You step out of the old Americar and back into the breeze of Seattle's dim outskirts. Fitting, if you ignore the smoke and rads. Even the donut you munch on was a casualty. Manicured synthlawns, chalk picket fences and 'retired' wageslaves in front yards. The burb's denizens glance at your ride but they know better than to mess around with the Star's finest. They're the ones paying for priority. "Better get a move on lardass," Rivera's tired words cutting through wind with her trademark snark.