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They said he was out of the Well too fast, his spark so eager to speed that he missed his first connection with the protoform and was nearly scrapped before he could cling to it; any discussion about his spark soon turned to speculation that it was pure gold, like the trophies he won over and over before he joined the Elite Guard. And, of course, they were certain that all he liked to do in life was race.
If you asked Blurr himself, he would tell you that his journey out of the Well was just as pleasant as it could be for someone joining a society full of rising political tension; if you wanted to know what color his spark was, well, maybe consider buying him a drink first; and what he liked to do was go, and how he liked to go was fast. That was it, really.
He used to talk fast, too, until he joined the Elite Guard and had it beaten out of him by an overeager sergeant who considered it a weak point. Once he left, he beat it back into himself with a strict regimen of “Do what you slagging well like, Blurr, you only live once.” He’d once had the pleasure of seeing his old sergeant come into his bar and be silently infuriated as he spoke to the customers.
That was another thing that he’d done, after the war; he’d always wanted a bar, and he’d had a lot of money left from racing. In the aftermath of a war, it was the perfect escape. He’d had engex imported, from Camien; after a while, he made it himself. The customers liked it. And it was nice, having something to devote his attention to.
That wasn’t to say that he didn’t still grab his life by the spoiler and make it go as fast as it could. He ran circuits, and he drove underground racing (not too fast, for fear of being noticed). And he talked fast, of course– faster every day, it seemed. Life didn’t seem worth living if he wasn’t barely hanging on to it as it swerved round corners.
There was a lot to focus on, post-war, and he tried to take in as much of it as he could. Elite Guards didn’t have a high survival rate; Wreckers had an even lower one. He knew he was lucky to be alive, even as fast as he was. So he appreciated each day as it came. The one circuit he’d allowed himself to win (by a small margin, of course), the one mech who came in every day and talked to him (Hardhead?), the moments when he reconnected with someone who’d also survived… the moments were many, if he allowed himself to collect them.