"Nah, I'm good," Haddad said, still with his mouth full of sandwich, completely ignoring Martin's comments on chewing with his mouth open. "We're here anyway."<br/><br/>He rounded the corner into the driveway of a gas station and took a look around. It had been long abandoned, the logo stripped from the side of the roof. The plywood that boarded up the windows had long warped in the DC humidity, and pieces of a shattered bottle littered the cracked and uneven ground. A sign that would have once advertised gas prices was now covered with graffiti. Someone had spray painted over parts of the word "DIESEL" so that it merely read "DIE".<br/><br/>Haddad smiled. It was perfect.<br/><br/>He'd picked it because there were no residents around. The the left of the station was a Chinese restaurant, and to the right was a post office, both closed for the night. Across the street were the subway tracks, kudzu interlacing through the chain-link fence surrounding it. It was the best spot they'd picked yet.<br/><br/>He slipped the duffel bag off his shoulder, not quite having the muscle to put it down gracefully so the multi-thousand dollar project hit the ground with a kind of clunk. They had built the machine to be durable, so technically it should be fine, but Haddad still had to surpress a wince. Stuffing his sandwich into his jacket pocket, he knelt down and unzipped the bag.<br/><br/>"C'mon, let's set up."