[FFML] [Orig] They Walk In Light 1.4

Hey guys, sorry this is so late but I am mailing it from a library computer which I dont normally use. Dont ask about my own. Screw is back in the Cup and out to find himself. Please enjoy, any responces much appreciated.

It was almost eight and the sky was becoming a reddish brown cloud as a nearby refinery expelled today�s remaining waste fumes. A familiar sight for anyone who lived south or east of the Plaza. We obviously could not get board clearance to run the Turbine, but there were several practice tracks with in a few miles of Diago�s garage. Most of this side of the city was occupied by two industries: manufacturing plants and race tracks. All the garages for the big name cars were here, and the bigger the name, the closer to the Turbine itself. The low bass thrumming the Turbine made was almost completely drowned out by engine noise. Engines which were charged by generators, which were in turn powered by the Turbine. I had been informed that it was ironic.

Jarred did not want to wait. So we drove the six wheelers themselves over to the nearest track and set up. Diago had some new armor for me, but I chose to wear my old set. I said I was afraid my car wouldn�t remember me if I didn�t. The Number One Gun purred as clean oil coursed its arteries. Diago had mentioned on the way over that the Number One Gun had been over-hauled more than a few times recently. The new X-20 engine was capable of about 5000 horsepower, and a top speed of 295. Jarred�s Super-Saber could go about 330, but on the practice track which was only a fortieth the length of the Turbine, he would not be able to go that fast and escape the obstacles.

We filled up the tanks, rolled the cars out into the gates, and exchanged the necessary formalities. �See you in hell,� �Shit doesn�t age like wine,� and �Is my exhaust supposed to be making that grinding sound?� I strapped up, and Diago got on the starting podium to work the lights.

Before I knew it, there was red, orange, then yellow, and finally green. I floored it and shot ahead.

It may be important to say a little about the layout of the track. The Turbine is two hundred and forty miles around. We race anywhere between three and five laps, clockwise, and it takes around that many hours. There are fifty gates on the starting line, those with the highest qualifying times started closest to the inner wall. Penalties and sanctions can take a part in the placement as well, but that did not matter right now.

The practice track, on the other hand, is only fifteen miles around, and it makes two loops, an upper and a lower one. It is enough like the Turbine to be good practice, as the Turbine is where all professional races are held.

There were two types of drivers. Those like me who tried to drive as fast and as clean as possible and stay in the lead at all costs. And then there were bruisers like Merle Jarred who tried to destroy as many other cars as possible in the hopes that theirs would be the only ones left to make it to the finish wall. The finish wall was the next spoke on the Turbine over from the one you started on, and moved at around 220 relative to the ground. It usually took five laps to catch up with it and win. A driver like me could do it in half that if I managed to evade all the other cars trying to wreck me. But that was very rare, as the bruisers were good at crashing people. And the obstacles were what they used to do it.

We raced on tarmac that had small pits buried into it every tenth of a mile or so. Out of these pits, tall steel pyramids shot up periodically. If you hit one, that was just about it. Driving someone else into one was a talent that was necessary for any car-jock to learn early. The steel obelisks appeared with out warning, and sometimes they came up right under your car. That was called �bad luck.�

In the whole track there was only one place to get off with your car. You would drive as close to the inner wall as possible until the ramp came up, and you could get off there. If your car could not make it to the ramp, you would get out of it on the track and climb up rings set into the inner wall. That is if you could get there without being run over.

Aside from the steel pylons, the spoke of the Turbine that you raced away from had equally large gears on it. Cars that were left behind were ground to bits so as not to collect there. Brake-Checking someone else�s car so that they were swallowed by the gears was against the rules, and carried the stiffest penalty. It meant being kicked out of your car for the season, as being caught in the gears almost always meant death. In a way this was the most barbaric sport in the city. Some driver or another was killed almost every month. But we all knew the risks, and took responsibility for our own actions. The government looked at it as a necessary evil. I did not know the actual reasons behind it, and I did not really care.

Jarred took an early lead, as I predicted he would. On the practice track there were no gears following us, since the track was not completely level. The lower loop connected to the upper one by a pair of ramps, which were usually the most dangerous places to be. He would try to hit the brakes at inopportune moments and smash me aside into anything he could. My plan was to see it coming, and dodge it just in time, so that he lost a lot of speed, and would fall behind. I had confidence that my remaining talent could take me around the track faster than he could, and finish the fifty laps first. But if he checked me enough, he could easily win. It was my ability to predict his actions against his ability to hide them from me. The hunter and the hunted. And of course I was always on the receiving end of it.

As we both started to pull our turns tighter toward the inner wall, Jarred made his first attempt. He pulled a hard sideswipe to try to push me into an obstacle that had appeared slightly to my right. I got ready to turn right as well and pass the pylon altogether, when he collided with me hard. I was knocked so far right that I did miss the metal pyramid but slammed into the inner wall as well. I did not understand what had happened. I had seen the move coming and was ready to avoid it but I still got hit.

A holoscreen appeared a few inches above my head and showed Diago looking surprised. My head set wasn�t connected and I couldn�t hear him so I flicked it off. No reminders were necessary.

Jarred was a few hundred yards ahead now, and I could barely see him around the wall. This gave him a somewhat better chance of springing up on me. I gunned the engine and soon had her back up to the red line. I was catching up to Jarred faster than I expected, probably because he was waiting for me. And a few more hits like the last one and he would not have to worry about winning at all.

An obstacle shot up in front of me and I swerved.

I still hit it.

I lost my left bumper, and the mirror on that side. I could not believe it. Only the very green or the very damaged hit obstacles without help from other cars. I was neither, and this one was so far ahead of me I would never have had a problem in my day. At thirty four I was not at all so old that I was starting to lose my perception or reaction time. I had never noticed any lag. Yet this was twice that I had been hit while not even that far into the second lap. I started to think I was having mechanical trouble. This was probably a completely different machine than the Number One Gun I drove in my twenties. All the parts had doubtlessly been replaced, save the steering wheel, possibly. But I slapped the side of my helmet and concentrated. This was not even close to being done.

Jarred�s car drifted back, and then alongside of mine. I saw him turn his head to look at me, and I felt I could see his eyes through the black visor on his helmet. He jerked the wheel hard in my direction but I saw it a mile off. This time I just hit the gas without turning and sped ahead. He flew right behind and across to my left side. When he started to weave back, another pylon shot up, and we had to split up to go around it.

I kept my foot on the gas and turned tighter toward the center of the track. A few more laps went by with out much event. My steering was sluggish, so I relied more on staying away from Jarred altogether than trying to maintain my position and dodge him.

But finally he caught up with me on my inner side. This was where bruisers wanted to be, because as they turned hard left, I was already moving steadily right, and the impact was greater. I kept a careful eye on him and got ready to brake. Jarred couldn�t keep his poker face. He waited until an obstacle shot up in front of us, looked at me, and turned. I waved as I braked. But he suddenly decelerated faster and his rear end hit my hood. Again, something that would not have happened before. I just did not understand it. My body was working fine, but it was like the car was going off in its own directions. I yelled obscenities in frustration and punched my speedometer.

Jarred kept slowing and I was forced to as well. The tarmac was curving upward toward where the starting paint signified lap sixteen. I pulled the wheel slowly to the right, but didn�t move an inch. After a few jerks I realized that it was stuck on something. He looked over his shoulder and waited for me to get off his tail. But I couldn�t.

Diago�s face popped up again and I could see he was pointing at my hood. I raised my hands and mouthed the words, �what�s happening?�

Of course he couldn�t respond. I sat forward in my seat and tried to see if the two cars were touching. Then realization washed over me.

His rear bumper had locked itself under my grill. I tried to yank the steering wheel as hard as I could but it was no use. I had seen this happen before and the outcome had never been good. I began to pump the brakes.

After a minute Jarred caught on to the situation and also tried to swerve, but my car was pulled right behind him. Towing this much weight would soon overheat his engine. Would that mean I won? It depended. I figured what I would do in his situation would be to sling the car behind me into an obstacle. Jarred decided on the same thing. He saw a pylon rise up, and changed course. The cars began fishtailing slightly and I was flung against my side window. Half a mile to go.

I braced myself for the impact, there was nothing I could do. I had the brakes depressed all the way, but his X-30 groaned and pulled me along like a stubborn child.

I watched the pylon approach carefully. After a few seconds, it started to seem like Jarred had the wrong timing. He was going to pass the steel pyramid close on the left side, and try to smash me on it as I went by. But if I was right, I would have swung over to his left at that moment, and might not hit. If I was wrong the steel pillar would cut me apart.

���

I relaxed and listened to the tone of my damaged engine.

Inner peace. And all the rest of that crap.

As we shot by, my car�s frame strained and skidded the other way, clearing finality by a good six feet. I saw Jarred turn back and look at me, obviously angered. He sped up even more, taking us out into the red zone where obstacles were ten times as prevalent. He was going for the kill.

My arms were tired from gripping the wheel, and I was feeling sick. I knew that if I hit the next obstacle, that would most likely be the end of it for me. I had to do something. But try as I might, I could not separate our machines. I saw another pylon shoot up. We were deep into lap seventeen, again on the bottom ring. This practice track was like a figure-eight folded over on itself. Every other lap was on the top section and between them, the track curved down to the lower section at a fairly steep angle. There were more than a few people who thought this was even more dangerous than the Turbine. I felt the car sway under me, and knew I was heading for a hot death. The Gun could not take another shot and I was strapped down to it.

Therefore I had to get out of my car. Of all my options, this seemed like it had the highest chance of success. If I acted fast I could climb through my windshield, out across the hood, and onto the back of Jarred�s car. His car would not hit the pylon of course, and escape would then depend on him. I unbuckled my harness and took my foot off of the brake letting the cars accelerate again. I had never heard of anyone doing this, but I was also not about to die to preserve tradition when there was no one around to stop the race.

I kicked the windshield until my shin bones hurt and finally it broke. Under my seat I found the short metal rod that adjusted my seat position and it came out of its rusted welds with some effort. I used it to clear away the glass from around the sides of the frame where it had not all been blown out.

Then I took a deep breath and climbed out of my seat and out onto the crumpled hood. We were topside again which meant it would be a little brighter. Surrounding us were stands full of empty seats. The wind was very harsh, and I had to stay as low as possible. The metal pylon was clear in front of us, and I figured I had close to ten seconds before impact. Jarred hadn�t noticed me yet.

I crawled further forward, and grabbed on to his rear spoiler. Pulling as hard as I could, and kicking off of my own car did the trick. After a second I was crouched completely on the back end of the Super-Saber, holding onto the frame surrounding the rear windshield. I instantly braced myself.

My car hit the pylon going well over three hundred and was torn into shreds of metal and fire. I could see Jarred very clearly now, and I watched as he took off his helmet and looked behind him. I saw him smile and laugh at the inferno behind.

Nitrous is very flammable.

And then he saw me, alive, and hanging on to the back of his car.

He stared, and I stared right back. Neither breathed nor thought. Imagine being so caught up in the hurricane of events that you couldn�t pull out if you wanted to. I had no wants. At that moment we each knew the other had to die. Him for trying to kill me, and me for not dying.

For one second my mind recalled a scene that I hadn�t thought of in ages. My father and I walking in a rainy city, much like this one, but entirely different and knowing it. Only he wasn�t my father, but a younger man with long hair. He held my smaller hand and I followed him. Into the rain, all the way into it, and then disappearing.

That�s it, the whole scene. I couldn�t think of what sparked the thought. And the intense adrenaline high would not let me consider it further.

Jarred�s head whirled back forward and he floored it, weaving back and forth. It was becoming much harder to hold on now and I knew I had to get in the cab and stop the car. I pulled out the metal rod I had stuffed in my jacket and hammered on the glass. After the second stroke, un-safety glass turned white and spilled into the back seat along with my only weapon.

Suddenly he hit the brakes and I flew forward through the partially cleared hole. It was quite a shock. Jagged edges of the glass cut right through my jacket and into my stomach.

I screamed in pain as I saw the mess of blood and skin. It was too much. A subconscious whimper escaped my lips, mimicking my ability to deal with the sensations God never wanted me to feel. In my tear blurred vision, colors of red and streaming yellow stood out against a shadow background like a liquid beehive, flowing around a bubble of thinnest ether. Ether expelled from me as a byproduct of understanding. Why did this come to mind now?

Jarred looked over at me and laughed. �Surprise, Screw. You aren�t in control after all. Fucking with my machine was a mistake.�

�Stop the car,� I croaked.

�And quit before it�s all over? You think I haven�t waited to see you bouncing down the slick in a mess of-�

�But we�re both going to die! Is any insult worth this? Is it? Don�t you understand this is all ludicrous?�

�Liar!! You wanted this as much as I did! You had that look in your eye when you jumped back onto my car! That very thing proves it!�

�What are you talking about? I don�t care if you win! Stop the fucking car now!� I yelled while stifling a choked cough.

�Not while you�re still there. If you didn�t want to win you shouldn�t have started the race. Even the Mandate upholds that charter law. There is no room for quitters here.�

Blood burst from my lips as I coughed unexpectedly at the stench of melting synthetic rubber tires. Jarred recoiled from the sight and wiped his chin. �But there�s ample room for martyrs?� I said flatly.

�There is in any charter, asshole.�

I didn�t stress a reply.

He pressed the gas and I was thrown back out, but not before I grabbed onto his sleeve. He was yanked from his own seat, and pulled tight against his straps. I had scraped over the glass again and this time was really starting to bleed. Jarred looked back and realized his arm was coming out of its socket while I held onto it. He undid the harness causing the two of us to jerk back even further until he grabbed onto the thick headrest with his free hand.

Jarred started laughing again, and slammed my arms against the hood with a jerk of his shoulder. My hands were raw, and the exterior of his overheated car was scalding hot. Showing impressive strength he continued to rack me until my grip slipped completely.

I slid back and frantically clutched the rear spoiler again. My feet dangled over the back. I tried to kick them up but the tarmac below was moving at a terrific speed, and it burned through the soles of my boots. No one was driving the car and we were curving left, away from the inner wall. We were back on the upper loop, and if we hit the outer railing too hard we might go over the side. And as if things could not get any worse, Jarred pulled from his boot an eight inch knife, and climbed back after me. He sliced at my hands and grimaced when he caught nothing but air.

Stepping further out of the cab, he raised his knife above his head. I tried to kick off the ground again, failed. Dangling from the back of a speeding car, while the driver hacked at me with a knife was not my idea of any kind of time.

�If you let go, they�ll just call it a suicide!� he yelled above the exhaust.

�Will you tell the press tomorrow just how sorry you were when you found out?� I said and held on.

�Who knows? I might even cry!�

But there was nothing I could do. He would not miss me again, and I had nowhere to turn. I looked him right in the eye, and he laughed again and spit. I saw the knife come down at my head and wondered what the nice woman down the hall would do without me to keep her company and eat her cooking. She would be better off than before.

If only I could get back up. And in that instant I did.

My vision shimmered and a high pitched whine rose in my ears. Fearing I was losing consciousness under the stress, I shook my head violently. The bluriness increased in intensity until the whole world looked like it was buzzing into tiny pixels.

My mind offered no explanations. But I felt a surge under my stomach.

It lifted me off the back end of Jarred�s bumper, and flung me into him. The serrated knife flew out of his hand and through the broken window. He cried out in surprise until I put my fist in his mouth. Jarred straightened, gripped my shoulders as I choked him, and kicked me. I felt myself fall away from the car.

But again, that force pushed me right back.

The car was heading toward the down ramp on the track now, but at the angle it was going we were not going to make it around the curve. Jarred backpedaled onto the roof of the car, as I landed on the rear hood. I could see the look of shock on his face like that of a pagan martyr. I shrugged; as I said, there was very little though going on. The look was replaced with one of rage, and he started punching me. We traded blows for almost half a minute; his fists becoming red from the blood oozing out of my punctured stomach. I blocked an uppercut with my elbow and threw one of my own which propelled him over onto the front hood. He scrambled up, and lunged at me. I knocked him aside and he went right past. We had traded places, and now I was on the front, with him crouched before me.

Without his foot on the gas, we had slowed considerably which was the only reason we were able to stand on top of the moving vehicle. The wind was at my back as I stared down, ready for anything. My blood formed a misty trail in the air. One or both of us would die tonight, but I was calm again.

Jarred was a sadist, a heavily imitated title that few deserve. He had no choice but to be resolved. For a passing second I distressed because I felt no shame. Where had that feeling gone lately? While the board and the fans had failed to notice the amount of fatalities he had indirectly caused, I had. Why should I uphold justice where he hadn�t? It was my duty and right to dispose of him. In his own words, the right of anyone who starts the race.

Jarred put a hand on the edge of the roof to steady himself. He had the shivering gleam in his eye that men have when they know they only have one ace left. He jumped forward, but it was not at me. He slid through the open rear window, and pulled himself inside. I stepped back and saw him grab for the boot knife that had been thrown inside. Behind me the track hissed as another pylon shot up through the track nearby. It was now or never.

His hand broke through the front windshield under me as my bare fist shot down. His knife gouged itself against my upper shoulder a second before I grabbed him by the neck. With a heave that was aided by that unexplained force, I lifted him bodily out of the car and raised him above my head. Jarred let go of the knife and dug his fingernails into my cheek.

He shrieked �SCREW! SCREW!! SCR- �

And then I threw him. Nothing pushed him back on like it had done for me, and he dropped. Screaming onto the tarmac. The body did not even have time to roll before a pylon shot up under him, hurtling his corpse into the sky. I looked quickly away, and did not see it fall.

Jarred had known it was coming.

I exhaled so deeply I felt momentarily dizzy. My mouth tasted strangely bitter. I waited a heartbeat and blinked. That was it. He was gone.

�Screw�� I repeated.

Despite the help I had received, the wind was full of smoke and I was still hurt badly. I dropped down into the driver�s seat through the missing windshield, and turned the wheel hard to the right. The car slowly arced back toward the middle of the track, but it was not turning fast enough. The turning radii on these race cars were very high. The balding rear tires started to skid and an instant later the whole car lost it�s traction, sliding into a circle.

Desperate braking. The outer guard rail beckoned, and then welcomed us, twisting to hold on.

Gold Cup Super-Sabers weighed over three tons, and was constructed of almost pure carbon steel. They were bruiser cars, and made no effort to hide this. When I hit the railing, it buckled and I went through like it was so much paper mache.

�My father even told me this was where my life was headed,� I thought to myself as I departed the edge.

With the large track lights receding from view, my world of colored confusion dimmed. I guessed it was around a hundred more feet to the ground and I was going to hit hard. I held my head in my arms and closed my eyes. I could not believe I fought so hard against that bastard Jarred, only to be wiped out in the ensuing car accident. Denied either way I went.

At least I had no misconceptions about fairness.

My whole universe exploded and pealed away my thought.