BACKBITERS

oo. ace - part one

oo. ace
part one

THE ENGINE PURRS IN A WAY that compliments the handlebar fitting snugly into your hands. The helmet you're wearing should be suffocating as it's tight around the base of your neck, but it isn't. You're more suffocated at the thought that you're eighteen, barely into legality, and the rich feeds on you risking your future as you leave your opponents in the dust of the asphalt tracks.

You're eighteen, and you speed past the yellow green hoverbike ahead of you. You take a sharp turn, your tires screeching against the asphalt highway. You're eighteen — a little too reckless, and you drive like your sister isn't watching.

(She's not.)

Your name is given by strangers. They call you Ace— not because it means anything to the people cheering for your victory as you race past the checkered flags. The only reason they cheer for you is because you bring them money. They call you Ace because they can't be bothered to call you anything else. It's either that or zero-zero-zero-two-two-two-nine.

You think you chose the lesser evil.

But the philosophy of the rich is horrible for people like you.

You're eighteen and your name is Akira but nobody in the crowd knows that. To them you are their entertainment — only existing for them because you can win the races and win them a good fortune. You're eighteen, barely legal, and your ear rings when you hear yourself declared as the winner on the loud thumping speakers.

Your name is Akira, and you've long forgotten how to write the Kanji of your name or the culture your parents grew up in. All you know is this city, and the barriers that divide its people.

"A new record," Neo says with a clap, appearing at your side. You toss the stuffy helmet into her arms as you jump off the hoverbike, and she hands you a bottle of water.

You glance up at the small screen before the crowd and it makes your nose wrinkle.

ACE: Ten minutes and seven seconds.

You wipe your sweaty brows using your gloves hands and take a small sip from the cool water, eyeing Neo's newly half-shaven head. "New hair cut?"

Neo nods flicking a lock of her black hair away from the right side of her face. The harsh lights of the race track illuminates her pale skin, the lids of her small eyes are painted a smokey purple and her mouth doesn't shy away from scowling. Even then, she's beautiful— always has been beautiful and you know this. But somehow, she isn't your type. "You earned a lot from this race. What're you gonna do now, hotshot?"

"I'm gonna go back to the program and study — it's already near curfew."

She raises an eyebrow at your statement. "The program could be the least of your worries."

Your eyes narrow at her words. The 'could' in her words is added to the list of your worries. "It's still something to worry about."

"My scholarship won't maintain itself," you add as an afterthought.

You don't think Neo understands. You're sure of it. It's hard for them to understand your world. After all, the rich are not the easiest to talk to.