Cold streets were dampened by light rain in the vibrant orange lights that spread down the street. Each streetlight flickered, blooming through the mists as bright star like flowers, and then they burnt out from overheating their old components, vanishing through the night. The sidewalks were packed with many bustling street racers, partying well into midnight. These racers weren't the kind that rode steel carriages; the creatures held no emotion, no flare, only the relentless combustion of their searing fuel. These very few were: the Free Racers.
Free Racing within Rain City was highly illegal. It caused commotion and disrupted the daily business of the markets and roadways. It wasn't exactly safe either. Many people who participated within the race, more often then not, lost their grip or step, then career perilously off a building or even crash into many sturdy brick walls.
To make it even more interesting for the so-called hip hooligans, the older generations are calling them, is quite possibly the most insane thing that's ever been engineered. As is, the most dangerous thing that was ever designed to go on your feet: A pair of motorized running skates that anyone was afraid to get wet. They were manufactured to skim across the surface of damp concrete. The soles of the shoes had an incredibly slick material, where when wet, didn't possess any grip and the reverse if they were dry. To help propel the daring Free Runner even faster through the streets and perhaps into the closest morgue, a series of fusion powered motors, which controlled steady streams of neon plasma.
Cash pool prizes weren't uncommon in this nightlife entertainment. In fact, it was almost a necessity. The runners would nearly burn through an entire energy cell within a few hours of use. They were quite expensive to produce, including the anti radiation therapy that must be conducted straight after the big races.
An air horn was set off, declaring the beginning of the first race of the New Year. Tim's fear quickly rose within his veins as he rallied around with another half dozen racers near the starting line. The racer next to Tim, that was female, gave him a quick stare and snarled through a series of metal rings and jangling earrings. He backed away from her immediately with a light yelp and bumped into another racer that was next to him.
"Watch it, mate." The racer grabbed Tim from under his arms as he awkwardly fell through the crowd, hoisting him back up to his feet. Tim quickly turned around and seen a man who was possibly in his early thirties. He had short stubbled, black hair and a well-kept beard. He was well built and could of possibly crushed Tim with his burly arms.
"Thanks for the catch. I'm Tim." He said, then gazed back to the pierced woman, who was laughing rather loudly, even if she was trying to force herself not to.
"Not a problem. I'm Gabriel, by the way." A thick palm of meat anchored its way towards Tim. He politely accepted it into a handshake, as he had done so, he'd felt as if he his hand was being crushed by a metal vice.
A series of cheers suddenly erupted from a crowd, as they swarmed over an unknown figure. The person was short, thin and their hair combed all the way back into a ledge of spikes and bleached dark blue. The figure stepped up to a stage that was temporally placed along the side of the street. He slightly flicked his monochrome glasses away from his face and gleamed with a smile.
"Now that's what I call a douche bag." Gabriel had whispered to Tim, leaning in slightly, while still keeping his eyes on the new arrival. Tim chuckled in a fit, releasing him of his past fears.
"Yeah. Who is he anyway?" Tim had managed to ask, while forcing back the laughter.
"His one of the most famous Free Racers around. Didn't you know that?" Gabriel said. Tim just looked him in the eye and looked blank
"Him? A famous Free Racer? You've got to be kidding." Tim had said in a raised voice, staring at the posing man (kissing his biceps) with an eyebrow fixed aloft. Gabriel laughed and crossed his arms, nearly knocking Tim out with their hulking swings.
"Yes, it's hard to believe." He said. "But his got heaps of money, because his a son of a rich man."
"So, that's why his famous?" Tim asked, while suddenly being distracted with a horrifying sight of the man, bemusing himself with his tongue to his exposed nipple.
"His freaking Crazy!" Tim yelled, closing his eyes.
"Yes. His a real weirdo, but he pays most of the prize money in the races." Gabriel said, staring at the man partaking in another bicep kiss.
"Welcome, Free Racers, to another exiting year, that's going to be filled with absolute epic oblivion!" the man yelled across the sea of spectators. They responded in a bursting crescendo of screaming, jumping and slight trampling of the smaller people.
"I, Slick Slade, will make sure this will be the wildest, sexiest ride you'll ever partake in." He said, while performing a double bird and outstretching his tongue and hands through the air.
"Today's race will be set around the, Parkimono Plaza. First one to run around the monument of king Blunt Nose and return wins."
"Be ready, and stay beautiful." Slick Slade had announced, assuming that was the signal for the race to finally begin. He flipped his monochrome glasses back over his eyes and strode off with two women wrapped around his arms. The small stage was hauled away and the crowd had dispersed to the sides.
Everyone had prepped a mad vault like stance, as if preparing not to stumble upon his or her own faces. Gabriel quickly glanced over to Tim
"Good luck to you, mate." He said while in the awkward stance.
"You too." Tim quickly replied and just as swiftly performed a tricky manoeuvre that resembled a fist bump.
A man standing to the side of a rather large container with a swirling barrel had gripped a large metal leaver on its side. He was stout, donned a moustache that curled around his cheeks and looked rather bedazzling, roared at the top of his lungs.
"Ready?" he screamed. A voice that was heard faintly across the crowd could have been a reply of 'not yet', but it fell on deaf ears.
"Too bad!" He yelled, yanking the leaver forcefully down towards the street. The barrel tipped. Water burst across the streets surface, swamping the feet of the racers. The souls of the roller skates had turned to the liquid lubrication, and the plasma jets that were set to the back of the heels automatically kicked in. A rather unpleasant scream was heard erupting from two or three rows from behind Tim. It was recommended to give each contestant at least, three or four metres before the race had commenced. Obviously, he had not.
It was like skating on ice, but faster and more lethal. Everyone had separated off into separate paths, yet Tim was left with the woman from before. Gabriel leapt past a passing car, nearly crushing it, then sped down a well lit shopping street to the East.
It was just Tim and this woman. She was quite an infamous Racer in the Free Racing world, named Kala. She'd been said to be in the close proximity of four murder mysteries, that couldn't be explained. Even in the future, CSI still doesn't work like that.
The two skated down a brightly lit street, jumping past countless, obscure, blurring objects, which may have been series of bins, gutters and even homeless men. Kala gripped a signpost, bending it through the air like a liquorice stick. She planted both feet through Tim's chest. He screamed sharply and was quickly winded, letting his silent lips let out the word, bi-. He spun franticly along his side and through a shop window. Kala performed a U-turn and sped off down the street.
"Freaking Badgers, crashing through my windows again." A deep voice growled, scuffed his feet across the wooden floors of his shop. Tim was in pure agony, and now a new pain was making its self more aware than all the others. A thick jab to his cheek continued its assault until Tim had brushed it away with a heavy hand. He wearily stared at an old bearded man, greyed with age and bleached with madness. Wearing just a thick leather apron with bits of metal doodads and curious knickknacks, hanging out of loose pockets. He was holding an old bristle broom by its end and poking the handle end into him.
"Looks like you're going to be fine." He said, with a beam continuing a lively stab.
"Yes, just fine." He repeated.