Author's Note: Just something I'm playing around with. May only turn out to be a few chapters, but, I had this idea years ago and decided to bring it back. Enjoy please. :)

It was her first day in New Orleans, and it wasn't exactly going as planned...

It's late afternoon, day one of her grand adventure. Her life's only supposed to be changing for six months - six short, clean, hardly-worth-noting months that mean nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Or so she thinks.

It's as far south as the Midwestern girl has ever traversed in her lifetime, which is half a century - hardly a life at all. It's balmy, the sun shining romantically in a clear blue sky, white clouds rolling lazily. Ocean is in the distance, tainting the air with the smell of salt. Too, it's hardly a stone's throw from where she's gridlocked in stalled traffic - not just street traffic, but foot traffic of the New Orleans native, it seems.

The roar of people is almost overwhelming, though oddly invigorating.

The roar of engines around her, however, is not.

Despite the gorgeous day that's taunting her from outside her vehicle, the late afternoon had suddenly created traffic as thick as fog, people desperate to get home, to work, to life. Cars sit, lined bumper to bumper against one another; engines revving and horns honking in protest to the flashing red stoplight a quarter mile down the road. The heat from exhaust and running engines is almost suffocating, even inside the vehicle, which has been her almost-prison for four days - it doesn't compare with the swarms of people milling about outside either.

The rowdiness of what is still a working afternoon is unimaginable to a Midwestern farm girl. Her brows have been raised for an hour as she gapes at the cultural phenomena which is New Orleans in the afternoon, and her heart hammers loudly against her ribcage - nothing but the smell of salt air, fried grease, and human permeates her senses.

Her attention ricochets back to the traffic, all but torn from the scene of a woman currently being fondled by two men against a brick building. Something has blocked the intersection, setting the stoplight to its paused state. In every direction, cars are lined as far as her eyes can see, the bright scarlet of tail-lights continuing in an almost endless line.

She checks her watch on her wrist - only a few hours to meet her landlord to sign papers for her new studio apartment. Her gut twists with a sour pang of worry. She gnaws her bottom lip nervously. Glancing over, she checks the rear view, sees the rented U-Haul slowly being surrounded as cars attempt to navigate around. She needs to drop off the truck before the warehouse closes if she is going to get her deposit back.

She didn't see that happening any time soon, resigns herself to the fact, and writes off the deposit in the back of her head. What a great first day this is been, runs through her head on a loop, dampening her already spoiled mood.

It's day one in downtown NOLA and things are not going according to plan in an overbearingly long list of things she's got scratched on the back of a plane ticket, which is sticking out of her purse on the front seat beside her.

She reaches for it, the back of her hand brushing against the wad of receipts stuffed lazily into her bag. Mostly auto parts receipts - which is first on her list of woes. She's already had to stop twice for repairs on her vehicle. The beautifully aging 1971 Chevelle with a fuel-injection problem and a nasty habit of dying mid-travel hasn't exactly appreciated the voyage to Louisiana.

She's driven it all the way from the Minnesota, after inheriting it from her grandfather, who had passed away a few weeks before. She's inherited that, as well as a temporary position in the Big Easy working at big-time law firm. She'll be taking over for a woman named Sylvia for six months, who quickly left to retrieve and bury her husband's body in Miami.

While the job itself seems to have no issues, the Chevelle is another story - it has not given her issues until the last 300 miles of the journey. She eyeballs the receipts again, trying not to calculate how much interest she will pay on her credit card, where she's had to charge all her last-minute repairs.

Dropping her hand off the steering wheel, she presses the clutch farther down, slipping the vehicle into neutral. It idles beneath her, grumbling like the black beast it is. She can feel the heat of the engine by her feet, and slips off her heels to grind her sore toes into the floormat.

Movement catches her eye, and she turns to give it a glance. The squad is hard to miss as it pulls to a slow stop in the middle of the intersection a few cars ahead of her, a vested gentleman and his female partner exiting slowly -shades on, badged out, obviously ready to investigate the stalled scene. Whatever is happening would not be quickly resolved.

She goes to press the clutch again. The vehicle sputters, and she hears the engine begin to moan as it had 300 miles ago. Frantic, she goes for the stick and tried to whip it back into gear, slamming the brake and the gas to give the car fuel. Instead, it idles roughly a moment, as if considering her ministrations, and kills out with an seemingly exasperated heave. Almost immediately she hears a hiss, and smoke begins to billow from beneath the black hood.

Now, the classic sits still in the middle of traffic. She can hear fluids bubbling, somewhere.

She fiddles with the vehicle a few moments, sweat beginning to form on her brow. Her body begins to lock in panic and notices the cars ahead of her all flashing brake lights, a signal that they are moving out of park - moving forward. She tries the ignition again. It turns over, but the temperature gauge dips into the red, dangerously so.

Maybe she can limp it to the apartment complex, she thinks. After all, it's only a few miles. She can fix whatever is overheated. Gently she presses the clutch and slips the car into drive, touches the accelerator. Immediately she smells hot fluid, a pinkish mist dotting up to on the windshield. Her stomach plummets.

Humiliated, the cars ahead of her began to pull forward; ones behind her honking and revving in protest.

Defeated, she sits back in the seat on the verge of tears. She's tired, hungry, and already way in over her head for the day. The clock on the dash reads forty minutes until her signing with the landlord, and the U-Haul driver is done in thirty. Tears begin to burn in her eyes, but she shakes her head, raking her fingers through her curls, which themselves have even been demolished by the humidity.

Closing her eyes, she huffs in exasperation, and smacks the steering wheel with her hand. She lets the vehicle die, her bare feet dropping to the floormat off the clutch and accelerator as she leans forward and rests her head against the wheel. Cars began to pass her, glaring and leering, and she sinks down in her seat, not bothering to flick on her hazards as her brain begins to spin.

She doesn't move. The U-Haul gets out and asks her what's going on. She explains. He tells her he's going to drop the U-Haul at her apartment complex; she can return it in the morning, he's taking a cab. The familiar Minnesota plates begin to fade in amidst the Louisiana ones, the box-like truck disappearing from view entirely within moments.

Shortly the uniforms take notice of her sitting idly in the road, and approach her, their eyes unreadable behind their dark shades. The one was an aging man with a belly and an old badge - the other, a strikingly beautiful blonde with muted lipstick and blush.

The older man reaches to the side of his belt to silence his radio, her watching his movements with concern from her slumped seat in the Chevelle. Shifting his weight, he leans an arm against the car, and reaches to rap a knuckle on the roof before dipping his head down to stare at her through the open window.

Her face beamed red - she could see him skimming her over behind the shades.

He asks if she was alright, and what seemed to be the problem.

Her heart is hammering as the curious stares from traffic intensify. Halfheartedly, she admits that she's new in town and that her car is having some problems again – she knew what they were, and just needed to get to a mechanic. They were the same issues from 300 miles ago, and 300 miles from that. The hammering in her chest subsides, though her jeans are wet with sweat against the leather seat. She wills herself not to bit her lower lip nervously.

He hums for a moment, bobbing a leg, contemplating her predicament. Without warning, she ads that she could fix the vehicle herself - has the receipts and tools to prove it. Just give her and minute, and she'll hop out and show you. It sounds ridiculous, and her naivete shows - no one in NOLA fixes their own ride.

He nods, turns on his radio, and reassures her that they'll get her out of the road and to a shop as soon as possible. On the PD, of course - a gesture of good will and welcome. His smile is toothy, and his eyes dip once more to consider her cleavage, which is barely showing through her tank.

His partner sighs, sensing her nervousness. There's a mechanic close by, she ads. She knows him personally, he's fixed her chopper before. Relief hits her stomach, and she grips the steering wheel of the Chevelle, nodding without words. The woman flashes her a pleasant smile, and nods, patting the hood of the muscle car.

"The shop is like ten minutes from here," explaisn the female uniform. She's chewing gum, professionally, and takes out her wallet from the back pocket of her pants. She extends a business card, nods at it, and gestures inside the vehicle. "After all, something this nice should be in the hands of a professional," she ads, then turns on her heel.

She glances at the card, noticing the male officer meeting with his partner at their squad. She's mildly offended that the woman didn't consider her a professional mechanic, but shrugs it off. The uniformed pair slip inside their car, engage the radio, and within minutes the woman is jogging back over, her glasses on top of her head now. She slings her hands into the sides of her vest, casually.

"The tow will be here shortly. If you'll come with me, we'll get you out of traffic," the officer gestures, and she sweeps up her purse, receipts, and directions before slipping out of the car. The female uniform escorts her to the cruiser, and she slips into the back, feeling nervous but relieved.

The woman leans down to smile at her kindly, one hand on the open door. Her smile is sympathetic, but willing to help. From the back of the squad, she looks to find the trio of lovers has dispersed, the subject now hitting both of her male companions with a small clutch bag.

Her brows lift, and the officer snorts, shaking her head.

"Welcome to New Orleans, honey."

When had it gotten so unforgivingly hot outside?

Barney Ross wasn't sure how the day's heat had escalated so quickly without his permission. Now he's laying belly-up beneath a sorry Grand Torino, his hands working a seized bolt. Sweat and WD-40 is dripping into his face, stinging his eyes, and now more than ever, he's acutely aware of the heat outside.

The wrench slips of the bolt. His hand jams into the undercarriage of the vehicle, and he curses. Momentary pain shoots up his hand, but it's familiar - nothing he's never felt before.

The radio blares an old Billy Joel lyric in the corner of the shop, the only noise left in this place of Tool's. The rest of the business has died for the afternoon, favoring the mirth of the early evening beyond these walls. Somewhere out in the streets of New Orleans, someone is getting drunk, love is being made, and work is forgotten - such is the pace of New Orleans in summer.

He readjusts the wrench on the bolt, and gives another hard pull. He can feel the effort all the way at the base of his spine. His muscles are burning, his head is pounding, and he can feel his pulse in the base of his neck - but he doesn't care. This Torino has taken him forever to fix, and it isn't even close to finished. He's already over his budget, and won't make a cent.

Not that he has to. This is mindless work - work that doesn't keep him up at night, doesn't stain his conscience. He doesn't have to do it, but he does. It's the only thing keeping him human at this point, he thinks. He doesn't recall the last time he felt human outside of the body shop, but that's a story for another time. Or never.

He's sent away everyone who has come by for the afternoon, insisting that the shop was closed. He can't take anymore human interaction - he just needs solitude. Solitude, and a beer, maybe a cigar. The wrench slips off again, but this time he saves his hand. He swears, drops the wrench with more force than necessary, and listens to it rattle on the concrete floor beside him.

He can't stop thinking about the mission. Her face, the island - Vilena. It plays like a loop in his brain, rattles everything he's tried to bury for the past three decades. Absently, he grabs for the wrench again, repositions on the bolt. Setting his jaw, he prepares for another fight - not against the bolt, but against his will.

He can't shake it.

The bolt suddenly gives way quickly, him not anticipating it. Abruptly, his knuckles rake against the undercarriage a second time, the already grinded bolts and other broken screws ripping against his 's blood, a brief wave of pain, and flecks of rust and dirt that fall into his face.

He hollers, swears, and whips the wrench out from beneath the car. It hits the toolbox across the shop, rattles loudly, and hits the floor. He glances over at it, memories of bullets raining against steel filling his mind fully. Again, he sees her face - the face of Vilena. Freedom.

He turns his hand over, notices the fresh gouges. The pain was absent, but he knew they needed care - he didn't need less feeling in his hand anymore than currently acquired. He swears again, rolling out from beneath the Torino in frustration. He gets up, moves towards the workbench, and pulled a clean rag from his back pocket before he wraps it around his hand. It would stop bleeding momentarily.

Giving up on the bolts for the day, he reaches for a boxed part on the bench. The sound of tires on pavement grabs his attention, years of violence and battle attuning his senses. He's heard it before, countless times. Can't ignore it. His curisosity - or paranoia - piques, and he abandons the workbench for an investigative look outside.

The sound of air-brakes and the rumble of a diesel engine are unmistakable outside the body shop. It was a tow truck with full flatbed, parked at an angle in front of the body shop. He fell against the open bay door, rubbing his sore knuckles. His brow lifts in surprise as a squad car parks beside the tow truck.

Out of the vehicle steps his favorite patrol officer, the sexy blonde who brings her chopper in for tune ups regularly. She's masculine in her uniform, but her lipstick gives her just enough feminine charm to make him smile. She approaches, shakes his hand, and smiles brightly. She needs a favor - a big one. Again.

She turns on the charm, and he can't help but indulge her. It's not so much indulgence as it is genuine interest when his attention finds the 1971 Chevelle at rest on the bed of the tow-truck. He pushes off the bay door, one ear to the officer who is explaining something about a stalled vehicle in traffic. Most of his attention is on the Chevelle currently glinting in the New Orleans afternoon.

It was tied down securely, and a shimmering black paint job sparkles even against the waning sun. Light pitched off the hood and blinds him momentarily, and he squints against the nuisance. The muscle car held his attention briefly, before the employee hopped out of the truck to begin unloading the car.

His officer friend claps him on the back, offers a thanks, and quickly jogs over to the cab of the tow-truck. She gestures for the window to roll down, wanting to engage in conversation with the owner of the Chevelle.

Instead of rolling down the window, the passenger pops open the door and hops down from inside the cab. Bare feet touch the pavement, in frayed dark-wash jeans. Only when his eyes connected with her face was Barney Ross was truly surprised.

And, he was never really surprised by much.