All over the northeastern US, Tuesday afternoon
Ben left for the town of Elkton, Maryland, shortly after Layla gave him the package to deliver. It was a three hour ride, so Ben managed to get to the costume shop a couple hours before closing. That's what he thought, at least.
"'Closed for fumigation'?" Ben asked, reading the sign on the door. "I guess the guy with radioactive spider-blood shouldn't go in, then..." He continued reading the sign. "'Please forward all deliveries to The Costume Emporium Corporate Headquarters-' Wait, this place has a corporate headquarters? Really? '-in Drexel Hill, PA.' I've never even heard of Drexel Hill."
Ben glanced at the map Layla had provided. Drexel Hill was clearly marked. "Huh," he said. "That's, what, an hour ride? I can still make that before closing." He shook his head as he headed back to his motorcycle. "Fumigation... What are the odds?"
***
A little more than an hour later, Ben rode into Drexel Hill, muttering under his breath about how this wasn't any place for a corporate headquarters. The sign said there were 29,000 residents. Call him a big city boy, but that seemed silly. Still, Ben was making his way through traffic to get to the Costume Emporium's offices. Ben was stopped at a red light, taking care to respect the rules of the road. When the light turned green, he started to cross the intersection.
Ben's spider-sense started to go wild. He looked to his right, where a pizza delivery car in cross traffic was running a red light. A second before there was a collision, Ben grabbed the package and flung himself forward off the motorcycle, landing in a crouch.
The pizza driver got out of his car frantically. "Are you okay? Oh my god, say you're okay."
"I think you killed my bike," Ben said, getting to his feet and trying to not look like a guy who just landed on his feet after a nasty collision.
"No, dude, it'll be fine," the driver said.
"Are you kidding? It's wrecked," Ben pointed out. "Wheels aren't supposed to bend like that. Or at all."
"Dude, I have a cousin in Jersey, okay?" the driver said. "He restores motorcycles. He's the best on the East Coast He can take care of this, no problem."
"You do know we're not in Jersey, right?" Ben asked. "I can't really get there. I don't really have any transportation."
"Don't worry. I have a pickup truck back at work," the driver said. "I'm heading back there right now, so if you just bring your bike there, we can throw it in the back and everything will be cool."
Ben looked at the guy suspiciously. "Really?"
"Yeah, man, I just.... I can't really take this kind of hit on my insurance, y'know? I mean, with this economy..." the driver started.
Ben held up a hand to stop him. The sob story didn't win him over. It was the fact that with a fake identity and the only paperwork that could confirm the lie being thrown out since he was legally dead, Ben didn't actually have insurance. This place in New Jersey was probably his best choice. "Fine," Ben said. He made a point to show that he was writing down the license plate, just in case. "Where do you work?"
"Just down the street there," the driver answered. "But I have to warn you, my cousin's place is going to be closed by the time we get there. But I'll get you in to see him first thing in the morning. I'll even spring for a motel room."
***
Ben was sitting in the motel room in East Brunswick, New Jersey alone. The driver had already called his cousin and explained the situation. Ben would just have to bring the bike over in the morning. After that, the driver left. Either he had to get back for work tomorrow or he just didn't think Ben was very good company. That part was probably true.
As they went further north on I-95, a small throbbing pain started in Ben's head. It was mostly incidental, but it kept Ben from being as talkative as he might normally be. He did find it interesting, though. Here he was, about an hour outside of New York, completely by chance. He was trying not to think about just taking a bus the rest of the way. Any time he started to do that, the headache increased. But he was so close.
It had been a hell of a day. He was interested in seeing what kind of goofy crap tomorrow brought.
[OOC: Establishy. NFB due to being off island.]
"'Closed for fumigation'?" Ben asked, reading the sign on the door. "I guess the guy with radioactive spider-blood shouldn't go in, then..." He continued reading the sign. "'Please forward all deliveries to The Costume Emporium Corporate Headquarters-' Wait, this place has a corporate headquarters? Really? '-in Drexel Hill, PA.' I've never even heard of Drexel Hill."
Ben glanced at the map Layla had provided. Drexel Hill was clearly marked. "Huh," he said. "That's, what, an hour ride? I can still make that before closing." He shook his head as he headed back to his motorcycle. "Fumigation... What are the odds?"
***
A little more than an hour later, Ben rode into Drexel Hill, muttering under his breath about how this wasn't any place for a corporate headquarters. The sign said there were 29,000 residents. Call him a big city boy, but that seemed silly. Still, Ben was making his way through traffic to get to the Costume Emporium's offices. Ben was stopped at a red light, taking care to respect the rules of the road. When the light turned green, he started to cross the intersection.
Ben's spider-sense started to go wild. He looked to his right, where a pizza delivery car in cross traffic was running a red light. A second before there was a collision, Ben grabbed the package and flung himself forward off the motorcycle, landing in a crouch.
The pizza driver got out of his car frantically. "Are you okay? Oh my god, say you're okay."
"I think you killed my bike," Ben said, getting to his feet and trying to not look like a guy who just landed on his feet after a nasty collision.
"No, dude, it'll be fine," the driver said.
"Are you kidding? It's wrecked," Ben pointed out. "Wheels aren't supposed to bend like that. Or at all."
"Dude, I have a cousin in Jersey, okay?" the driver said. "He restores motorcycles. He's the best on the East Coast He can take care of this, no problem."
"You do know we're not in Jersey, right?" Ben asked. "I can't really get there. I don't really have any transportation."
"Don't worry. I have a pickup truck back at work," the driver said. "I'm heading back there right now, so if you just bring your bike there, we can throw it in the back and everything will be cool."
Ben looked at the guy suspiciously. "Really?"
"Yeah, man, I just.... I can't really take this kind of hit on my insurance, y'know? I mean, with this economy..." the driver started.
Ben held up a hand to stop him. The sob story didn't win him over. It was the fact that with a fake identity and the only paperwork that could confirm the lie being thrown out since he was legally dead, Ben didn't actually have insurance. This place in New Jersey was probably his best choice. "Fine," Ben said. He made a point to show that he was writing down the license plate, just in case. "Where do you work?"
"Just down the street there," the driver answered. "But I have to warn you, my cousin's place is going to be closed by the time we get there. But I'll get you in to see him first thing in the morning. I'll even spring for a motel room."
***
Ben was sitting in the motel room in East Brunswick, New Jersey alone. The driver had already called his cousin and explained the situation. Ben would just have to bring the bike over in the morning. After that, the driver left. Either he had to get back for work tomorrow or he just didn't think Ben was very good company. That part was probably true.
As they went further north on I-95, a small throbbing pain started in Ben's head. It was mostly incidental, but it kept Ben from being as talkative as he might normally be. He did find it interesting, though. Here he was, about an hour outside of New York, completely by chance. He was trying not to think about just taking a bus the rest of the way. Any time he started to do that, the headache increased. But he was so close.
It had been a hell of a day. He was interested in seeing what kind of goofy crap tomorrow brought.
[OOC: Establishy. NFB due to being off island.]