The clans agreed to meet. A tentative truce had been worked out via couriers. The plan was to allow the Lowers shared time in an Uppers seat for light and tech withdrawal therapy while the Upper was granted time in the bathroom. All looked well until the tribal councils attempted a meeting on the stairs only to find a drunkard had declared himself a lone state and would not allow anyone to pass without correctly answering three questions to which he promised a wrong answer would have you ejected from the roaming realm. With the degrading conditions physically and politically, the patron saint of steering elected to pray to his deity Dispatch for guidance and a holy grail glowed thusly betwix a sacred McDonald’s and, for those read a similar albeit somewhat but not quite different book, a 7 Eleven (now open 24 hrs). The Patron Saint of Steering declared the respite for air, bio breaks, and cooling down to be exactly 30 minutes and not a minute longer. The Uppers, forgetting the patron saint had previously been the leading dictator of the Lowers, enthusiastically rushed into their respective churches of convenience. And promptly 15 minutes later, the bus left.
