The Trans National highway system is a wonder on many levels. As a technological marvel it has been awe-inspiring from its creation in the beginning of the last century all through the constantly redefining of cutting edge in this one.
From a political standpoint, it is an unsung hero of international cooperation. It is almost an afterthought that the roads that connect even nations constantly at odds with each other must be maintained for the good of all.
Economically, the people who make their living on the TN are another wonder to behold. All of them are constantly walking the line between prosperous and barely scraping by. The truckers maintain budget fluxuations that would make an urban accountant tear his hair out to with confusion, and usually do it with no secondary education, and the support economy around them is constantly at war with serving them and other, completely different clientele, the wandering tourist, with neither group about to make anyone rich.
The Stuffer Stop chain keeps this balance by being barely tolerant of either. Everything about them screams cheap and barely adequate, from the lowest of the low soy and krill gruel that is produced for consumption to the coffin sleeping accommodations that are within microns of the legal minimum. A corporate cousin of the somewhat infamous Stuffer Shack, the Stops keep their position on the basis of inertia and a ruthless intolerance of any real competition.
As the runners driving the Comet roll into the truck stop behind Matty on his Growler, they once again note the hand cannon the young ork has holstered at his lower back. It had first been noted shortly after leaving his Nene’s house where he had picked up the bike. The side trip had been made necessary with the volume of occupants currently in the sedan. Nene had waved to the mages she had met previously when Matty ducked inside. He came out with a small pack and, the runners realized later, a big gun.
The diner that is attached to the truck stop does not have a name, and really, why bother? There is no character to the place, just a counter and a few booths, with some Flav-O-Rite vending machines on the back wall for those who have no interest in dealing with metahumanity. For all that it is reasonably busy, which helps the runners who go inside identify where they are going. Among the booths there is only one with a single occupant, a greasy looking Caucasian reading off a hand held datapad while he sips from a mug. Matty heads straight for him.
