H.L. d’Sivis

LOWER DURA – Reluctantly crouched at the starting line, late arrivals to the hottest new event of the lower districts must content themselves with only the briefest of glimpses at the motorcycle ‘jockeys’ taking their places to prepare.  There is a distinctive rhythm and low bass counterpoint to the engines pumping and thumping in time.  Over the top of that is the shouts of people encouraging their favorite rider, cries of bookmakers soliciting bets and food vendors hawking their wares, the clink of coin, all contributing to a kind of symphony of anticipation.

Scrying sensors swoop back and forth, broadcasting the race to dives across the underbelly of Sharn.  The races were the brainchild of one Bubba Graham, a mysterious figure among the movers and shakers of various less-than-legal pursuits.  He provides freedom, security, and most of all, entertainment for the working class.

When the green light flashes, the flags go up at Luigi’s, the designated starting point for a race that covers almost all of the length and breadth of Sharn.  There are a number of riders churning and burning, but two stand above the pack – Frankenstein, a hulking helmeted figure with flames belching from his vehicle, and newcomer Sonny, decked in sleek chrome and lightning.  They yearn for the cup, but more than that, they – and the baying throng – yearn for carnage.  The first fatality occurs just past five minutes into the race, a grisly beheading that only spurs additional betting and speculation as Frankenstein and Sonny deftly maneuver and muscle for rank.

The vehicles are unused prototypes from Zilargo – highly maneuverable two-wheeled contraptions intended for rapid deployment of dragoons that did not see fielding before the end of the War.  Fuel burning fast on an empty tank, their purpose suits the sharp turns of the densely packed buildings they race through.  Announcer Bot and JJ (of JJ In The Morning fame) call out over the broadcast, identifying each rider.  Reckless and wild, they pour through the turns, anyone who misjudges expiring in an explosion of fire and metal.

While the other riders scrabble for whatever glory they can gain, the race is truly only between Frankenstein and Sonny – their prowess is potent, and secretly stern in the case of the newer rider, who slides through a fiery attack from the ‘establishment’ man.  Then, something unexpected happens – the pair disappear from the course.

What occurs while Sonny and Frankenstein were out of range of the sensors must be reconstructed from rumor and inference.  Per an unnamed source, the detour took them to the warehouse that keeps surplus motorcycles and Graham’s other assets.  Though Sonny remains unmasked, it seems she has a long-standing grudge with either Frankenstein or the race organizers, because when she reappears, the removed head of the former adorns her bike and the corpse of a gnome draped between the steering and her saddle.  As they speed through the finish, the flags go down on the spectacle.  Bets are paid, and the fans get up and get out of town, returning to their lives wondering when the next event will be, and what Sonny’s victory portends for the future.