Poly Track 6x -

Then I saw the figure.

"Now what?" I asked.

The load tonight was sixteen tons of decommissioned industrial coolant. The stuff was inert, harmless, but it smelled like burnt marshmallows and regret. The manifest said "Recycling, Facility D-9." I knew better. Facility D-9 had been condemned for three years. This coolant was headed for a black-market reprocessor named Lyle, who paid in untraceable chits and never asked questions. poly track 6x

"Lyle sold you out," she said. "That coolant isn't going to be recycled. It's going to be evidence. You're the patsy, driver. You're the one they'll pin for illegal disposal of—" she glanced at the slate, "—class-four biocontaminants. Not coolant. Never was coolant." Then I saw the figure

I liked it for exactly those reasons.

Track 6x began to narrow. The amber lights grew sparser. I killed the autopilot and took manual control, feeling the poly track's subtle warp through the steering column. The rain started—not a clean rain, but the greasy, chemical drizzle that fell in this part of the city. It beaded on the windshield like tiny oil slicks. The stuff was inert, harmless, but it smelled

Standing at the edge of the track, right where the old switchyard split into three rusted spurs. A woman, young, wearing a soaked lab coat over something that might have been a dress. No umbrella. No bag. Just standing there, one hand raised, palm out.