(BOG LORE) - 'SECONDS' - CHAPTER 1 - 'THE SELECTOR'
The Selector leaned over, riding the knee, then back to the center. He was holding the line and moving forward rapidly. His HUD displayed what was playing, ‘hard boom mix’.
A crack of thunder sounded from the background, interrupting his listening.
‘Stop mix’, said the Selector, and the audio ceased.
His head turned—nothing—but he knew he had only seconds. ‘Shit’, he thought. He recognized what the sound was, and it wasn’t the arrival of another storm that Bog had been enduring.
‘Bog’, said the Selector on comms, but there was no answer.
Another chorus of thunderous booms disturbed the quiet night sky. No rain. Just the thunder sound shattering the reverie.
‘Bog, come in’, repeated the Selector on comms. Silence.
‘Seconds to decide’, the words playing in his mind like a looped mid-point in a track to work up a crowd on the ground for what would drop.
He glanced back again, his cybernetic eyes scanning through his visor. 5 shapes were approaching fast. He calculated he was about 6 seconds ahead, now 4 seconds.
‘Gate, m-o-t-h-e-r-f*c-k-e-r-s’, uttered The Selector.
The gap had closed to 2 seconds. They were on him. Time slowed. 2 bikes moved wide, positioning to flank him, with the other 3 in a triangle formation behind him.
‘Box, huh’, said the Selector to himself.
There were no wheels on the other bikes; the chassis were motorcycle-like, but the engines made them hover and move fast with notable booms when they injected their boost.
‘Engage or race to escape, preserve the mission’, his inner voice debated with him quickly while everything was moving in a gradual sequence like a strange ballet dance.
The Gate forces' lights shone bright, the flankers lighting up the road, almost blinding his vision. The chassis streamlined, locking their hover-skegs into attack vectors as they matched his pace. A cheap move to disrupt his concentration. The Selector quickly glanced side to side, and behind him. He could feel a little panic and tension stirring. The adrenaline was swarming through his blood. The triangle squad behind him moved a little closer. 1 second. The flankers were now at either side.
‘Almost boxed’, thought the Selector.
Time slowed once more; the road markings moved like sluggish paint strokes. The hover bikes and their riders were armored silhouettes, the lineage present to see. Not collaborators, but pure Gate Keepers.
The hover engines rang in his ears: 0.3, 0.2, 0.0. Boxed.
He’d hesitated. He was flanked by 2, and a triangle of riders are behind him.
His body vibrated; a harsh, sinister rhythm was disrupting his rear wheel. The bike was starting to shake. If he couldn’t regain control, he would be thrown off, and then if he survived, there would be no escape.
The Selector shouted, ‘Display HUD’. A screen appeared on his visor. His speed was in the top right-hand corner, then fuel, electronics, and tire eradication in other corners.
In the bottom center, a small window showed a live feed of the hostiles. The Gate’s sonic weapons and language amplifiers were fixated on him. He had seconds before paralysis, then death, or capture. He faced eternity being forcefully fed the appropriate sounds and accessories to consume, expected to worship a dark, fashionable god when the real god was the new digital puppeteer born from humanity's greed centuries ago. The Gate.
‘C’mon, seconds, oh you’re done, no mission, nothing, remember why!’, The Selector’s mind raced. He looked at the small feed at the bottom of his HUD. He couldn’t think; his mind was shutting down. F*-c-k, not now…
The bike chassis shook; his grip was faltering. Seconds—it was all the Selector had.
He looked quickly again with his eyes—failure. He couldn’t recognise the riders anymore; all he could see were The Gate bikes, hovering, then just like a breakdown in one of his tracks when the beat stops, the whole scene paused.
He couldn’t speak; his mind had shut down, the bike was shaking, and he could feel his grip on the throttle loosening. He knew he was about to be flipped off the bike. It would be the end—no barriers to smash into, nothing to break the impact. Just unforgiving tarmac and cold dirt.
Two large, protruding, long spears with purple sparks of electricity shone from either side of him, moving to intercept. Held by armored arms he couldn’t seem to recognize, they were about to present him with the Reaper’s red flag.
‘Selector?’, a faint voice called in the background.
‘Selector, respond?’
Was it Bog’s voice? No time.
‘Stabilize’, said the Selector anxiously, and his bike shook less severely, and he instinctively balanced himself.
‘Disengage electronics other than music, continue my hard boom mix, low audio’, said the Selector. His instincts were returning, the paralysis subsiding briefly.
The Selector leaned forward, his hand gripping the throttle white-knuckled. His foot started to increase pressure on the shifter. He could hear his mix playing, calming his senses, the objectives clear.
The Selector raced forward, feeling the crotch rocket beneath his body as the engine revved and purred. The Gate bikes were startled and hesitated for a second—a second that gave The Selector the start he needed. He didn’t need another invitation; it was time to change up the BPM. ‘C’mon, you elitist f-*-c-k-s, race’.
Bog Lore - Earlier transmission from the Selector
Bog Lore - Previous Transmissions
