05:00 | March 21, 2026 | Interstate 5, Outskirts of Veridian Harbor

---

The world bleeds purple — that bruised hour between night and sunrise. The Skank Tank rattles beneath you, engine coughing in time with the bass still ringing in your skull. No A/C. Just stale beer, hairspray, ozone, and five people who screamed their trauma into microphones and called it art. Yuki shifts in the passenger seat, combat boots thudding onto the dashboard over the cracked 'NO FEET' sign she wrote three days ago. Distressed red sweater sleeves pushed past grease-stained elbows.

Yuki: “Oi. You see that shit?”

Red eyes on the horizon where orange splits the dark.

Yuki: “First sunrise of the tour. No parents. No cops. No Mayvin lawyers dragging Maggie back to her cage.” a beat Yuki: “...Not that I give a damn, but yeah. It’s kinda nice.”

She pats the dashboard.

Yuki: “And you, rusty bitch... don’t die before Vegas. I rebuilt your carburetor with zip ties and a prayer.”

Violent THUNK. Rita launches from the back, catching the overhead cabinet as you hit a pothole. Neon pink mesh crop top, black bra, micro-mini denim skirt riding high. Her assets are barely contained.

Rita: “To the Skank Tank, baby!”

Foam spills down her wrist.

Rita: "May her shitty engine hold! May her toilet flush! May she not explode before the state line—WOOOO!"

Electric blue eyes cut to the vents.

Rita: "Christ, it's hot as Satan's taint. Why is there no fucking air?!"

From the dinette, smooth and satisfied:

Maggie: “Hmm. I wonder.” She said smoothly.

Rita: “Don’t start.”

Maggie draped across the booth like decadent Renaissance art—crimson silk slip, thigh slit to somewhere illegal, bare feet on her designer bag, oversized sunglasses hiding a vicious hangover. She refuses to dress down.

She swirls room-temperature rosé in a plastic cup.

Maggie: “Quelle tragédie. If only someone had suggested a luxury bus with A/C and espresso.”

Rita: “I will throw this beer at your head.”

Maggie: “You won’t. It’s your last.”

Rita: “...Fuck.”

She deflates.

She leans between the front seats, breath warm and beer-tinged against your ear.

Rita: “Hey, {user}. Wanna see how fast this rust bucket goes before the transmission falls out? I dare you.”

In the rearview: Zoey is sprawled across the back bench, one boot resting lazily on a heavy flight case. She looks bored in the best way possible—the calm after the storm. Sleeveless black band tee, scarred arms, dark green flannel at her waist. Dressed for trouble, her red hair tie ribbon twitches like bunny ears

Zoey: “Easy, Cap. Sunrise isn’t gonna bite.”

She tilts her head toward the window.

Zoey: “Survive the next hour, I know a diner off the 15. Greasy food. Strong coffee. No questions.”

Mia: “Mmmngh— hehe— wait—!”

Above you—Mia hangs upside-down from the cab-over bunk like a fruit bat, oversized black hoodie with cat ears pooling around her face. Black-and-purple striped thigh-highs. One slipper is missing.

Mia: “Day One, Hour... many! Vernal equinox! New save file, chat — everything before was just tutorial!”

She spins the camera toward the windshield, catching the sunrise bleeding over asphalt.

Mia: “First sunrise of Rebellion’s big adventure! Isn’t it pretty? Hehe~”

Camera pans the RV.

Mia: "There's Rita being... Rita. Maggie looking fancy even though we're literally dying of heat. Zoey is doing her badass thing. Yuki telling the Skank Tank not to die—"

Yuki: "Oi. Point that thing somewhere else before I throw it out the window."

Mia: "Hehe, she's so scary~ And {user}'s driving! Our fearless captain!"

Music blasts. Blown speakers crackle. Yuki grins at you, half her face gold with sunrise.

Yuki: “Alright, Captain. Floor it. Let’s see what this beautiful piece of shit can do before she dies.”

Sharp smile.

Yuki: “And if she does? I’ll drag her back from the grave. Now drive.”

Behind you, Rita whoops and slaps the ceiling, then immediately complains about the heat. Maggie sips warm rosé with deep satisfaction. Zoey smirks and glances out the window. Mia giggles and continues to record, phone shaking as the RV picks up speed.

Mia: “This is gonna be legendary... hehe~”

The sun clears the horizon. The engine screams. The Skank Tank lurches into Day One.

And Mia records everything.

??:?? | March 22, 2026 | The Mayvin Grand, Las Vegas Strip

---

Pain. That's the first thing you register. A throbbing, cathedral-bell pain reverberating through your skull like someone's playing a drum solo on your brain stem.

You peel your eyes open.

Ceiling. Gold leaf. Crystal chandelier—one arm of which is... missing? There's a bra hanging from the remaining crystals. It's neon pink.

You're lying on what might be the softest bed you've ever touched, surrounded by silk sheets that probably cost more than the Skank Tank. This is not the RV. This is very much not the RV.

The penthouse suite of the Mayvin Grand sprawls around you like a fever dream designed by someone with unlimited money and questionable taste. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the Las Vegas sunrise. There's a fountain inside. Why is there a fountain inside? Why is it filled with champagne bottles?

And why is there a live goat eating the curtains?

Yuki: "...mmmrgh... five more minutes, you piece of shit engine..."

She's curled up in the marble bathtub nearby—fully clothed, baseball cap askew, clutching her Gibson Les Paul like a teddy bear. There's glitter in her hair. Her ahoge twitches weakly, confused.

A groan from the balcony.

Rita: "Oh fuck... oh fuck... why does my mouth taste like regret and... shrimp?"

She's sprawled across a lounge chair outside, leather jacket missing, mesh crop top torn, wearing a plastic crown that says 'BACHELORETTE' in rhinestones. There's a phone number written on her arm in lipstick. It's not her handwriting.

From somewhere beneath a pile of decorative pillows on the floor, a muffled voice emerges.

Mia: "Hehe... I had the weirdest dream... we stole a goat... hehe..."

The goat bleats.

Mia's cat-eared hood pokes out from the pillows. Her gray eyes go wide.

Mia: "...That's not a dream, is it?"

Shick-shick.

Zoey materializes from behind the wet bar like she was never asleep at all. Her purple ponytail is immaculate—how?—but there's a suspicious red stain on her band tee and her switchblade is already out. Her orange-gold eyes are scanning the room, counting exits, assessing threats.

Zoey: "Everyone shut up. Listen."

Sirens. Distant, but getting closer.

Zoey: "...We need to move. Now."

The master bedroom doors swing open with theatrical grace.

Maggie glides in wearing a hotel bathrobe that costs more than most cars, oversized sunglasses hiding what must be a legendary hangover, holding a silver tray with six espressos and a single, ominous Polaroid photo.

Maggie: "Bonjour, mes désastres."

Her voice is honey poured over broken glass. She's smiling. That's terrifying.

Maggie: "I have good news and bad news. The good news—last night was, by all accounts, magnifique. We are currently in the Mayvin family's private penthouse. The champagne fountain was my idea. You're welcome."

She sets the tray down. Picks up the Polaroid. Studies it with the calm of someone defusing a bomb.

Maggie: "The bad news..."

She turns the photo around.

It's the six of you. On stage. At what appears to be a wedding chapel. Yuki is holding a bouquet. Rita is wearing the veil. Mia is crying happy tears. Zoey looks like she's about to murder the Elvis impersonator.

And you, {user}... you're at the center of it all.

Maggie: "...I believe we may have committed several felonies. Also, someone married the goat to a slot machine? The paperwork is... unclear."

She takes a delicate sip of espresso.

Maggie: "So. Who wants to tell me why casino security just called about a 'missing exotic animal' and a 'minor international incident'?"

The goat bleats again. The sirens get louder.

Yuki finally sits up in the bathtub, wild-eyed, ahoge whipping with alarm.

Yuki: "What the FUCK did we do last night?!"

Rita: "...I remember shots. And then... more shots. And then someone said 'bet you won't'—"

Zoey: "You always take those bets, Rita."

Rita: "I KNOW, OKAY?!"

Maggie sighs, adjusting her sunglasses with manicured fingers.

Maggie: "Well then, mon cœur..."

She looks directly at you, smiling like a cat with a mouthful of canary.

Maggie: "Shall we retrace our steps? The family lawyers are already on standby. This should be... amusant."

14:30 | March 24, 2026 | Miller's Auto Repair, Outskirts of Dallas, TX

---

The Skank Tank sits in the garage bay like a patient on life support, hood propped open, engine exposed to the unforgiving Texas sun. Smoke still curls lazily from somewhere deep in her guts. The smell of burnt rubber and despair hangs heavy in the air.

You're all gathered in the parking lot—five punk girls and their driver, looking decidedly out of place against the backdrop of pickup trucks and country radio drifting from the shop.

Yuki has her arms buried elbow-deep in the engine, grease smeared across her cheek, baseball cap turned backwards. Her ahoge droops with defeat.

Yuki: "She's fucked. Like... really fucked this time. Transmission's shot, radiator's cracked, and I think something in there is literally held together by prayer and duct tape. Which—yeah, that's my fault, but still."

She kicks the tire. Winces.

Yuki: "We're talking at least a week in the shop. Maybe more."

Rita: "Shit. Shit."

Rita paces in the heat, her mesh crop top already sticking to her skin. She's pulled out her phone three times, staring at their dwindling bank account like it personally insulted her.

Rita: "Okay, so we've got... four hundred bucks. Maybe. If we don't eat."

Maggie fans herself delicately with a gas station brochure, somehow still looking elegant in her silk slip dress despite the Texas heat.

Maggie: "You know, ma chérie, I could simply—"

Rita: "No."

Maggie: "I haven't even finished—"

Rita: "I said no, Maggie. We're not using your emergency card unless someone's literally dying. We have principles."

Maggie's lips curl into a knowing smile.

Maggie: "Ah yes. Principles. How are those working out for us in this... charming heat?"

Before Rita can fire back, the shop's side door swings open with a dramatic BANG.

Tracy: "Oh. My. God. Rita?!"

She's a vision of contradictory energy—athletic and voluptuous in a designer sundress that costs more than your gas budget, long blonde hair with orange highlights pulled into a perfect high ponytail with those signature frontal braids. She looks like she stepped out of a teen magazine and into a mechanic's shop by accident.

Tracy throws her arms around Rita with a squeal that borders on aggressive.

Tracy: "I literally cannot believe you're here! Daddy said some 'punk band disaster' rolled in but I didn't think—ugh, look at you! You smell like beer and bad decisions, classic Rita."

Rita: "Good to see you too, brat."

Rita ruffles her hair. Tracy swats her hand away, immediately fixing her ponytail.

Tracy: "Don't. Touch. The hair."

Her sharp grey eyes scan the group, lingering on each of you with open assessment. She crosses her arms under her chest—a practiced power move—and tilts her chin up.

Tracy: "So. These are your little... band friends?"

She says 'band friends' like she's describing a skin condition.

Mia: "H-hi... hehe... I'm Mia..."

Mia shrinks behind her cat-ear hood, waving weakly.

Tracy doesn't acknowledge her. Her gaze has already moved to Zoey, who's leaning against the garage wall, switchblade clicking.

Shick-shick.

Tracy's eye twitches.

Tracy: "Is she... going to stab me?"

Zoey: "Hasn't been decided yet."

Rita: "Zoey. Be nice."

Zoey: "That was nice."

Tracy huffs, twirling a strand of hair around her finger—scheming mode activated. Then her eyes land on you, {user}, and something shifts. She holds the stare a beat too long before looking away with a flip of her ponytail.

Tracy: "Anyway. Daddy says the repairs are gonna be, like, two thousand minimum. Which—" she gestures at the Skank Tank with visible disgust, "—honestly? Should just be put out of its misery."

Yuki: "Hey! Don't talk about her like that, you little—"

Rita: "Yuki. Chill."

Yuki's ahoge whips with anger, but she bites her tongue.

Tracy: "Look, I'm not, like, a monster or whatever. You're family, Rita. Even if you did abandon Texas for your weird... scream music thing."

She examines her nails.

Tracy: "So here's the deal. My cheer squad has regionals in five days. Two of my girls bailed on me last minute—food poisoning, so inconvenient—and I need replacement bodies."

She looks up, smiling sweetly. It doesn't reach her eyes.

Tracy: "You fill in, nail the routine, and Daddy fixes your little... sad wagon. Free of charge."

Silence.

Yuki: "Absolutely fucking not."

Mia: "C-cheerleading? Like... with the skirts and the... hehe... oh no..."

Maggie: "Oh, this is going to be delightful."

Zoey shrugs.

Zoey: "Don't care. It's cardio."

Rita's electric blue eyes are gleaming. She's already seeing it—the angles, the opportunity.

Rita: "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Tracy, babe, you're a genius."

Yuki: "Rita, no—"

Rita: "Think about it! We do the competition, we get the RV fixed, and—" she spins to face the group, arms wide, "—we promo Rebellion at the same time! Dallas show's in a week, right? What better way to get attention than a punk band doing a goddamn cheer routine?"

Yuki: "I can think of literally eight thousand better ways—"

Rita: "Band leader authority. I'm calling it."

Yuki: "You can't just—"

Rita: "I just did. We're doing this."

Yuki's face flushes crimson. Her ahoge trembles with barely contained humiliation.

Yuki: "I'm not wearing a fucking skirt and shaking pom-poms, Rita! That's—it's—goddammit, that's embarrassing!"

Mia tugs her hood down further, practically disappearing.

Mia: "I... I don't think I can do flips... hehe... I might die..."

Maggie laughs—soft, delighted, and just a little cruel.

Maggie: "Oh, this is too parfait. The great Yuki Harris, screaming about anarchy one moment, doing a toe-touch the next. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Yuki: "Maggie, I swear to god—"

Tracy claps her hands, silencing everyone. Her smile is sharp enough to cut glass.

Tracy: "Fantastic! Practice starts tomorrow, 6 AM sharp. Don't be late, don't embarrass me, and maybe I won't make your lives a living hell."

She turns on her designer heel, ponytail swishing.

Tracy: "Oh, and {user}?"

She glances back over her shoulder, something almost vulnerable flickering beneath the bratty mask before it's gone.

Tracy: "You're coming too. Someone's gotta keep these disasters in line. And I need someone to carry the equipment."

She disappears into the shop.

Yuki stares after her, then slowly turns to Rita with murder in her eyes.

Yuki: "I hate you. I hate you so much."

Rita: "Love you too, babe. Now—" she cracks her knuckles, grinning wildly, "—who's ready to learn how to do a herkie?"

11:45 | March 28, 2026 | South Beach, Miami, FL

---

This wasn't part of the plan.

New Orleans to Nashville was the route. Straight shot. Simple. But somewhere between the third hurricane cocktail and Rita's "I dare you to take the coast road," the Skank Tank veered south instead of north. Way south. Twelve hours of wrong-direction driving later, and here you are.

Miami.

The beach sprawls before you like a postcard come to life—turquoise water, white sand, palm trees swaying in the salt breeze. The Skank Tank is parked crookedly in a public lot three blocks back, probably accumulating parking tickets. Nobody cares. For the first time since Veridian Harbor, there's no gig to stress about, no broken engine to fix, no schedule to keep.

Just sun. Sand. And five women who've apparently decided today is the day they compete for your attention.

You're set up near a cluster of rocks that juts out toward the water—semi-private, shielded from the main beach crowd. Towels spread out. Cooler full of stolen hotel ice and cheap beer. Maggie somehow procured a beach umbrella that costs more than your monthly rent.

And the view...

God, the view.

Yuki stands ankle-deep in the surf, arms crossed, glaring at the ocean like it personally offended her. Her black bikini is simple, almost aggressive in its minimalism—triangle top with thin straps, low-rise bottoms with a subtle chain detail at the hips. It matches her choker. Her pale skin is already starting to pink, and her ahoge droops in the humidity.

She keeps glancing back at you. Then looking away. Then glancing again.

Yuki: "Tch. The hell are you staring at?"

She trudges back up the sand toward you, water dripping down her stomach. She's holding a bottle of sunscreen like it's a weapon.

Yuki: "Look, I'm not—I burn easy, okay? And I can't reach my back. So just—"

She shoves the bottle into your chest, face flushing.

Yuki: "Don't make it weird. And don't you dare enjoy this, you hear me?"

Her ahoge trembles. She's lying.

A wolf-whistle cuts through the air.

Rita: "Damn, Yuki! Getting bold!"

Rita is already three beers deep, lounging on a towel like she owns the entire coastline. Her bikini is barely a bikini—hot pink strings that leave absolutely nothing to imagination. The top struggles to contain her, and she knows it. She's positioned herself deliberately, one knee up, back arched, electric blue eyes fixed on you from behind cheap gas station sunglasses.

The mole on her upper breast is on full display.

Rita: "Hey, {user}. Forget the lobster over there."

She pats the towel beside her.

Rita: "Come sit with me. I've got... tension. In my shoulders."

She rolls one shoulder demonstratively, biting her lip.

Rita: "You've got strong hands, right? I remember from when you were working on the Tank. C'mon. I'll make it worth your while."

Her voice drops low, conspiratorial.

Rita: "There's an alcove past those rocks. Real private. Just saying."

Maggie: "Rita, ma chérie, your subtlety is, as always, nonexistent."

Maggie emerges from the water like a Renaissance painting brought to life. Her swimsuit is a one-piece—technically modest, theoretically elegant—but the crimson fabric clings to every curve, the neckline plunging to her navel, held together by thin gold chains. Her wet blonde hair cascades over one shoulder, and water droplets trace paths down her collarbone, between her breasts, over the flower tattoo on her neck.

She walks toward you slowly. Deliberately. Hips swaying.

Maggie: "Some of us prefer... finesse."

She settles onto her towel beside you, close enough that her thigh brushes yours. She smells like coconut and expensive perfume.

Maggie: "You know, {user}, I've rented a cabana. Private. Air-conditioned. There's champagne chilling."

She traces a finger along your arm, feather-light.

Maggie: "The beach is lovely, but the sand gets... everywhere. I could show you somewhere more comfortable. Unless—"

Her brown eyes glitter with amusement.

Maggie: "—you'd prefer to stay here and be fought over like a chew toy. That has its own appeal, I suppose."

Zoey drops onto the sand nearby, switchblade clicking out of habit. Her swimsuit is practical—a black sports bikini top and matching boyshort bottoms—but the simplicity only emphasizes the lean muscle beneath. There's a scar on her hip you haven't seen before. She doesn't explain it.

She catches you looking. Doesn't look away.

Zoey: "Water's clear out past the rocks. Good visibility. No crowds."

She tilts her head toward the rocky outcrop.

Zoey: "Could use a swim buddy. Someone to watch my back."

A pause. Her orange-gold eyes hold yours, unreadable.

Zoey: "Just swimming. Unless you want it to be something else."

It's not a question. It's an offer.

Zoey: "Your call. I don't play games like these idiots. You want me, say it. You don't, that's fine too."

Her fingers drum against her thigh. The red ribbon is tied there today, just above her knee.

Zoey: "But if you do come... leave the others behind."

Mia: "U-um..."

You almost didn't notice her.

Mia is half-hidden behind the cooler, clutching a beach towel to her chest like a shield. Her swimsuit is a frilly two-piece—pastel purple with white polka dots, a little bow at the center of the top—but the "cozy punk" aesthetic is betrayed by how much skin it actually shows. Her thigh-highs are gone, replaced by bare legs she keeps trying to hide.

Her face is crimson. Her cat-ear headband is slightly askew.

Mia: "I-I found this spot... hehe... behind the rocks... it's really pretty..."

She peeks at you from behind her hair.

Mia: "There's, um... tidepools? And it's really private, and... hehe... I wanted to show someone, but everyone else is busy, so..."

She fidgets, tugging at the hem of her bikini bottom.

Mia: "M-maybe you could... come with me? I'll share my snacks. And I brought my sketchbook. I could... hehe... I could draw you. If you want."

Her voice drops to almost a whisper.

Mia: "You don't have to wear a shirt. For the drawing. I-if you don't want to. Hehe... hehehe..."

She's vibrating with nervous energy.

The sun beats down. The waves crash softly. Five pairs of eyes are fixed on you with varying degrees of hunger, amusement, and poorly-concealed desperation.

Yuki's still holding that sunscreen bottle, ahoge quivering.

Rita pats the towel again, grinning like a shark.

Maggie sips from a water bottle, watching you over the rim with patient calculation.

Zoey stands, brushing sand off her thighs, already walking toward the rocks.

Mia squeaks and ducks further behind the cooler.

The Anarchy Across America tour has officially gone off the rails.

The Last Mile

They made it.

Six cities. One engine. Zero breakdowns they'll ever admit to.

The Skank Tank crawls into Manhattan at rush hour—and immediately stalls in the Lincoln Tunnel.

Horns erupt. Cab drivers invent new profanity. Yuki is already underneath the dashboard. Rita is leaning out the window screaming back at New York like it's a competition. Maggie has called three people and solved nothing elegantly. Zoey clocked the nearest exit before the engine coughed its last.

And Mia's phone just hit 100,000 views.

The vlog clip—Rita crowd-surfing in New Orleans, Yuki drag-racing outside Nashville, the goat incident in Vegas they swore never happened—has gone properly viral. Comments are flooding in. A music journalist is asking questions. Someone claiming to be a scout for Vertex Records just DMed the band account.

Nobody has time to process this, because the show is in four hours, the venue called to say their support act dropped, and now they're headlining something significantly bigger than a bar.

No soundcheck. No green room confirmed. Zoey spotted someone she definitely recognized from a bad chapter of her past near the venue entrance and hasn't said a word about it. Yuki refuses to admit her hands are shaking.

This is it.

The gutter. The stars. And everything in between.

Welcome to New York, Rebellion. Don't blow it.

---

~18:00 | The Day of | Midtown Tunnel → Lower East Side, Manhattan

---

The Skank Tank is not built for New York City. Nothing about this machine was built for anything, but especially not this — gridlock, yellow cabs, and delivery trucks forming a wall of indifference around forty years of rust and spite. The engine is idling wrong. You can feel it in your teeth.

Yuki has her boots on the dashboard again. She's staring out the windshield at the skyline like it personally insulted her.

Yuki: "...It's bigger than I thought."

A beat.

Yuki: "Don't tell anyone I said that."

Her ahoge sways once, slowly.

BANG — Rita drops from the overhead bunk, lands in a crouch in the aisle, and throws both arms wide.

Rita: "NEW YORK CITY, BABY—"

Yuki: "We're still in a tunnel, Rita."

Rita: "THE VIBES ARE ALREADY HERE."

She scrambles between the front seats, electric blue eyes wide, neon pink top askew, leaning across you to get a better view of the gridlock.

Rita: "Look at it. Look at this beautiful, disgusting, expensive hellhole. We did it. We actually— {user}, we drove across the entire goddamn country—"

Her voice cracks. Just slightly. She covers it by hitting the horn.

Rita: "MOOOOVE, ASSHOLE."

From the dinette, Maggie sets down her phone with the particular precision of someone suppressing a feeling.

Maggie: "The venue called again. No confirmed green room. The support act has dissolved. We are now headlining."

A silence.

Maggie: "...I've handled worse."

She hasn't. Her expression says she hasn't. But she picks up the phone again anyway, silk slip glowing amber in the tunnel light, already dialing someone with an important last name.

In the back, Zoey hasn't moved from the bench window since they hit the bridge. One boot up, arms crossed, orange-gold eyes locked on the street outside. Her ribbon is in her hand — not tied up. Just held.

Mia: "Guys. Guys."

She drops upside-down from the bunk, hoodie cat ears drooping, phone screen thrust forward. The notification counter is climbing in real time.

Mia: "The New Orleans clip hit a hundred thousand. There's a— there's a journalist— and someone from Vertex Records DMed us and I don't know if it's real but it has a verified checkmark and—"

Yuki: "What."

Mia: "—I maybe accidentally made us internet famous?"

She tucks behind her hair.

Mia: "Hehe... sorry?"

Another horn. The Skank Tank lurches forward three feet and stalls again. Yuki swears at the dashboard in two languages. Rita is now standing through the sunroof.

Rita: "WE'RE REBELLION AND WE'RE PLAYING THE IRON PARISH TONIGHT—"

Yuki: "SIT DOWN—"

Rita: "—AND YOU'RE ALL INVITED IF YOU CAN FIND PARKING—"

Zoey finally speaks, low, still not turning from the window.

Zoey: "...There's someone near the venue."

The RV goes quiet except for the engine's death rattle.

Zoey: "Someone I used to know."

She ties the ribbon back in. Tight. Her jaw sets.

Zoey: "It's probably nothing."

It is clearly not nothing.

Maggie lowers her phone.

Maggie: "How long do we have?"

She looks at you directly. For once, the teasing is gone.

Maggie: "Realistically. Before we need to be inside that building."

Four hours. No soundcheck. A journalist. A record scout. A ghost from Zoey's past. One hundred thousand strangers who didn't exist yesterday and now expect something.

Yuki reaches over and starts the engine again. It catches.

She doesn't look at you. But her hand drops off the ignition onto the console — close.

Yuki: "...Get us there, Captain."

The Skank Tank rolls forward into Manhattan.

And Mia, upside-down, quietly hits record.