(Turner and Alan have showed up in prior LJ Idol entries, but I won't link since I'm not sure people really enjoy being sent to read multiple parts when they have to get through tons of different entries in a week; and while this ties in with a larger story, it's hopefully fine enough as a standalone.)
"You sure this is going to work?"
"You seem awfully certain it isn't," Turner sighed loudly, digging the piece of paper out of her purse and unfolding as she spoke. "Can you think of a better way to get Romacorp off our backs?"
Alan kept his eyes on the road, only glancing sideways at her every few seconds. "What I think," he said slowly, considering, "is this is so badly advised that the only worse thing would be shooting ourselves in the heads and saving them the bullets."
"Oh, they're not going to shoot us," she scoffed. Craning her neck toward the windshield, she scanned the dusty horizon for stop signs, a ribbon of road - any evidence the promised intersection was coming up in the foreseeable future. "We tell them a little of what we want to say, convince them we don't know anything else, and after a few hours of verbal pounding, we get to leave. Maybe we get monitored or followed for a while."
"Yeah, because that's so preferable."
"To being tracked down against our will and surprised into some confession about something we didn't even do? It sure is. This way, we control stuff; sweep a leg right under them." Turner finally saw evidence of another road about a mile or two ahead - with the shimmering heat, it wasn't easy to tell distance. They would be a few minutes early, if Dugger showed up on time, but it could be explained. Or was about to be. "Um. You had the chicken salad for lunch too, right?"
"I hate mayonnaise; I had roast beef. How do you not remember a piece of beef hanging out of my sandwich?"
"I'm not your babysitter."
"It doesn't look anything like chicken or salad, is my point, blind-as-a-bat," Alan countered, as she touched his arm to get his attention, then nodded silently while pointing at the road. "Left," she mouthed soundlessly. "Why?"
"It's just-" Turner cleared her throat and worked up some audible distress. "Uh boy. Um, I think you're going to have to stop."
"Why? What's wrong?" He did slow the car, then, but only enough for the stop sign.
"Park over there," she instructed. On cue, Alan sighed in deep annoyance as he turned left and eased the car to the dusty shoulder. "I think- I think the salad was bad, I'm about to see it again." She ran the words together approximating panic in her voice, forced out a big burp, then yanked the door open and bolted out before slamming it to muffle any more sound.
Or in their case, lack of. Alan waited a calculated moment, muttered something appropriately put out, then followed her, yelling, "Are you okay?"
They stood a few feet from the front of the car for nearly ten minutes, by which point Turner was nearing a different kind of pre-nausea that had nothing to do with lunch. She shook her head anytime Alan looked at her as if to ask something; they didn't need to take the chance they could be picked up by the bug they'd been playing to for the last fifteen miles.
Nearly two minutes later, she spotted a plume of dust following a vehicle, but held her optimism in check until the old pickup slowed and pulled off the other side of the road at the intersection, facing the opposite way. She resisted yelling as Dugger stepped out the driver's side, instead crossing the road in a little jog to furiously quiz him on his tardiness. Before she could, he put up a hand and began, "I couldn't get-" She silently motioned him to lower his voice with the flat of her hand pressing down in universal signage. "I couldn't get the Jeep, so I had to get my cousin's truck instead. Took a few more minutes," he said quietly.
"Is it going to run as well?"
"It'll get you to Pheasant Rock; you can rent a car or get a shuttle to the airfield if you need to," he pointed out.
She pulled the envelope of cash from her back pocket. "You know where to leave the car, right?" she whispered.
He took the money and put it inside his jacket, then pulled on gloves. "I'm not entirely an amateur," Dugger said dryly. He waved his fingers. "No prints on it."
Turner looked around and found Alan a few feet behind her. She snapped toward the truck and inclined her head, following Dugger to the car and opening the back door as he opened the driver's and got in. "Think I'm going to try to sleep the rest of this out," she half-moaned, bending and sticking her head into the back to be heard. "Try to keep it quiet, would you?"
"Mmhmm," was all Dugger replied. He sounded enough like any annoyed traveling male to pass for Alan.
"Jesus, sorry to ruin your Sunday drive," she muttered, then shut the door and stepped back from the car once Alan flashed her a thumbs-up from the truck. The Impala pulled forward onto the road, and continued in the direction of Romacorp's offices. Where it wouldn't get.
Alan watched as she buckled herself in. "Think we can get gone before they figure where we went?"
"You mean ... can we leg it out of their sweep?"
"That- that's so bad I don't even know where to criticize it." Turner smirked; Alan shook his head and pushed the gas harder.
(This is for the LJ Idol prompt 'Sweep the Leg'.)
"You sure this is going to work?"
"You seem awfully certain it isn't," Turner sighed loudly, digging the piece of paper out of her purse and unfolding as she spoke. "Can you think of a better way to get Romacorp off our backs?"
Alan kept his eyes on the road, only glancing sideways at her every few seconds. "What I think," he said slowly, considering, "is this is so badly advised that the only worse thing would be shooting ourselves in the heads and saving them the bullets."
"Oh, they're not going to shoot us," she scoffed. Craning her neck toward the windshield, she scanned the dusty horizon for stop signs, a ribbon of road - any evidence the promised intersection was coming up in the foreseeable future. "We tell them a little of what we want to say, convince them we don't know anything else, and after a few hours of verbal pounding, we get to leave. Maybe we get monitored or followed for a while."
"Yeah, because that's so preferable."
"To being tracked down against our will and surprised into some confession about something we didn't even do? It sure is. This way, we control stuff; sweep a leg right under them." Turner finally saw evidence of another road about a mile or two ahead - with the shimmering heat, it wasn't easy to tell distance. They would be a few minutes early, if Dugger showed up on time, but it could be explained. Or was about to be. "Um. You had the chicken salad for lunch too, right?"
"I hate mayonnaise; I had roast beef. How do you not remember a piece of beef hanging out of my sandwich?"
"I'm not your babysitter."
"It doesn't look anything like chicken or salad, is my point, blind-as-a-bat," Alan countered, as she touched his arm to get his attention, then nodded silently while pointing at the road. "Left," she mouthed soundlessly. "Why?"
"It's just-" Turner cleared her throat and worked up some audible distress. "Uh boy. Um, I think you're going to have to stop."
"Why? What's wrong?" He did slow the car, then, but only enough for the stop sign.
"Park over there," she instructed. On cue, Alan sighed in deep annoyance as he turned left and eased the car to the dusty shoulder. "I think- I think the salad was bad, I'm about to see it again." She ran the words together approximating panic in her voice, forced out a big burp, then yanked the door open and bolted out before slamming it to muffle any more sound.
Or in their case, lack of. Alan waited a calculated moment, muttered something appropriately put out, then followed her, yelling, "Are you okay?"
They stood a few feet from the front of the car for nearly ten minutes, by which point Turner was nearing a different kind of pre-nausea that had nothing to do with lunch. She shook her head anytime Alan looked at her as if to ask something; they didn't need to take the chance they could be picked up by the bug they'd been playing to for the last fifteen miles.
Nearly two minutes later, she spotted a plume of dust following a vehicle, but held her optimism in check until the old pickup slowed and pulled off the other side of the road at the intersection, facing the opposite way. She resisted yelling as Dugger stepped out the driver's side, instead crossing the road in a little jog to furiously quiz him on his tardiness. Before she could, he put up a hand and began, "I couldn't get-" She silently motioned him to lower his voice with the flat of her hand pressing down in universal signage. "I couldn't get the Jeep, so I had to get my cousin's truck instead. Took a few more minutes," he said quietly.
"Is it going to run as well?"
"It'll get you to Pheasant Rock; you can rent a car or get a shuttle to the airfield if you need to," he pointed out.
She pulled the envelope of cash from her back pocket. "You know where to leave the car, right?" she whispered.
He took the money and put it inside his jacket, then pulled on gloves. "I'm not entirely an amateur," Dugger said dryly. He waved his fingers. "No prints on it."
Turner looked around and found Alan a few feet behind her. She snapped toward the truck and inclined her head, following Dugger to the car and opening the back door as he opened the driver's and got in. "Think I'm going to try to sleep the rest of this out," she half-moaned, bending and sticking her head into the back to be heard. "Try to keep it quiet, would you?"
"Mmhmm," was all Dugger replied. He sounded enough like any annoyed traveling male to pass for Alan.
"Jesus, sorry to ruin your Sunday drive," she muttered, then shut the door and stepped back from the car once Alan flashed her a thumbs-up from the truck. The Impala pulled forward onto the road, and continued in the direction of Romacorp's offices. Where it wouldn't get.
Alan watched as she buckled herself in. "Think we can get gone before they figure where we went?"
"You mean ... can we leg it out of their sweep?"
"That- that's so bad I don't even know where to criticize it." Turner smirked; Alan shook his head and pushed the gas harder.
(This is for the LJ Idol prompt 'Sweep the Leg'.)