(no subject)
Who: Molly, Rook Bartley
Where: Sci-Fi Sector - Planet Alwas
When: 31 January 2007
What: Molly challenges Rook to a race. Expect behavior suitable to two crazy adrenaline junkies.
Watch For: Anything and everything!
It feels really, really good to be back on Alwas again. What's it been now, four years(?) since Molly last set foot on the strange yellow dirt of the planet. Perhaps asking the local team permission to use the ancient race track here was a bit of overkill, but... it feels nostalgic. This time around, it's every bit as exciting to be here, but there's none of the crushing pressure associated with the Great Race of Oban.
The skies above are a crystalline blue, too perfect to ever exist on Earth. The weather is a pleasant late-spring warmth, the light from Alwas's sun soaked into the ground and the weathered grey stone that the starting ampitheatre is built of. In the stone bleachers circled around the arena floor, several dozen small creatures are seated, their slick-looking beige skin and fishy faces marking them as the native Skrubb population. Apparently, racing is a BIG thing here.
One of their number, a slightly taller one (meaning he's almost waist-height to both human girls), sits amidst a small group of his fellows, swigging some native concoction out of metal mugs and carousing a bit. Molly herself is standing next to her little rocket scooter, leaning against the saddle and fiddling with her funny pink goggles.
Dust, dust, and more dust. After living in the sweltering air of the jungle and then moving to the sterile confines of the SDF-1, it's a little shocking to step into a world so spectacularly dry... though it's an almost pleasant change of pace.
The sun soaks into the dusty ground and stone, but it also shines on other things. Mostly, the light-glare of something red, white, and metallic. Engines rev as the second contestant of the race rides up, kicking clouds of dust up behind it.
Coming to a sidewinding halt, the red motorcyle-like vehicle purrs as Rook Bartley kicks a foot out to catch herself. She flips up the goggles over her face. The Skrubb earn an odd look, but she turns her attention back to Molly with a grin. "Well, well. So this is the track, huh? Not bad, not bad..."
The other pilot turns to Rook and waves, a broad smile spreading across her face. "Hey Rook, glad you made it." Leaving her Rocket Seat behind, Molly walks over to the Cyclone and crouches down to look at the body. "It's got actual wheels! That's so /cool!/" ...Say what?
The Skrubb send up a resounding cheer as Rook enters the ring with smooth styling, the tallest one nodding in approval and setting his drink down to hop down the bleachers toward the ground. "Molly and ...Rook, right?" he grins, crossing his pseudopods over his chest. He wears a vaguely Arabian Nights-styled vest over loose cargo pants and combat boots, with an assortment of jewelery. A white scarf is wound around his neck. "It's been a long time, Earth girl. It wasn't easy for old Flynn to get you the course. I want to see some impressive racing from you two!" This guy's some kind of big shot one the racing circuit, if his mannerisms are anything to go on... the cheering fans in the crowds are screaming for him more than they are for either girl!
"Yeah, yeah, Flynn... good to see you too," Molly grouses good-naturedly, standing up and dusting off the knees of her overalls. "Rook, this is Flynn. He's Alwas's top racer and was one of the contenders in the Great Race four years ago." She looks around at the crowd with a smile. "Looks like he's still number one, huh."
"Of course I'd make it. You think I'm gonna skip out on a race?" Rook pulls her goggles down, grinning. "'Course it has wheels. It's a motorcycle, dummy."
She has her hair tied back, dressed in the usual red and white bodysuit she favours when riding the motorcycle. Draping her arms over the handlebars, she leans over them casually, absently taking in the surroundings. Dusty, hot, and bright. This ought to be a change of pace from the obstacle course style of riding she's more accustomed to.
"Yeah, Rook. Rook Bartley. Unless you wanna call me the Red Warrior, too," she adds. What the hell are those things, anyway? She can't help but stare, and when she's challenged, there's a feral sort of grin. "Oh, trust me. You're not gonna see better racing than you see today, shorty. You're lookin' at someone who's used to ridin' for her life!"
Straightening, she gives the engine a good rev, just for the half-crazed crowds. Even if they do seem more interested in Flynn, maybe that'll wake them up, hey?
"Oh, really? So he knows what he's talking about. Great." Rook grins, glancing over to Molly. "So? You ready, or are we gonna stand here talkin' all day?"
"Better be able to back up those words, honey," he grins, and for a super-deformed octopus-man the effect is actually kind of scary. It's the expression of a man who gets what he wants, when he wants. Turning away, Flynn scuttles off towards a giant, ancient gong-like bell hung at the side of the track and picks up the striking mallet, every bit as long as he is tall. "Racers, take your positions!"
"Heh. I was BORN ready," Molly grins, a bit of fang showing in her teeth. Returning to her Rocket Seat, she swings a leg over the rear of it and settles comfortably into the saddle. A flip of a switch, a twist of the throttle, and the round turbine beneath blazes into blue-hot life. The scooter floats up off the ground, upwards propulsion holding it steady about a foot off the ground. The small wire stand holding it upright falls away, revealing a complete lack of wheels or anything wheel-like. "Yeah, vehicles on my Earth haven't had wheel for anything but landing gear in about twenty years," she grins, tattoos pinched on her cheeks.
A single gloved finger pulls the lenses down over her eyes, obscuring them behind the pink glass. Flynn raises his mallet and brings it crashing into the bell with a deep, sounding 'thwommmmm'. "LET THE RACE BEGIN!"
The small crowd goes MAD with noise, many of them surging out of their seats to wave their arms. The great stone gate falls, leaving the entrance to the course clear. Beyond it is a shallow ravine between two canyon walls. Arches and bridges are suspended over the course and some even go right THROUGH it. Turns out it's more of an obstacle course than Rook might have expected!
The flame of the Rocket Seat burns bright as Molly twists both throttles and screams out onto the course.
To the Skrubb's words, the freedom fighter just winks behind her goggles and salutes with two fingers. Of course she'll back up her words. She's nothing if not tough and determined, right? Watching Flynn retreat, she knocks the kickstand aside with a boot, leaning the bike to the side a bit in preperation.
Whoa, so the other's bike is one of those new-fangled things that doesn't even sit on the ground? Pfah, where's the fun in that? Her Cyclone's just as good. Revving the engine, she glances over to watch Molly, waiting for some kind of signal.
Anticipation runs rife through the crowds. They lean forward and watch, and the red-armored racer on the red bike leans forward as well. Rook Bartley is an adrenaline junkie at heart. She lives for the thrill of the hunt, and in this case, the dangerous speed of the race.
"Yeah, well, this baby's not just a bike. I'll show you after the race!" Rook calls, over the sound of the purring protoculture engine and the thrumming of Molly's turbine.
And, there's the signal. Let the race begin. And so it does.
Blue flares in an almost-afterburner as the Cyclone roars to life, engines thundering as Rook wrenches on the accelerator. Her hair's tied back, but it whips out behind her nonetheless, goggles protecting her eyes. Good thing she remembered to grab those on the way out. This place is dustier than she'd originally thought.
Dust flies in a trail as the Cyclone follows the Rocket Seat, half a second behind. It picks up speed quickly enough, though, Rook's teeth bared in a feral grin. Oh, yes. This is gonna be stupidly fun. An obstacle course, to boot? She's in heaven. She's crashed, burned, and gone straight to Adrenaline Junkie Heaven.
Hmmm. That antique's got power to spare, but how agile is it, Molly wonders, a tight smile curving her lips. The weather's been dry lately, according to Flynn. This means better traction for Rook on the dirt parts, as long as the earth is tightly packed. Most of it is, too, generations and generations of star-racers passing through the course, only the last ten or so flying through the air instead of roaring along on treads. Black marks of soot and strangely-gouged bits can be seen on the walls, especially near the curves. Molly wonders if the ground-in scorchmark she just passed was from the Arrow 2. It's been too long, she doesn't remember anymore.
At first the course is mostly clear at ground-level, with only the occasional wall-rooted stone beam arcing over the track. By twenty seconds in, though, more of them begin to litter the course, quite a few fairly pushed into the dirt beneath.
Molly throws her weight to the right to avoid a boulder, straightening out just in time to stand up on the pedals and yank the scooter into the air by the handlebars to sail smoothly over two of them at once. She looks so peaceful in the air, but her body posture is tense, shoulders rigid and hips locked tight into the slight angle needed to keep her feet on the pedals.
The wind whips locks of her short black hair around her neck and Molly opens her mouth to whoop as the scooter comes back to earth; it dips dangerously low to the dirt before the thrusters propel it back into the air again and down the course. She doesn't dare to look back yet.
Antique?! The Cyclone is top of the line, fitted with the best engines the Robotech Defense Force could spare!
...Well, okay, it was probably top of the line when it was made. It's really just salvage, and it took a bit of tweaking and tuning-up to get it in working order. It's still a phenomenal piece of equipment, though, and the punch it packs is pleasantly surprising.
The Cyclone thunders over the dirt track, inching up on the Rocket Seat as the motorcycle starts to gain acceleration. She moves quickly, expertly, leaning to guide the Cyclone through tight turns and around obstacles. Dirt flies in a spray as she sidewinds through one particularly tight turn, gunning the engine once she's out and making a dash for that lost ground.
Wind whips at her hair as well, and she can't help but give her own whoop of pure, unbridled joy. This is definitely the life. Run before the wind and damn the torpedoes - give it all to the engine, and let it give it all back with interest.
"Yaaaahoooooooo!"
Oh, there she is! At the corner of her vision, Molly can see the brilliant red of Rook's Cyclone, tinted mauve through the lenses of her mother's goggles. Just as she gets a glimpse, the tunnels are upon them; Molly veers sharply to one side, taking her Rocket Seat into the near-black gloom. Soft, strangely-luminescent lights glow faintly among the rubble at the sides of the track, pushed up against the walls... some kind of naturally-occurring bioluminescent fungus growing on a rock, or perhaps it's an alien mineral. It's not enough to give a proper source of light, but it does denote the edges of the track, the same on both sides of the dividing wall. Molly can't see Rook at ALL now...
I knew I should've gotten around to putting a headlight on this thing, she thinks, squinting through the glass at the circle of light at the end of the tunnel. She drifts a hair too close the wall and sparks fly from it as the titanium hull of the turbine scrapes against it before she can correct.
There she is, crouched low over the front farings of the armored motorcycle, clutching the handlebars like death and grinning like the Cheshire Cat on caffeine and a few other substances. Yes, all at once. Then again, all she really needs is a good run on a track like this, or a good battle to mix it up in.
As the tunnel draws up, Rook glances down for half a second, flipping a switch on the control panel. The tunnel is thrown into sharp edged relief. Strong, blue-white light floods the tunnel, throwing into relief the rocks and minerals and whatever else grows on the walls.
...Probably the occasional evidence of oler racing crafts, too.
Guiding the Cyclone smoothly, Rook takes the opportunity - and Molly's blindness - to gain some ground. The protoculture engine roars, echoing in the close confines of the tunnel. It's quieter than the usual motorcycle... but for the sake of it, she's letting the ole girl run loud and hard today. Why not? It's a good open track and a great desert day for it.
"Woohoo-!"
That would be Rook Bartley taking the lead for a little while, yes. Think of it this way. At least Molly has the headlight running in front of her, at least for a little while.
The passage is lit up with brilliant white light, and Molly is again glad for her goggles - though seeing the poorly-swept up chunks of older racecraft is a sobering reminder of her history with the planet, at least now the bits and pieces of racers from around the galaxy are pink!
...Wait, that's not comforting at ALL!
It is, however, terribly convenient. Tapping a few buttons on the small round instrument panel between the handlebars, Molly sends the Rocket Seat screaming forward, only fast enough to tail Rook like a shadow through the tunnel. The bright blue light of the entrance is just ahead, and Molly knows that beyond that is her last chance to pull back into the lead... a sharp curve, and then it's a sandy beach shore for about half a mile before reaching the finishing gate. Just you wait, Rook, she grins, creeping closer and closer to her fellow Sheep. She'll give this her everything. May the best racer win!
Burning a trail on the track, the freedom fighter may be bound to the ground, but that doesn't stop her from giving it the old college try.
The engine roars, echoing in the confines of the tunnel. Rook doesn't slow down to take that nasty little turn, not this time. Instead, she pulls the bike up, taking it sideways. Packed earth sprays from the wheels and armored casing, sparks striking where she comes too close to the wall. The motorcylce survives, though, and so does its rider.
Once through the turn, Rook risks one glance back at her Rocket Seat shadow, and guns the accelerator. Clods of loamy sand get thrown behind her in her wake, and she grins. The salt air stings as she tears through it, but who cares? She's alive, really /alive/ in this moment. Run before the wind, and ahead lies that checkered flag.
"Come on, old girl!" She gives the fuselage a good thump, crouching low over the bike as it surges forward. "Let's go, go, go-!"
Throwing caution to the wind, Molly unconsciously mimics Rook's action, nearly twisting the little hoverbike onto its side as she emerges from the tunnel, swerving to keep from going out onto Alwas's blue, blue ocean, instead sticking to the light-colored Caribbean sand. She's lower to the ground one the Rocket Seat than in the Arrow she drove over these same sands so many times... if it weren't wet, the heat from the turbine might be enough to melt the sand into glass in such a high gear. The flare of heat she leaves in her wake is a brilliant blue-white, the air superheating and cooling almost immediately as she passes.
For a moment, it's four years ago. She's fifteen again, racing for the future of her planet, to gain a wish that could revive her torn family. The sun was bright then too...
Without even noticing, Molly twists the grips till they start to crack, the thrumming of the heat turbine rising into a desperate pitch as she eats up the ground between herself and Rook. The gate is so close! Can she make it?!
The sun is almost blinding outside of the tunnel, with a brilliance to it that one couldn't find in the choked skies of her own planet.
For half a panicked heartbeat, Rook can't see, until her goggles adjust to the light and adopt a darker tint to the glass. Thank heavens for nifty gadgets like that. She could have worn her helmet and had much the same effect, but she wanted to feel the wind in her hair.
Gritting her teeth, she jams the accelerator for all it's worth. Kicked into such a high gear, the protoculture engines lose their familiar thrumming and take on a jet-like scream, overlaid by the whine of cooling fans and other, stranger mechanics. It sounds more like some kind of small-scale aircraft.
The Cyclone responds immediately, surging forward, treaded tires raking over the sand and throwing clouds of the stuff up behind her. Such speed dries it as quickly as she's passed by it. The heat of the Cyclone's engines could turn it to silicon as well. As it is, straddling the bike is uncomfortably warm, heat put out faster than it can be managed at being pushed so hard. There's nothing to touch the sand, though.
And there's nothing to stop a determined Rook Bartley. Teeth gritted in a grin that's almost half-grimace at the heat, she crouches low over the bike. Her eyes are doggedly forward, narrowed against the brilliant glare of the sun against the ocean to their side, and the bright sand below.
Maybe she should have invested in darker goggles...
And, just as quickly, both racers are greeted with the tumultous roar of the crowd, outstripping even the thundering scream of the protoculture engines, or the whine of the Rocket Seat's turbines. Half of the Skrubb jump to their feet when the engines' sounds preceed the racers. The other half soon follows, pressing themselves against the railing in a jostling, cheering throng as Rook and Molly scream by.
What Rook never noticed, on the other hand, is that she's taken and kept the lead. She's too busy enjoying this run to pay attention to technicalities like /that/.
In fact, she almost seems set to keep on going!
She's mere feet behind Rook as the other racer screams past the finishing gate, the hot wind left by the Cyclone sending heated exhaust into her face. (Molly's front is very, very uncomfortably warm.) She can almost hear the roar of the crowd over the wind and the whine of the turbine in her ears, but even louder than that is the pulse echoing inside her head. Too late, she realizes that there's nowhere to go beyond the arena, just hard, unforgiving stone.
She sails over the lip of the gate into the arena, yanking on the handlebars again, squeezing the brake levers flush with the throttle grips. The Rocket Seat pulls up short, tipping forward and nearly spilling her off the front of it, but she manages to hold on. The Skrubb are storming the stands, throwing hats and makeshift confetti into the air above the bleachers. For such a small crowd, the noise is deafening.
As the engine slows, she brings it to a full stop and and lets the bottom of the hull touch the stone floor of the arena. For a moment there, she'd felt it again... that glowing tightness in her chest. It spreads through her limbs, a warmth that soothes the knotted muscles in her back and arms; slowly, she unwinds her legs from the pedals and gets off the saddle. Flynn is a smirking presence in the midst of his crew... paper bills pass from one psuedopod to the next. Looks like someone had been taking bets, and Flynn won big.
The exhaust itself seems to be rasing heat waves, the air rippling around it even as the engine cools. Gradually, Rook brings it down, taking the dead end sideways and sending a skew of dirt forward.
There's a labored groan from the mechanics as Rook forces the brakes, standing on the footrests in her urgency to stop the thing before she ends up another smear on the wall. Fortunately, the braking system is kept in good condition, just like the rest of the motorcycle.
Wrenching the Cyclone around, she's grinning like a fool as she kicks the stand over and hops off the bike, staggering a little. Ow, that thing's hot.
She doesn't say anything, but that stupid grin on her face ought to say it all. It's not even prideful. She's just glad for a good run, positively glowing in that adrenaline high. "That..." Rook pulls the goggles up, snapping them to her forehead. "That was awesome."
And, like a good little freedom fighter, she offers a hand to shake, still grinning like and idiot.
Hell yes, it was awesome! Molly staggers a little too, the thrum of the turbine still buzzing in the muscles of her thighs. "I- you- THAT WAS SO COOL!" she manages to gasp, now that she's remembering to breathe again. Whoops. The insides of her knees are bound to be red and tender for the next day, but she feels so alive, even if she didn't win... because not winning doesn't mean automatically losing. It means you try more, race harder, and work toward the day that you can cross the finish line first, too. "Good race," she grins, shaking Rook's hand. Her fingers are stiff from gripping the handlebars so tight and there's dust in her face, grit in her teeth, but god it feels good.
Flynn descends into the arena again, pockets considerably fatter. He knows talent and drive when he sees it... and to think, he'd been considering putting a bet on the Earth girl before Rook showed up. He takes Rook's hand in one of his tentacles and raises it as high as he can (just above Rook's shoulder, in this case). "The winner, ladies and gentlemen... the Red Warrior, ROOK BARTLEY!"
Molly sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles long and loud for her, and every single Skrubb in the stands goes NUCKING FUTS.
Leaning aganst some part of the motorcylce that isn't overheated to the touch, Rook laughs the crazy, rushed laugh of someone still enjoying a generous adrenaline rush.
"That was so awesome!" Breathless with excitement, she lurches to her feet, buzzing with energy. She feels alive, just as much as if she were out in the jungle giving Invid what for. She doesn't need to fight to be alive. Anything fast gets her blood pumping. Anything risky. Like the threat of being turned into another smear on those walls. "Best damn thing I've done in so long!"
Suddenly her hand is grabbed and raised up, though she pulls away to raise it the rest of the way, hand curled into a fist, her whole body going into the move. And when her name's announced, she gives the air another punch, whooping a wild victory war-whoop. "Red Warioooor! Yaahoooo!"
...This, folks, is the life. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise!
Where: Sci-Fi Sector - Planet Alwas
When: 31 January 2007
What: Molly challenges Rook to a race. Expect behavior suitable to two crazy adrenaline junkies.
Watch For: Anything and everything!
It feels really, really good to be back on Alwas again. What's it been now, four years(?) since Molly last set foot on the strange yellow dirt of the planet. Perhaps asking the local team permission to use the ancient race track here was a bit of overkill, but... it feels nostalgic. This time around, it's every bit as exciting to be here, but there's none of the crushing pressure associated with the Great Race of Oban.
The skies above are a crystalline blue, too perfect to ever exist on Earth. The weather is a pleasant late-spring warmth, the light from Alwas's sun soaked into the ground and the weathered grey stone that the starting ampitheatre is built of. In the stone bleachers circled around the arena floor, several dozen small creatures are seated, their slick-looking beige skin and fishy faces marking them as the native Skrubb population. Apparently, racing is a BIG thing here.
One of their number, a slightly taller one (meaning he's almost waist-height to both human girls), sits amidst a small group of his fellows, swigging some native concoction out of metal mugs and carousing a bit. Molly herself is standing next to her little rocket scooter, leaning against the saddle and fiddling with her funny pink goggles.
Dust, dust, and more dust. After living in the sweltering air of the jungle and then moving to the sterile confines of the SDF-1, it's a little shocking to step into a world so spectacularly dry... though it's an almost pleasant change of pace.
The sun soaks into the dusty ground and stone, but it also shines on other things. Mostly, the light-glare of something red, white, and metallic. Engines rev as the second contestant of the race rides up, kicking clouds of dust up behind it.
Coming to a sidewinding halt, the red motorcyle-like vehicle purrs as Rook Bartley kicks a foot out to catch herself. She flips up the goggles over her face. The Skrubb earn an odd look, but she turns her attention back to Molly with a grin. "Well, well. So this is the track, huh? Not bad, not bad..."
The other pilot turns to Rook and waves, a broad smile spreading across her face. "Hey Rook, glad you made it." Leaving her Rocket Seat behind, Molly walks over to the Cyclone and crouches down to look at the body. "It's got actual wheels! That's so /cool!/" ...Say what?
The Skrubb send up a resounding cheer as Rook enters the ring with smooth styling, the tallest one nodding in approval and setting his drink down to hop down the bleachers toward the ground. "Molly and ...Rook, right?" he grins, crossing his pseudopods over his chest. He wears a vaguely Arabian Nights-styled vest over loose cargo pants and combat boots, with an assortment of jewelery. A white scarf is wound around his neck. "It's been a long time, Earth girl. It wasn't easy for old Flynn to get you the course. I want to see some impressive racing from you two!" This guy's some kind of big shot one the racing circuit, if his mannerisms are anything to go on... the cheering fans in the crowds are screaming for him more than they are for either girl!
"Yeah, yeah, Flynn... good to see you too," Molly grouses good-naturedly, standing up and dusting off the knees of her overalls. "Rook, this is Flynn. He's Alwas's top racer and was one of the contenders in the Great Race four years ago." She looks around at the crowd with a smile. "Looks like he's still number one, huh."
"Of course I'd make it. You think I'm gonna skip out on a race?" Rook pulls her goggles down, grinning. "'Course it has wheels. It's a motorcycle, dummy."
She has her hair tied back, dressed in the usual red and white bodysuit she favours when riding the motorcycle. Draping her arms over the handlebars, she leans over them casually, absently taking in the surroundings. Dusty, hot, and bright. This ought to be a change of pace from the obstacle course style of riding she's more accustomed to.
"Yeah, Rook. Rook Bartley. Unless you wanna call me the Red Warrior, too," she adds. What the hell are those things, anyway? She can't help but stare, and when she's challenged, there's a feral sort of grin. "Oh, trust me. You're not gonna see better racing than you see today, shorty. You're lookin' at someone who's used to ridin' for her life!"
Straightening, she gives the engine a good rev, just for the half-crazed crowds. Even if they do seem more interested in Flynn, maybe that'll wake them up, hey?
"Oh, really? So he knows what he's talking about. Great." Rook grins, glancing over to Molly. "So? You ready, or are we gonna stand here talkin' all day?"
"Better be able to back up those words, honey," he grins, and for a super-deformed octopus-man the effect is actually kind of scary. It's the expression of a man who gets what he wants, when he wants. Turning away, Flynn scuttles off towards a giant, ancient gong-like bell hung at the side of the track and picks up the striking mallet, every bit as long as he is tall. "Racers, take your positions!"
"Heh. I was BORN ready," Molly grins, a bit of fang showing in her teeth. Returning to her Rocket Seat, she swings a leg over the rear of it and settles comfortably into the saddle. A flip of a switch, a twist of the throttle, and the round turbine beneath blazes into blue-hot life. The scooter floats up off the ground, upwards propulsion holding it steady about a foot off the ground. The small wire stand holding it upright falls away, revealing a complete lack of wheels or anything wheel-like. "Yeah, vehicles on my Earth haven't had wheel for anything but landing gear in about twenty years," she grins, tattoos pinched on her cheeks.
A single gloved finger pulls the lenses down over her eyes, obscuring them behind the pink glass. Flynn raises his mallet and brings it crashing into the bell with a deep, sounding 'thwommmmm'. "LET THE RACE BEGIN!"
The small crowd goes MAD with noise, many of them surging out of their seats to wave their arms. The great stone gate falls, leaving the entrance to the course clear. Beyond it is a shallow ravine between two canyon walls. Arches and bridges are suspended over the course and some even go right THROUGH it. Turns out it's more of an obstacle course than Rook might have expected!
The flame of the Rocket Seat burns bright as Molly twists both throttles and screams out onto the course.
To the Skrubb's words, the freedom fighter just winks behind her goggles and salutes with two fingers. Of course she'll back up her words. She's nothing if not tough and determined, right? Watching Flynn retreat, she knocks the kickstand aside with a boot, leaning the bike to the side a bit in preperation.
Whoa, so the other's bike is one of those new-fangled things that doesn't even sit on the ground? Pfah, where's the fun in that? Her Cyclone's just as good. Revving the engine, she glances over to watch Molly, waiting for some kind of signal.
Anticipation runs rife through the crowds. They lean forward and watch, and the red-armored racer on the red bike leans forward as well. Rook Bartley is an adrenaline junkie at heart. She lives for the thrill of the hunt, and in this case, the dangerous speed of the race.
"Yeah, well, this baby's not just a bike. I'll show you after the race!" Rook calls, over the sound of the purring protoculture engine and the thrumming of Molly's turbine.
And, there's the signal. Let the race begin. And so it does.
Blue flares in an almost-afterburner as the Cyclone roars to life, engines thundering as Rook wrenches on the accelerator. Her hair's tied back, but it whips out behind her nonetheless, goggles protecting her eyes. Good thing she remembered to grab those on the way out. This place is dustier than she'd originally thought.
Dust flies in a trail as the Cyclone follows the Rocket Seat, half a second behind. It picks up speed quickly enough, though, Rook's teeth bared in a feral grin. Oh, yes. This is gonna be stupidly fun. An obstacle course, to boot? She's in heaven. She's crashed, burned, and gone straight to Adrenaline Junkie Heaven.
Hmmm. That antique's got power to spare, but how agile is it, Molly wonders, a tight smile curving her lips. The weather's been dry lately, according to Flynn. This means better traction for Rook on the dirt parts, as long as the earth is tightly packed. Most of it is, too, generations and generations of star-racers passing through the course, only the last ten or so flying through the air instead of roaring along on treads. Black marks of soot and strangely-gouged bits can be seen on the walls, especially near the curves. Molly wonders if the ground-in scorchmark she just passed was from the Arrow 2. It's been too long, she doesn't remember anymore.
At first the course is mostly clear at ground-level, with only the occasional wall-rooted stone beam arcing over the track. By twenty seconds in, though, more of them begin to litter the course, quite a few fairly pushed into the dirt beneath.
Molly throws her weight to the right to avoid a boulder, straightening out just in time to stand up on the pedals and yank the scooter into the air by the handlebars to sail smoothly over two of them at once. She looks so peaceful in the air, but her body posture is tense, shoulders rigid and hips locked tight into the slight angle needed to keep her feet on the pedals.
The wind whips locks of her short black hair around her neck and Molly opens her mouth to whoop as the scooter comes back to earth; it dips dangerously low to the dirt before the thrusters propel it back into the air again and down the course. She doesn't dare to look back yet.
Antique?! The Cyclone is top of the line, fitted with the best engines the Robotech Defense Force could spare!
...Well, okay, it was probably top of the line when it was made. It's really just salvage, and it took a bit of tweaking and tuning-up to get it in working order. It's still a phenomenal piece of equipment, though, and the punch it packs is pleasantly surprising.
The Cyclone thunders over the dirt track, inching up on the Rocket Seat as the motorcycle starts to gain acceleration. She moves quickly, expertly, leaning to guide the Cyclone through tight turns and around obstacles. Dirt flies in a spray as she sidewinds through one particularly tight turn, gunning the engine once she's out and making a dash for that lost ground.
Wind whips at her hair as well, and she can't help but give her own whoop of pure, unbridled joy. This is definitely the life. Run before the wind and damn the torpedoes - give it all to the engine, and let it give it all back with interest.
"Yaaaahoooooooo!"
Oh, there she is! At the corner of her vision, Molly can see the brilliant red of Rook's Cyclone, tinted mauve through the lenses of her mother's goggles. Just as she gets a glimpse, the tunnels are upon them; Molly veers sharply to one side, taking her Rocket Seat into the near-black gloom. Soft, strangely-luminescent lights glow faintly among the rubble at the sides of the track, pushed up against the walls... some kind of naturally-occurring bioluminescent fungus growing on a rock, or perhaps it's an alien mineral. It's not enough to give a proper source of light, but it does denote the edges of the track, the same on both sides of the dividing wall. Molly can't see Rook at ALL now...
I knew I should've gotten around to putting a headlight on this thing, she thinks, squinting through the glass at the circle of light at the end of the tunnel. She drifts a hair too close the wall and sparks fly from it as the titanium hull of the turbine scrapes against it before she can correct.
There she is, crouched low over the front farings of the armored motorcycle, clutching the handlebars like death and grinning like the Cheshire Cat on caffeine and a few other substances. Yes, all at once. Then again, all she really needs is a good run on a track like this, or a good battle to mix it up in.
As the tunnel draws up, Rook glances down for half a second, flipping a switch on the control panel. The tunnel is thrown into sharp edged relief. Strong, blue-white light floods the tunnel, throwing into relief the rocks and minerals and whatever else grows on the walls.
...Probably the occasional evidence of oler racing crafts, too.
Guiding the Cyclone smoothly, Rook takes the opportunity - and Molly's blindness - to gain some ground. The protoculture engine roars, echoing in the close confines of the tunnel. It's quieter than the usual motorcycle... but for the sake of it, she's letting the ole girl run loud and hard today. Why not? It's a good open track and a great desert day for it.
"Woohoo-!"
That would be Rook Bartley taking the lead for a little while, yes. Think of it this way. At least Molly has the headlight running in front of her, at least for a little while.
The passage is lit up with brilliant white light, and Molly is again glad for her goggles - though seeing the poorly-swept up chunks of older racecraft is a sobering reminder of her history with the planet, at least now the bits and pieces of racers from around the galaxy are pink!
...Wait, that's not comforting at ALL!
It is, however, terribly convenient. Tapping a few buttons on the small round instrument panel between the handlebars, Molly sends the Rocket Seat screaming forward, only fast enough to tail Rook like a shadow through the tunnel. The bright blue light of the entrance is just ahead, and Molly knows that beyond that is her last chance to pull back into the lead... a sharp curve, and then it's a sandy beach shore for about half a mile before reaching the finishing gate. Just you wait, Rook, she grins, creeping closer and closer to her fellow Sheep. She'll give this her everything. May the best racer win!
Burning a trail on the track, the freedom fighter may be bound to the ground, but that doesn't stop her from giving it the old college try.
The engine roars, echoing in the confines of the tunnel. Rook doesn't slow down to take that nasty little turn, not this time. Instead, she pulls the bike up, taking it sideways. Packed earth sprays from the wheels and armored casing, sparks striking where she comes too close to the wall. The motorcylce survives, though, and so does its rider.
Once through the turn, Rook risks one glance back at her Rocket Seat shadow, and guns the accelerator. Clods of loamy sand get thrown behind her in her wake, and she grins. The salt air stings as she tears through it, but who cares? She's alive, really /alive/ in this moment. Run before the wind, and ahead lies that checkered flag.
"Come on, old girl!" She gives the fuselage a good thump, crouching low over the bike as it surges forward. "Let's go, go, go-!"
Throwing caution to the wind, Molly unconsciously mimics Rook's action, nearly twisting the little hoverbike onto its side as she emerges from the tunnel, swerving to keep from going out onto Alwas's blue, blue ocean, instead sticking to the light-colored Caribbean sand. She's lower to the ground one the Rocket Seat than in the Arrow she drove over these same sands so many times... if it weren't wet, the heat from the turbine might be enough to melt the sand into glass in such a high gear. The flare of heat she leaves in her wake is a brilliant blue-white, the air superheating and cooling almost immediately as she passes.
For a moment, it's four years ago. She's fifteen again, racing for the future of her planet, to gain a wish that could revive her torn family. The sun was bright then too...
Without even noticing, Molly twists the grips till they start to crack, the thrumming of the heat turbine rising into a desperate pitch as she eats up the ground between herself and Rook. The gate is so close! Can she make it?!
The sun is almost blinding outside of the tunnel, with a brilliance to it that one couldn't find in the choked skies of her own planet.
For half a panicked heartbeat, Rook can't see, until her goggles adjust to the light and adopt a darker tint to the glass. Thank heavens for nifty gadgets like that. She could have worn her helmet and had much the same effect, but she wanted to feel the wind in her hair.
Gritting her teeth, she jams the accelerator for all it's worth. Kicked into such a high gear, the protoculture engines lose their familiar thrumming and take on a jet-like scream, overlaid by the whine of cooling fans and other, stranger mechanics. It sounds more like some kind of small-scale aircraft.
The Cyclone responds immediately, surging forward, treaded tires raking over the sand and throwing clouds of the stuff up behind her. Such speed dries it as quickly as she's passed by it. The heat of the Cyclone's engines could turn it to silicon as well. As it is, straddling the bike is uncomfortably warm, heat put out faster than it can be managed at being pushed so hard. There's nothing to touch the sand, though.
And there's nothing to stop a determined Rook Bartley. Teeth gritted in a grin that's almost half-grimace at the heat, she crouches low over the bike. Her eyes are doggedly forward, narrowed against the brilliant glare of the sun against the ocean to their side, and the bright sand below.
Maybe she should have invested in darker goggles...
And, just as quickly, both racers are greeted with the tumultous roar of the crowd, outstripping even the thundering scream of the protoculture engines, or the whine of the Rocket Seat's turbines. Half of the Skrubb jump to their feet when the engines' sounds preceed the racers. The other half soon follows, pressing themselves against the railing in a jostling, cheering throng as Rook and Molly scream by.
What Rook never noticed, on the other hand, is that she's taken and kept the lead. She's too busy enjoying this run to pay attention to technicalities like /that/.
In fact, she almost seems set to keep on going!
She's mere feet behind Rook as the other racer screams past the finishing gate, the hot wind left by the Cyclone sending heated exhaust into her face. (Molly's front is very, very uncomfortably warm.) She can almost hear the roar of the crowd over the wind and the whine of the turbine in her ears, but even louder than that is the pulse echoing inside her head. Too late, she realizes that there's nowhere to go beyond the arena, just hard, unforgiving stone.
She sails over the lip of the gate into the arena, yanking on the handlebars again, squeezing the brake levers flush with the throttle grips. The Rocket Seat pulls up short, tipping forward and nearly spilling her off the front of it, but she manages to hold on. The Skrubb are storming the stands, throwing hats and makeshift confetti into the air above the bleachers. For such a small crowd, the noise is deafening.
As the engine slows, she brings it to a full stop and and lets the bottom of the hull touch the stone floor of the arena. For a moment there, she'd felt it again... that glowing tightness in her chest. It spreads through her limbs, a warmth that soothes the knotted muscles in her back and arms; slowly, she unwinds her legs from the pedals and gets off the saddle. Flynn is a smirking presence in the midst of his crew... paper bills pass from one psuedopod to the next. Looks like someone had been taking bets, and Flynn won big.
The exhaust itself seems to be rasing heat waves, the air rippling around it even as the engine cools. Gradually, Rook brings it down, taking the dead end sideways and sending a skew of dirt forward.
There's a labored groan from the mechanics as Rook forces the brakes, standing on the footrests in her urgency to stop the thing before she ends up another smear on the wall. Fortunately, the braking system is kept in good condition, just like the rest of the motorcycle.
Wrenching the Cyclone around, she's grinning like a fool as she kicks the stand over and hops off the bike, staggering a little. Ow, that thing's hot.
She doesn't say anything, but that stupid grin on her face ought to say it all. It's not even prideful. She's just glad for a good run, positively glowing in that adrenaline high. "That..." Rook pulls the goggles up, snapping them to her forehead. "That was awesome."
And, like a good little freedom fighter, she offers a hand to shake, still grinning like and idiot.
Hell yes, it was awesome! Molly staggers a little too, the thrum of the turbine still buzzing in the muscles of her thighs. "I- you- THAT WAS SO COOL!" she manages to gasp, now that she's remembering to breathe again. Whoops. The insides of her knees are bound to be red and tender for the next day, but she feels so alive, even if she didn't win... because not winning doesn't mean automatically losing. It means you try more, race harder, and work toward the day that you can cross the finish line first, too. "Good race," she grins, shaking Rook's hand. Her fingers are stiff from gripping the handlebars so tight and there's dust in her face, grit in her teeth, but god it feels good.
Flynn descends into the arena again, pockets considerably fatter. He knows talent and drive when he sees it... and to think, he'd been considering putting a bet on the Earth girl before Rook showed up. He takes Rook's hand in one of his tentacles and raises it as high as he can (just above Rook's shoulder, in this case). "The winner, ladies and gentlemen... the Red Warrior, ROOK BARTLEY!"
Molly sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles long and loud for her, and every single Skrubb in the stands goes NUCKING FUTS.
Leaning aganst some part of the motorcylce that isn't overheated to the touch, Rook laughs the crazy, rushed laugh of someone still enjoying a generous adrenaline rush.
"That was so awesome!" Breathless with excitement, she lurches to her feet, buzzing with energy. She feels alive, just as much as if she were out in the jungle giving Invid what for. She doesn't need to fight to be alive. Anything fast gets her blood pumping. Anything risky. Like the threat of being turned into another smear on those walls. "Best damn thing I've done in so long!"
Suddenly her hand is grabbed and raised up, though she pulls away to raise it the rest of the way, hand curled into a fist, her whole body going into the move. And when her name's announced, she gives the air another punch, whooping a wild victory war-whoop. "Red Warioooor! Yaahoooo!"
...This, folks, is the life. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise!