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The real perk of Enoch Bast being his (rival, best friend, professional commentator of bullshit and shenanigans) partner, in Marcus' opinion, is having a live audience.
There's just something about that deadpan, are-you-for-real tone in his ears that makes everything that much sweeter, somehow. Makes it seem exciting and new. After being undefeated for so long, Marcus craves that – novelty. It's a bit of a thrill, really: the crackle of the comm in his ears, the urge to laugh and taunt back. It's all very distracting. Can't afford any distraction in a race, but it's way too much fun to be worth complaining about it.
Marcus would even say he misses it when they're both racing and Enoch stays silent, keeps his head in the game...
Of course, racing each other is its own joy.
Fortunately, Enoch isn't competing today. Marcus intends to give him a worthy spectacle.
"What the hell are you doing?"
He grins as Enoch's voice explodes in disbelief in his ears. He's thrown his sparrow in reverse at the first blow of the starting whistle. He leans to the side, spins the bird once, twice, dust settling back as the rest of the pilots disappear off in the distance. Marcus lines the tip of his vehicle back with the road, curls his fingers loosely around the gear lever, and settles his left foot back on the pedal.
"Giving them a fighting chance," he replies – too loud for the mic, probably, but he's too keyed up to care.
He flicks his sparrow into second gear, twists the throttle, and rips off down the tracks.
Here's the thing about racing sparrows: unlike the ones used by active duty guardians, they have manual control – but since the feet are used strictly to steer, the gear shifter has been moved from the pedal to the left hand. Every shift is blind; pilots are meant to keep careful count so as to efficiently change up and down gear as they negotiate tight turns without ever looking away from the road.
Marcus doesn't care for that.
He switches gears as quickly as his sparrow's acceleration will allow. He doesn't register the click of each successive switch; even the minute shift of his feet to keep in a straight line is muscle memory entirely. His conscious focus is set entirely on the few stragglers at the back of the pack that he's already gaining on, and on the constant stream of muttered expletives from Enoch. His smile grows at the sound. The gear shift clicks one last time and doesn't move further. He takes his hand off it entirely, leaning forward, as flat against his machine as he can. The wind whistles sharply as he whizzes past other sparrows, the rumble of their engine snatched away by his speed.
Three more competitors fan out in front of him. He weaves between them, draws level with the frontmost. They drive shoulder to shoulder for a few long second. There's a hairpin turn next, he can–
Flicking down a single gear, Marcus kicks his left foot and veers around the corner in a nearly 180 turn. His sparrow swerves before he rights himself. He took that one too fast– he knows it, the other pilots know it, but most importantly Enoch knows it, and he lets out an astounded huff of laughter right in his ears in response to it. High risk... And high reward: the move left the more cautious pilots a little behind, and Marcus' headway is only growing as he shifts gear once more.
The track flies past in a roar of wind and engine. Marcus' world narrows to the narrow stretch of beaten dirt, the menacing hum of his competition catching up to him, and the jump coming up.
He yells into his headset, "Are you watching buddy?"
The reply comes breathlessly and bright, " 'Course I am!"
Showtime, then.
Marcus attacks the ramp a millisecond behind the two leading pilots. The engine lets out a high-pitched, electrical whine as he pushes the throttle further than it's meant to go just as his sparrow leaves the ground and takes flight. He sails past the frontrunners – feels like he's the only one up there for a second. His smile grows and his grip on the handles loosens. To no one else's but himself, he mouths, Ready...
And kicks off his sparrow, sending it careening forward and himself into the air in a beautiful, insane curve. He can see the other pilots suspended upside down in the air, beautiful and shiny like bullets frozen in time. For a moment, it's like gravity is optional – like he's reached escape velocity and is just going to keep rising higher and higher until he drifts off into space.
Or maybe it's Enoch's whoop of delight echoing in his headset that has him feeling that way.
Then his own momentum catches up to him. Noise slams back into him as he finishes his backflip in a dizzying spin of colors and starts free falling. Marcus keeps his arms against his body, makes himself a slim, straight line shooting down through the atmosphere. He crashes back on top of his sparrow as it's still in the air and they slam into the ground together, swerving wildly as he fumbles to right himself, already tearing down the straits blind and half off his seat. He barely manages to keep his grasp on it as they barrel down the final stretch. It shoots from under him the moment he crosses the finish line; he skids a good few yards before managing to tuck himself into a proper roll, and his sparrow bounces until it collides with a fence and finally stops.
The ringing in Marcus' ears abates long before Enoch's laughter does, and he finds himself echoing it before he's even caught his breath, shaking with elation and adrenaline and intense joy that has nearly nothing to do with the race he's just won.
Yeah, he's the best alright. No one else can make Enoch sound like that.