Chapter 6: Horsepower and Heartstrings
The following week was a masterclass in controlled chaos. DLAR's reputation for being "the guys who don't leave a mess" began to yield dividends. Jobs came in via word-of-mouth: a retired couple downsizing, a boutique closing its doors, an artist's studio overrun with failed sculptures. Damien and Marcus fell into an efficient rhythm. Damien handled client interface, quotes, and the growing digital paperwork. Marcus was the field marshal of logistics, loading strategy, and mechanical triage.
The yard evolved. The shipping container now housed organized shelves for refurbishable items. One wall was dedicated to "Project" items: the vintage rotary phone, a beautifully carved but broken oak chair, the motor from the treadmill. The scrap metal pile grew steadily. The System's capital flowed out for legitimate, vetted expenses: a used industrial air compressor for the shed, a commercial account at a local parts house, liability insurance that made Damien's eyes water but which the System approved without comment.
And the personal rewards accumulated. The $10,000 Gross Revenue** milestone hit after a lucrative office clearance job, triggering the **+$75,000 bonus. Damien's secret account now held over $202,000. The money felt less like a treasure and more like a strategic reserve for a war only he was fighting.
The war's front lines were his family. The mysterious "Community Support Initiative" had paused after the refrigerator, leaving a palpable, uneasy quiet in the Noire house. James was quieter, burying himself in planning a new unit on post-Cold War geopolitics. Eleanor jumped at sudden noises, as if expecting another delivery truck laden with charitable ambivalence.
It was Lily who provided the catalyst for the next seismic shift. It happened on a rainy Tuesday evening. Damien had come home for dinner, his shoulders knotted from a day spent disassembling water-damaged drywall. Lily was in the driveway, under the shelter of the eaves, desperately trying to jump-start her bicycle with a portable charger meant for phones.
"It's an e-bike, you philistine," she huffed at him, her rain-spotted glasses sliding down her nose. Her aesthetic today was "retro tech," involving giant headphones and a neon windbreaker three sizes too big. "The battery is deceased. It has ceased to be. It is an ex-battery."
"And you need this why? Your legs are famously functional," Damien said, leaning against his truck.
"To get to Stacey's! It's, like, three miles! Mom and Dad are always at school events, Diana's in her dragon's lair counting gems, and you're… doing whatever mysterious sweaty thing you do." She gave him a pleading, dramatic look. "I'm a prisoner of suburban sprawl, Damien! My social life is withering on the vine!"
An idea, dangerous and perfect, crystallized in Damien's mind. Lily was fifteen-and-a-half. A learner's permit was imminent. The F-150 was on its last legs. A safe, reliable, first car for her… it wasn't a fridge. It was a rite of passage. And with over two hundred thousand dollars, he could make it happen without a single dip into business capital.
"What if," he said slowly, as if the idea was just occurring, "we started looking at cars? You know, for when you get your permit in a few months. Something to get you to Stacey's."
Lily's eyes widened behind her lenses, all thoughts of deceased e-bikes forgotten. "A car? You mean, like, for me? A vintage one? Like a cute Miata?"
"I mean like a tank made of airbags and steel," Damien said. "But yes. For you. We could… look around. Just to see."
The resulting squeal could have shattered glass.
---
The reconnaissance mission was scheduled for Saturday. Damien, however, knew his limitations. He could change oil and identify a solid frame, but his knowledge of the used car market was general at best. He needed an expert. It took a significant amount of pride-swallowing to bring it up to Marcus on Friday as they pressure-washed the box truck.
"I need a… consultant. For a non-business project."
Marcus shut off the wand, the sudden silence heavy. "I'm a mechanic, not a therapist."
"It's about cars. Buying one. For my little sister. First car. It needs to be safe, reliable, not a money pit, and… not embarrassing for a 15-year-old who thinks 'aesthetic' is a primary mechanical consideration."
Marcus wiped his hands on a rag, his expression unreadable. "Your personal money?"
"Yes."
"And you want me to look at it with you. On my day off."
"I'll pay you a consultant fee. A real one. From my personal account." Damien braced for a refusal, for a lecture on boundaries.
Marcus stared at him for a long moment. "Three conditions. One: I pick the make and model parameters. No Miatas. No old VWs. We're talking Toyota Corolla, Honda Civic, maybe a Ford Focus from the right year. Two: she comes with us. She needs to hear why the cute car is a death trap and the boring car is a fortress. Three: you buy lunch. Somewhere with steak."
A wave of relief washed over Damien. "Deal."
---
Saturday morning, Lily emerged dressed for what she clearly thought was a grand automotive premiere. She wore a pink tweed blazer over a lace-trimmed top, wide-legged trousers, and platform loafers. She looked like a junior art gallery owner.
Marcus, in his standard cargo pants and a plain black t-shirt, took one look at her and said, "You're changing your shoes. Closed toe. Flat sole. In case you need to check a tire or run from a sketchy salesman."
Lily looked affronted, then intrigued by the implied danger. She reappeared in chunky sneakers.
The first dealership was a mistake. A sprawling, neon-choked empire of shiny late-models. A salesman named Chad descended upon them, his eyes glazing over Damien and Marcus and focusing on Lily's excited face.
"Looking for something with personality for the young lady, I see!" Chad boomed. "Let me show you our pre-loved MINI Coopers! Very European! Very stylish!"
He led them to a fiery orange MINI. Lily's eyes lit up. "It's so cute! It looks like a toy!"
Marcus walked a slow circle around it, then crouched by the front tire. "Oil leak," he said flatly. "Significant. See the drip pattern and the fresh absorbent gravel under the engine? Means they know about it." He pointed to a slight mismatch in the paint on the fender. "Panel gap is off. This was hit. Probably not reported." He stood, looking at Chad. "What's the service history on the turbocharger? They like to go around 80k."
Chad's smile became rigid. "I'd have to check the Carfax…"
"We'll save you the time," Marcus said, steering a now-worried Lily away. "Lesson one: Cute is expensive. Cute with a turbo is bankruptcy."
The next lot was a small, family-owned place with older, cleaner vehicles. Marcus went straight to a silver 2015 Honda Civic. It was the automotive equivalent of oatmeal: wholesome, nourishing, utterly devoid of flair.
Lily's nose wrinkled. "It's so… gray."
"It's so alive," Marcus corrected. He had Lily pop the hood. He showed her the clean engine bay, the intact factory labels, the even wear on the belts. He made her check the tire tread with a quarter. He showed her how to look for rust along the wheel wells. He was a patient, gruff professor.
"But it has no… story," Lily lamented.
"Its story is 'I start every time and won't kill you,'" Marcus replied. "That's the only story you want for your first car."
They test-drove it. Lily, from the passenger seat, nervously directed Damien. "It's… smooth," she admitted. "And the radio gets, like, all the stations."
The third lot was where fate intervened. It was a dusty corner lot on the edge of town, specializing in "Unique Rides!" This translated to a collection of misfit toys: a lifted truck with cartoonish tires, a hearse painted purple, and, sitting in the back, a 2008 Subaru Forester. It was a weathered dark green, with a slight patina of dirt and a roof rack. It had clearly been someone's camping car.
Lily walked right past it toward a powder-blue vintage Volvo that was mostly rust. But Marcus stopped at the Subaru.
"Huh," he grunted.
"What?" Damien asked.
"These things run forever. Boxer engine, all-wheel drive. Safe as houses. This one's high mileage, but it's the non-turbo model. Less to go wrong." He ran a hand over the fender. "Body's straight. Tires are newish. Someone cared for it, then gave up."
The lot owner, a man named Earl with a spectacular beard, sauntered over. "Eyein' the Adventure Wagon, huh? Belonged to a yoga instructor. Just did the head gaskets—common issue on these—and the timing belt. Got the receipts."
Marcus pored over the paperwork Earl produced. He nodded slowly. "They did the work. Good shop, too." He looked at Lily, who had wandered back over. "Get in."
Lily slid into the driver's seat. The interior was worn but clean, smelling vaguely of incense and pine. She put her hands on the wheel. She looked at the array of buttons, the sunroof, the vast view from the tall windows. A slow smile spread across her face. "I could fit, like, five friends in here. Or all my thrifting finds." She looked back at the spacious cargo area. "It's not cute. It's… capable."
Marcus's lip twitched. "That's the word."
After an hour of Marcus's brutal, knowledgeable negotiation with Earl, they settled on a price of $5,800. Damien paid with a certified check from his personal account. As they drove off the lot, Lily in the passenger seat of her new (to her) Subaru, Damien driving, and Marcus following in his truck, Lily was vibrating with joy.
"I'm going to name him Mossberg!" she declared.
"That's a shotgun's name,"Damien said.
"Exactly!He's sturdy and reliable! Mossberg the Mobius Forester! I need to get him some cute stickers for the back window. And a hanging plant for the mirror!"
---
The Forester's arrival at the Noire household detonated like a cultural atom bomb.
James and Eleanor stood on the driveway, utterly speechless. The narrative of mysterious charitable trusts did not cover a used car appearing for their underage daughter.
"Damien James Noire," Eleanor began, her voice dangerously quiet. "What is that?"
"It's Mossberg!" Lily cheered, hugging the grimy door.
"It's a 2008 Subaru Forester with a recently serviced engine, new tires, and a clean title," Damien said, deploying Marcus's facts as a shield. "I bought it. For Lily. For when she gets her permit. It's safe. Marcus checked it."
"You bought it?" James's voice was strained. "With what? Damien, a car is… that's thousands of dollars. Your business is weeks old."
"It was a performance bonus," Damien said, sticking to the fragile truth. "A big one. For securing a commercial contract. I had the money. Lily needed safe transport. It made sense." He avoided looking at Diana, who had appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed, a living statue of icy disapproval.
The argument that followed was the most intense yet. It wasn't about the money, James insisted. It was about responsibility, about not creating dependency, about the sheer, galloping speed of it all. "You can't just solve problems by throwing secret money at them, son! Life isn't built that way!"
"I'm not throwing it, Dad! I'm investing it! In her safety! In her independence!" Damien shot back, his own frustration boiling over. "Should I have let her keep taking Uber? Or riding a broken e-bike in the rain?"
"We would have figured it out! As a family! Not through some… some windfall you won't explain!"
It was Diana who ended it. Her voice cut through the heat, cold and sharp. "Enough." She walked down the steps, past her sputtering parents, and straight to the Forester. She opened the driver's door, sat in the seat, and checked the mirrors. She examined the dashboard, ran a finger over the service receipt tucked in the visor. She got out, closed the door with a solid thunk.
"It's a good car," she announced to her parents. "Damien's right. It's safe. The price was fair. The mechanic he uses is competent." She turned her Arctic gaze on Damien. "The method is pathological. But the result is acceptable." She looked at Lily, whose face was a mask of terrified hope. "You will pay for your own gas. You will get a job next summer to contribute to insurance. And if you get a single speeding ticket before you're 18, we sell it for parts. Understood?"
Lily nodded so fast her glasses flew off. "Yes! Absolutely! Thank you, Diana!"
Diana gave one last, searing look at Damien—a look that said This isn't over, we will talk—before turning and walking back into the house. A tense truce descended. James and Eleanor, overwhelmed, retreated inside, their confused murmurs floating through the screen door.
Lily threw her arms around Damien. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're the best brother in the history of ever!" She then whispered, furtively, "Is your investor, like, a drug lord? Because I won't judge. Mossberg feels very morally neutral."
Damien choked on a laugh. "He's not a drug lord. Go… bond with your morally neutral car. Just don't drive it anywhere."
As Lily began meticulously planning Mossberg's interior decor on her phone, Damien's own phone buzzed. A system notification.
[Milestone Achieved: Hire Second Full-Time Employee.]
[REWARD: $150,000 has been deposited into your designated personal account.]
He had finalized the hire that morning—a quiet, hulking young man named Rodrigo with experience at a recycling plant and a reference calling him "the hardest worker I've ever met." The business was growing. His personal wealth now eclipsed $352,000.
But staring at Mossberg the Mobius Forester, at the light in his sister's eyes, and at the dark window behind which his elder sister was undoubtedly plotting his intervention, the number felt hollow. He was building a fortress of solvency, but the occupants were becoming wary of the unseen architect. The rewards were massive, but the cost was measured in the growing distance in his father's eyes and the glacial disappointment in his sister's. He had given Lily a car, but he had also driven another wedge into the foundation of the home he was trying to save. The irony was a bitter taste no amount of System reward could wash away.