[Prompt 3] Rabbit
Title: Rabbit
Warnings: None, though hints at previous car-related violence
Disclaimer: I do not own!
Characters: Streetwise
Rating: PG
Summary: Hit-and-runs do not make Streetwise a happy interceptor. At all. (Run, rabbit. Run.)
He cut a tight corner, the poorly maintained road beneath him catching at the rubber on his wheels, friction burning hot. If he’d been a regular car, his tires would have been torn to shreds. Melted and sliced.
Streetwise only adjusted his position just slightly in the millionth of a second it took to find traction again, and was off. There were programs racing through his processor, programs specially designed to keep him alive when he was moving faster than thought, and Streetwise impatiently hurried them along as he cast his mind ahead, searching. On this road, up ahead somewhere, not so far, was his quarry. ’62 Plymouth Sport Fury, modified (naturally, they always were in cases like this), and red, but you couldn’t really tell it anymore with all the dirt and scratches it had accumulated running.
Not that Streetwise needed a description. He had this one’s everything burned into his head. He knew it by sound, by frequency, by sight, by the smell it left on the road. He knew it by the taint it left in the air, particles catching on the sensors at the back and sides of his mouth, a taste broken down into each little component, something bitter. He would know it, when he caught it, by touch, his fingers finding that small dent just on the underside of the rear bumper, 62.768953459 centimeters from the right where it curved into the rest of the body, and the deep groove on its left, near the driver’s side door, that snaked up just slightly toward the end, and all the other little bits and pieces that made this car different.
He would know it too, by the blood stains, small, hardly noticeable, almost unnoticeable at all, speckled just over its left front tire, red that was more brown; the color of its paint speckled on dirty, bug-smeared silver.
If Streetwise had sirens, they would have been useless, the speed he was moving catching at any sound and whisking it away from even his audios, much less a human’s. His engine roared and howled and burned red under his hood, threatening self-destruction, but Streetwise knew from experience that it would hold long enough to finish what it had started. It would, because Streetwise would, no matter what.
On the road stretched before him were faint traces of blackened rubber sketched out, a little and a little more, here and there, shining like beacons to Streetwise’s sensors. A trail.
And the gap was closing.
Warnings: None, though hints at previous car-related violence
Disclaimer: I do not own!
Characters: Streetwise
Rating: PG
Summary: Hit-and-runs do not make Streetwise a happy interceptor. At all. (Run, rabbit. Run.)
He cut a tight corner, the poorly maintained road beneath him catching at the rubber on his wheels, friction burning hot. If he’d been a regular car, his tires would have been torn to shreds. Melted and sliced.
Streetwise only adjusted his position just slightly in the millionth of a second it took to find traction again, and was off. There were programs racing through his processor, programs specially designed to keep him alive when he was moving faster than thought, and Streetwise impatiently hurried them along as he cast his mind ahead, searching. On this road, up ahead somewhere, not so far, was his quarry. ’62 Plymouth Sport Fury, modified (naturally, they always were in cases like this), and red, but you couldn’t really tell it anymore with all the dirt and scratches it had accumulated running.
Not that Streetwise needed a description. He had this one’s everything burned into his head. He knew it by sound, by frequency, by sight, by the smell it left on the road. He knew it by the taint it left in the air, particles catching on the sensors at the back and sides of his mouth, a taste broken down into each little component, something bitter. He would know it, when he caught it, by touch, his fingers finding that small dent just on the underside of the rear bumper, 62.768953459 centimeters from the right where it curved into the rest of the body, and the deep groove on its left, near the driver’s side door, that snaked up just slightly toward the end, and all the other little bits and pieces that made this car different.
He would know it too, by the blood stains, small, hardly noticeable, almost unnoticeable at all, speckled just over its left front tire, red that was more brown; the color of its paint speckled on dirty, bug-smeared silver.
If Streetwise had sirens, they would have been useless, the speed he was moving catching at any sound and whisking it away from even his audios, much less a human’s. His engine roared and howled and burned red under his hood, threatening self-destruction, but Streetwise knew from experience that it would hold long enough to finish what it had started. It would, because Streetwise would, no matter what.
On the road stretched before him were faint traces of blackened rubber sketched out, a little and a little more, here and there, shining like beacons to Streetwise’s sensors. A trail.
And the gap was closing.