<div class="floatright">(http://i207.photobucket.com/albums/bb117/hopefox17/Cuckoo.jpg)</div>Lady Cuckoo clambered into the driver's seat of her station wagon before tearing open the envelope that the puca, Master Gillian, had given her. It contained the photographs and contact details for two men she was to meet in Vegas, Jack O'Neill and Kurt Freison. Smiling contentedly, she placed the envelope on the passenger's seat and started the engine, guiding the vehicle smoothly onto the road in spite of its recent breakdown.<br/><br/>"Things are finally looking up," she said to herself, peering at the road ahead through the rain. "A real quest, not rounding up tuppence fomorians and ha'penny Fir Bolg. With other heroes, too, by the sound of it. Should be good times all around!" She patted the dashboard of her station wagon happily. "And that puca was even nice enough to get my car working again."<br/><br/>Cuckoo had just enough time to realise what she was saying before the engine spluttered and died. She turned the key and fumbled with the gears, but her station wagon was a lump of inert metal to her now. "Fucking puca!" she swore, and she put her fist through the metal door in frustration. "This isn't funny!"<br/><br/>Grumbling to herself, Cuckoo crawled into the back seat, a place which she associated with many fond sweaty memories, and stripped off her soaking boots, socks and undergarments. She took her swan cloak, which fortunately was as waterproof as the swans whose feathers it bore, and folded over her body in preparation for a long trek. She tucked the envelope and her wallet into its folds, then stepped outside, feeling her bare feet sink into the mud at the side of the road. The horrendous storm from earlier had subsided, leaving just enough of a downpour to plaster her bright red hair against her face.<br/><br/>Cuckoo opened up the back of the wagon, hauling out her horn-headed spear and a set of tow cables. She settled the spear into its usual harness on her back, attached the cables to the tow bar, and started jogging down the road at a brisk sixty kilometres per hour, dragging her useless, puca-cursed car behind her.<br/><br/>"Alright, maybe it is a little bit funny," she muttered to herself. "I just hope there's a village on this road sometime soon. With a service station. And a pub. Right now, I'd settle for just the pub."