As the three novice spies sat down, the driver hit the gas and they charged out of the underground lair. The bus moved in and out of traffic at top speed, even though it looked as though the bus could barely crawl on its dilapidated wheels. As they headed south down State street towards 533 Polk, where the helipad was, Tay, Atticus and Nasrin got a better look at their driver. He had greasy uncut hair which gathered in clumps over his forehead and into his eyes. His black leather coat was cracked and worn and looked as if it had been dragged through mud and left to dry and cake into the creases of the arms. His faded black pants were threadbare and his combat boots were covered in a grime so thick, that it was no longer apparent what the original color of them were. The three sat silent as they hurdled down the street. Tay finally mustered up the courage to ask the bus driver his name. He replied with a grunt, “Obi Wan.” The xolos growled at the sound of his voice. “Who are you?” “A retired MASK spy.”