Tavish hummed to himself as he cleaned [i]Daedalus[/i]. If he was going to die, he was to die in a good looking vehicle, goddamnit. That Irish Mechanic had given his car a once-over but had found no problems. He might have said something about having to report to the lobby, but Tavish decided he'd wait until someone came for him. His car wasn't clean yet.

	Tavish looked around the garage. An impressive number of vehicles, some normal looking, others looking like tanks. His car housed numerous weapons, but all of them were carefully concealed. He wanted an advantage, so he hid his weapons behind secret panels and things of the sort. There weren't very many other racers in the garage, he imagined that most of them were in the lobby. Of the one's that were here, most were fairly unremarkable. There was a cop, some Russian dudes chugging something out of brown paper bag near a van seemingly held together by duct tape and human will. There was one racer that gave him chills. A clown, in a large ice-cream van sort of vehicle. He sincerely hoped that he'd never run into the clown during a race, something about him made him doubt that the clown would think twice before filling he and his car full of lead and shrapnel.