(BOG LORE) "SECONDS" - CHAPTER 4 - "FADE OUT"


The Gate’s central rider from the three at the back sharply turned his bike to the left, only just missing the other flanker who had hit the rider in front of them and exploded like the other bikes. The central rider felt his bike veer off the road, jetting out into the ruined lands. The sudden fear penetrated his senses as he surged forward. He gripped the handles and held on for survival.

He quickly looked behind him and saw the aftermath of what had happened. All the Gate riders and bikes had been ruthlessly thrown into the air by the uncompromising G-force. He couldn’t process nor fathom what had happened. No one had ever pushed back. The consequences were too grave.
His senses started to return and he turned the bike around, but his boost had been used up. He quickly rode past the theater of violence to catch a glimpse of the mysterious rider. He was something they hadn’t seen before—an anomaly. The Gate rider tried to signal back to The Gate, but his electronics were completely shattered. His boost would likely not be able to draw the power needed to recharge.
He rejoined the road, continuing the pursuit, waiting for his energy to recycle. He couldn’t go back yet; failure could not be admitted. He needed to attain data, then perhaps he would be permitted another chance.
Meanwhile, the Selector raced forward.
"Reactivate all electronics," said the Selector.
His HUD displayed his tire levels, fuel, speed, the bike’s armor percentage, and a window at the bottom showing the road behind him.
"Back, are we," said the Selector as he saw the lone Gate rider in the distance.
The Selector considered his actions. He could continue, escaping, assuming the rider's boost had been destroyed, but he had anticipated their limitations. It would only last for so long.
Should he preserve the mission, or take the risk to hostilely engage and hopefully ensure no intelligence other than his would leave the field?
He activated comms. "Bog, receive?" Silence.
The Selector looked back at the small window on his HUD, thinking about what had transpired and the journey to come. It wouldn’t be the last time he was tracked or intercepted, but steps to minimize and prevent the consistency of it happening would be necessary, which brought him back to his original question.
His mix still played quietly in the background; another track was dropping in. The shifting dynamics were sharper and the mid-range was higher this time. His mix had helped guide his mind in this encounter, or he would have fallen to the disdained voices he heard entering his mind.
The BPM was peak stomp and captivating, perfect to ride to. He thought of the mission. The haste to destination one.
He remembered the recent exchange with Bog: "I got the list"—Gate Collaborators, obsessed with chasing clout from a digital deity that cares for none other than its own unchallenged will.
5 seconds—The Gate rider was coming.
The Selector revved the throttle again and again, the sound of his engine filling the night air. The Gate rider continued to head toward him.
The BPM on his mix looped on 4 bars, a crescendo about to drop. Then the signifying green flag to move off the makeshift grid hit in time with the vocal sample laced on a furious beat passage. Then the drum kick dropped, and the Selector kicked down on his shifter to resume the racing line, easily outpacing The Gate rider, who was left behind watching his shape fade into the horizon.
The Selector would check in with Bog again when he reached an area for recuperation and to attach new tires from one of the safe houses along the route.
Patrols would be searching for him—The Gate's ceaseless hunger to harvest, police, and control all.
Seconds were all it was. Now, those seconds increased, approaching a minute, and separating him from peril.

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