
"I won't fold," I promised. "But I understand the need for verification."
I walked back to my Skyline. I didn't need a test drive; I just needed to demonstrate complete, unnatural mastery.
"See that stack of tires?" I pointed to a tower of defunct radials about fifty yards away. "I can put my car exactly there, at 90 mph, and stop without leaving a skid mark, all while changing the oil, if the system lets me."
"It's tight. Too tight for 90," Brian countered, looking dubious. "Plus, the ground here is uneven concrete."
"It's not too tight if you know the physics and the car's exact tolerance parameters."
I activated the System's menu.
[SKILL ACQUISITION REQUEST: HIGH-SPEED PRECISION DRIVING (URBAN HEIST APPLICATION)]
A tiny progress bar flashed for 0.001 seconds, and the skill was mine. A tidal wave of complex data flooded my brain: trajectory calculations, micro-adjustments for tire compression, the perfect counter-steering angles.
"Watch the tires."
I took off in a burst of speed and turbo whine, hitting 60 instantly. I ripped a 180-degree turn in the middle of the lot, putting the Skyline in reverse. The car screamed back toward the large, concrete wall lining the perimeter.
Brian tensed, expecting me to slam the car into the barrier.
Instead, I hit 90 mph backward. Just as the wall rushed toward my windshield, I performed a perfect reverse J-turn, flicking the wheel, hammering the clutch, and catching the gear in third. The car spun on its axis, completing a perfect 270-degree rotation.
The Skyline faced forward again, still moving. I aimed it perfectly at the stack of tires and slammed the brakes, modulating the ABS by instinct.
The car stopped one inch from the stacked tires, dead center, with zero lateral movement.
Brian stood motionless, a look of pure astonishment freezing his features. The dust was still settling.
I lowered the window. "Verification successful?"
Brian walked over slowly, studying the front bumper, then the tires. "That... shouldn't be possible in this lot. The concrete is garbage, and you reversed at near triple digits."
"I had optimal grip compensation," I said, using the technical jargon I'd instantly mastered. "I also calculated the weight distribution of the security vehicles, the precise structural weaknesses of the twelve-wheeler's chassis, and the most efficient route through the Santa Monica tunnels to avoid traffic cam pings."
I had just performed an impossible stunt and recited a logistics report. It was the perfect blend of reckless action and meticulous planning.
Brian ran a hand through his hair, a nascent grin finally breaking through his caution. "Alright, Michael. You're definitely not an accountant."
"Just retired," I corrected.
[TRUST LEVEL RAISED: B. O'CONNER – 45% (NEUTRAL/POSITIVE)]