The road moved at breakneck speed, lines blurring. The Selector had found his rhythm. He rode the knee, leaning in and out of each chicane, balancing with his leg, then forward again into another sprint.
The beats thudded in the background, restoring his concentration, but quietly enough so he could hear The Gate riders. Distorted, harsh, aggressive, uncompromising—and fueling the energy inside him. The fiery bass—a switch had been flicked, just like a chop and start in a mix. The process was centering his mind on the cause:
1 Defend the vulnerable
2 Protect the tribes
3 Smash The Gate
The Selector was fired up. The road ahead dipped into a gradient. The Selector dipped his head, rode straight into it, his balance near perfect. No racing aids. Just pure grit, willpower, and a raging engine spitting out gas.
Six seconds, seven, eight, ten. The distance between him and The Gate riders was increasing.
The thunder booms rang out. The hover bikes were in pursuit. The Selector smiled under his visor. His implants were heating up his blood further, which was already at boiling point.
The Gate bikes quickly rode across the surface, leaning slightly on each corner but unable to match the precision riding of the Selector. They went wide and adjusted to arc around the turn to close the seconds once more.
The Selector looked back over his left shoulder—"F*-c-k, five seconds"—then kicked his shifter again. He leaned to his left, then back to his right, rode the knee, sat upright, and tucked down the center again to ride out.
The Gate riders regrouped into a staggered formation, their thunder engines activating. The tarmac was moving like an exaggerated treadmill. Faster and faster—the race was on. This was the first engagement, and the Selector would not lose. He would smash them off the track, just like Bog is going to smash their gates wide open.
The Selector pressed his foot down on the shifter, clicking
through the gears to increase the speed. Exhilarating, blistering pace in
tandem with the background beats. There was no margin for error, doubt, or
misjudgment. Every possible maneuver was playing in his mind, anticipating
possible chicanes, thinking seconds ahead.
Nighttime, perilous—but what choice was there? Be taken by
The Gate, re-indoctrinated, and at the very worst, presented with historical
archives of golf’s greatest tours with soccer PR speeches, where idiots who can
barely speak a coherent sentence falsely convey gratitude to fans for watching
them fall over for two hours while faking injuries better than pro wrestlers.
The Gate riders hit the streamline: three seconds. The
Selector glanced back quickly, his eyes scanning, noting positions, and mapping
out riding trajectories and possible changes. A cold calm accompanied the
Selector. He held the line.
His bike was in full momentum; everything was a blur again,
and strangely peaceful despite the chaos. Ruined buildings, canyons, and
archaic signs passed by at an unfathomable speed.
The hard bass mix chopped and dropped into another track, the vocal sample signaling the BPM change to come. A heavy sub-frequency, then the vocals again. The bass was quietly coming in from a low echo to a distorted, loud, anarchic, and primal rage. The Selector’s redline energy ignited. Another chicane suddenly approached. He leaned over and rode the knee right, then switched back to the left in a ballet-like dance that was pure muscle memory.
He almost lost it—a quick shake from the back of the bike, then briefly at the front when he hit another slipstream.
Seven seconds—the distance restored between him and The Gate bikes. The Selector noted a pattern appearing. Every ten seconds: chicane, chicane, then a slipstream into a long straight.
He released the throttle slightly, kicked down on the shifter, and lowered the gear.
Five seconds—The Gate bikes were catching up to his position. They were not floating anymore; they had adapted. Heavy solid rubber treads bit into the asphalt, spitting out purple electrical sparks as they traded hover speed for raw, terrifying, mechanical traction. They were riding him down to wipe an unverified stain who was moving around with too much defiance. The Gate did not care about what happened on either side of The Reaping Sands, but venturing too close without classification invited The Gatekeepers to assess your suitability for the algorithmic hive. Four seconds, then three, two, and one.
The five Gate bikes were moving on him again on the straight—the same box maneuver from earlier. The Selector held the line with sheer discipline. Three Gate bikes held position behind him, and the other two were moving to flanking positions.
The Selector glanced from left to right, his dark visor hiding his loathing for them underneath.
Zero point five—The Gate boxed him again.
The Selector Chapter 1
Earlier Selector Bog Lore
Bog Lore
https://bogstenchmare.blogspot.com/search/label/Bog%20Lore
