There was no mystery that the woman was stalking every corner and bend. Watching wide-eyed from afar, envisioning what it was like to step foot into such an exotic cabin of such a "black beauty."
She'd asked around, and made inquiries of all sorts — but no one seemed to know anything significant about the late entry.
Her rather fascinated disposition wasn't out of the ordinary, however, Kitt concluded that he was handsome enough that such a response was normal and he was satisfied with the idea. Being the car of the future and all that — albeit — he had to admit that Liberty had been keeping close tabs on Micheal. Rather suspicious close tabs on the man as of late, as though attempting to break through to him and earn the honor to take a seat inside the so-called "black beauty". Maybe not "earn" that honor but snatch it just as though Kitt was just any other car up for grabs. Which was an outrageous notion. Therefore he was more than pleased to see Michael yet again and again send the woman on her way.
— Unfortunately, having been left in the sweltering heat of a rather eventful afternoon, Liberty had proved to be a rather ingenious reporter and of much perseverance.
She wasn't only packing her "good looks" or whatever it was people saw in her this time but a few "tools" that Kitt expertly identified at a distance as specialized automobile break-in equipment — and rather complex ones too.
The woman was not playing games. In fact, she seemed ill-bent on getting a better glimpse of what Kitt held inside. Whether this included Michael's permission or not.
Maybe in her eyes, he was no better than a clam — the kind that locked wonderful shiny secrets that could later be added to jewelry and or embellished and placed onto a wrist. The kind of secrets that would hit the opening page of a newspaper or Time magazine. This woman was no fool — Kitt would give her that. He WAS in fact packing more than just liquid hydrogen under his "skin". Either way, he could not let her know more than what the general public was allowed to know, the few tidbits of information that Devon and Michael thought was safe enough to compete with but not enough to raise any suspicions.
In effect, Kitt was no shellfish. He was determined to give her a rather difficult time, and probably embarrass her in the process — He did not care. It was his job to keep himself strictly confidential unless otherwise told. For his own sake and most of all, Michael's safety.
She approached him, finally laying her exquisite tools on the ground and admiring his bodywork rather fondly.
"Hmmmm." She teased. "What might really be under your hood?" She asked out loud, taking a quick glance around the otherwise uninhabited lot before gently rolling up some gloves over her hands. So it seemed she had the expertise to pull from — Determined not to be detected and or accused of this later. Kitt took note of her rather skilled "criminal mind", somewhat inclined to call security on her already or better yet Michael. Giving her a grave mess to deal with.
Suppressing a deep grin, unaware of the silicon creature quietly contemplating her next move, she pressed her hand under the oddly cool door latch, all the while gently placing a lock-pick tightly through the keyhole with her other hand.
'Hmph.' Kitt relentlessly said to himself.
He didn't hesitate to "bite" the pick in half.
Crunch!
The woman held the crippled tool in her palm for the longest time.
Either too stunned to closely examine it, or recalling the lost digits of whatever bank account had provided her with this specialized tool. Probably praying she'd kept the receipt — Or that who'd ever let her borrow it wouldn't be too upset with the loss. Better yet, it was probably stolen — Another cause to report her to the authorities and send her to the hills for cover.
'Leave me alone.' Kitt thought to himself. Unsure if to comment later on this woman's current "criminal" activity with Michael or not. The man seemed unable to press any suspicions on the woman, or even consider her a threat. To Kitt — all — everyone, was a suspect (excluding those who'd come with him on this mission, obviously). Including Liberty — And if he was being quite frank, he suspected she had something to do with at least some of the nonsense surrounding the race one way or another. She just had to — With the way she kept poking her nose into subjects that did not concern her — She was either using an open cover-up or was a skilled (and annoying) reporter. He picked the latter, or at least his odds calculator did.
"You're something else." She murmured finally to herself, slipping the broken pick into her pocket and placing her hands on her hips, obviously impressed. " — Is that why Michael won't give me a ride?" She added sounding somewhat defeated, but no less captivated by Kitt's mystery.
From her latest protesting on the subject, she'd made it clear — At least in Kitt's mind, that obtaining a ride in any or all of the current cars in the race was easily obtainable if she nagged enough or if she managed to set the conditions just right. Overall, something she could do freely and without expense.
This was mainly why she was stumped now.
Kitt was by far the only vehicle she was prohibited from even placing a finger on.
And rightly so.
The woman was getting on his nerves.
Liberty, taking a final sigh, took a moment to walk around the Trans-Am. Trying to see past his tinted windows. Eventually, that deemed futile and she ended up taking a quick peek under his undercarriage but there wasn't much to see there either.
Defeated and clearly intrigued, the woman paced one more time before collecting her things and scampering off. Searching for the next best thing, whatever was worth observing and jotting down on her notebook for later publishing. Something that her readers would find interesting and worthwhile.
Kitt was more than pleased to see her leave, taking the time to finally allow some silence to settle within his systems. He'd be readily busy in the next hour once Michael and the other drivers were to come back and resume the race.
He was truthfully looking forward to it and deep, deep down hoping they'd get at least a minimal win in the race — He WAS the car of the future after all and a win would gently engrave him into upcoming history.