GASOLINE & ASPHALT, the smell of desperation for anything more than what was given, neon painting the backdrop. Everyone is there, the sleek Avant Garde buildings of Corpo Plaza tower over them, teammates, solo riders, souls that wish to show off their expensive rides - they’re all gathered. Underground zines, fans of particular riders, nothing changes. In the middle of it all, the usual polished PR representative wears another skin.
A metal flask, worn, used a thousand times carrying a concotion that tasted too bitter, herbal. It swells within his stomach as he laughs perfectly on cue to play up an image of anything but the ruthless yet suave face of Militech’s new golden era. Crushed velvet suits in hues of dark merlot or striking blue, smoky liner & a grin too wicked with a devilishly nonchalant air. When the public questioned this new approach, he was the one to assure them, gone are the days of bravado & masculanity that allied itself with dominance. In this new reign, the striking confidence that moved with precision & charisma held enough power.
His attention is on another rider, exchanging pleasantries in native tongues, speaking too fast with a timbre that was molten. That was until his interest was piqued, cute, the wave that was overly joyous & sweet, though she looked like a soul that could feed him back his heart as he asked for more. In one fluid motion, he moves to shrug the old leather jacket back on, the striking contrast of matte white chrome against all black. “Taking it you’re not here to race” of course not, anyone who was partial to such ventures was either hitting full psychosis, had nothing to lose, or just another gonk high on the delusion of cheap eddies & easy glory.
At least this is what he told himself, anything to sate the need for adrenaline in his veins & a cold drink in his hand after, cheap liquor or bottles that were obscenely expensive, they all begin to blur as one. “What can I do for you, dove? Don’t ask for a ride, we’re not that personal yet” a sharp grin despite the lazy nature, honey brown eyes that glimmer with mischief, dangerous creatures, that’s what they were. His head tilting to the side, a mane of ice blonde following, she looked like trouble & he was always happy to be a victim of it.
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