motocross!Bad Batch AU pt. 1 - Hunter
"He didn’t notice until now that the others had veered off the track some time ago—that he’d been riding alone, not ahead. They milled about the makeshift camp set in the shade of a lone rock formation, and paid little mind when Hunter coasted up to the cluster rigs and tents."
Characters: Hunter, Rex, Crosshair? (mentioned?)
Content: poor use of motocross lingo, red bull product placement, inaccurate depictions of west north america, highly probable mischaracterization, i don't think any warnings apply
A/N: this is probably kinda niche but i had a hyperfixation moment earlier this year while TBB was still airing + supercross season was in full swing so i wrote like four parts of this. i mostly just wanted to play around with ideas and designs. this has been rotting in my drive for a while now so i figured i'd throw it out there and see what people think!
also one of my friends read this and does not know im posting it so if u see this HELLO THANK U FOR LISTENING TO MY RAMBLING <3
WC: 1490
ALSO. lmk if u guys want the other parts. they're also pretty short but they're just some of my ideas for the other original batchers
The heat pouring into the bleak basin was familiar as the shadows of the jagged plateaus in the distance. Unfortunately, that didn’t make the suffocating humidity any more enjoyable, nor did it bring the skyline’s shadows any nearer. Orange sun still spilled in rippling waves from the blazing sun hovering just above the horizon, baking the dusty track into a puck of pale, gritty dirt. Even when wind sifted its way through the rocky mesa, it swept enough loose sand with it that the brief drop in temperature offered no comfort.
The rev of Hunter’s bike died down as he set the front wheel into a rut at the edge of the next carved-up straightaway and braced his feet against the pegs to stand. One hand still clutched the throttle, while the other found and released the chinstrap of his helmet beneath his jaw. He pitched down with the crumbly terrain, then set his course for the row of trucks and trailers at the edge of the course, before popping it the rest of the way off.
Tucked under one arm, blue sky danced in the plastic tear-offs stuck to the lenses of his cracked goggles. Sunlight wavered over the chipping black-and-red paint job. Sweat stuck long strands of black hair to his faded bandana, and the bandana to the sides of his head. The world crashed back into bright focus around him, pierced by the sharp smell of exhaust and the howl of the wind against the rocky basin walls.
He didn’t notice until now that the others had veered off the track some time ago—that he’d been riding alone, not ahead. They milled about the makeshift camp set in the shade of a lone rock formation, and paid little mind when Hunter coasted up to the cluster rigs and tents. He flicked the kill switch beside the left grip, bumping the kickstand down and dismounting in one smooth motion to guide the muddy red bike up to the side of his short trailer.
The radio inside still spewed static down the open ramp door. Whatever station he’d left playing had been reduced to white noise, though by the weather or the container walls, he couldn’t tell.
On days like this, when the sun beat down and the sky was clear, shade offered little help. It was like the arid climate had worked its way into the very fabric of Hunter’s hopelessly untucked black jersey just to follow him into the sandy-floored camper. The outside was rough enough on the eyes—white metal paneling showing through the mutilated old paint job, only really marked by the peeling Marauder Motors sticker beside the tires—but the inside was no marvel either.
Loose tools littered the gridded metal floor, only landmarked by stray cans and bottles. The toolbox and metal workbench secured to the floor on one side had drawers thrown open in a pattern Hunter could never remember the reason for, and his change of clothes was strewn haphazardly over the secondhand camping chair standing beside it. It was a tight fit; even with the bike outside, there was just enough room to move around and hardly enough to reach the cooler on the other side of the tabletop.
Hunter set his helmet down on the workbench and pinched the fingertip of his glove between his teeth, shaking his hand free as he reached for the dented Yeti lid. Between the clustered drinks and the flattened styrofoam takeout containers, its contents practically jumped out. He plucked a narrow Red Bull can from the half-melted chunks of ice and shoved the lid back down.
By now, the spare clothes strewn over the camping chair had been sat on enough that they’d taken the shape of his body. At least, he hardly noticed them as he sank onto the fraying canvas, reaching for his phone on the metal tabletop beside him. Shifting his heavy boots farther apart, he tracked another line of sand across the ground.
3 NEW MESSAGES—3 HOURS AGO
Outside, an engine barked to life. A second followed, and they both grumbled by the open trailer in a blur of blue plastic.
WRECKER—UNNAMED GROUP
TO YOU + 2 OTHERS
1 VIDEO ATTACHMENT
2 MESSAGES
Hunter’s thumb hovered over the notification. After a moment of consideration, he clicked expand.
time to see if you live up to that talk of yours
keeping an 👂out for the results 😎
Read by you, Cross, + Tech
He couldn’t help but heave a sigh, scrolling back up through the rest of the chats. Sent by Wrecker. Read by you, Cross, + Tech. Sent by Wrecker. Read by you, Cross, + Tech. Sent by Wrecker. Read by you, Cross, + Tech.
Hunter hesitated for another second before opening the video, turning the screen sideways for the full picture.
The audio began before the footage itself.
“What can you tell us about the preparation behind today’s race?” asked an unseen voice.
While the phone searched for service, a little white loading circle spun in the middle of the buffering video.
“Well…”
Crosshair stood with his hands in his pockets, wearing a sleek black suit and a smug half smirk to match. Close-cropped white curls sat neatly atop his head. The dark lines of the crosshair tattooed over his right eye were darker than Hunter remembered—refreshed by some pricier, more elegant artist than Tech, he was willing to bet.
“It’s tricky, in a sport like this.” His voice slithered out of him, sharp and low like always, as he looked over whatever reporter stood off-camera with narrow eyes. Even now, he was calculating. Gauging what he was supposed to say next. Anticipating what would keep his image as sharp as the lines of his slender frame. “They say it’s a team effort,” he continued, “but at the end of the day, it’s you, the bike, and the clock. There’s no team there.”
In the brief moment of silence between them, the clamor of other conversations filtered through the microphone. It disappeared. Crosshair tilted his head and shot a sly glance right into the camera’s lens, waiting.
“What can we expect to see out there tonight?” asked the reporter.
The microphone popped back into frame. Hunter fought off a shuddering cringe as he popped the tab on the Red Bull resting on his knee.
“Success,” was Crosshair’s only reply.
Graphics began to slide over the interview—statistics and rankings and a dozen other displays Hunter didn’t much care for—but the clip cut there. With another sigh, he ran a hand down his face, over the skeleton tattoo covering half of his own features.
Right on time, too. Just as he sipped his drink, another rider appeared in the doorway with one stained white boot on the ramp. Hunter glimpsed the Yamaha logo on the front of their jacket, but it was the helmet that gave it away. White plastic with blue paint smeared across the visor in the shape of hawks’ eyes. Tally marks scratched into the otherwise polished surface—one for every win. If he performed any better, Rex would run out of room within the week.
“You ready?” he called, pulling his helmet down over his head.
“You're heading back out already?” Hunter asked, setting down the soda and lunging over the table to grab his glove.
“Can’t let you guys slack off too much,” Rex replied with a shrug. “You’ll fall asleep.”
“You're killin’ me,” muttered Hunter. “Do you always run your team like the Navy?”
“You can complain about that when you’re actually on the team, privateer.” Rex leaned against the door. In the sun, his bleached buzzcut seemed to glow. “Until then, just know they don’t call me the Captain for nothing.”
Hunter stood, knocking his boots against one another, and gave a messy salute.
“I’ll meet you on the track,” said Rex. He gave a vague wave, then turned the 56 on the back of his practice jersey and the hawk eye decals on either of his shoulders to Hunter and walked away.
Snatching up the can again, Hunter chugged the last of the acidic drink and lobbed the empty container at the far wall. It clattered into a pile of at least a dozen others while he smoothed a hand over his hair to push the stray curls hanging in front of his bandana back.
He shifted his weight to one foot and drummed his gloved fingers on the workbench surface. His gaze wandered from his helmet to the board on the wall. To the map pinned up, and the red string crisscrossing the 50 states. He’d already pressed six thumbtacks into the crooked cork board, but the string told the story:
Anaheim. Oakland. San Diego. Anaheim. Glendale. Anaheim. Minneapolis.
It was a chase, by now. The series moved, and he followed, but never quite caught up.
Reaching into the old Altoids tin screwed to the tabletop, he grabbed a sixth. He could have found the next point blindfolded:
Denver.
