Chapter Text
I slipped on my black racing helmet and pulled down the visor before entering the arena. All the racers were required to turn in their vehicles ahead of time to prevent tampering with. Made sense. The big bosses wouldn’t have liked dealing with some rich boy’s whining over his lightly scratched bike. Scuffles were common around here, but I’d yet to see an all-out brawl.
I spotted my hoverbike at the far end of the row. It looked out of place compared to the sleek, perfect machines that were lined up next to it. I smiled slightly. My bike might’ve been a little banged up, but it could outrun almost everyone and everything here.
There were people filling the seats overlooking the track. All of them were here either by word of mouth, or they were regulars. Unregistered hoverbike racing was strictly against the law, especially if it involved placing bets.
I’d never been one to care much for the rules.
I headed over to the burly man giving all the entrants a stink-eye. He raised an eyebrow as I approached. I nodded sharply in return.
“Back for another round, Hashtag?” the man asked.
Anonymity was important in places like this. Hence the helmet and the nickname. The same went for the man; all the racers just knew him as “Junior.” Quite ironic, if you asked me.
I grinned, even though no one could see it. “You know me, Junior,” I said. “I simply love the spotlight.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he grunted. “Well, go on. Get your precious little bike to the starting line.”
“Why so sour, old man?”
He scowled at me despite his upturned lips. “Still don’t know why someone like you is in a place like this.”
Survival, I thought silently, but I shrugged. “I’m here for the thrill,” I said flippantly.
“All the young ones are,” he muttered to himself, then tried to shoo me away.
“Wait, wait,” I said, then leaned forward conspiratorily. “How much did they bet on me this time?”
He snorted. “I’m not gonna tell you that.”
“Please?”
His eyes twitched. “No.”
I crossed my arms and waited. Contrary to popular belief, Junior wasn’t as tough as he looked.
“Fine,” he relented after a moment, then glanced around furtively. “I heard there’s five thousand on you alone.”
My eyes widened. Five thousand? How much did these guys have to spare? Then again, it wasn’t my concern. Money meant being able to pay rent and buy food for another week.
“It must be because you won last week,” he said. “And the week before that, and before that…”
“Well, I only have a three-win streak for now,” I said. I had a lot more wins beside that, but I wasn’t invincible. There were older, more experienced racers around here. I’d only been in the game for two years.
Junior looked up at the track. I turned to follow his gaze. A few guys had already brought their bikes to the starting line. The race was due to begin any minute now.
“I’d best be going,” I told Junior. “Good talk.”
“Same to you,” he replied. “Oh, and Hashtag?”
I whirled around to face him, still walking backwards towards the line of hoverbikes. “Yeah?”
“I put my money on you. Thought you might wanna know.”
I waved at him with two fingers; it was a symbol of membership. If you raced here, you didn’t race anywhere else. You didn’t need to. Every competent racer took home a cut of the money, but how much depended on how good you were.
I swung into my hoverbike’s seat and powered her on. It hummed to life, the displays lighting up in front of me. I swiped through the screens to check its vitals. I’d filled the tank before dropping it off earlier in the day, but it didn’t hurt to make sure. Despite the safety precautions, there were still some bad apples running around here and there.
The flagman was already in his box, pacing back and forth impatiently. The other racers turned as I approached the starting line. I nodded to them, and they gave me the two-fingered wave in return. I knew most of these guys, and they knew me for sure. “Hashtag” was a common and somewhat feared presence here.
The flagman waved a red flag. On your mark. My bike’s handlebars felt cool under my gloved hands. I began to tune out the noise, like I always did every time I took to the track.
Yellow flag. Get set.
I’d barely registered the flash of green before I took off. Go.
First to finish ten laps won. It was pretty straightforward. The first five or so went by in a blur. There weren’t other racers. There weren’t people in the stands. It was just me, my bike, and the track in front of me.
Around lap seven, the others began to catch up. One of them tried to ram his bike into mine. Needless to say, he wasn’t successful. I swerved to avoid crashing into him and quickly righted my course once I pulled ahead.
The race became more fun after that. People started to crash. Aggression heated up. I welcomed the conflict; this was the part of the race I lived for. The bike was practically an extension of my body. I sped through narrow gaps, tilted this way and that to avoid crashing. (Nobody likes crashing. Wastes precious time.) In moments like these, I could almost imagine that I was flying.
I approached the end of the last lap. It was the home stretch now. The checkered flag hung over the track, ready to swoop down. There was no one else next to me.
Closer—
Closer—
Closer—
The flagman blew his whistle as I flew across the finish line. The audience erupted in cheers. I slowed my bike to a halt, watching as the rest of the racers joined me. I could hear the gossiping begin.
“Hashtag won again—”
“That makes his streak four!”
“How old even is he?”
“His bike’s not even that good! How does he do it?”
I wheeled my bike around to the collector’s table. He smirked as I approached. “Here for your cut?” he asked.
“You know it,” I replied.
He handed me a bag that gave a satisfying jingle as I took it. “There was seven thousand on you today,” he said. “Your cut’s a fourth of it, as usual. Congrats.”
I nodded and waved with two fingers. “Thanks.”
The collector squinted at me. “I’ve always got the feeling you’re not old enough for this crap.”
I gestured to the bag. “I’m winning, right?”
He shrugged. He couldn’t really be complaining about all the money that was rolling in because of Hashtag. Because of me.
I glanced around the track one last time. Most of the other racers had taken their helmets off, shaking out the sweat, laughing and talking with each other. I couldn’t afford myself the same luxury. I swung up onto my bike and left quietly, like I always did.
**********
New Veridian had been my home for the past six years. The city’s numerous billboards and glowing shop signs bathed the whole area in a neon glow. I threaded my way through the traffic, earning lots of annoyed remarks and glares. I didn’t mind; actively dodging moving vehicles helped me strengthen my reflexes.
I parked my hoverbike in a secured garage and slid off my helmet, running a hand through my hair. I walked out and stared up at the dingy apartment I called home. It was just my, myself and I in a sorry one-bedroom studio, but I made it work. Rent was the cheapest in the city.
As I began the climb up to my flat, the hairs on my neck stood up. I’d learned a long time ago to always trust my instincts, so I whirled around without warning and pointed my laser gun behind me.
The man looked, by all accounts, normal. A little skinnier than I would’ve imagined for someone his height, but otherwise unassuming. Early twenties, if I had to guess his age. He was dressed in a dull green jacket with yellow accents around the sleeves, unzipped to show a gray shirt underneath. His blue eyes and light brown skin gleamed in the harsh light of the stairwell. His brown hair was thin, clinging to his head.
He held up his hands, giving me a charming grin. I narrowed my eyes at him. “You followed me,” I said flatly. It was a statement, not a question.
His smile broadened. “So I did,” he replied. “Are you the one known as Hashtag?”
“Depends. Who’s asking?”
“Someone who has your best interests at heart.”
I raised an eyebrow, letting out an incredulous laugh. “You? My interests? No one’s given a crap about me for my whole life.”
The man nodded to his hands. “Can I put my arms down now? They’re starting to ache.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, lowering my gun. “Get lost. And don’t follow me again.”
“Wait,” he said as I began climbing the stairs again. Despite myself, I turned back to face him. His brows were knitted together in an emotion I couldn’t quite place. Pity? Confusion? Fear?
“I have an offer for you,” he said. “Just hear me out.”
I was still confused as to why a guy had decided to follow me, or what kind of offer he could have for a scrappy teenager, but something about him told me that he was telling the truth.
“Fine,” I relented. “Might as well come inside.”
After climbing a few more flights, the mysterious man following closely behind, we arrived at flat number 507. I fished my key out of a pocket and unlocked the door.
My flat was tiny. I had barely enough room for a mattress (no bed frame, too expensive) and a comfy chair. A kitchenette and tiny pantry was off to the side. As we walked in, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Blue eyes, fair skin, and wavy black hair stared back at me.
“First order of business,” I said as I shut the door behind me. “Who the hell are you?”
“My apologies for not introducing myself sooner,” the man said. “Since we’re loving the theme of nicknames right now, you can call me Sharpshooter.”
I snorted. “I don’t see a gun on you.”
“Well, my bayard’s kind of gone now,” the man—Sharpshooter—muttered, “but I still have exceptional aim, thank you.”
“What’s a bayard?”
“Never mind that,” Sharpshooter said dismissively. “Anyway, I saw you racing today. You have real potential, you know that?”
“I know I’m good,” I said. “What were you doing in an illegal racing ring?”
“My friend convinced me to go,” Sharpshooter admitted. “We came to New Veridian for a short trip, and she said she heard about it on the dark web, so…”
“How interesting."
“Yes.” He frowned. “Anyway, you’re a natural at this kind of thing. The reflexes. The awareness. The control you had over the bike. Anyone can learn to drive, but that kind of skill…” He shook his head. “You have to be born with that.”
“I appreciate the flattery,” I said, crossing my arms. “Where are you going with this?”
He grinned. “What’s your opinion on flying?”
I froze, convinced that I’d heard him wrong. “Excuse me?”
“Flying,” he repeated. “As in pilots, planes, space travel—”
“I know what you mean,” I interrupted. “I’m not stupid. Get to the point, or get out.”
“I work for the Galaxy Garrison,” Sharpshooter said. My eyes widened, and he continued. “As far as I can tell, you don’t go to school, which could be a potential issue. However, if I sponsor your entry into the Garrison, you can train as a cadet.” He offered me a warm smile. “You can become a pilot.”
It sounded too good to be true. “What’s the catch?” I demanded.
“There isn’t one.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“This kind of thing’s happened before,” he explained. He was remarkably patient, although I got the feeling he hadn’t always been like this. “Most cadets have to pass a rigorous entrance exam to get into the Garrison. But sometimes, we identify individuals with extreme talent. We can sponsor their entry into the program. Of course, the stakes would be higher for them, but I think you can handle it.”
Sharpshooter looked around the tiny area. “Where are your parents?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Haven’t known for the past thirteen years.”
“Oh.” He looked guilty. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, getting a banana from the tiny kitchen. I peeled it and took a bite. “I’m not sorry, so you shouldn’t be either.”
“I see.” We were silent for a few moments, then he spoke again. “So? What do you think?”
If there was one thing I learned since striking out alone, it was to never trust anyone. Normally, this would’ve been no exception. But my mind kept going back to the little boy I’d once been. The boy that spent his first years on the streets sleeping on rooftops, staring up at the night sky and desperately hoping to somehow, someday, find a way to fly among the stars. I owed it to that little boy to help his first and biggest dream come true.
“I’m in,” I found myself telling Sharpshooter.
He grinned, and I offered a small smile in return. I still didn’t trust him completely, but he was giving me a chance to be something more. I couldn’t just disregard that.
“Meet me at the airport tomorrow by eighteen hundred hours,” he said. “There’ll be a Garrison fighter there. It’s mine. Bring your necessities, but keep it light. Not more than one bag. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“I’ll see you around then, Hashtag.” He headed towards the door. His hand was on the doorknob when I spoke.
“It’s Caz.”
“Huh?” He turned to look at me, confused.
“My real name is Caz Winchell.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Caz,” he said. “I’m Lance. Lance McClain.”