BOG STENCHMARE

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 ele...

The Gate bikes boom quieted . The boosts started to fail under the sheer velocity of trying to keep up in a race that mirrored the circuit and endurance tracks. The lights from The Gate riders lit up the road again and brought a brief sense of neon daylight to the scene. The Selector’s concentration wasn’t affected. He had quickly learned his lesson in power management by deactivating his electronics for the most part, other than his audio feed. Nothing high-level could be caught by their attempts to muddy his frequencies. The sonic tones resonating from them were used as weapons through their technology and language broadcasts. The words were unsettling, making the hair on his neck stand up under his helmet. This time, if he gave in to fear, he really would be facing a permanent red flag. No paddock reset; the race would be over and done. The Selector focused his mind on the rhythm, the BPM, the cutbacks, scratches, and beat jumps. The workflow was anchoring his thought proce...

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 T he 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 smi...