And then, Leg One...
------------------
Sylamore, Larryia
0930 Local Time
Concrete shimmers with heat on a sweltering August day as the 15th Annual Transnational Road Race prepares to open.
The temperature has already hit three digits but the crowd gathered to send off the racers is massive, lining the old section of freeway that serves as the race’s starting point. Spectators run the gamut from bikini-clad young girls jumping and screaming their approval of things, to much calmer elderly folk, most of whom are being fretted over by heat-fearing relatives.
The noise level explodes when the first racers make their way into the starting area. There are perhaps one hundred individual entrants, and each gets a raucous greeting, though it’s the ‘big ten’, the racers who, for whatever reason, have attracted the public eye prior to this point.
The first of these to ease their car onto the starting ramp is Laura Blair. A late entry into the contest, she’s attracted the spotlight mostly due to an ill-timed burst of temper at a recent press conference. The dark-haired Larryian has a cigarette hanging casually from her mouth, giving her an uncaring air, but she smiles and waves boisterously at the crowd. She’s at pole-position, today, an advantage granted by random draw.
Next up, following a few lesser-known competitors, is Prince George Von Brightonburg. Heat or no heat, he’s dressed in his old-school leather racing suit, and a long white scarf is wrapped about his neck. He responds to the crowd as a noble greeting commoners, though it’s also noted that he winks and waggles his ample mustache at several young Larryian women is well. The crowd is still cheering, but there are some chuckles when he eases himself into the tiny Modified Racer he’s using; Larryia is muscle car country, after all.
There’s less disapproval of the next racer’s ‘little car’. Larryians are deeply fond and protective of their Ponkapaugi neighbors, and so Toomblee’s silver, needle-shaped projectile is the object of curiosity, not derision even though if it were any smaller it'd be a motorcycle. The wild-haired Kobald emerges from her car to do a final check-over, and stares, wide-eyed at the assembled throng. It takes her a moment to wave shyly back, but then she treats her fans to a few acrobatic cartwheels. There’s a blizzard of applause, almost drowning out the next racer’s entrance.
Wade Gree is as quiet as his press releases, and seems to be making an effort to not attract much attention. His Aston-Martin doesn’t have the loud paint job of many of the other racers, and he himself is dressed to blend more than promote. Despite this, he gets his share of cheers. As the ‘mysterious Wellutrian immigrant’, he’s a bit of an underdog, and Larryians love underdogs.
There’s a throaty rumble as Krazy Red Karver pulls his vintage Camaro into the starting area, and the crowd noise swells again. Despite the rumors of odd behavior, despite his highly public tiffs with his wife Linda (blonde, blue-eyed, and sitting in the passenger seat with a disapproving expression), he’s still got a rather large fan base. He emerges from his ostentatiously painted car, waving at the crowd, paying special attention to a group of young, scantily clad girls holding up a sign declaring them to be ‘Karver’s Kuties’. His wife also emerges, cutting short her husband’s long-distance flirting with some angry body language and an inaudible (due to the crowd and engine noise) tirade. Karver’s shoulder’s slump as he turns away from the Kutie’s and open’s his car hood. A gust of wind catches his ball cap and blows it away, exposing his bald spot.
There’s a flash of red as the next competitor comes up too fast, but she brings her cherry-red Jaguar XK-E to a flawless halt without any noticable effort. Duchess Lena van der Prutt leaps from her convertible and poses for the assembly of Larryian’s, who cheer wildly and at great length. Half-Larryian, and the daughter of a well-loved superstar, it’d be odd if she wasn’t popular with these folk, but even without those advantages, it’s likely her ostentatious behavior and her svelte figure, shown off to great advantage by a white catsuit, would have attracted a large share of admirers. She puts her red hair up into a scarf as she begins checking over her car.
Krazy Red Karver looks up at the Dutchess and grins appreciatively. She rewards him with a wink before an open-handed smack from his wife Linda diverts his attention.
The driver of the deep-green Aston-Martin DB9 who pulls in next is less emotive, but manages to convey a certain likability with his relaxed posture and confident gaze. Commander Duncan Hawke, captain of Her Majesty’s Ship Kingfisher and on leave from the Devon’s Island Navy, often has that effect. He’s dressed simply, in loose and cool white shirt and loose and cool tan pants. The crowd is approving; he’s a sailor, and in Larryia, that tends to score points.
There’s less cheering when the electric-blue 1978 Camaro rumbles up. It’s not that the crowd doesn’t like Lynn Cutter; it’s that they know next to nothing about her. Still, there’s plenty of applause; she’s a Larryian driving a car with some teeth, after all. After the applause comes the catcalls when Cutter herself emerges. Clad in a tight-black tank-top, cowboy hat, and form-fitting blue jeans, the Larryian driver cuts a memorable figure.
Two people emergy from the black Chevy Bel-Air that comes up next. One is almost unnaturally slim and pale despite an ample chest, and displays most of what she’s got in a microscopic black-vinyl dress. The other is just as busty, but with healthy curves that seem to be well-concealed despite her being dressed for the heat. The pale girl is Nero. The other, bespectacled, redheaded and a bit overwhelmed is Clarissa McDonnell. They have some fans; one group of front-row spectators, dressed mostly in leather collars, leashes, and other BDSM accoutrements, is holding up a sign marked ‘Nero’s Dogs’. Nero poses a bit for her fans, vamping it up and at one point lifting her skirt enough to reveal her thong. Clarissa leans on the car, blushing and hiding her face, unaware that this gives some amateur photographers a chance at some grand cleavage shots that’ll be on the internet in less than an hour.
Finally, almost last in the starting order, is the blonde-headed Kieric, Deitrich Kell. The cheering doesn’t die, but it reduces notably in volume. The arrogant Kiermark driver hasn’t won too many converts in Larryia, thanks to some untactful interviews and a car choice seen as a somewhat effete. Still, he’s here and willing to race, so there’s little booing. Kell himself doesn’t bother to wave to the crowd as he starts his final check. His long hair is wilted from the heat, his pale skin is pinker than usual, and he generally seems ill-at-ease with the heat and humidity. His final check goes well, and he retreats into the safety of his air-conditioned Vektor K8.
The last few competitors are introduced, and by 10:30, all is ready. The loudspeaker thunders with the command ‘Ladies and Gentlemen…start…your…engines!’ and the cars begin to roar. The noise is intense, almost defeaning. Over a mile away, windows rattle and pets howl with discomfort.
Hands tighten on steering wheels. Teeth grind in anticipation. A red light turns yellow.
Eyes flick to other drivers, the road ahead. Tiny amounts of pressure are applied to accelerator pedals, just to break that initial resistance.
The yellow light turns green.
Cars fling themselves forward, accelerating down the abandoned freeway. It’s a mass, hive-like motion at first as the pack is too close together to really take off, but that doesn’t last long. Tiny amounts of distance are gained or lost. Small openings present themselves for racers to slide their cars through, and while the collection of cars stays close, the first signs of the break-up appear.
Wade Gree notices a oppurtunity and cuts between two lesser-known racers. Ahead of him is the midnight-blue Dodge driven by Laura Blair, the silver dart that belongs to Toomblee. He carefully applies some acceleration and his sleek Aston-Martin passes both cars. Blair, tossing her cigarette out her open window, puts her right foot down a little more and stays close to the Wellutrian. Toomblee merely keeps pace. The three cars move forward, ahead of the mass of other racers. Ahead of everyone.
Some of the others aren’t far behind though; Prince Brightonburg’s tiny racer weaves and ducks through tiny openings, it’s small-for-this-race engine more than adequate to push the lightweight car up to impressive speeds. People react to his ducking and dodging, though, and the openings he slides through broaden with his passage…enough, in most cases, for Krazy Red Karver to follow him through, displaying the concentration and quick-thinking that made him a champion racer a few years back.
Behind them, there’s a three-way tussle between Lynn Cutter, Duncan Hawke, and Duchess Van der Prutt. They’re in the eye of the storm, a clear area where the pack has parted, providing some ‘play room’, and the Camaro, Aston-Martin, and Jaguar jockey for the best position. Hawke slides past Cutter only to be cut off by the Dutchess’ sprightly Jaguar, but the distraction allows Cutter a chance to use her car’s muscle and sprint past them both…until another car blocks her, and Hawke speeds past her…then the Dutchess blocks him again until Cutter once again siezes the advantage…the duel continues.
Farther back, Dietrich Kell fumes as he finds himself unable to advance, blocked continually by the Chevy Bel-Air driven by the Goth Girl and her shy friend. It wouldn’t matter much, since ahead of him, the pack is solid, and there’s no way, yet, to pass. The Goth Girl sticks her tounge out at him at one particular moment. He’s not sure what to think about her tongue-piercing.
This state of affairs, this automotive status-quo, however, changes in an eyeblink.
Wade Gree is drawing ahead of Brown and the Kobald, will ahead of everyone. An early lead doesn’t mean much in this particular race, considering the distances involved, but it’s still an advantage, and one the ‘Wellutrian’ driver intends to parley into a million Larryian dollars. Then his lead evaporates. His steering turns muddy, his car swings to-and-fro for no reason he can determine until the rapid thumping of a flat tire begins to shake the entire car. It isn’t a blowout. He doesn’t flip or spin into the divider, and he manages to lose enough speed that he’s in no danger of such…except that there’s a whole passel of cars who’re moving at eyeblink speeds right behind him. He veers and turns, suddenly frightened eyes riveted to the rear-view mirror.
Brown and Toomblee, speeding close together, split, neatly avoiding the out-of-control Aston Martin. The pack reaches Kree about then, and one car, a Mustang of some stripe, clips him, which doesn’t help his control problems. Prince Von Brightonburg narrowly avoids a collision. Karver, just behind him, does as well.
It’s Lynn Cutter who has the first hard-hitting encounter with Kree. She’s in the middle of a pass, another attempt to get past Hawke and Pratt once and for all. There’s no real way for her to avoid Kree’s wild car, but she almost manages it anyway, just barely grazing him. It takes out a headlight, but the solid-steel construction of her ‘70’s era pony car limits the damage. It does, however, send her off the right side of the road. Fortunately, there’s nothing there but grass and a shallow ditch, and she brings the car to a halt without further mishap. The Dutchess and the ship captain’s duel becomes one-on-one, for the moment.
Nero sees the Aston-Martin coming at her, and tries to avoid it, but thanks to some tricks of physics, she doesn’t quite manage it. The Bel-Air, even more solid than Cutter’s Camaro, doesn’t even flinch when it brushes Kree’s car, but small forces have big results at such speeds, and the Murdermobile flies toward the same ditch Cutter now resides in. Cutter watches, with some amusement, as the big, black Chevy barrel past her, into the a muddy section of shoulder, and spins, throwing muck everywhere.
Meanwhile, Gree’s car has struck a minor racer. It’s T-Bone collision, and sparks and metal fly. Other cars become involved, and the wreck becomes a pile-up. Dietrich Kell avoids a nasty fate when he brakes, pulls a classic bootlegger turn, and ends up speeding the opposite direction for a moment before he turns again, determined to use the removal of certain obstacles to his advantage. He seethes when he realizes that the road, and thanks to Cutter, the ditch, is almost completely blocked. He might take solace in the fact that his expert reactions just bought him a few points with the Larryian spectators, if he knew about it.
Ambulances and wreckers come forward. Gree is pulled out of his car, unhurt thanks to the usual racing safety devices. The ‘Wellutrian’ racer takes a look at the wreckage that was his car. No one else is looking for fine details, but his trained eye notices the single neat hole in his front tire. Had he not taken the precaution of reinforcing his tires, he would probably have died. As it happened…his paranoia has left him alive and, if he can find another vehicle, still in the race.
Cutter simply drives her Camaro out of the ditch and speeds up, managing to get fairly close, once-again, to the Dutchess Hawke, who continue to jockey for the lead position. Brightonburg and Karver are ahead of the rest of the pack now, the Prince slightly ahead, but nervously eyeing his rear-view mirror as the Larryian and his wife breathe on his bumper.
At the very forefront of the string of racers, Blair and Toomblee try desperately to get an advantage on the other. At the very end, Nero and Clarissa, with the help of Nero’s Dogs, push their Bel-Air out of the muddy ditch. Kell waits for enough wreckage to be cleared and roars on, passing the Larryian women as they work to get their car back on the road. He noticed they’re following within moments, and narrows his eyes.
CURRENT POSITIONS
Toomblee and Brown tied for 1st.
Brightonburg is 2nd, but very close behind is..
…Karver in 3rd.
The Dutchess and Hawke are tied for 4th.
Cutter is in 5th, again, very close to the two ahead of her.
Kell is running 6th.
In last place are Clarissa and Nero, not counting Gree. If Kulma wishes to continue the race…well, he started out so well he’ll actually not be in last place.
Posts/emails (depending on who we’re talking about) detailing your driver’s efforts are of course, encouraged. Impress me and you’ll get a die bonus on the next leg. Note that since I imagined Leg One and Leg Ten as the ‘crowded racing’ legs, I may up the race to 12 Legs to have more ‘free-driving’ time.
------------------------
Opinions on the action are QUITE welcome...as well as observations on the racers and other such. Note that these are not editted beyond basic spellchecking, and there's bound to be mistakes, but since it's not a traditional story, only point them out if they're really, really glaring.
That means YOU Andy.
Topic: The 15th Annual Transnational Road Race (Read 21250 times)