Chapter 235: Heroism Comes with Storage Fees

The runaway truck contained one terrified eel, several hundred dollars of ingredients and the meal I had been enjoying before my evening developed a public-safety problem. I caught up beside the passenger window and poured through it as mist while Yellow Shorts tried to make the dashboard explain driving.

"Press the brake before this becomes the worst takeaway service in the city,"

I told him as my head formed beside his ear. He stamped down with both feet, making the truck lurch while I looked for a way to reach the pedals without joining his knees in the footwell.

[System: Brace against the seat frame and push with your body, mate; those little smoke fingers are good for pinching chips, but this needs more than a polite fucking request.]

The engine is off, the brake feels useless and the only qualified driver in here appears to be the sauce bottle. I formed most of myself beside the seat, planted a coil against its frame and pushed harder, finally slowing the truck enough to keep it from jumping the next kerb.

Rook flew across the crossing below us, turning her scooter sideways while she shouted the commuters back. A cyclist abandoned his bike and dragged it clear just before the truck reached the white lines, leaving me a lane that still ended in a sharp bend.

Lukas landed on the roof and fired a web towards a roadside post. The line slapped across the windscreen before tightening, blocking half my view while buying us a few precious seconds of speed we were no longer gaining.

"Anchor something I wasn’t using to see the road, because I would prefer our next mistake to remain a choice," I shouted. He moved the line higher before it snapped, and I hauled the wheel towards the service lane Rook was pointing at.

The truck hit a pile of empty plastic barriers, scattering them across the lane while the final row slowed us to a stop. One orange barrier sailed over the bonnet and landed around a bronze mayor’s neck, giving the statue its first useful public role.

Yellow Shorts asked whether we were safe, sounding hopeful enough to annoy me. I pushed him away from the controls and towards the door, where Rook was already waiting with an expression that suggested safety would be a very limited offer.

"You’re about to spend some time explaining why you stole a truck you couldn’t drive, so I wouldn’t start celebrating yet," I told him. Lukas appeared at the windscreen and asked whether we should work on team callouts before the next rescue.

[System: Call yourselves Meals on Crimes, mate, then charge delivery and see if the spider can get a sponsor for his next workplace injury.]

We’re putting his face on the van, because I’d like one business where people complain about the spider before meeting me. She reached the truck as I handed the eel to Rook, then opened the hatch and caught a loose tray before it fell.

The injured vendor was sitting beside the ambulance further up the road, complaining loudly enough to suggest that he planned to survive out of spite. Nessa checked her fryer, looked at the broken sauce bottle by my coils and thanked us while clearly counting the repairs in her head.

For several minutes, it looked as though we had finished the important part. Officers kept the three eels apart, the commuters went on their way, and Lukas retrieved what remained of our wraps with the hopeful care of a man who didn’t believe in wasting free food.

Then a tow vehicle stopped behind the ambulance, and a man in a spotless orange vest walked around Nessa’s truck with a tablet. He scanned the plate, tapped through several boxes and attached a red seal across the hatch before asking her to step away.

"The vehicle is being impounded for trading and equipment violations, with its involvement in a public hazard included in the report," he said. Nessa held up her permit and pointed towards the handcuffed eel, but he barely glanced at either.

"Its involvement was being stolen, which seems like a rude thing to charge the owner for twice," I told him. He explained that she could challenge the classification after paying collection fees, daily storage and a release assessment that apparently checked whether a truck remained a truck.

Lukas started recording while Rook photographed the vehicle’s condition and told Nessa not to sign anything agreeing to the tow. The contractor produced an order from another city office, leaving Rook able to record the dispute but unable to cancel it herself.

Nessa demanded a printed copy, and the man spent a surprising amount of effort explaining why she didn’t need one. Rook repeated the request until he handed over a narrow receipt, which Nessa read while holding her apron against her chest.

[System: Get the seal number and the company name, mate; you can bite the fluoro cockhead later, but you can’t follow a truck using nothing but a grudge.]

You’re making a strong argument for collecting information before committing the more enjoyable mistake. I asked Lukas to photograph the seal while Nessa removed her belongings from the cab and signed the small inventory box the driver showed her.

Paying would have been easy, which annoyed me more than the price. This prick had watched us do the dangerous bit, then arrived with a tablet to collect the prize. I refused to become an unpaid intern for truck theft, especially when he’d stolen my dinner twice.

Nessa called the collection number on the receipt while we watched, only to hear a message saying customer service had closed for the evening. The tow crew apparently worked longer hours than the people paid to answer complaints.

The tow truck lifted her front wheels while Lukas showed me the company name on his recording. Beneath it, a message had appeared on the driver’s tablet long enough for the camera to catch three words I didn’t like: prepare for disposal.

Nessa opened the collection link while the truck pulled away, and a sales listing appeared where the return booking should have been. Her truck already had an auction time, using a photograph taken before the eels had even attacked it.