Topic: The 15th Annual Transnational Road Race

[Commander La'ra]

This, strictly speaking, is probably a better fit for the 'Interactive Games' forum.  It's a thing I decided to run on Mentat Jon's Nationstates forum, but also invited several friends of mine who don't lurk there to participate as well.  The concept was a Cannonball Run-style road race across my old NS country, with other forum members creating drivers.

Why am I posting it here?  Because, damnit, I am really ENJOYING writing this and think some of the descriptions and such are as good or better than in my actual stories.  Thus I wanted opinions, and hopefully, to share my enjoyment with ya'll.  I'll be posting the parts that've already happened over the next couple of days.  I'll also be posting the little bits I get from the participants, which I encourage as they add a lot of color to the whole thing.

To start this off...I present the rules and the roster.


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RULES AND INFORMATION



The nation of Larryia invites all drivers who wish to participate to sign up for the 15th Annual Larryian Transnational Road Race.

The race itself is a grueling endurance rally tracing the perimeter of Larryia, starting and ending in the city of Sylamore. Drivers are allowed to pick individual routes, so long as they hit certain checkpoints in the required order, and the race takes place on roads and highways that have not been shut down. Any driver, from anywhere may register and is responsible for providing his own vehicle. The vehicle itself may be any ground-based conveyance with four wheels and a engine.

This year, the prize for the winner is $1,000,000 Larryian dollars and any fame or adoration a victory would bring.

Any who wish to register may announce their intentions below. Several racers have already pledged their interest in the race.


OOC: The race will consist of 10 'legs'. For each leg I'll roll dice, RPG style to determine who's making the best time. The person who rolls highest on the most legs will, naturally, win the race...UNLESS the second bit of mechanics prevents such...

That second bit of mechanics is the 'complication' roll that I also make for the driver for every segment of the race. The roll will indicate severity, and in the spirit of movies such as Cannonball Run, complications may be anything from blown tires and speeding tickets to being called upon to rescue a truckload of girl scouts from a band of villianous thugs. If your driver does not deal well enough with said complication, his or her progress may be inhibited or halted altogether.

Note that, though I'm cooking the dice to make it a remote possibility, it is possible for racers to die with the system I'll be using. This race, after all, is dangerous. Also, to ensure enough racers for an interesting competition, I'm allowing some non-OBI folks to create drivers.

Beyond mechanics, I'll start the race in August and post periodic updates as to the race progression. When the thread starts, any participant may feel free to post as their character in the race thread. I would, in fact, encourage this, especially in relation to 'complications'



RACE ROSTER


Krazy Red Karver -- A 34-year old rally-car driver from Warm Springs, Larryia. Has had a well-publicized and colorful career on the Larryian circuit, but recent defeats, advancing age, and premature baldness seem to have made this one-time hearthrob a wee-bit unstable. He drives a 1968 Camaro SS painted 'Plum Krazy' purple with a blue/white flame job, and is assisted in the race by his wife, Linda, who performs navigation duties.


Dietrich Kell -- Born in Brechten, Kiermark. A long-haired, chain-smoking twenty-six year old Kieric with delusions of racial superiority and an arrogant streak a half-mile wide. Despite racing not being very popular in Kiermark, his accolades and attitude have ensured him celebrity status is his own nation and now he seeks to spread his fame worldwide. Drives a Vektor K8 (RL equivilant, the Vector W8).


Prince George Von Brightonburg -- Major General, former commander of Brightonburg forces in Northumbria, and present-day ambassador to Larryia. Controversial at the moment due to his revealing book on the Neo-Brightonburg conflict, Prince George is a bit of a Playboy who conducts himself according to his own version of Brightonburg social mores. Can be a bit pompous. Drives a NASCAR Modified Chassis powered by a V-8 motor that was specially constructed for this event.


Toomblee -- A native of the mystical and enigmatic nation of Ponkapaug, Toomblee is identified as a Kobald by her own people. It's not apparent why one of the Ponkapaugi's legendary builders is participating in the race...they usually prefer creating to using...but Ponkapaugi represenatives say that their racer is 'a lovable, aberrant child, deeply obsessed with the concept of speed'. It is known that her prior work was at Ponkapaugi's uniquely designed airport. Toomblee is small and wiry, with lustrous, iron-black skin with multicolored hair arranged in a garden of vertical spikes. ("Like a deranged porcupine"). She drives a Ponkapaugi vehicle of her own design.


Lynn Cutter -- Shapely Larryian driver with a fondness for cowboy hats and barbed wire. Little is known about Ms. Cutter...whatever her reasons for joining the race are, she hasn't made them public. While she's never participated in an officially sanctioned race before, it's rumored that she regularly participates in underground competition. Grants no interviews, but when confronted by the press in an unavoidable fashion, displays an acidic wit and firm confidence. Drives a 1980 Camaro painted electric blue.


Commander Duncan Hawke, DVRN -- Thirty-four year old commander of the Devon's Island frigate Kingfisher. Second son of an old money merchant shipping business in his own nation. Hawke is quite patriotic, never hesitating to espouse the accomplishments of Devon's Island or her navy. Smug, but not particularly arrogant, he's generally personable, and has the lanky, laid-back look of the classic Devon's Island destroyer commander. Is participating in the race while his beloved Kingfisher undergoes a refit...he signed up for the competition to represent his nation. The prize money, to him, is incidental, and it's rumored he may be planning to do something other than keep it if he's victorious. Drives a deep green Aston Martin DB9 with a Devon's Island Jack emblazoned on the roof.


Duchess Lena van der Prutt -- Redheaded illegitimate daughter of the Duke of Brochenstien (a microscopic nation on the Tuscan/Eurograd border) and Larryian starlet Judy Fleming. Inspired by her mother's escapades in fast cars to try high-speed racing despite Ms. Fleming's death in a Jaguar accident. The Duchess is as famous for her '60's fashion sense and svelte figure as she is for her driving, but her performance in several Tuscan and Eurogradian races means she should be taken seriously in competition, especially given her tendency to take pot shots at 'rude' competitors with her Luger. Drives a cherry-red 1963 Jaguar XK-E.


Clarissa McDonnell and Nero -- Two college students on summer break from Warm Springs University. McDonnel is a busty redhead majoring in music (she plays the cello) from Sylamore, Larryia who favors jeans and modest shirts. Nero (no last name) is a slim Goth-girl with some fame granted by her raunchy 'adult's only' web site who favors cocaine and carries a bullwhip. Neither has ever raced professionally. The team drives a 1957 Chevy Bel-Air, painted black with a blood red flame job and red-glazed chrome, known to the team as the 'Murdermobile'.


Wade Gree -- Recent immigrant from the Southumbrian nation of Wellutria, Wade Gree is a relative unknown in racing circles. Press shy, his few statements in regards to his experience indicate that, as a younger man, he once raced on the semi-professional circuit in his native land. Possibly the Road Race's 'Dark Horse', as his style and abilities are completely unfamiliar to racing fans or his competitors. Drives an Aston Martin DB9, though the color scheme he plans to sport during the race has yet to be announced.


Laura Blair -- 27 year old internet information broker and classic car afficionado from Gulfbay, Larryia. Definite experience in less-than-official racing arenas, though mostly as an incidental adjunct to her fondness for muscle cars. Flirty, intelligent, but known for occasional bursts of temper. This dark-haired, buxom entry has revealed in press interviews that she's mostly racing for the thrill, and what she considers a slim chance at the 1,000,000 prize. Drives a 2007 Dodge Charger, painted Midnight Blue with silver racing stripes.

[Commander La'ra]

And then, Leg One...

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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.


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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.

[Czar Mohab]

Not that I would stand 100% behind betting on a fictional race, but are there any odds available? My $5 would go towards the redhead and her partner to place. Lastish place after the first round doesn't mean much. I'll worry if they're last near the last of the race.

Since I can only guess who one of your toons is designed after, $5 on him to win. Unless I'm wrong. We'll see.

Czar "Push the button, Max!" Mohab, who 1.) used to have a cat named Renfield, and 2.) Now has a cat (Kitten, really) named Max.

P.S. I'll post more after the results of the next 'leg'.

[Commander La'ra]

These bits are the individual posts/emails done by the players.

Enjoy!

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Prince George von Brightonburg

Prince George was already pushing car already, he was driving angry, his book,under attack,his own brother rebuffed him, and sacked him as ambassador his repuation ruined at home at court , all he had was this road race now, and he was going to win or die trying. He was speed shifting his car though the traffic, his scarf was fluttering behind him he just kept repeating to himself "win this race, win this race,and I will be redeemed as a star back home. " as he passed civillian cars on the road....

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Commander Duncan Hawke

Duncan Hawke swung his car around with precise, economical movements, his snug, black leather gloves giving him perfect traction on the steering wheel, and flicked another glance over the passenger seat at the car pacing him on his left. The huge length of the E-Type Jaguar's bonnet became visible as it pulled ahead of him slightly. It was keeping up with him quite handily and he was surprised at just how well the classic '60s sports car was handling on the corners.

He also noted that the XK-E's colour, a fierce candy-apple red, contrasted well with his own 'Devon Racing Green' Aston Martin.

Another straight and another glance over revealed the driver once again. She flicked him a quick glance, and grinned at him in a playfully dangerous way, her spill of long red hair contrasting beautifully with her white catsuit. Encountering her in a club or bar, he'd have been on her like a destroyer hunting a sub. As it was, he grinned back at her but resisted the urge to give her a wave or a hand salute while screeching around another bend at ninety MPH.

His precision-tuned DB9 - his pride and joy outside of his frigate - straightened up with slightly more alacrity than the 45-year-old classic and once again he edged ahead of his opponent. He and the Dutchess had spent the entire race so far like this, leapfrogging past one another as various obstacles showed up a weakness in the car or driving style of one or the other. Soon they would come to take their individual routes and he could use his car where her strengths were maximised and weaknesses reduced.

The other racers were dismissed from his consideration at present, having been left behind or being too far ahead - for the moment.

Duncan had selected the wide, spacious freeways of Larriya for his own route, to pamper his car and play to her strengths. He deemed himself more than up to handling whatever traffic mischief Larriya could throw his way after growing up in and mastering the narrow, twisty streets and motorways of his homeland. He was, however, having a change of heart. In taking such a route, he would still be using his skill and judgement while maximising his chances of winning. Having enough money for any five lifetimes already, the cash prize meant little to him, but he still wanted to win. However, after dueling for an hour with the Dutchess - whose skill easily matched her stunning looks - he decided he no longer wanted to go it alone.

His competitive side had been awoken, and now he didn't want to just win any more.

He wanted to beat his opponents.

She had already proven herself a worthy opponent for him, and he decided he wanted to push her as far she could go, to the bleeding edge of her skill, and see if he had what it took to deny her that final victory. To do that, he would follow her on her own selected route, and they would battle it out until one of them left the other in their dust.

Still confident of his own car's overall superiority over the Dutchess' E-type, he eased off slightly, giving her a small opening which she immediately capitalised on to bolt past him again. "Regaining" control, he tucked himself in tight behind her and started pushing to overtake but never quite managing it. In this way, he'd follow her into the next leg of the race.

Chivalry may suffer, the officer and a gentleman thought with a tight grin, but this will be a race to remember!

[KOTH-KieranXC, Ret.]

Dietrich Kell -- Born in Brechten, Kiermark. A long-haired, chain-smoking twenty-six year old Kieric with delusions of racial superiority and an arrogant streak a half-mile wide. Despite racing not being very popular in Kiermark, his accolades and attitude have ensured him celebrity status is his own nation and now he seeks to spread his fame worldwide. Drives a Vektor K8 (RL equivilant, the Vector W8).

That's me!

[Scottish Andy]

Heh... guess which one is me. 

[Commander La'ra]

LEG TWO: SYLAMORE TO JACKSON CREEK



With one hideous wreck and a lot of hot asphalt behind them, the Transnational Road Racers speed out of Sylamore City Limits. The abandoned stretch of freeway that served as the starting stretch is left behind; from this point on, until the last few minutes of the race, the drivers on real, fully operational roads.

This point of the race is, according to most sports commentators, where the competition really starts. Raw speed is less of a factor. Car reliability, route selection, and plain endurance become just as important.

Toomblee, the wild-haired Ponkapaugi Kobald, is the first off the old freeway and onto real roads. Her racer, now dubbed the ‘Silver Bullet’ by fans, slides effortlessly onto I-27, the expressway that mostly follows Larryia’s western coast and leads directly to the Jackson Creek checkpoint. Traffic doesn’t impede her; quick applications of her odd controls allow her to slide her car almost directly sideways.

Laura Blair’s midnight-blue Dodge is close behind Toomblee and weaving through traffic effectively, if not as effortlessly as her Kobald competitor. She grinds her teeth together, presses a little harder on the accelerator pedal, and draws a little closer to the flashing silver racer running just barely ahead of her. In her rear-view mirror, she can see the tiny Modified Racer driven by Prince George von Brightonburg leap onto I-27, closely followed by the purple Camaro of Krazy Red Karver.

A cherry-red Jaguar and a dark green Aston Martin blast onto the expressway almost simultaneously as Duchess Van der Prutt and Commander Duncan Hawke continue to jockey for position. With traffic about them now, they’re forced to be a bit less aggressive, but it’s obvious that the two racers are still determined to wrest the leading slot away from the other.

Another Camaro is close behind the duelists, this one electric blue and missing a headlight. Lynn Cutter is giving the two scrappers their space; proximity to the pair almost got her into a nasty wreck only a few minutes before and the dusky Larryian isn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

The sleek, low-slung Vektor K8 driven by Dietrich Kell is next into traffic. The pale Kieric is slathered in sunscreen and thanking himself for tinting his windows as the hot Larryian sun blazes down on him. The earlier snarl left him in next-to last place and he’s determined to catch up…several lesser known racers are already behind him, but what he’s decided is his real problem is still close behind; The ‘50’s era Chevy Bel-Air driven by Nero and Clarissa McDonnel looms in his mirrors. The little Goth girl driving has nudged his bumper three times at this point. That’s a no-no in Kieric racing circles, but par for the course here. Dietrich makes a mental note of that fact and tries to coax a few more kph out of his supercar.

The racer in last place is nowhere near I-27. He’s not even in a car. Wade Gree is having an animated discussion with several other drivers. All are injured, having sustained enough personal damage in the earlier pile-up to be out of the race. Most aren’t considering what he has to say. They blame him for the condition of their bodies and their cars, after all. He doesn’t feel that sharing his theories about what punctured his tire would be a good idea, so he has to live with their irritation. What finally gets him what he needs, though, is that old persuader: money. A young-woman with a broken arm and mocha-colored skin decides it’s better to have a fourth of the prize money than none at all. Wade Gree has a car again…not the kind he’s used to, but a car. Race officials come out with some documents and the deal becomes official. Gree hops into his new vehicle: A lime-green Toyota Supra with blue flames down the side and all kinds of street racing accessories. With the high-pitched whine characteristic of such cars he tears off after his competitors.

With Sylamore well and behind them, racers begin to split away from each other. Many do stay on the freeway: It’s straight, in good repair, and away from the city the traffic is much less dense. Toomblee stays on I-27, as does Blair. Prince von Brightonburg doesn’t know Larryia well enough to get too creative and does as well. He hopes, perhaps, that the Camaro on his posterior has another idea for a route, but Krazy Red Karver disappoints him and stays glued to the nobleman. Kell hope the same thing about Clarissa and Nero, and growls as they pass up exit ramp after exit ramp.

Lena van der Prutt DOES have other ideas, and turns so sharply onto an off ramp that Hawke almost misses his chance to follow his new rival. His quick reflexes keep him on the Jaguar’s tail, and he follows the Duchess first down a paved rural highway, then, with increasing bemusement, onto an access road that leads through a lush section of rain forest.

Lynn Cutter follows the pair off the freeway, but not into the wilderness. Before the freeways were built, plain highways connected cities. Most still exist and are well-maintained, but traffic tends to be lighter, and, in many cases, the route can be shorter.

Wade Gree is just making it onto I-27. Whatever his original plan, he stays on the freeway now, for he finds his new rice rocket to be well-suited for straight, high speed runs. He’s not all that fond of the purple lights under each wheel well or the spinning rims, but as his digital speedometer passes 120 miles per hour, he decides he can live with it.

Time and miles pass. Toomblee holds firmly onto the lead spot, and Blair just as firmly to second place, and Prince von Brightonburg leads Karver in a similar fashion. Speeds have reduced a bit now; In the Larryian heat, cars can’t be run all out forever.

Dietrich Kell knows this, but he’s risking it anyway, and because of this he’s finally pulled well ahead of the Murdermobile. Next in his sights is Karver. He knows there are other racers in between him and the purple Camaro, but he suspects the ‘Big Ten’ are the best racers, and according to his stereo system, Karver is the next one of those between him and first place. After Karver comes Prince Brightonburg, and leaving him in the dust will give the blonde-maned Kieric true joy.

Nero and Clarissa are starting to regain a little distance on Kell when a green-and-blue Toyota street racer zips right past them. Both women blink and give each other and incredulous look. Nero’s hand hovers over a certain button on the dash, but Clarissa recommends saving it. The Goth girl reluctantly agrees, but presses the pedal down a little farther.

Off the freeway, Lynn Cutter is finding that her chosen route is smooth and traffic free. That’s a real shame, in a way, she decides, for it’s the old coast highway, and the view of the Ponkapaug Channel is breathtaking. She sneaks glances as the blue water, the beach and rocks as she roars down the highway, unimpeded by any obstacle.

Duncan Hawke wishes he had it so good; The Dutchess has led him onto a maze of old, overgrown roads, rife with sinkholes, ruts, and other such things. Amazingly, his DB9 is handling it without too many problems, as is the Jaguar ahead of him. He realizes what Prutt is doing despite his bewilderment. Main highways rarely travel along the shortest distance between two points, and his navigator’s sense is telling him that these old dirt tracks through sugar cane fields are as close as one can get to ‘as the crow flies’ between Sylamore and the next checkpoint.

Ahead of him, the Duchess grins, and checks her rear-view. The Devon’s Islander is keeping up. She reaches up and tugs at the scarf binding her hair. Reddish-gold locks begin to blow in the wind as her convertible roars down her muddy route.

The racers are drawing close to Jackson Creek when disaster almost strikes for Laura Blair. A deep blue Mustang cuts her off as it merges onto the freeway, and Blair’s identically colored Charger only narrowly avoids a collision. The blonde woman in the ‘stang – a 90’s model, to add insult to injury – then does whatever she can to impede Blair’s progress, blocking, cutting off attempts to pass. It’s only when Blair draws close enough for the stream of obscenities she’s spewing to be heard that the Mustang backs off. Blair lights another cigarette and notices that Toomblee’s silver dart is much farther ahead.

Hawke and Van der Prutt have found their way back onto civilized roads and begin to merge back onto I-27. Both roar onto the expressway just ahead of Prince von Brightonburg and Red Karver. Hawke presses the pedal and roars ahead of the Duchess; a loud bang makes him blink and he risks a look back at the red Jaguar. The Duchess, still close on his heels, is smiling crazily and tucking away her Luger. He considers her actions for a moment, then decides she wasn’t really trying to kill him. He turns back to the road just in time to see Lynn Cutter merge in from the next entrance ramp, ahead of both Aston Martin and Jaguar.

The racers flash through Jackson Creek.

-----


Current Positions

Toomblee is in 1st, with a slight but noticeable lead on..

…Blair, who will have to worry about racers moving up on her next leg, is in 2nd.

Lynn Cutter is in 3rd, and is now quite close to overtaking Blair, but she’s closely followed by…

…Duncan Hawke, in 4th. Just ahead of the Duchess, just behind Cutter.

Lena van der Prutt is in 5th, and minus one round from her sidearm.

Prince von Brightonburg is in 6th. He’s close enough to Hawke and the Dutchess that he’ll be directly challenging them next leg.

Krazy Red Karver is in 7th, and still surgically attached to Brightonburgs rear bumper.

Dietrich Kell is in 8th. He’s made good progress and while currently low-ranked, his performance this leg was good enough that, if repeated, he could be challenging the leaders soon.

Wade Gree is in 9th, and impressing everyone with his wild rims, colored lights, and killer stereo system.

Clarissa and Nero are in last place, though they still pose a threat to Gree and Kell next leg.

[NCC-1701-V]

I've got a feeling someone's going to bring out some VERY dirty tricks....

[Commander La'ra]

Hehe.  Wait and see.

Incidentally, here's how the dice system works:  I roll 1d10 for each racer for each leg of the race.  That roll is their 'progress'.  This gets added to the results of previous legs.
Say Czar Mohab rolls a 6 on the first leg and a 5 on the second...his leg two progress rating is 11. 

Then I roll for a complication.  Roll a 1-2 on a 1d10, and something goes wrong.  I roll 1d10 again, and that's the severity which I take off of the progress.  So, Mohab, rolling a complication, severity 6, gets his total progress knocked back to 5.

If you roll a 10 on severity, which happened the first leg of the race to poor Gree, you are, possibly, knocked out of the race, injured, or killed.  If you post, you get a +1 to your next progress roll.  If you post something really damned cool, you also get some bonus of my choosing, most commonly an 'ignore a complication' credit.

Wonder if I could come up with something like this to do on Dyna...anyhow...here's the player bits from Leg Two.

----------------------


Posted on behalf of Toomblee's player


Speed is good, speed is always good. She tries to stay focused, no shrieking, no screaming, don't leave the ground. Her hair bristles with concentration. Steady, steady, steady, just stay where she is, holding level. Three is an harmonius number. Arches are three, marraiges are three, half a hand is three. She did not ven notice the crash, she herself has had too many to count, though she does wonder at the sense of timing that chose then to frolic.

Toomblee pays attention to her instruments, her controls, her overdrive, her afterburner, her kobald sense of metal unity. Cannot fly, not in this race. She is briefly distracted. If she wins, no when she wins, she'll have to wear something Fashionable. The rules were laid down by her father. She forces the thought from her mind and woks on preserving her position.

She lets the road unroll like a ribbon of molten metal, bright, dark, altogether lovely.



Posted on behalf of Prince George von Brightonburg's player

Realising that this race was a marathon and not a sprint, Prince George kept a reasonable pace. Not knowing the Larryian road like the natives, he stuck to the patches he knew.

" Someone shall a mistake in this race,and I will gain places when they do. Patience will be my ally " his v-8 was humming along nicely. Some of the Larryians wave as he speeds by.

[Czar Mohab]

*Scratches head* I'm in this race? Where'd that come from?

Seriously, though, I think that I was just your example.

And more seriously, could you roll just a tad higher for the goth and the redhead? I like the "button", and if either one says, "Push the button, Max!" I'll poop a kitten.

Czar "If I were in this race, I'd take an STi, or, barring that, an SVX, RX, XT6, XT Turbo, or an XT, in that order." Mohab, who notes that Subaru made some interesting "sports" cars.

Subaru Owners do it Horizontally Opposed

... I miss my turbo 4wd wagon. 

[KOTH-KieranXC, Ret.]

And more seriously, could you roll just a tad higher for the goth and the redhead?

No, he can't. He'd better not, anyway.

[Governor Ronjar]

hehehehe

--thu guv

[Commander La'ra]

LEG THREE: JACKSON CREEK TO MABOOTU'S LANDING


Jackson Creek is an eyeblink of the town and at the speeds they're going, the racers might not've noticed it had the checkpoint not been there. Their next destination, the next leg on their journey is Mabootu's Landing, a tourist town and spiritual retreat on the Southern Larryian Coast.

Out in front, Toomblee is a little apprehensive. Laura Blair is close on her bumper, but the Kobald is worried for less tangible reasons. Mabootu's Landing is named for a Ponkapaugi warrior, the first to travel across the big blue water and meet the Larryians. The problem concerning the little Kobald is that Mabootu, while a great warrior and explorer, was notoriously unlucky. Who could say if his curse lingered.

Blair doesn't give a damn about Mabootu or where he landed and is only trying to make up the distance cost her by the irritating blonde woman in the Mustang a few miles back. It's working. Toomblee's silver dart is close ahead.

Lynn Cutter sees the back end of Blair's Charger and resists the urge to get closer. Toomblee and Blair aren't twisting and fighting like some other racers, but they're also not as close to each other. Better to stay back and wait for an oppurtunity to bypass them both.

Duncan Hawke's dark green Aston Martin speeds down the freeway. He's conscious of the fact that there are two racers ahead of him, but he's not concerned with that right now. The she-devil in the red Jaguar on his tail...he can't quit get the Duchess out of his mind. This is a good thing as the candy-apple red convertible is constantly trying to leap ahead of him.

Prince Von Brightonburg has never even heard of Mabootu. He has heard of Krazy Red Karver. The damned Larryian is still being far too forward, his much larger car looming behind the Prince's modified racer. Only the modified's extreme manueverability has kept the Prince ahead of the Plum Krazy Camaro..

Karver is focused on the Prince, his various personal issues kept at bay by his nearly total concentration. There's a noise that keeps intruding on him though, usually at key moments when he knows, had he been 'on' just a little bit more, he would've passed Von Brightonburg up. The noise is his wife's voice. He doesn't know what she's griping out him about. He stopped listening a hundred miles back.

Dietrich Kell, in his low-slung black supercar, can see Karver and Brightonburg up ahead. His mouth twists into a cruel smiles and he accelerates. His ideas are similar to Lynn Cutter's; he'll wait for a chance and zip past those racers foolish enough to get into personal contests.

Wade Gree has no overall strategy. He did have, at one point, but, being a careful planner, it all tied in with his car's abilities. His new ride, though becoming more familiar, is a new experience and the 'Wellutrian' is driving 'off the cuff'. His next goal is to pass Kell. He'll worry about the rest later.

Clarissa and Nero are close behind. The little Goth girl behind the wheel is fuming. There was certain embarrassment in being passed by a wimpy tuner car, even to one as unconventional as she. In the passenger seat, her partner tends the route maps and hums happily as if nothing had happened. Nero licks her lips and hits the gas, determined to advance past Gree.

I-27 doesn't go to Mabootu's Landing, and the exit point, where racers may merge onto the R-10, is another split point, a spot where the competitors tend to take separate routes. The R-10 isn't the massive artery that I-27 is, but it's still a nice, wide freeway. This year, most of the racers stay on it.

Lena van der Prutt is, naturally, one who doesn't. She veers onto an exit ramp and begins winding her way down backroads and byways. She's a little disappointed that Hawke isn't following her, but then, he HAD been ahead of her. She'll see him again.

Hawke regrets the parting, but he has good reason for staying the course. He's a sailor, and there's a certain tension in the air, a briskness to the wind, that tells him rain and wind are coming. As much as he'd like to stay with the Duchess, he's unsettled by the idea of muddy dirt roads in a rainstorm.

Miles pass. Positions change little. Confirming Hawke's worries, the skies begin to darken, and the temperature drops a few degrees.

The temperature loss is a blessing to Dietrich Kell. Running hard, trying to both maintain and improve his position, he's not really paced his car the way he knows he should. He's been keeping a wary eye on his temperature indicator, which has slowly, but surely, been creeping upward. Raindrops spatter his Vektor's windshield. Behind him, Wade Gree makes his move.

The lime-green and blue Supra driven by Gree seems to slide past the Kell's Vektor. This surprises the Kieric driver, who almost slams his foot down on the gas pedal, but he stops himself. It's time to start thinking long-term, he knows. He'll let Gree have his moment. He has second thoughts when the Chevy Bel-Air driven by Clarissa and Nero also passed him. It's raining briskly now, and the Vektor's temperature gauge is falling as road water and cool air refreshes the engine. Kell decides to let his car rest, and allow Gree and the Larryian girls occupy themselves for the moment.

Gree sees the Murdermobile coming up on him and tries to pull away. He manages a stalemate, the two vehicles racing alongside each other as the rain falls even harder. The 'Wellutrian' looks toward his competitor. He blinks in surprise when Nero pulls her ample bosom free of her dress, giving him a good look at what most people have to spend 9.95 a month for a subscription to her website to see.

Wade is a frosty sort, due to his past, but he's still surprised for perhaps half a second. Half a second at 140 miles an hour is quite a while. He glances forward, sees that his car has veered into the oncoming traffic lanes, and with a shout of surprise tries to compensate. It works; Gree is skilled and his car is responsive, but he still ends up on the wide, grassy shoulder, facing the opposite direction.

Dietrich Kell smirks to himself as he sees the garishly colored racer slide off the road. He notes that Gree seems...undamaged, and that the rice rocket is already pulling back onto the highway. Ahead of him, the Murdermobile is pulling away. Deciding that the Vektor has had enough of a rest, he guns the engine and begins to eat up the distance between himself and the Larryian girls.

On an ill-remembered side road, Duchess Van der Pratt pulls over, quickly puts the top up on her sporty Jaguar, then continues her travels. She's not going as fast as she calculated. The rain is turning her favored shortcuts muddy and slippery. She's making decent time, still, though she's now racing against the elements as well as her competitors. She'll have to get back on paved road soon or her clever route may become unpassable.

Out in front, the rain is worrying Toomblee as well, though for different reasons. Water is not opposed to her, but it does not help her, and she believe she can feel Mabootu's ill-luck creeping in on her. Whether what happens next is the result of a curse, the rain, or coincidence, no one can say.

The freeway is wet, and ahead of Toomblee's silver bullet, a semi trailer is changing lanes. The driver has been negligent in regard to tire maintenance and the truck begins to slide. He corrects, but his trailer swings into the freeway divider, and the rear door flies open. Chickens, hundred of them, make their bid for freedom and R-10 is suddenly obscured by a wall of white feathers...white and red when some of the unlucky birds collide with oncoming traffic.

Toomblee sees the wall of fowl and hits the brakes. It isn't enough; there's a car ahead she's going to hit unless she does something. With a split second reaction, the Kobald turns her car toward the shoulder. Her speed, combined with the angle of the ground, causes the Silver Bullet to take flight, landing (with unexpected grace) on the service road, which she rolls off of too. By this point, the silver racer has slowed enough that no damage is incurred. Toomblee comes to a halt in a sugar cane field. It's muddy, but the Kobald has an affinity for dirt and mud and somehow her car doesn't get stuck...she's pulling back onto the road within moments.

Laura Blair is both luckier and unluckier. Being farther back, she has ample time to stop before she runs into a cloud of stopped traffic and dead-or-panicked chickens. But there's no way past the cars up ahead.

Duncan Hawke and Lynn Cutter both see an oppurtunity. Green DB9 and Electric-Blue Camaro speed down an exit ramp, onto the service road. Behind them, the following racers do the same. Blair, seeing her competitors about to completely bypass her, bounces her Midnight-blue Charger down the shoulder and onto the access road, ending up just behind Red Karver's purple Camaro.

The racers pull back on the freeway on the next ramp, Toomblee's silver racer rejoining them, just behind Blair.

There's no shifts in position or horrid accidents the rest of the way to Mabootu's Landing. Duchess Van Der Prutt pulls back onto R-10 close to the city, ahead of Toomblee and Blair. The freeway begins to curve, a wide turn that carries traffic around the city of Mabootu's Landing. The coast is rocky cliffs in the area, and the view would be incredible if the rain weren't getting truly heavy now. Headlights come on, wipers flap across windshields, as the racers pass the checkpoint.


----


CURRENT POSITIONS


Duncan Hawke is in 1st place, with a decent lead on Brightonburg and Karver, but just barely ahead of...

...Lynn Cutter, in 2nd. She too is well ahead of the Prince and the Purple Camaro.

Prince George von Brightonburg is in 3rd. Though the leaders have some distance on him, anything can happen next leg, though he'll probably still have to worry about...

...Krazy Red Karver in 4th, as close to Brightonburg as his nagging wife will allow.

Duchess Van der Prutt is in 5th, just barely ahead of Toomblee and Blair. Next leg will likely see a contest between those three.

Toomblee is in 6th, but in an excellent position to advance if she does well next leg.

Laura Blair is in 7th.

Clarrisa and Nero, showing their first tangible progess, have moved up to 8th place.

Kell is in 9th, and close enough to the Murdermobile that he too might get a free sample of what Nero's website has to offer.

Wade Gree is in last place. Kell can likely hear his bass thumping, though, as the 'Wellutrian' isn't taking the pressure off.


------------------


No, no, Czar.  Can't cook the dice.  The most skullduggery I've allowed is giving one of racer's a +1 to a roll after she found my 'missing, presumed destroyed' glasses.  And she lives with me.   

Clarrisa and Nero can handle themselves, though.

[Czar Mohab]

WOOTAGE! C 'n' N ain't last!!

Czar "Neither is my other $5 car" Mohab

[Commander La'ra]

LEG FOUR:  THE COASTAL HIGHWAY



The freeway turns away from the coast after Mabootu's Landing, and the most direct route to the next checkpoint becomes R-77, what used to be the main highway in the southern reaches of the country.  The construction of the throughways in the 70's meant that R-77 was bypassed, but it's a well travelled scenic route along Larryia's rocky coast.  Route selection isn't so important for this leg;  even the Duchess Van der Prutt is hard pressed to find a straighter line to Ft. Solastis, the next checkpoint.

Duncan Hawke is in high spirits.  He's in the lead now, and while his car is not the fastest in the race, it's designed for long-haul, high speed driving.  If he uses that advantage, the sailor knows he can strengthen his lead.  Perhaps enough to make his position unassailable.  He's planned to use this leg to move up from the beginning; he hadn't anticipated being in 1st place already but he's not the type to give up such a happy occurrence.  He keeps steady pressure on the gas pedal and roars on through the strengthening storm.

Not far behind, Lynn Cutter has the same plan.  The curvy Larryian pops in a Nine Inch Nails CD and settles back.  Despite the rain, this is easy driving for her, and her electric-blue Camaro paces Hawke from half a mile back, the single functioning headlight reminding the man in first place that he's not as far ahead as he'd like.

Prince George von Brightonburg accelerates down R-77, hoping that the higher speed of his modified racer will allow him to catch up with the leaders...and leave behind his increasingly annoying shadow.  The purple '68 Camaro, is close enough that the Prince can see Red and Linda Karver in his rear view mirror.  Despite his wish to stay focused on the road, he can't help but notice that the woman is constantly moving, constantly talking.

Karver, of course, is in much closer proximity to his wife, and much less able to ignore her.  He's worried about this leg of the race;  If it goes like he thinks it will, it'll stretch out, with cars becoming widely separated, more of a high-speed bit of cruising than fierce, in-close competition.  He could normally take advantage of that, but it also means he won't have a competitor close by to occupy his concentration, and that means Linda will become impossible to ignore.  His shoulders slump a bit and he lets out a pained sigh.

Lena van der Prutt is relaxing a bit this leg, leaning back in her seat and maintaining her position.  Rain patters on the heavy cloth of her softtop.  There's few shortcuts, few backroads along this section of the coast, and since those form the basis of her strategy, she views this part of the race as dead time.  That doesn't, however, means she plans to let anyone pass her.  She tunes in to a local radio station.  It's playing something fast and appropriate.  She laughs.

Toomblee is less worried than she was.  True, rain is falling from the sky, but water is not her enemy.  Air is her enemy, but she avoided killing any chickens so it shouldn't be after her any more than usual.  She's no longer in the lead.  She needs to fix that.  The silver dart accelerates.

Laura Blair finds herself behind Toomblee again, and again, she pushes her midnight blue Dodge into high gear with the intention of overtaking the Kobald.  She decides she won't push it too hard, though, even if it means Toomblee's escape.  Unlike Cutter and Hawke, she's modified her car to outrun more than outlast, and the more crowded parts of the race later on...those are more her natural environment.

Clarissa and Nero roar along through the rain.  They've drawn close enough to Blair that they can see her taillights, and the Larryian girls exchange a look and a smile.

Dietrich Kell is no longer having temperature issues, but the rain is hindering him in other ways.  The sleek Vektor isn't really a foul weather car.  But then, neither is the Chevy Bel-Air he's chasing and intending to pass.  He vows, if nothing else goes to his favor in this race, that he'll pass up the Goth girl.

Behind him, last of the 'big ten' racers, Wade Gree is also thinking of Nero.  His look at her pale but impressively-sized assets was brief, but he's finding the image hard to get out of his head.  It's not really a case of interest or lust, it's just a problem most males have.  There is, however, a certain resentment building since Nero almost crashed him with her sudden display.  Kell isn't the only one determined to pass the Murdermobile, now.

As Karver feared, the race begins to spread out as time wears on.  Cars get farther away, drivers fall into a different mentality.  There's also the issue of gas.  Running all out for some time, fuel gauge needles are working their way toward the big 'E'.  The racers have, mostly, planned for this.

Duncan Hawke finds himself gaining distance from Cutter, and decides that there'll be no better time to snag some petrol.  He stops at a Mom and Pop gas station on an anonymous section of highway and fills up using the special credit cards provided to the racers.  He loses a little time, though, when the owner of the place reveals himself to be a veteran of the Larryian navy, a destroyer commander like Hawke himself.  Duncan finds the temptation irresistible.  Sea stories are exchanged, comparisons of vessels.  Only when the Devon's Islander thinks he sees a single headlight approaching does he say some hasty goodbyes and get back on the road.

Toomblee, far behind, settles into an almost trancelike state, presses her accelerator to the floor, and the silver dart blasts through the rain and down the highway.  She zips past Lena van der Prutt as if the Jaguar was standing still. 

The Duchess, shook out of her relaxation, accelerates, trying to catch up.  Her tires are meant for less friendly areas, though, and it's hard to sprint fast enough to catch up with Toomblee...or Blair, who's Charger also slips past.  The Duchess forces herself to relax, reminding herself that she'll have plenty of chances for some place-gaining shortcuts later.

Toomblee doesn't notice that Blair is keeping up.  Toomblee barely noticed passing the Dutchess.  She keeps on going.  Ahead of her, Karver and von Brightonburg continue to duel.  It'll be a few minutes before she catches up.  She takes deep breaths and thinks of volcanos.

Wade Gree's resentment toward Goth girl and her even bustier friend has become full fledged anger.  He has to pass them.  Has to beat them.  Has to show them that a little bit of skin won't win them the race.  First, though, he has to pass Kell.  Whining like a banshee, his Supra advances on the Kieric's Vektor, and with some careful application of nitrus oxide, passes the supercar.

Kell fights the urge to pursue Gree.  It, surprisingly, isn't hard.  Gree seems to attract ill fortune.  Kell will merely have to wait until the next bit of bad luck hits him, then pass him by.  After that comes the Murdermobile.  The Kieric isn't as angry at the Larryian girls as Gree, but he has more patience.  He watches as the neon-lit Supra pulls away and smiles despite the misfortune.  He has a feeling his moment is coming.

Clarissa can't figure out where the distant thumping in her ears is coming from, but she notes that's it's obviously musical.  She looks in the rear view, sees Wade Gree's green and blue Supra rapidly gaining and warns Nero.  The Goth girl grins and floors the gas pedal.  Goth wagon and tuner car jockey for position, trying to block or slip past the other.  Their conflict carries them closer and closer to Duchess Van der Prutt.

The flame-haired noblewoman can't prevent the Murdermobile from passing her, but she slips in between it and Gree's Supra.  Gree nudges her bumper;  it's a mild tap, at least in Larryian style racing, but the Duchess' eyes go wild as the slight impact registers.  Her right hand falls toward the Luger lying in the passenger seat, and, holding it and the wheel in one hand, she rolls down her window.

Gree is about to pass the Jag, drawn closer to his new nemeses, when there's a loud bang.  He hears the bullet whizz by, sees the hole-and-spiderweb in his windscreen.  Slightly ahead, Duchess Van der Prutt is clearly screaming at him.  He knows homicidal anger when he sees it and wisely backs off, his anger ebbing a bit.

Kell, observing from some distance, watches hopefully.  It's not his moment yet, though.  Still, he laughs openly at Gree's sudden reluctance.

Far ahead, Toomblee is almost up to Karver and Brightonburg.  She passes.  She doesn't think about it.  She cuts a bit close to Prince George.  He steers left, onto the wrong side of the road, both to avoid a collision and, possibly, put himself in a good spot to accelerate past the Kobald and get away from Karver.

Karver sees what happens and knows a chance when he sees one.  He almost hesitates, just to avoid an angry tirade from the stern-faced blonde he married.  She's quiet for the moment, though, staring at something on the side of the road.  She won't be able to object in time...

Krazy Red Karver has always had a weakness in the turns.  He's a straight line kind of guy, and when he has to make his car go another direction, the result is usually loose and not as precise as one would expect of a race car driver.  Krazy Red Karver may not know all of his won weaknesses, but he knows that one...knows it well enough to turn it to his advantage. 

The road curves just ahead of Brightonburg.  Karver accelerates, and for the first time, he's even with the Prince.  The two cars race around the right hand curve, and Karver, true to form, slides a bit.  Brightonburg is edged closer and closer to the side of the road.  His tires bite gravel, and for a split second, the Prince fears a crash.  He releases the gas, lets his car drift back onto the road, but now the purple Camaro is ahead of him.

Linda Karver screams and rants.  Red Karver smiles like a maniac, momentarily immune to his wife's ranting.  Brightonburg tries to pass him.  He blocks, then draws ahead, pulling away from the Prince's Modified.

Prince George's hands tighten on the wheel.  What has been done can be undone, he knows.  He resolves that the Larryian's advance will soon be halted.  But then, suddenly, he's got bigger problems as a black Chevy Bel-Air comes roaring up from behind.  He manages to block them, but almost lets the midnight blue Dodge roar by.  The three cars jockey for position, and the Prince once again finds himself in a duel.

Toomblee sees the electric-blue Camaro of Lynn Cutter ahead.  She moves to pass.  It doesn't work.  She tries again.  It doesn't work.  Another attempt puts her even with the Larryian woman's car.

Cutter looks to her left and sees the Silver Bullet running alongside her.  All she can see of the driver is wild, multicolored hair and a pair of large dark eyes.  Then the little kobald raises a hand and waves, a tenative, almost childlike motion.  Cutter laughs and tips her hat and the two cars race along, neither letting the other pass.

Duncan Hawke draws farther ahead.  He takes a moment to stare at the ocean, out past the rocky cliffs that are typical of the South Shore.  The water is grey and violent due to the storm, and despite the still-noticeable heat, looks cold.  Save for tiny islands, there's no land south of here until you reach the Antarctic.  Hawke decides to one day sail these waters.

Time passes, and eventually the rain stops, small changes in position occur, soon reversed.  It's almost sundown when the racers pull into Fort Solastis.  They stop this time, for there's no racing at night, one of the few concessions the race makes to public safety.


CURRENT POSITIONS


Duncan Hawke is in a very strong 1st place!  The little chat with the fellow sailor, btw, WAS a complication, just a very minor one.

Lynn Cutter is in 2nd, ducking and dodging...

...Toomblee, who, after a lightning-fast sprint, is back in a respectable 3rd place.

Krazy Red Karver is in 4th place. Whether his advance is worth what he'll endure from his wife...none can say.

Prince von Brightonburg, after Karver's daring pass, is in 4th place.  He'll have to work to keep it though, as both

...Clarissa and Nero, and...

....Laura Blair, are right up with him and tied for 5th.

Lena van der Prutt is in 6th.  Incidentally, that's the same amount of rounds she has left in her Luger.

Wade Gree is in 7th and admiring the 9mm bullet hole in his windshield.  At least she didn't hit the rims.

Dietrich Kell is in 8th, but hey, he hasn't been shot at.  Yet.


------------------


Next leg is the layover, which has the longest 'color post' so far, courtesy of the Guv.

[Governor Ronjar]

...yeah....

I likes me sum color...

--thu guv!

[KOTH-KieranXC, Ret.]

WOOTAGE! C 'n' N ain't last!!

*snort* Not sure what you see in a pale cokehead and her lackey, but to each their own...

Dietrich "my raging Kieric superiority complex alone insures I will win and leave the broken wrecks of the competitors behind me" Kell

[Czar Mohab]

WOOTAGE! C 'n' N ain't last!!

*snort* Not sure what you see in a pale cokehead and her lackey, but to each their own...

Dietrich "my raging Kieric superiority complex alone insures I will win and leave the broken wrecks of the competitors behind me" Kell

Actually, its the car. And $5 that says they place. Not real $5, but you get the idea. They seemed kinda like underdogs since the beginning. I like me some underdogs, makes stuff interesting.

Czar "Hope your car's bullet proof" Mohab, who notes that my other bet of $5 was not on D'Kell's car

[KOTH-KieranXC, Ret.]

Shoulda been. He'll win in the end, ya know. One way or the other.

[Commander La'ra]

Maybe so, maybe no.

I'm using my recently-recovered favorite 10-sider now.  Who can say what havoc it shall wreak?

--------------------------


LAYOVER:  FORT SOLASTIS


Fort Solastis is a sunny town on the shores of the Mifune Straights, in between the Larryian mainland and the South Island (which has a name few people ever use).   It's a bit touristy, since the ocean there is clear and blue and somewhat shallow, a combination that makes it heaven for divers and such, but there's also a Naval Air Station and a Coastal Patrol base. 

The Fort the place is named for still stands, a Southern style fortification with redoubts, trenches, and concealed gun emplacements rather than towering walls and such like you see in more Northern climes.  The fortification was named for a legendary warrior-healer from Larryian mythology.  Legend states that it was here that she and her companions fought off an raid by organized slavers and later established a hospital and organized the local militia.  The ruins of the original hospital are said to be south of the town, and are a popular tourist attraction.

None of the racers have any plans to go see the collection of mossy rocks that might've been the hospital.  Mostly they want food, rest, and sleep, and to give their overworked cars some loving care, not necessarily in that order.  They pull up, one by one,  to the Ocean View Hotel and resort, where they'll be put up for the night and not, thanks to some skullduggery on the part of racers a few years back, allowed to leave.

Duncan Hawke is tired, but still buzzed about his growing lead, and he sets to tending his car almost the minute he pulls to a halt.  The Aston-Martin is handling the race well, but he fiddles with it some anyway, oiling and tuning her while humming a Devon's Island naval theme.

Lynn Cutter has people waiting on her.  They look like ex-military, with that odd combination of stiffness and 'relieved to be out' casualness often seen in those who served proudly but have moved on.  The dusky cowgirl greets them in a friendly fashion, as friends, if not terribly close ones.  They immediately begin looking over her Camaro, a task she seems content to let them handle on their own.  Race teams have strict size limits in this competition, to encourage amateur participation.  Cutter’s three acquantainces are the most allowed.

Toomblee is barely out of the Silver Bullet before she starts tweaking and fixing things, all the while muttering strange Ponkapaugi incantations.

Krazy Red Karver emerges from his purple Camaro with his wife close behind.  She's furiously assaulting him in a verbal fashion.  Karver seems less harried than usual, and still bears a slight grin on his face as he remembers passing Prince Brightonburg earlier.  His bliss won't last forever, but he'll hang onto it while he can.

Prince George arrives and is immediately greeted by his various servants and aides, as well as some members of the Brightonburg press (most of whom appear as if they're about to keel over from the heat, though for the moment the temperature is 'comfortable' to a Larryian).  He answers some questions, sets his minions to repairing and maintaining his racer, and heads off for a change of clothes and a drink.

Clarissa and Nero pull in next, the Murdermobile rumbling like a mild earthquake.  They're handling their own maintenance, and spend the next hour or so babying their car.

Laura Blair is clearly irritated when she arrives, cursing often and chain smoking.  It’s not certain who she’s mad at, though her posture and stalking advances toward whatever she’s heading toward at the time speak of volumes of unrequited fury.  An older, bald-headed man is helping her with her car.  The press says it’s her father.  He tolerates her mood stoically, without any real response, though she seems to hold her temper at bay when she’s around him.

Lena van der Prutt slides in and jumps eagerly out of her car.  She has a mechanic on retainer, an old family servant, but she doesn’t start on her Jaguar just yet.  Instead, she waits for her hood to cool, then seats herself casually on it and begins, pointedly cleaning her Luger.

Wade Gree is not far behind her.  He sees the Duchess cleaning her gun.  He sees the lethal look she’s directing at him.  He almost takes issue, but a quick glance at the bullet hole in his windshield changes his mind.  He’s here to win a million bucks...well, three quarters of a million thanks to his owing a share to his car’s actual owner...not make even more enemies.

Dietrich Kell arrives at the tail end of the other ‘big ten’.  The Kieric is clearly not in the greatest of moods, but the Kiermark press agents, familiar with his temper, have seen him in far more explosive states.  He has three members of his usual racing team here to maintain the Vektor, though he takes a hand in that himself.

The vehicles are oiled, tires checked or changed, parts replaced, coolant refilled.  The racers relax in their personal fashions.  Prince George spends a good deal of the night in the bar, making approaches on anything female that’ll allow him in close proximity.  Hawke relaxes at the rooftop pool, gazing out at the cool waters of the straights and sparing an occasional glance at both Cutter and Duchess Van Der Prutt, who’s bathing attire does much for the Devon’s Islander’s morale.  Kell sleeps;  he wants his full faculties at his disposal tomorrow, and besides, his room is frigidly air conditioned.  Gree also keeps to himself, though he socializes enough that he’s not thought standoffish.  Clarissa and Nero, surprisingly stay in their adjoining rooms as well...at least as far as anyone knows.  Red Karver finds his way to the pool and talks with Hawke about engines a bit, before being forced into isolation by his wife.  Blair arrives at the pool eventually as well, looking considerably more relaxed.

Eventually as the night goes farther along, the racers retire to bed.  Toomblee doesn’t bother to go to her room:  following her chanting and tinkering, the little Kobald curls up in the driver’s seat of the Silver Bullet and falls asleep.


CURRENT POSITIONS


At a hotel.

[KOTH-KieranXC, Ret.]

I notice you didn't post my first RP post. Sheesh, I have to do it all myself?

Anyway, this takes place after Leg 4, prior to the layover.
------------------------------------------------------
A tiny corner of Kell's mind was amused by the fact that he was still calm and relaxed. His temper was a subject of conversation in Kieric racing circles; his legendary ire had been both boon and curse to him throughout his racing career in Kiermark.

As he lit a cigarette and slid an ashtray out of his button-festooned center console, he considered that really, nothing unexpected had really happened yet. Oh, he'd have liked to be a few places ahead of where he was, but he had yet to run into the bad luck some of the other racers had already endured, and he'd ridden his engine lightly enough that he was in good shape for a late race burst of speed. He hadn't seen a car in the race yet that could match the Vektor for top speed... should he ever have the opportunity to exploit it.

Actually, things had played rather well into his hands. He never liked to start out with the lead, anyway; he preferred to stay back, measure the other drivers, their capabilities, and that of their vehicles. He certainly felt he was getting a feel for Gree and the Larryian girls, who had been with him since the start of the race; he was much more impressed with the latter than the former. The Wellutrians were a sensible people, courteous to a fault, if a bit stuffy; but their culture produced lousy drivers. The Brochensteiner noblewoman, in his estimation, was clearly unbalanced; such uncontrolled rage could be a fatal flaw in a racer. He shook his head, lip curling in a confident sneer; it was still potentially anyone's race.... and in his estimation, there was still a strong possibility it could yet be Dietrich Kell's.

Taking another drag on his cigarette, he slid a Neuromancer CD into the CD changer. Instantly, his ears were filled with the Kieric industrial rock band's heavy melodies and deep vocals, and his head started instinctively nodding as the bass kicked in. Nothing to do now but keep pace, smoke his cigarette, and watch for his moment.

It wasn't here yet, but he could feel a sense of anticipation well up in his gut. It was coming.

[Commander La'ra]

Sorry, man, somehow thought that was next leg.

[KOTH-KieranXC, Ret.]

Dietrich Kell's Vektor, parked outside the motel at Solatis.



Another exterior shot of the parked Vektor.



A close up of Kell's main console. [Edit - You'll just have to pretend it's all in Cyrillic, not English. ]

[Scottish Andy]

heh, that is a sweet looking car, Capt. K! A pint-sized Lambo. I see where we are here. Maybe you can wait another week before posting the next one, Larry? I'm nearly at the crux of my personal issues, and will be more likely able to write that section I was telling you about after the turn of the month. Or, I'll be a wreck and unable to do anything useful at all, but them's the breaks.

If not, no biggie, and I'll see if I can do a much-belated flashback.

[KOTH-KieranXC, Ret.]

Another week? Man, you're killin' me here.

[Commander La'ra]

Posted on behalf of Prince George Von Brightonburg's player...

Prince George, after signing a few autographs and speaking to the Brightonburgian press corps, retires to the bar to take in a few adult beverages and perhaps get a Larryian maiden to bed down for the night.

The Prince's favorite form of relaxation was sex.  He loves women and one has caught his eye, a stocky gal of full figure with ample breasts and wide in the hips. The swarthy Larryian lass was taken aback by the affable Prince. It does help his cause that he just picks up the tab for all the drivers in the race. The Prince is having a good time. Tomorrow they were rivals, tonight, they were all here to rest, and have some fun.

Prince George's mechanic works on the Prince's racer.  It was holding up well, but needed a just some fine tuning, and also needed to be re-stocked with BB wine. Two bottles were flown in his personal jet, chilled just so he can have them when he takes off on the race tomorrow..



Posted on behalf of one half of the Clarissa/Nero team  Better known here as 'The Guv'.  (Warning, Drug and violence content.)....


"Would you put those things up!"

Nero, the scary thin, 5'10 Goth-Chick renowned for more vices than the Bureau has departments to combat, straightened from her hunched over pose and let the cadaver flop unceremoniously to the gravel. Clarissa gaped and tried to look away, but found the entire scene far too macabre to ignore. Should she take her eyes away, it could only get worse…

Seemingly for the first time, the Goth looked down, arms poised aside liken to a marionette on strings, and noticed the disarray of her dress. She giggled and began the task of slipping her generous triple-D's back into their designated places in the revealing garb and then looked back to her travelling companion.

"All better now, Clar?"

"NO!" The redhead co-ed shouted back, her voice much louder than intended. She gasped and looked about at the assorted vehicles drawn close to theirs, hands over her sensuous mouth. No one seemed the wiser. She could not believe what this night was turning into! The first day of the Race, the first leg! Their first night off the road! They were supposed to be sleeping! Not out trying to cover up a murder!

None had noticed them. This less than reputable side of Ft. Solastis was not heavily populated. Thankfully! Nero seemed drawn to these places. Clarissa glowered back to the Goth in the most stern expression her youthful, slightly tanned face could manage.

"You are going to get us thrown in jail, damnit!" She pointed in accusation, making her friend smile devilishly. Her green eyes glinted back in the garish night lighting of the back street, made all the more luminescent by the contacts she wore to make them truly stand out. "We're not even supposed to leave the motel they arranged for us! We're not supposed to be HERE!"

"Are we <bleep!> prisoners or racers?" The Goth shot back, again stooping to pick up her baggage beneath his unclad armpits. "They don't give a <bleep!> if we leave the motel."

"I'm pretty sure they take a dim view on going out and killing people on the streets!"

Nero rolled her eyes and began to tug. She'd had much more enticing plans for this Latino man when she'd met up with him. She'd brought her digital camera just for the occasion. But he'd just had to insist that she include Claire along with his sick little fantasy… Nero had, in fact, explained quite nicely that Claire was not the type to get involved with anything of the sort. Claire was just along for the ride, there to keep her companion from getting into trouble. Maybe drive her back to the motel after the debauchery had caught up with her and rendered her insensible…

The Latino hadn't been smart enough to take the hint. He'd tried to force the issue, grabbed Nero by the throat and started marching her back to the Murdermobile to 'talk' to Claire. He'd just taken too much for granted. So now he was being dragged out behind the dingy motel he'd lured her back to, Nero's knife jutting out of his belly.

Yeah…what a night…

The unlikely pair made their way to the back of the flea-bag motel and took a look around for a likely hiding place… There was a nice fat dumpster… A perfect place to wait for his dirt-nap. Nero began the onerous task of dragging him that way. Claire kept looking behind, expectant to see blue lights at any moment. She tried to hum a soothing rhythm but found any such tune elusive. Her harmony was nothing but discord.
Nero looked up with warning at her friend.

"Claire, quit it!"

Clarissa shot a dark look back.

"You've made enough noise for the both of us!"

"It ain't the noise I'm afraid of!"

Claire's eyes widened as she realized the tune she'd been humming. That song didn't end well at all…

"Oh…"

Nero gave the dead beaner another long tug and propped him up against the rusty metal side of the black trash receptacle. She knelt beside him and began to probe his pockets with slim hands accented by long, sharp black nails.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Nero looked back up to her friend. She noted the slim, form fitting white shirt Claire was wearing. She'd bought that shirt for Claire last April… It went with her complexion and showed off her own supple curves. Claire's figure was much more normal than her own, Nero found herself thinking. She had wider hips and more of the classic hourglass shape. Her C-cups looked bouncy and fun, opposed to her own heavier bosom…

"Hmm?" Oh, yeah…Clar was griping again….

"What the hell are you DOING!"

"Oh… He had some blow…or said he did…" Nero suddenly found something and jerked it free of its denim repository. A small plastic baggy, filled with white. "Jack pot, <motherbleep!>!"

"Oh my God! You're stealing coke from a dead guy!"

"He ain't gonna be usin' where he's goin', trust me babe!"

Nero had the baggie open already and was sampling the goods on the tip of a pinky. The taste seemed okay…her tongue numbed a bit. "Nice!"

"Just throw him away!"

Nero tried not to roll her eyes again. Claire was the only person on Satan's black Earth that gave her the time of day for anything other than her <bleep!>. No matter what Nero did, Claire was always there. Even when she was throwing away dead Latinos…

The Goth again picked the man up, this time from the front, her forearms braced beneath his pits much as before. She began to lever him into place to topple him over the side of the bin. Her boobs molded around his face, the navel-level v of her dress allowed a lot to spill out into the night air.

The Latino man groaned…

Nero dropped her victim, letting him fall to the broken asphalt and splash into a puddle from the ongoing rains pelting the coast of Larryia. She stared in disbelief, her own eyes wide with shock. Clarissa was beside herself.

"I thought you killed him!"

"So did I! I hit the femoral!"

"Femoral is in the legs!"

"Doesn't it go up the trunk too?"

"How do you expect me to remember in a time like this!"

"You're the one with the good grades and all the smart classes!"

"We've got to get him to a hospital!"

"<bullbleep!>" The Goth turned and delivered a vicious kick to the Latino's temple. His round head rebounded off the dumpster with a gong. Nero crouched again and studdied the long, ultra thin stilletto protruding from the man's abdomen. He wasn't really bleeding all that bad, now that she looked at it. Maybe he'd just been too wasted to remain conscious… She considered the curvature of his adam's apple as she reached down to the half-zipped knee-high boots she wore. She freed the wickedly curved Arabian dagger from it's hidy-hole.

"You can't just kill him!"

"You was perfectly alright when you thought I already had!"

"The hell I was!"

Nero shrugged and looked up into the sprinkling rain to eye her friend. She seemed confused, as though the idea of NOT killing him was an alien concept. "Then what the <bleep!> do you want me to do with his Arse?"

"He needs a doctor!"

"Tough titties, we ain't got one!"

"I've got my cell. We can call—"

Nero was up in a flash, claiming the phone from the redhead's hand. Clar backed up a bit, not so much from fear or intimidation. Nero was just bloody. The thinning rain made rivulets of crimson down the busty Goth's again semi-exposed breasts. Nero regarded her friend for a moment, then nodded. She opened up the cellular and dialed off three numbers.

"Yes, I have a fight to report… A man's been stabbed… I don't know…they were arguing about drugs…. Two guys… I think one of 'em wanted to rape the other." Nero looked down at the Latino laying in inch high water. With a glint of pure delight in her unnatural eyes, she turned to wink at Clarissa. The blonde's face had fallen to neutral.

"The Latino man is laying face down in the alley now, behind the Felldown Motel on Roger's. He ain't moving… Great…thanks."

Nero closed the Razor and handed it back to the wide eyed woman standing shocked in front of her.

"You're pure evil." Claire told her.

Nero smiled again, again opening the baggie she'd claimed. She pressed her nose lightly into the container and snorted once. She recoiled from the strength and burn of the powder. Then, with obvious regret, she swiveled and poured the remainder onto the unconscious form behind her.

"That should be a little more convincing!"

"So we're just going to leave him here!"

"You can babysit him if you want. I'm leaving!"

Claire turned to follow. She'd be damned if she was going to talk to the cops that could only be minutes away. Her sensitive ears were straining for the sound of sirens…there still weren't any.

Nero clapped her hands and turned back to the fallen Latino.

"<bleep!>, almost forgot!"

The thin Goth skipped back through the puddles and uneven asphalt to the half dead man and bent low. She pulled her stilletto free with a cruel yank. The man groaned and bent into a fetal position. With a dark smile, Nero sauntered back to her friend's side.

"You think the prince would like me?" She asked Claire.

"Brightonburg? No way."

"Why not?"

"Have you LOOKED in the mirror?"

"Well, I'm gonna take a shower!"

"I don't think that'll gain you any points…"

"No…? What about Gree…?"

"Just because you flashed him doesn't mean he wants you now."

"He's trying awful hard to catch back up with us…"

They halted before the glossy black Chevy Bel-Air. The severity of the Murdermobile's chassis-rake made the beading water cascade down the hood and onto the bumper… Nero paused to play with some of the shining droplets, leading them around with a long nail. Her bosom was still mostly exposed to the four winds. Claire was beyond caring any more. She crossed her arm, almost sobbing as she noticed the smear of blood on her white sleeve.

"<bleep!>"

"Think we got a chance of winning?" Nero asked, unconcerned. Blood continued to trail down her own pale flesh, collecting in her saturated gown. "We should have brought the dragster…"

Claire rubbed at the crimson stain, barely looking back to the demonic woman.

"The dragster would have run out of gas before the first check point. And it smells like...you know what it smells like."

"Yeah…that would have gotten old really quick… The Murder' has that fifty gallon cell…" Nero nodded, satisfied. "Yeah, we made the right decision…"

Clarissa looked back up, sickened from the fluid on her arm.

"Can we go back to our <bleep!> room now? I'm covered in blood!"

Clar had just said the F-word. She was tired and Nero had pushed her along too far. Nero tugged her dress over her curves and smoothed some of the blood out of it. She looked back at the sound of sirens that approached from the East. Finally.

"Alright, babe. Le's go."

They hopped into the lowered and chopped rod, firing the throaty 350 and jamming it into gear.

They had a long race to run. Another day loomed before them....


Posted on behalf of Lynn Cutter's player....



"Miss Cutter? MISS CUTTER!"

Lynn Cutter jogs purposefully past the reporter, not making eye contact. Nothing like a little morning exercise to get the blood flowing for today's leg. Her dark hair is ponytailed; earphones in, no jewelry. She wears faded jeans and a simple thin gray t-shirt, which is just beginning to show signs of moisture.

"I don't give interviews." If there was a small flash of a smile at the reporter attempting to jog alongside in high heels, Lynn concealed it quickly.

Huffing slightly, the young reporter (blonde, fluffy, you know the type) considers faking a sprained ankle, and then, in an unusual show of intelligence for someone of her hair color, decides Lynn wouldn't go for it. She stops, leaning over a bit and putting her hands on her knees.

"What are you listening to?" She doesn't know why she says it...any scrap of information might be valuable.

Lynn stops. The reporter quickly stands to a more professional height. Cutter wheels and grins at her. Overhead, birds call. The wind is light and whips a lock of hair out of its binding.

"Soul Shaker, of course."

Turning up "Barbwire Speed," track 7, Lynn Cutter continues to jog. It's a good day to race.*

------------------

*This whole thing is an inside joke that is probably wasted on everyone here, but I posted it anyway.

[Commander La'ra]

Visual Aids....

Gree's Supra

[Commander La'ra]

LEG FIVE:  ACROSS THE CLEAR BLUE SEA



Morning comes earlier to the racers.  There isn't anything so formal as an official wake-up call, but most of the competitors have arranged for the hotel staff to rouse them before the sun is completely up.  Some want to stretch or exercise before today's part of the race.  Others want to do a final check of their car.

The first leg of the race's second day is going unique.  Thus far, the competitors have had a choice in route.  Some sections of the race might have limited possibilities, but this morning, there's but one.  Fort Solastis is on the edge of the Mifune Straights, the (relatively) shallow bit of water between the Larryian mainland and the South Island.  Except for ferries, there's really only one way across:  The cross-channel highway.

Built in the '50's, the CCH amounts to a continual bridge.  It anchors itself on several tiny bits of land that don't really deserve the term 'island', and a couple of larger specks that generally have little communities on them.  A few sections are built higher, to allow shipping to pass, but other than that, the road is a long, straight, drive from Fort Solastis to Gulfbay.

By seven am, all the competitors are assembled and in their cars.  Most look rested, relaxed, though Prince Brightonburg is squinting away a hangover -- while not an easy drunk, Southern-style liquor has more kick than he's used too -- and Nero, the busty Goth, seems lethargic, which might be the reason her redheaded partner is driving today.
Dietrich Kell and Wade Gree both note that change.  Kell learned a lot about the Goth-girl driver yesterday, but her companion will likely play a different tune.  He'll have to revise some assumptions.  Gree, still determined to pass the pair, hopes Clarissa is more apt to let him slip by.  He also gives Duchess van der Prutt a wary glance (through a solid windshield, thanks to overnight repairs), but the she-devil in the Jaguar is paying him no mind.

An official gives Duncan Hawke a hand signal, and the Devon's Islander starts up his Aston Martin and pulls out of the garage.  No one else follows....in order to maintain the earned positions, racers depart in the order they arrived at the layover point, and with the same time interval.  Hawke is aware he has a chance to strengthen his lead;  if he can get onto the CCH and put the accelerator down soon enough.

Lynn Cutter waits with mild impatience.  There's a bobble-headed cat toy on her dashboard, a present from her repair crew's employer.  Cutter dislikes cats.  She'd remove the thing if she wasn't just superstitious enough to suspect it might be good luck.  An official signals her, and the electric-blue Camaro roars out of the hotel garage, once again bearing two good headlights.

Toomblee is next, and her departure comes only a few moments after Cutter's.  The little Kobald is already chanting, already 'becoming speed'.

Krazy Red Karver has to wait a couple of minutes for his turn.  His wife, blessed be the morning, is quiet.  Karver is hoping it'll last when he gets his signal and hits the gas.

Prince von Brightonburg is next, and when his turn comes he roars off with his usual vigor.  The Southumbrian nobleman continues to rub his eyes.  The liquor that blonde woman introduced him too was potent, and the after effects are lingering.  He remembers only vaguely the torrid love-making session that'd followed his inebriation.  His life is littered with such bits of half-memory.

The Murdermobile gets it's turn next, and Clarissa pulls the car into the street in a rather conservative fashion.  Nero, still half-asleep in the passenger seat, doesn't seem to mind.

Laura Blair's midnight-blue Charger blazes off a few seconds later.  Her car is a sprinter, and she's grinning at the prospect of a nice long run on the CCH.  An expended cigarette flies out her window.

Duchess Lena van Der Prutt waits for her go-ahead.  The bright red Jaguar pounces on the asphalt when she's allowed to go.  The top is down again, and the noblewoman's hair is back up in it's scarf.

Wade Gree's Supra follows her out.  The Wellutrian is giving the Duchess a wide berth, today.  He's not one to tempt fate.

Finally, Dietrich Kell's turn comes.  Ahead of plenty of racers, he's still in last place among the big ten.  He's not worried.  He's been waiting for this stretch of the race since he was sitting at the starting line.

Duncan Hawke makes it onto the CCH well ahead of everyone.  The racing green DB9 accelerates, it's immaculate engine pushing to car to greater speeds than the driver has bothered with up to this point.  Traffic is light on the CCH today;  it usually is on race days.  He slips from one lane to another to another as he weaves between cars and minivans and semi-trailers.  He can't help but gaze out off the bridge occasionally, though.  Playful blue water so clear he can see the sandy bottom, spot the silhouettes or sharks and rays and schools of fish.  It's shallow water all across the straights, well suited for a spot of recreational sailing.

Cutter and Toomblee aren't far behind the Devon's Islander.  Passing the blue Camaro is difficult.  The Kobald expected it to be.  She's over water.  Not unfriendly, but not an ally.  The Larryian in the Camaro, the sailor in the Aston Martin...they're friends with water.  There's something feline about the Camaro's driver, too.  Odd for someone who water liked.

Cutter is focused on Hawke.  Toomblee is focused on Cutter.  Neither notices that Krazy Red Karver's purple pony car is on the CCH and rapidly closing on both of them.  Linda is talking now, but still relatively quiet, and the pro rally car driver is trying to make the most of it.  He decides that if he's going to move up on this leg, it has to be before she gets out of her quiet mood.

The '60's era Camaro pushes itself up to unheard of speeds.  Toomblee's Silver Bullet doesn't try to block.  The Kobald doesn't think in terms of blocking.  Instead she speeds up.  Larryian and Ponkapaugi jockey for the lead spot.

Prince von Brightonburg, on the CCH now, notes that Karver is pulling away.  He'd intended on reclaiming his dominant position over the Larryian, but he's got more a more serious problem at the moment.  A big, black problem with a flame job.  The Murdermobile looms in the rear-view mirror, and the Prince can see the sleepy-eyed Goth and the redhead behind the wheel quite clearly.  He applies some gas, tries to pull away, only to find that the '57 Bel-Air is quite capable of keeping up.  Despite his best efforts, the lowered hot rod pulls up alongside him.

While in his own way he's more progressive than most of his countrymen, Prince George still has a scoopful of anachronistic male superiority in his soul.  His judgement a little fuzzy from last night's revelry, he decides he simply cannot let a woman...a foreign woman at that...pass him by.  Ahead, there's a semi trailer in the Murdermobile's lane.  If he can put on enough speed to catch it, it'll block the girls from passing him.  He puts his foot down on the pedal and his little modified surges forward...but the Murdermobile, while following slightly behind, is still quite close.

"Now?"  Redheaded violinist and Freaky Goth ask each other simultaneously.  Both grin.

"Jinx!"  yells Nero, who hits the black button on the dash.  The gothwagon's engine noise changes from a rumble to a roar as a sudden application of nitrous oxide flows into it's cylinders.   Tiny Modified and old school hot rod are suddenly even again, as the semi ahead looms bigger.  Clarissa cuts the wheel to the right, and Prince George, at a definite disadvantage were he to collide with the monster, brakes and tries his best to avoid the Larryians.  They slide into his lane ahead of him, overtaking the semi-trailer.  Prince George, reflexes a bit fuzzy, scrapes the bridge rail and his little racer spins into traffic, miraculously avoiding a collision, but coming to a dead stop facing entirely the wrong way. 

The Prince indulges in a display of soldierly cursing as a midnight blue Charger flashes past.  Then a red Jaguar, a neon-painted tuner car, and the sleek black Vektor of Dietrich Kell.

Kell is accelerating.  The last onto the CCH but with, potentially, the fastest car in the line-up, he's starting to build up some real speed and a real chance of improving his position.  The Kieric grins with satisfaction as Wade Gree cannot prevent him from passing.  Up ahead, Lena van der Prutt's Jaguar speeds along.  Kell watches it grow larger and keeps a firm grip on the wheel.

At the front of the pack Duncan Hawke is frowning.  He's been unable to pull any farther away from Lynn Cutter's Camaro, and there isn't much more speed to wring out of the Aston-Martin.  He knows all the cars in the race have been tuned and modified to go far beyond their textbook statistics, but whoever had tweaked the Larryian cowgirl's ride had done an impressive job.  He blocks her from passing, slips across lanes to block her progress with civilian traffic.  He recalls a long-ago incident, when the ship's launch he was commanding was fired upon by Northumbrian pirates.  It'd taken him a second to realize he was in a real fight then.  He has a similar experience now.

Duchess Van der Prutt is enjoying the high speed run across the CCH, but it's not really her kind of racing.  Not shortcuts, no sudden tug of fear when you wonder if your car will hang on to the gravel of an old dirt road...smooth asphalt is boring by comparison.  That doesn't, however mean she can't drive on good roads.  Ahead of her, Laura Blair's midnight blue Charger is having some trouble getting past a passel of civillian cars.  With an instinctive eye for a shortcut, the Duchess notes that the wide shoulder of the bridge is quite clear.  She smiles radiantly and veers out of the marked lanes, then accelerates, left side of her car mere inches from the bridge rail.  She zips past Blair, several non-racer cars, then swings back onto the road.  There's the sound of squealing brakes and honking horns behind her.  Apparently her little manuever surprised a few people.

Blair fumes as the Duchess passes her by, but at least the noblewoman's Hail Mary had broken up the gaggle of cars blocking her way.  Her Charger lurches forward, working back up to high gear.  She can catch the Jag, she knows.  There's a flash of motion in her mirror, though, and it gets her attention.  Something low and black and...passing her.

Kell gives Blair a sarcastic wave as he zooms past her.  The Larryian woman can't see it due to the heavily tinted windows, but it's the thought that counts.

Well behind Kell, Prince Brightonburg gets his car turned around and moving forward again.  His hangover is gone, banished by adrenaline.  He's lost several positions, but his car is functional.  He's far from out of the race.  The little modified accelerates.

Wade Gree isn't all that worried about Kell passing him.  In fact, he has ideas about how to use it.  His little tuner car's flat-out speed isn't good enough to keep up with the Kieric for long, but he can keep close enough, let the black supercar open holes for him.  Then, when the situation is more to his advantage, he'll pass the arrogant snot.  He zips past Blair with some effort, accelerates.  Ahead, Kell's Vektor is moving up on Duchess van der Prutt's Jag.  Gree is planning on passing her too, though at a comfortable distance, when he feels an old familiar tingling in his belly.

He glances quickly around.  There are civillian cars around him.  One of these, a nondescript car with a non-descript paint job, has a window rolling down.  Gree sees the chubby barrel of a silenced submachine gun poke out, swing his direction.

The 'Wellutrian' can't just hit the brakes, as there's too many cars behind him.  Instead, he hits the gas, and the nitrous oxide and his car zooms forward.  Something...several somethings...tear into the body of his car, but nothing serious is hit.  Too his surprise, the nondescript car accelerates, keeping up with him.  He'll have to be more creative to get rid of this pest.

He sees an suitable opening and flips his car into a 180 degree turn.  His pursuer matches the manuever, but the opening that works for Gree has closed.  A big Dodge truck with a deer-catcher bumper slams into the side of the nondescript car.  Metal rends, airbags deploy, and Gree finds himself minus a pursuer, but speeding into oncoming traffic.  Blair's Charger nearly takes him head on.  He finds another opening, pulls another bootlegger turn, and he's headed the right way again, flashing past the wreckage of his would-be-killer.

Dietrich Kell doesn't see the crash.  He's too intent on the bright-red Jaguar just ahead of him.  The CCH is crossing an island now, and actually curves slightly.  Kell knows better than to be too aggressive with the Duchess.  He passes her wide, using pure speed.  For a moment he gets a good, long look at the noblewoman, the intent blue eyes, the pursed lips.  He shakes off the split-second entrancement and keeps on trucking, but the sudden itch in his fingertips lingers.

Lynn Cutter knows she's about to pass Hawke.  She's just got that feeling.  The Devon's Islander is good behind the wheel or he wouldn't have dodged her this long.  He's not doing badly.  It's little things.  Cars in his way at the wrong moment.  People changing lanes as if to inhibit him.  She, on the other hand, is so 'on' it scaring her a little.

Hawke moves to block her yet again, but he has to abandon the effort thanks to a beat up old El Camino.  Cutter sees her chance, accelerates, and pulls ahead of the Devon's Islander.  She gives him a winning smile as she edges past. 

It's been quite a while since the racer's left the hotel.  The blue water under the CCH gets shallower, and ahead, the opposite shore grows larger.

Dietrich Kell isn't satisfied.  He's moved up well, but once the CCH is behind him, he won't have as clear-cut an advantage.  Temperance be damned, he decides, and takes no pressure off his gas pedal.  He might have other motivations, as the car ahead of him is the Murdermobile.

He draws up next to the Gothwagon.  It's a slow, painful process for the thing is far faster than it should be.  He glances over.  The Goth girl isn't looking his way.  She's talking, with some animation, to her redheaded partner.  Oh well, he decides, and begins to draw ahead.

Nero's hand is poised over the black button.  Clarissa's eyes snap to the heat indicator.  She shakes her head.  Nero agrees.  Behind then, a red Jaguar slides closer.

The racers swoop into Gulfbay.



CURRENT POSITIONS



Lynn Cutter is in 1st, with a lead measured in feet over...

...Duncan Hawke in 2nd.

Krazy Red Karver is in 3rd and moving up fast on the leaders.  Will his wife stay quiet enough for this to continue?

Toomblee is in 4th, but now back in her native element.

Dietrich Kell, after a stellar performance, has moved up to 5th place!

Clarissa and Nero are close behind Kell, in 6th place, but their position is being challenged by...

...Duchess Lena van der Prutt, in 7th.  Will gunfire be exchanged next leg?

Laura Blair is in 8th place and cursing up a storm.  Cigarette sales in Larryia increase dramatically.

Wade Gree, having avoided some old friends, hangs onto 9th place, and his skin.

Prince George von Brightonburg, after a nasty complication, is in 10th.  Both he and Gree are still quite capable of moving up, though perhaps this will teach the good Prince the value of alcoholic moderation.

-----

#5 was a fun leg to write.  And I know it's Kieran's favorite so far.

[Czar Mohab]

Which dice diety got miffed such that you rolled "Random car with random driver shoots up player"? I suppose it could have been much worse, appearantly the roll for save landed, could have been "player collides with truck, dies;" instead of how it went.

Czar "One big surprise there" Mohab, who notes that at least one $5 investment might be coming back

[Commander La'ra]

Which dice diety got miffed such that you rolled "Random car with random driver shoots up player"? I suppose it could have been much worse, appearantly the roll for save landed, could have been "player collides with truck, dies;" instead of how it went.

Well, for the most part, complications will be random bad things, but a couple of racers (Gree is quite obviously one of them) have a backstory that allows me to be...hrmm...well...elaborate, when they roll a complication.  Gree clearly is not popular with certain folks, for instance.

None of the royalty has rolled bad enough that anyone has tried to kidnap and ransom them yet, though.*snaps fingers*

[Commander La'ra]

Posted on behalf of Prince George von Brightonburg's player...

"Damnit!", thought Prince George as he brought his car back up to top speed.  He had done that near suicidal power move many a time, using a lorry as a blocker/slingshot, if was sober that is.

The Prince while loving women, was not about to let one beat him, as he thought to himself, "Damn Larryian booze, BB liquor is cut to damn thin, damn BB booze laws back home,oh well, the race is not over yet!,must remind myself to get a few cases of that stuff for home."



Posted on behalf of Lynn Cutter's player...


"So how are you doing, my Wildcat?"

Lynn Cutter jumps a little in her seat and glares at the small bobble-headed cat figurine on her dash.

"G*DD*AMN IT!"

"Hehehe. I installed your kitty-kitty with a microphone so I could get a status report." The strange accent coming from the cat could only belong to one person.

Lynn sighs. "I see that. I'm in the lead, can you believe it?"

"Very good! So...where should we set up for next year?"

"Hm. We'll discuss it when I get home. Is Nikki back?"

"Yes. Back from Antarctica with a bad case of frostbite in all the wrong places."

A faint, "Bite me, Ein!" can be heard in the background - if you have the acute hearing to catch it.

"You'll never believe the people racing with me." Cutter stretches in her seat, and arches mightily.

"Do tell."

"There's royalty, this Manson-lookin' chick, this...I dunno...this little..creature...and an old racing dude my dad used to watch all the time - Karver something."

"Royalty, you say?"

"No ransoming mid-race, partner. Gonna concentrate on driving now, if you'll hush."

The voice behind the bobble-head gives one last catlike "FFFT, FFFT!" and silences.

Lynn smiles. She was right; it IS a good day to race

[Commander La'ra]

LEG SIX:  SOUTH ISLAND SHUFFLE


The Cross-Channel Highway into Gulfbay offers an excellent view of the tourist town's white beaches, ocean-view hotels, the dreadnaught-era battlecruiser anchored here as a museum ship, and other impressive sights.  None of the racers can spare a glance, though.  They're rather busy.

Lynn Cutter is still smiling, her electric-blue '80 Camaro roaring along in front of every other racer.  There are spectators lined up along the last section of the CCH;  she gives them a wave, but it's a brief gesture;  the sailor riding her bumper doesn't give up easily.

Duncan Hawke has finally achieved that frosty concentration that serves him so well when he's on the bridge of his destroyer.  He hadn't been precisely distracted during the CCH run, but he hadn't been as sharp as he'd liked.  Cutter's Camaro bulling it's way past had forced him to collect his wits, and now the naval Commander is in the zone, his steering and manipulation of the pedals as precise as it can be.  He hasn't passed the cowgirl yet, though.  She's clearly in a zone of her own.

Neither Hawke nor Cutter is yet aware of just how close Krazy Red Karver is getting to them.  The middle-aged Larryian might be the butt of an occasional tabloid joke, but he still makes his living racing cars and he's still good at it.  More importantly, his wife is still only occasionally chastising him.  The Purple '68 Camaro stalks the two lead cars like a cagey old lion.

Toomblee the Kobald  only wants to go faster.  She's off the water now.  She's on dry land.  That was good.  She should be able to go faster now.  Going faster means she can pass people.

Passing people is also on Dietrich Kell's mind.  The straight-line performance of his black supercar bought him several places last leg.  He won't be satisfied until there's no one in front of him, though, and after his high-speed cross-channel run, his confidence is high.  Not high enough, however, that his discounts the most immediate threat to his position.  He's learned the hard way not to underestimate...them...

Clarissa and Nero and the Murdermobile snarl along at high speed. Nero, usually groggy in the mornings, is wide awake now.  She's studying her best friend.  The redhead in the driver's seat is wearing the same expression she has when trying to master a difficult piece of music.

Behind them in a candy-apple red Jaguar, Duchess Lena Van der Prutt adjusts her grip on her steering wheel and tries to summon some patience.  Once Gulfbay is behind her, it's time for her kind of racing again.  She's had enough of long, straight, and smooth.  That's for liquor, not roads.

Laura Blair should be angry, given her decline in position, but she isn't.  She's, briefly, at home, and only wishes the city council didn't restrict the racers to the freeway within the city limits.  She knows shortcut after shortcut in her home town.  She hopes passing through will lend her some luck even without a home turf advantage.

Wade Gree ignores the thumping bass from his stereo system and thinks hard on his situation.  He doesn't know who, precisely, has found out where he is and tried to put an end to him, but the last attempt was far more blatant than the first, which leads the 'Wellutrian' to believe that further, possibly more overt, tries will be made.  Worse, the killers on the highway are probably in police custody by now.  Alive or dead, they'll give some clues to his own shadowy past.  How would the Larryians react once they discovered his various deceptions?

Prince George von Brightonburg's tiny modified racer zips forward as fast as the nobleman can make it go.  He's got a couple of women to catch up with and pass, and then a race to win.  Falling a few positions is a setback to the tenacious Brightonburger, not a defeat.

Restricted by local law to the expressway, the racers blast through Gulfbay within minutes and speed into the interior of the South Island.  The next checkpoint is quite distant: Carbon Rock, Larryia's southmost city.  The freeway goes there, of course, but it makes all sorts of turns and loops through the hilly terrain of the South Island.  Route selection is important. 

Lynn Cutter slips off the expressway and onto an old, lonesome highway that leads through a few tiny towns.  Duncan Hawke is latched to her.  He'd made the same route selection after careful consideration;  he knows his car can't match Toomblee's Silver Bullet or Kell's Vektor for sheer speed, so he's shortening his run based on some good maps.

Cutter's selection is based on personal experience.  This isn't the first time she's took her Camaro down her choice of highway at over a hundred miles an hour.  A few stray memories float into her head.  She smiles, but fights the urge to reminisce.  Her efforts to shake Hawke loose refuse to bear fruit and she needs her concentration.

Karver and Toomblee stick to their strengths and stay on the expressway.  Both of their cars are quite fast.  Karver prefers relatively straight roads.  Toomblee thinks curves slow her down.  The Purple Camaro and Silver dart pace each other as they roar on down the freeway.

Kell is in hot pursuit.  He'd considered another route the night before, prior to a long and well-deserved nap.  He's not a navigator, though.  He drives for a living, and his skill in that area, along with the speed of his car, are his best weapons.  Blair and Gree stay as well, doing their best to catch up with the black supercar.

Clarissa and Nero don't bother, taking a favored highway of their own.  Duchess van der Prutt follows them for a bit, before disappearing onto backroads even the rurally-raised Clarissa is reluctant to drive down.

Prince von Brightonburg briefly considers following Cutter and Hawke.  He decides against it.  It's the safe play.  The Prince has never been one for the safe play, and thinking so conservatively rankles him.  Where was his daring?  His elan?  When he sees the Murdermobile and the cherry-red Jag turn off the freeway, he reverses his early choice.  He may not know the layout of the Larryian highway system, but he's sure those women do.  He'll follow, take advantage of their knowledge.

The temperature rises as the racers get farther from the coast.  Though not as hot as other parts of Larryia, the South Island is still balmy, and there's no sea breeze to cool things down.  Kell, noting his Vektor's rising heat gauge, takes the pressure off his accelerator.  He can cruise are a damned impressive speed, after all, and following his high speed run, he needs to give his car a break.

Other racers don't have that luxury.  Cutter is surprised when Hawke's Aston Martin slips by her.  His lead is brief; she shifts gears, guns her Camaro past the touring car and stays ahead for a few moments before the Devon's Islander again slips past.

Not far behind, Toomblee paces Krazy Red Karver, waiting for a chance to pass.  The Larryian's purple Camaro is big and heavy.  The Silver Bullet is not.  Karver likes to block.  The Kobald finds the habit bothersome.

Lena van der Prutt is in something close to heaven as she charges down old gravel roads, through muddy pools left by the rain, and past signs that say 'no vehicle traffic permitted'.  The Duchess has a feeling she isn't gaining any ground.  The mud from the recent storms is still slowing her.  Judging by her time estimates, all written in the exhaustive sets of pace notes in her passenger seat, she's not losing any either.

Laura Blair is in the same situation, but less jubilant about it.  She snarls into her rear view as she notes Wade Gree's Supra gaining ground on her.  She presses the pedal, and her dark blue Charger starts to pull away.  Gree is more focused now, and accelerates in kind;  whatever else he has to worry about, he's in the race to win.

The Murdermobile roars through a small town Clarissa knows fairly well.  The redhead is humming a favorite tune.  Nero is going on about the next website photoset she's going to put up.  Why not go with a race theme?  Pictures of her sprawled over the car and such.  Clarissa only occasionally offers an opinion.  She's glancing in the rear view. Another racer is following them, and getting closer.

Prince von Brightonburg sees the big, black Gothwagon growing larger and steels his resolve.  He'll soon put the Larryian girls in their place.  He follows the Murdermobile down a side street, then out of town onto another old highway.

Duncan Hawke curses as Lynn Cutter's Camaro once again steals his lead.  Aston-Martin and Camaro roar down the highway, almost alongside each other.

Red Karver loses focus as Linda begins to reassert herself.  Whatever had prompted her quiet mood is losing it's effect, and small, nagging remarks are once again bombarding the Larryian rally driver.  He almost doesn't notice when Toomblee passes him.

Toomblee is happy that she's passed him.  She'll be happier when she passes everyone else.

Prince Brightonburg finds himself on a winding section of hilly road with many curves.  He resists the urge to slow.  The Murdermobile is not visible, but he knows the girls can't be too far ahead, and he must catch up.

Clarissa and Nero are grinning and laughing.  The little recreational area they'd ducked had allowed them a tree-obscured view of Prince Brightonburg whizzing on by.  Now they're back on the right road, wondering how long it'll be before George realizes he's been tricked.  There's a flash of red from a side road, though, and the Goth girl and the Redhead are suddenly confronted with a Jaguar on their tail as Duchess van Der Prutt comes back onto the main highway.

A few miles down the wrong road, Prince Brightonburg sees a sign giving the mileage back to Gulfbay.  He slams on the brakes, turns his little modified around.  He calls the Larryian girls various ungentlemanly things as he roars back towards the right road.

Cutter and Hawke continue to battle, trading positions almost constantly.  Both realize the duel is better avoided.  Both realize that they're pushing their cars harder than they should and fatiguing themselves when there's still most of a day of racing ahead of them.  Each looks for an oppurtunity to gain a solid lead.

Cutter sees it first.  The road loops here.  There's a simple dirt path, with a small bridge in the middle,  that connects one half of the loop to the other.   She does her best to keep her car between the little path and Hawke, then veers down the gravel cut off at the last possible moment.

Hawke wonders for a second if something has just went horribly wrong with Cutter's car, glances back.  He sees the electric blue Camaro kicking up dirt and gravel, sliding more than driving down the little shortcut.  He curses, wrenches out what little bit of speed his car still has in reserve.  By the time he rounds the loop, Cutters back on the highway.  Her lead is measured in yards rather than feet now.  Not much, but the best she's had all day.  The dusky Larryian grins widely.

The racers near Carbon Rock around noon and once again, cars are forced onto the freeway by checkpoint rules.  Clarissa and Nero merge onto the expressway with Lena van der Prutt in hot pursuit.  The fire-haired Duchess is crowding the Murdermobile a little until Clarissa hits the brakes for a split second.  The Jaguar is forced into a wild turn.  The Duchess recovers, uses the Gothwagon's momentary loss of momentum to try and pass.  Clarissa puts the hammer down, keeps up with the noblewoman.  The two redheads lock eyes.  Clarissa feels an odd connection there, as if the Duchess were a friend in another life. There's still this life to deal with, though.  Clarissa swings the Murdermobile towards the Jaguar, almost bumping it. 

There's another flash of fury on the Duchess face, the usual reaction to someone taking liberties with her car.  The Luger comes up.  She doesn't squeeze the trigger.  Nero is leaning across her redheaded companion, aiming a revolver in the Duchess' general direction.  Clarissa gives a 'no-no' motion with her finger.  The Duchess grins and salutes.

Kell can't see the interplay, but he does see the Murdermobile, the Jag, in his rear view.  He narrows his eyes.  He'd hoped he'd lost the Murdermobile.  No such luck, it would seem.  He puts a little more pressure on his accelerator pedal.

Prince George zips onto the freeway in between Laura Blair and Wade Gree.  The Wellutrian doesn't seem to be in the game today...he doesn't even try to catch the Prince, who's lead over the tricked out Supra expands rapidly.  He draws up alongside Blair's dark blue Dodge, intent on passing.  The dark-haired Larryian sneers at him, and the hemi-powered Charger roars forward and away from the Prince's modified.  A still-lit cigarette flies out the driver's window, thumping off the Prince's windshield in a hail of tiny sparks.

Cutter blasts into Carbon Rock with Hawke still close on her tail.  The rest of the racers aren't far behind.



CURRENT POSITIONS


Lynn Cutter is in 1st by a hair, challenged constantly by...

...Duncan Hawke in 2nd, who's now quite familiar with the back end of a '80 Camaro.

Toomblee, having passed up Karver, is in 3rd with a ghost of a lead over...

....Krazy Red Karver in 4th, who's probably considering divorce or at least a muzzle.

Dietrich Kell is in 5th, maintaining his position and preserved his superiority complex.

Clarissa and Nero are neck-in-neck with Lena van Der Prutt.  Who's in 6th or 7th would be hard to determine.

Laura Blair is in 8th place.  She's drawing closer to C&N and Van der Prutt, but also has...

...Prince George von Brightonburg, in 9th place, close on her back bumper.  This is not the first time George has been spotted Larryian tail.  It probably won't be the last.

Wade Gree, probably a bit paranoid at the moment, is in 10th.

---------------------


Almost caught up with the 'live' race thread, now.  Can't wait to post leg seven.  It's a doozy.

[Commander La'ra]

Visual Aid....Jaguar XK-E, same color as that driven by Duchess Lena van Der Prutt

[Scottish Andy]

Oooh, she's a sweet ride. She looks much better with the top down. <insert obvious joke here>

I really wish I could link up my X-Box account to the computer so I could post a pic of Hawk's elegant DB9... *grumbles*

[Commander La'ra]

Posted on behalf of Dietrich Kell's player...


"Verfluchte larrische Huren..." snarls Dietrich Kell, scowling at the sight of the Murdermobile in his rearview. If he were the religious type, he might have thought they were the fates' revenge for some great karmic sin he'd committed in the past. They certainly had done nothing but bedevil him since the start of the race. At least, though, he'd left the other racer he dearly wanted to beat, that effete Brightonburg prince, far behind him with no signs of closing the distance.

Next to the Murdermobile was the psychotic Brochensteiner woman's Jaguar. He sneered at the image in the mirror as he lit another cigarette with his silver Zippo. If this woman was any judge, the so called 'nobility' of Brochenstein could barely be called such. He wasn't terribly fond of the Kieric aristocracy, hailing from land-owning yeoman stock in northern Berhagen, but at least Kieric noble families recognized the dangers of too much inbreeding.

The Sphinx 2000 pistol that had found its way into his car after the layover had once been frontline issue for the Landesheer Kierholme and the Reichsheer after that, but following the introduction of its successor, the 3000, the market had been flooded with military surplus 2000s. Kell had bought one several years ago, and nothing had ever made him regret the purchase. After watching van der Prutt's antics over the last several legs of the race, he'd made sure the pistol was waiting for him with his race crew at Festung Solastis. His hand tapped the handle of the pistol, strapped to the side of his center console, and his mind flooded with images of a bullet putting a large hole into one of the two trailing racers' tires... or that red-haired Larryian girl's lovely Busen.

That particular image was dismissed from his mind not quite immediately, and not without a certain amount of regret, but dismissed nonetheless. His focus was on winning the race, not going postal on the competition. Still, though, nothing would make him happier right now than seeing the Murdermobile on the side of the road with a blown tire or two... He resolved to let the Larryian girls play their part in that particular fantasy of his should they ever try to pass him again.

Noticing he'd smoked his cigarette nearly down to the filter, he quickly tapped it in the ashtray and promptly lit another. He looked down at the heat gauge on his dashboard. Not as low as he liked, but low enough thanks to his last coast that he could continue to pile on some more acceleration, which he does. He taps a control on his CD player, which clicks, whirrs, then begins playing his favorite Megaherz CD. The dark, full sounds of Alexx Wesselsky's band - a common theme among Kell's favorite groups - reverberated throughout the car, the frenetic beats stoking the fires of his adrenaline. His face twisted in a cruel grin as he continued to lay on the accelerator. Yes, there was plenty of race left... and he had big plans.



Posted on behalf of Lynn Cutter's player...


"Aw, s-." Lynn Cutter's accent deepened in frustration. A familiar blue and white streak was coming up fast in her rearview.

The bobble-headed cat on her dash buzzed.

"Heya, Dubya-Cee. Ein's talking to the boys, but I thought I'd tell you we've got a..."

"I see 'er, Nikki."

"Looks like you-know-who. How's it haulin', by the way?"

"About 110." Cutter can almost feel Nikki smile.

"Need any help?"

"Naw."

"Kay. Nikki out."

A motion outside her driver's side window. The car outside was keeping up with the Camaro. For the moment.

A quick CD-track change and Cutter rolls down her window.

"Was I speeding, Officer?" She smiles sweetly, a cheshire's grin.

Favored band Dope's cover of "F- The Police" blared.

A young, well-built blonde in a blue Mustang, late-90's model, sped along beside Lynn's classic. The 'Stang had little lightning bolts airbrushed down the sides.

"The Museum of Antiquities contacted us. They'll be wanting it back." The blonde's voice only trembled a little.

"Well, she doesn't wanna go back, Sparky."

Cutter puts a little more pressure on the gas. The blonde and her Mustang are left behind.



Posted on behalf of Toomblee's player...

Toomblee sings a song from her youth, one she has always known. She sang it often while building this car, she sings it now, since it rests her mind and lets her focus on driving and speed.

Oh Coydog
Oh Hey Coydog
We can have a party
We can have a big party
Look at all these people
Get them in a party mood

I'll find juice
Sweet juice, strong juice mellow juice hot juice
I will bring a lot of juice

Oh Coy dog
O hey coydog
I am your child
Let us have a good time...

Oh, she does love speed. She likes Larryia, with its odd and playful people who make such fun things, and who are so good about letting others play. It is a good day, a good time, it is speed.

She continues to sing, yipping a little as her car hums smoothly.



Posted on behalf of one half of the Clarissa/Nero team...

The skyline of Carbon Rock, Larryia is visible in the distance. Clarissa's gaze is fixed on the sleek black supercar not far ahead.

There's a tune playing in Clarissa's head. There usually is. She's learned to let the rhythms guide her. Her instincts don’t talk to her. They sing to her, play for her. Right now the beat is...steady. She doesn’t particularly want it to be steady. The guy in the black car is managing a difficult feat; he’s making the Clarissa the introverted scholastic angry.

She doesn’t know why the other driver is bothering her. He’s done nothing to her specifically. At least nothing that every other person in the race hasn’t been doing or trying to do.

It’s subtle, she supposes. A style of driving that betrays misplaced arrogance and hostility. When she thinks about him, the notes in her head get heavy and oppressive. She doesn’t like it. The dislike is manifesting itself in an urge to put him in his proper place: far behind the Murdermobile.

Nero is talking, Clarissa realizes.

“Wha?” She asks. She blinks. She’d been pretty far ‘under’.

“I said that you wanna pass him.” The Goth drawls.

Clarissa steals a glance at her pale companion. Nero’s green eyes show amusement, interest, and a certain kind of pride...the kind mother cats display when their kitten disembowels a mouse.

“We’re racing, of course I wanna pass him.”

“You really want to pass him.” Nero restates. “You haven’t blinked in a couple of minutes.”

Clarissa feels herself flush. Nero always made her blush, whenever the Goth spotted something that the redhead didn’t like to put on display. It made her secret little urges easier to handle though, when Nero knew about them.

Clarissa’s hands tighten on the wheel. She almost puts more pressure on the accelerator, almost makes an aggressive move toward the black supercar. The music wasn’t right yet, though. She keeps the Murdermobile at a steady clip.

[Commander La'ra]

LEG SEVEN:  NORTHWARD HO!


Unlike Gulfbay, Carbon Rock, Larryia is not a tourist trap.  It's the southmost city in Larryia, on the farthest tip of the South Island.  It's not a terribly attractive city, the burst of growth that made it into the industrial metropolis it is today having occurred in an era of architectual conservatism. 

Lynn Cutter isn't Carbon Rock's biggest fan, but she's had some memorable adventures in the rough, somewhat crime-ridden town.  She grins to herself as she recalls this escapade or that as she zooms down the expressway, weaving in and out of the heavy midday traffic.  Other drivers recognize the electric-blue Camaro and wave.  She usually responds with a tip of her black cowboy hat, or a sultry wink.

Not far behind her, Duncan Hawke is equally amiable.  The racers speeds have generally lowered, in deference to the Carbon Rock traffic, and he uses the opportunity to catch his breath.  He's still close on Cutter's heels, but the Larryian wildcat has given him a tough run.  He smiles, waves to a civilian driver here, a roadside onlooker there.

Toomblee, for once, is somewhat distracted.  Carbon Rock is orderly and logically planned and they build things there.  Large things.  Ships.  Planes.  Trains.  Trucks.  She doesn't care that it seems a little dirty.  Places where things are made are supposed to be dirty.  The Silver Bullet slides through traffic with ease, as if energized by it's driver's delight.

Krazy Red Karver is beginning to worry.  He's not losing ground.  His 68 Camaro is rumbling like a lion trying to purr.  But Linda is still quiet.  Linda is never quiet for any great length of time unless something bad is about to happen.  Under his racing gloves, his hands are a little sweaty.

To Dietrich Kell, Krazy Red Karver is his next target.  He can see the purple antique up ahead.  He'd have passed him by now if it weren't for the cursed traffic.  Larryian drivers don't make way for him, or for any other racers.  It wouldn't be like that in Kiermark.  He glances at the rear-view mirror, checking for Clarissa, Nero, and the Murdermobile.  They're still there.

Clarissa's full lips are pulled in tight.  She's not sneering.  She's not pouting.  She's irritated.  The traffic inhibiting Kell is keeping the Murdermobile restrained as well, and she's saw no opportunity to zoom past the Kieric, yet.  Nero gazes out the window.  Carbon Rock looks boring, all right, but the busty Goth has heard that it's her kind of town.  Lots of nooks and crannies to find dark things in.

Duchess Lena Van der Prutt is pacing the Murdermobile, waiting.  The girls had surprised her last leg, matching her 9mm ante.  She's decided she likes them.  That doesn't mean she's reluctant to pass...she's making Clarissa feel the pressure...but she's put the Luger away.  For now, and for those two.  She glances in her mirrors.  A threat is approaching.

Laura Blair's midnight blue Charger slowly gains on Van der Prutt's Jaguar.  The Duchess had passed her with a crazy move last leg, but the dark-haired Larryian knows her car can outrun the 60's era sportster if she can manufacture a chance.  She exhales a smoke ring, slides past a slow-moving truck.  She'll probably have to wait until she gets out of Carbon Rock to do that, and she might have to ditch her attached royalty, too.

Prince George von Brightonburg has lost his patience.  He's been outaccelerated, outfoxed, and outran over the last few hours, and the royal decides he'll have no more of it.  His tiny modified is well suited for zipping in an out of traffic.  It's time to move up a few places.

Wade Gree is in a bigger car, but his advantage is similar to that of the Prince's.  The Supra he's driving is quite responsive.  He's still a little rattled from the earlier incident, but with each mile, he's getting back into the groove.

The train of racers wind their way through the Carbon Rock traffic.  With most of the drivers electing to maintain their spot, there's few passes, few attempts to move ahead. 

Few, however, is not 'none'.  Prince George puts his foot hard against the gas pedal and the little modified begins to scream down the expressway.  Horns honk as the blue-blood from Brightonburg ducks through spaces too small for almost any other car.  Middle fingers are extended as he cuts off merging traffic, narrowly misses a vehicle or two, and other minor incidents.  His sudden rash driving, however, brings him far closer to Laura Blair.

Blair sees the modified approaching.  It surprises her;  she'd been quite focused on Van der Prutt.  The midnight blue Charger accelerates, begins to pull away from Brightonburg's modified.  The Prince can't quite keep up, but the Dodge is large for a sports car, and can't weave and duck as ably as his own diminutive racer.   Blair is forced to slow when she can't quite get around an airport shuttle bus.  Brightonburg can.  The buxom catches a quick glimpse of a grinning, mustachioed face as the Prince passes her by.

Moments pass before she can get through.  Blair snarls, takes a long drag off her cigarette, and pursues.  The little dandy and his little car aren't getting off that easy.

As Brightonburg makes his move, Lynn Cutter is passing the Carbon Rock city limits marker.  The traffic doesn't thin immediately of course.  It takes a bit.  She smiles.  The next checkpoint is in St. Lucia, many miles to the North.  The problem, from most of the racer's point of view, is that while the freeway leads to St. Lucia, it runs along the coast.  Sandy beaches and warm waters dominate the scenery, but as a quick way to Lucia-town, the expressway just doesn't cut it.  Cutter slides down an exit ramp and onto the old South Island highway.

Duncan Hawke, his reserves rebuilt, is just behind her.  With any luck, he'll reclaim his lead.  Cutter has proven a difficult foe, thus far, but he is confident.  He's plotting his next passing attempt when a low, silver shape zips past him as he was standing still.  The Devon's Islander blinks.

Toomblee exhults, and belts out another round of her favorite song.  Roads would be hillier and curvier along the old highway.  She probably couldn't go as fast, but she'd be closer to the ground.  Coydog giveth and Coydog taketh away.

The Silver Bullet pulls away from Hawke.  The sailor slams his foot onto the pedal and tries to keep up.

Karver and Kell are next off the expressway, and the sleek black supercar is clearly gaining on the purple Camaro.  Kell flexes his fingers, anticipates his next gain.  Karver frowns into the rear view and glances at his wife.  Still quiet.

Clarissa and Nero are staying in sight of Kell's Vektor.  Clarissa thinks she hears a change in tune.  It's not time yet, but it was coming.  She smiles at Nero.  Nero smiles back, before she's thrown around the car a bit.  A candy-red Jaguar had just tried to pass, and Clarissa's avoiding block had been lively.

"Do that again!"  The Goth demands.  Clarissa laughs.

Duchess van der Prutt grins, tries to slip past the Murdermobile again.  The big Chevy swerves, once again blocking her.  The Larryian girls aren't like driving on gravel, but they are a challenge.  The Duchess is enjoying herself.

She's also Prince Brightonburg's next target.  He's aware of the midnight blue Charger, now uninhibited by freeway traffic, coming up from behind, but let her come.  He means to move up, and the Duchess is in the way.  The little Modified draws closer to the Jag.

Blair stares at Brightonburg's modified and keeps pressure on the gas.  She wouldn't have to be fancy to outrun him.  Just persistent.

Gree watches and waits.  He's seen the Duchess incite her share of small disasters.  He's seen the murder girls do the same.  He decides that he'll let them cancel each other out.  When whatever chaos they cause this time happens, he'll be ready.

Cutter finds herself swerving, doing her best to keep the Silver Bullet from getting by.  Something seems to have lit a fire under the little Kobald, though, and the sleek little projecticle slips by the '80 Camaro.  Toomblee gives another affectionate wave as she scoots past.  Cutter can't help but laugh.

Hawke blinks again.  That little silver thing was devilishly fast.  He's on Cutter's tail again, now, but in third, not second.  He'd already planned on dealing with her, though, and decides that at least his planning won't be for naught.

Kell's Vektor draws close to Karver's Camaro, like a sleek black shark approaching a hapless seal.  The Kieric grins, lets himself enjoy the vibrations of his engine.  He was going to savor this pass.  After Karver, there were the top three.  After them, first place for Dietrich Kell.  And putting opponents between him and the Murdermobile couldn't be a bad thing.  He accelerates.

Karver sees the Vektor approaching.  He's in that split second of decision, that little moment where, out of thousands of ways to react, your mind must select a single one, when Linda finally breaks her silence.

"I've been with another man."  She says.

Red Karver doesn't respond.  In truth, it takes a moment for what Linda has said to register.  He goes through the usual.  He thinks his misheard her.  He thinks he imagined it.  He thinks she's joking, making it up.

But, for all their conflicts, Krazy Red Karver has been...if he isn't now...close to his wife.  He knows her joking tones, her occasional fibs told just to piss him off.  Her voice had been serious.  He glances at her.  She's looking at him.  There's defiance in her eyes, and the statement had been uttered in a way that told him she was daring him to do something about it.

Rage boils up in the middle-aged racer and once again he's faced with a moment where ones mind must select a single course of action.  Several options, some homicidal, some suicidal, some both, most neither, spring into mind and the near-berserk rally car driver is having trouble with his selection.  At least until he sees the flash of black in his side view mirror and remembers that long-haired Kieric son-of-a-bitch had been about to pass him.

Karver throws the Camaro across the road.  Kell, halfway through a pass, swerves to avoid a collision.  He tries to accelerate, zip past anyway, but Karver slams his foot down and the purple Camaro lets out a roar, pulling in front of the Kieric. 

Kell is not to be denied.  He pulls right, trying to get by on the other side.  He has to hit the brakes to avoid Karver's wild block this time.  Another swerve, another attempted pass, another near collision.  Kell's brow furrows.  The Camaro pulls away.  The Vektor pursues.

Behind the embattled pair, Clarissa smiles a little and the Murdermobile accelerates.

"Soon."  Nero says confidently.

"Soon."  Clarissa agrees.

Prince Brightonburg is feeling the morning's frustration fall away as he draws closer and closer to Duchess Van der Prutt's candy-apple Jag.   He's heard the talk, and knows she can be a tad violent, but he's not the type of racer who tends to draw her wrath.  What kind of gentleman slams into a lady's car?  He cuts inside the Brochensteiner on the next curve, almost pulls ahead.  As the road straightens, though, he finds himself neck in neck with the fire-haired Duchess.

Laura Blair's Charger rounds the curve only a second or two behind the Prince and the Duchess.  She can't see a way past both cars, yet.  She lets some pressure off the accelerator pedal, watches, and waits.

Behind her, Wade Gree continues to amble along.  Let the others tussle.

"Well aren't you going to say anything?"  Linda Karver demands of her husband.  Her hands are holding tight to the dashboard, feet braced against the floor.  The Camaro is going faster than it's ever gone before, and Krazy Red Karver's face has flushed until it matches his name with a vein in his forehead more prominent than usual.

His mind is racing, cataloguing every single incident when the blonde in the passenger seat yelled at him, scolded him, slapped him, sniffed at him, dismissed him or ridiculed him.  He notes the recurring theme of his assumed but never real infidelties.  He notes that for all that drama and turmoil over him talking to a chirpy female fan or a hot female pit mechanic, HE's not the one who shopped in the wrong store first.  Fingernails dig into the steering wheel.  There's a car ahead.

Duncan Hawke notes Karver's rapid approach, takes the next curve on the inside, to keep the Larryian from passing.  He can't stop Karver from getting alongside him, but the deep green Aston Martin is starting to pull ahead.  Starting too, when Karver's purple Camaro sideswipes him.  It's a gentle tap as automobile collisions go, but Hawke finds himself on the shoulder, heading for the ditch. 

The sailor has fast, trained, reflexes.  The brake is applied, but not too much of it.  The wheel is turned, but not too far.  The DB9 straightens, runs on the shoulder for a few seconds before pulling back onto the road.  But speed, that priceless thing, has been loss.
Dietrich Kell doesn't know what the hell's going on in Red Karver's front seat, but he knows road rage when he sees it and he's giving the Larryian some room.  That doesn't mean he can't take an offered opportunity, though.  He zips by Hawke, chuckling lowly.

Clarissa does the same, without the chuckle.  Nero waves to Hawke.  He's a sailor, after all.  She knows how they are, and hell, maybe she'll take advantage of it later.

Hawke pulls back on the road.  He's not fuming.  Devon's Islanders don't fume.  Stiff upper lip and all that.  It'll take some time to regain his lost ground, certainly.  But he's confident...then he sees the mini-convoy coming up on him from behind.

Prince Brightonburg is leading Van der Prutt's Jaguar now, but by inches.  He chances the occasional look back.  He can clearly see the noblewoman's sunglasses, scarf-secured hair, and the grin on her face as she tries to slip by time after time.  He even sees the look of surprise on her face when Laura Blair's Charger scoots by them both.

Blair whoops with satisfaction, then does it again when she blasts past the still-not-quite-recovered Duncan Hawke.  A spent cigarette flies out her window.  A replacement is lit, in celebration.

Hawke rebuilds his speed, but not in time to keep Brightonburg and the Duchess from passing him too.  There's a split second of frustration, before his eyes lock onto the Duchess, her red Jag, her bound hair.  There were, he knew, advantages to nearly any situation.  He grins, pushes the DB9 faster, faster, until he's once again at a respectable velocity, his concentration focused on the red XK-E.

Wade Gree continues to cruise.  He's gotten close enough to the other racers that he can see some of the chaos ensuing up ahead.  He knows better than to get involved in that mess.

"Red, you're scaring me!"  Linda shouts.  Karver doesn't really hear her.  He didn't really notice nearly running Hawke off the road.  He's thinking about racing now.  Not the race he's in, really, but all the races he's missed thanks to Linda's disapproval of the sport.  Her objections always seemed centered on groupies, how if he lived on the road, he was sure to stray.  Many long tirades, many violent arguments had been had about it, and each one is rotating through his head like a hellish kalediscope.

His teeth grind.  He almost rams someone in front of him.  They don't seem too eager to get out of the way.  He decides he may as well bump them.

"<censored!>"  Lynn Cutter yells as the older model Camaro thumps her bumper.  She tries to pull ahead.  The road curves again, and she tries to drift inside, but the purple brother-car behind her cuts in, and slowly, achingly pulls away.
Cutter gets a glimpse of Karver's face.  The middle-aged racer is beet-red.  He doesn't look at her.  Indeed, he doesn't seem to be looking at much of anything.  She notes that the woman is the passenger seat is much more animated.  So that's what all that was about.

"What you get for marrying a <censored!> blonde!"  She hollers as the older, purple Camaro pulls away.  Her eyes note the Vektor approaching, looking as if it's eager to take advantage.

"Uh uh."  She says, and accelerates, pulling away from the supercar, but not quite keeping up with Karver.

Dietrich Kell frowns.  The cowgirl was going to take some planning.  He considers the problem as the road begins to slope downhill.  Ahead was a long, gentle curve.

There's a tune-shift in Clarissa's head.  Her face lights up, and her foot puts the accelerator to the floor.  The Murdermobile rockets forward, eating up the distance between itself and the smaller Vektor.  She can't quite make it to the inside edge of the curve, but the Gothwagon has a reserve.  It won't matter.

Kell sees the Murdermobile surging forward and grins.  He slides open a side window, left hand closing around the butt of his handgun.  The Murdermobile is almost alongside....

"Gun!"  Nero yells.  Clarissa brakes.  Three sharp cracks are audible above the roaring engines.  Sparks fly off asphalt as 9mm rounds miss the tire they'd been aimed for.

"Did he just shoot at us?"  Clarissa yells, sliding the Murdermobile in behind the Vektor.  Nero responds, though with a stream of curses that would make even Hawke, a lifelong sailor, blush.

Blair, Van Der Prutt, and Brightonburg roar along, almost in formation.  Blair blocks the Duchess from passing, nearly sideswipes Brightonburg's little modified.  Curves are slowing her a bit.  She needs a straight stretch of road to pull away. 

Van der Prutt knows a stalemate when she sees one.  She makes a faux attempt at passing Blair.  The Prince, predictably, tries to capitalize when it 'fails'.  This occupies both racers for a few seconds.  Long enough for the Duchess to veer off down a side road.  It's planned, but why let them know where she went?

Blair and Brightonburg note the Duchess' sudden departure, but pay it no mind.  Duncan Hawke sees it, too, though, and knows from experience what the nobelwoman is up too.  And if it can work for her, it can work for him.  He throws the Aston Martin down the same side road and roars after the Brochensteiner.
Wade Gree doesn't.  He likes it just fine where he is.  For now.

Toomblee is rejoicing in first place, taking curves with childlike glee, nearly ramping over hills.  She feels something...bad, approaching, though.  Betrayal?  Anger?  Suddenly there's a purple Camaro, big enough to just run her over if it wanted too, right on her tail.

Always fun to invoke Coydog, she knows, but dangerous.  Weird things happened.  Like whatever was happening in the Camaro.  Toomblee loves speed.  Toomblee wants to win.  Toomblee isn't stupid.  She simply lets the Camaro by.

Red Karver really doesn't even notice. 

"We're in first, Red!  You can slow down now!"  Linda implores.  Karver sees a hill ahead.  His car is maxed out, pushing the edges of what it's capable of.  But the hill...the Camaro is steel and iron.  It's heavy.  As long as he keeps the pedal down, he might manage a few more miles an hour.  The purple Camaro rockets down the hill, shaking and shuddering and picking up through gravity more than it's engine can give it.  Linda screams.  Karver's snarling frown turns into a sickening grin.

Toomblee watches, blinks, and tries to keep up.  Not far behind, Cutter does the same.

[Commander La'ra]

(continued)

The Murdermobile rides Kell's bumper, following the supercar as close as Clarissa can manage.  The Vektor almost pulls away on an uphill.  The Bel-Air regains the space on the way down.  There's another curve ahead.  More importantly the shoulder is wide.  Kell takes the turn on the inside.  Clarissa goes farther.  The big Gothwagon slides as the redhead takes her across halfway off the road, comes back on the highway almost sideways.  Gravel spatters the Vektor's windshield, leaving tiny chips and cracks, and Kell swerves to avoid what he's sure is a crash.  But the bespectacled co-ed corrects.  Hot Rod and Supercar find themselves rocketing down the highway, almost fender to fender.

"Push the button!"  Clarissa yells.  Nero does so, with an evil cackle.  The Murdermobile's engine howls in protest, nitrous oxide flowing into it's cylinders.  The big Gothwagon pulls away from the sleek Vektor.

Clarissa lets out a victorious cry.  Nero gives her an amused look.  Clarissa blushes.

"Yeah!" She says, much more quietly. 

Behind them, Kell has more to say, though there's no one in the car to hear it.  Worse, there are other racers approaching, quite fast.  He can deal with the Murdermobile later, he decides, sliding his car around on the road so that Blair's Charger, suddenly on him, cannot pass.
Blair narrows her eyes.  The Kieric had passed her on the CCH without any trouble.  She owes him one, she decides, tries to slip by.  Kell is slippery though, blocking her, cutting her off.  The road starts on an uphill grade.  The swerving, the slope slow both cars.  Blair curses as Prince Brightonburg's lightweight modified, slips past her.

The Prince nods to himself, and almost gets by Kell's Vektor before the Kieric notices him.   Kell's tinted window is still open from his earlier shooting expedition, and the two drivers lock gazes.  Both hit the gas.

The uphill turns to downhill.  Brightonburg almost scoots in front of Kell, but the Kiermark driver blocks him.  Blair shoots past both, then swerves as the Duchess and Hawke blast back onto the highway from an old side road.  Kell uses the distraction, accelerates straight through the mini-traffic jam.  For a moment he's out in front, then Hawke's deep green Aston Martin DB9 zips by.  Five cars pass and block and bump, each gaining the lead, each losing the lead, as the entire wad of automotive mayhem rockets down the highway.

Wade Gree, watches from the rear and smiles to himself.  It wouldn't be long now.  St. Lucia was on the horizon.


CURRENT POSITIONS

Krazy Red Karver is in 1st place!  His hate has made him powerful.

Toomblee is in 2nd, close to Karver, but keeping a safe distance.

Lynn Cutter is in 3rd, close to the leaders still, and fairly far ahead of...

Clarissa and Nero in 4th place after an off-road pass an a timely injection of nitrous oxide.

Dietrich Kell, Duncan Hawke, Duchess Lena van der Prutt, Laura Blair and Prince George von Brightonburg are snarled together in a collective 5th place.

Wade Gree is in 6th, waiting for his moment, and probably happy he's not in 5th.


-------------

Thanks to the havoc wrought by my favorite 10-sider, this leg has been the most enjoyable to write so far.  Hope ya'll like it!

[Commander La'ra]

Posted on behalf of Prince George von Brightonburg's player...

" The time is now," said Prince George as he re-lit his cigar  "Lets now show them what we can do!"

Prince George pushed his car though its paces zigging and zagging though the traffic.

if I can break out of this log jam, I can make up lost time!" Prince George shifted through his gears and thought to himself

Lets see what Brightonburgian motorsports technology can do..




Posted on behalf of Toomblee's player...


Toomblee smiled as they tore through the filthy city, her car filters sucked in the outside air, redolent with carcinogens and pollutants. It brought back happy memories of her young days in the kobald child care*. Such great fun rolling through the flames, round, sleek and smooth, bouncing and bouncing in the molten metals until they were old enough to play….FOOTBALL!

Oh Toomblee had loved football. She bounced in her seat, happy memories filling her, foot urging her bullet on for more speed. She hadn’t played many games, it was true, but she had been on target to be nominated as a MVB**. That had been heady stuff, but then, then she had discovered speed and she was lost to football forever.

Well maybe not forever. She did sometimes still like to drop in on a practice, the balls had so much fun…

Toomblee didn’t know, but she wore a meltingly goofy, fond smile, the kind of smile the hymentopaerae and dryads wielded as weapons, the kind of smile that could melt a person’s good sense and make them agree to ANYthing just to see that smile again. She passed a trooper on a motorcycle, and his heart gave a little leap as he realized he’d just seen the face of his bride…spiky hair and all.

*Kobald day care: Kobald young start life as perfect sphereoids. Their nurseries are usually blast pits and blast furnaces. The young spheroids are hard, round, impervious to heat, cold, water, acid, and molten rock, which, given kobald habits, is a good thing for the survival of the species.

**MVB=Most Valuable Ball. Football is a sport played with living balls. In other respects it is pretty similar to versions of the game played elsewhere. Young Kobalds who show the proper shape, weight and most important, neutrality are prized as footballs. An MVB playe ris one whose spherical or ovoid surface is perfect, with balanced weight and can remain utterly impartial so as not to favor one team of the other. Ponkapaug football is held to field four teams, the umpires, the balls, and of course, the two playing teams.



Posted on behalf of Lynn Cutter's player...


The goddamn bobblehead spoke again.

"Readout says you're losing ground!"

Lynn blinks mildly.

"I thought you just wanted me to scout things out, Ein. Getting a little race fever?"

Silence from the small catlike figurine.

"Besides, the lil' critter that just passed me was so cool to watch. She was just kinda hunched over the wheel, staring straight ahead. Like she didn't even see me, except when she waved."

"Ugh! LOTS of people DON'T EVEN SEE YOU ALL THE TIME! Will you get back into the RACE?"

"AND I'm kinda worried about the lesbian couple behind me..."

"WELL THEN GO FASTER!" The unmistakable sound of thrown papers.

Cutter smiles. "The redhead's kinda hot, too."

"What the HELL did you say? Where's your freakin' FEROCITY? How can you just -"

"Sorry, Ein. Difficult passage coming up. You've gotta hush."

With a disgusted sound, the cat figurine on her dash falls quiet.

Lynn Cutter scrunches her cowboy hat down a bit, leans back, and gives the old car some time. Inside her, something purrs contentedly.



Posted on behalf of Duncan Hawke's player...

Commander Duncan Adam Hawke, DIRN, is not a happy bunny. He doesn’t know what made that Larryian muscle-car muscle-head decide to play tag with him, but the results of that tussle has left the frigate commander slightly miffed. He had been running in an incredibly close battle for first place with the cowgirl when that bizarre little faerie woman blasted past him as if that fragile little D-Type wannabe was rocket propelled. It had worried him to think that his car might be so completely outclassed in speed and agility, but his previous performance allowed him to consider that it may be a sprinter where as his exotic was definitely built for endurance at speed. He could make up the time somehow.

But when that hunk of steel had bumped him, it had lit off his anger. Sportsmanship was everything to the Devon Islander, even as he did his best to surprise pirates and blow them out of the water without taking any casualties himself. The two incidents, he knew, were completely different. But now his beloved car had been roughed up, and he owed that muscle-head a debt of honour. I’m not going to trade paint, or attempt an eye-for-an-eye retribution – oh no. I’ll make sure to leave that classic metal monster breathing my exhaust fumes in the most viciously fair manner that I can devise. I’ll make sure that my skill will be superior, and treat the boor with a respect he no longer deserves to defeat him on pure skill.

The navy commander toyed with the idea of inviting the paint-scraper to try again with him when Hawke caught up to him – which he would, there was no doubt in his mind – and lead him astray if he did try again. A momentary lapse of judgement is forgivable, after all. But if he does try again… Maybe I can engineer a spin of his own that won’t happen unless he initiates…

Also of note in the past half hour was the genuine wave of appreciation from that horribly unhealthy-looking Goth girl. Duncan had done a bit of light research on each of his major competitors before the race, and knew all about Nero and her website. The performance of her car and the fact that she has kept up with all the other racers eloquently attests to the quality of her driving skills and pit crew. If she was one of the pit crew as well, then she is a worthy opponent indeed, even if her… extracurricular activities… are somewhat loose on morals.

Even as the puritanical thought crosses his mind he grins at the silliness of it. He’s not exactly been a monk himself. However, he does find the Goth’s redheaded friend and current driver to be far more suited to his tastes.

And thinking of redheads, he reminisces with a softer smile, the progression of thought brought on by the appearance of the candy-apple red E-Type beside him once more. He remembers his… reaction to her, both on the road and off. Most memorably, off, he thinks with another grin, picturing the bathing suit worn by the Dutchess back at the first layover.

Well, I think I’ll try more than just getting acquainted with Miss Lena at the next layover. He doesn’t permit himself the crude jokes that would have occurred to many at such wordplay – or at least pretends to think that way. He can’t help a self-depreciating smirk at himself for the longing gaze he directs at the flame-haired beauty, currently still ahead of him.

Hawke lets the all this percolate at the back of his head as he focuses all his attention on the fight for fifth place.


---------------------------

Gonna post the next leg tomorrow or so.  It has a...guest appearance I've been planning for awhile.

[kadh2000]

Hmm, time to ask a question.   Can outworlders join the race next year?

[Commander La'ra]

Hell yes.

Actually, it's mostly outworlders this year.  Several of the racers are 'visitors' from other RPGS.

[Commander La'ra]

LEG EIGHT: RACING INTO THE SUNSET



St. Lucia is a quiet city. Touristy, but not overly so. On the ocean, but not prone to fierce storms. Most towns in Larryia love it when the Road Racers blast through. St. Lucia can't wait for it to be over. The sooner the racers zip through the town, get onto the Lucia Narrows Bridge (longest suspension bridge in the world) and off the South Island entirely, the happier the people in St. Lucia are.

Krazy Red Karver doesn't give a damn what makes the people in St. Lucia happy. There's not much he gives a damn about right now at all. His purple Camaro roars into the sleepy town, narrowly missing other cars and occasional pedestrians. Linda protests loudly and incessantly. Karver doesn't respond, except for an occasional mean-spirited laugh when she gets lively enough.

Toomblee's Silver Bullet isn't too far behind the road-raging Karver. She would like to pass him, of course, but senses that now is still not the time. Lots of anger. Lots of bad magic. She keeps her distance from the old Camaro, but the madman DOES clear a wonderful path. She zips through the empty streets he inevitably leaves behind, happy at the absence of obstacles.

Behind her, Lynn Cutter is doing precisely the same thing, edging a little closer to the Silver Bullet. The little cat toy on her dashboard starts to squawk though, giving warning.

"Police are chasing somebody, coming in from the west side of town. Looks like they'll hit the bridge the same time everyone else does."

Forewarned, the Larryian cowgirl starts watching sideroads, alert to danger. She has a feeling that the racers behind her aren't so well informed. Might be a good time to lose them.

The Murdermobile chases Cutter's taillights around sharp St. Lucia corners, over slight hills, down a tree-lined boulevard. Clarissa is less focused than she was on Kell's Vektor a few miles back, but she's got her eyes locked on the 1980 Camaro ahead of her. Nero is still grinning at her.

About thirty seconds behind the Murdermobile is St. Lucia's worst nightmare. Dietrich Kell, Laura Blair, Duncan Hawke, Lena van Der Prutt and Prince George von Brightonburg are roaring in, tangled up in a knot none have managed to unravel yet. The gaggle of heavy-horsepower cars swing and block and bump all over the highway. Civilian traffic dodges this way and that. A few go off the road when hasty evasions prove impossible.

Normally, Wade Gree might be in trouble in St. Lucia. The mega-booster for his car's stereo system violated several St. Lucia city ordinances. Right now, of course, his thumping hip-hop...he hasn't fiddled with the CD changer, finding that the music sort of fits this car...is the least of the sleepy town's worries. He watches the wad of cars up ahead contend for position and chuckles to himself.

Karver zips through town with little trouble. He's out in front, with no one save the weird little Ponkapaugi critter close enough to bother him. The purple Camaro loses some of it's bullet-like speed as he negotiates a few street corners, travels up, then down the little hills that add to St. Lucia's postcard charm. He doesn't slow down enough to suit Linda.

"Is this race all you care about?!?" She demands. "Why won't you TALK to me?"

Karver snarls, and pulls onto the Lucia Narrows bridge, over a mile of straight road, and punches the accelerator. Hard G-forces press Karver, his wife, back into their seats. Linda falls silent.

Toomblee isn't too far behind the racing Camaro. The Silver Bullet pulls eases onto the bridge. Ahead of her, Karver's purple ride bulls people out of the way, sideswipes a van from the local Civics Center, and leaves the Kobald an utterly unimpeded path. She giggles and bounces as her racer accerlerates. The madman certainly cleared a wonderful path!

Cutter can see the Ponkapaugi's little car zip onto the bridge, but even over the roaring of her engine, she can hear sirens. She pushes her Camaro past it's 'cruising speed'. Behind her the Murdermobile does the same.

Clarissa and Nero can hear the sirens too. The bridge spires loom ahead. The redhead gives up on passing Cutter for now, keeping an eye out for whatever is headed their way. So does Nero.

"There." The Goth says, pointing. Several roads lead to the bridge, and coming down one is an entire wolf pack of blue-striped St. Lucian police cars, lights flashing, sirens blaring. There's still a few moments before the constabulary reaches the bridge ramp. Cutter and the Murdermobile both take advantage, zipping onto the mighty span just ahead of the pursuit train.

The posse of competing racers not far behind them isn't so lucky. Dietrick Kell is the first to sight the wolf pack of approaching police. He hits the gas, trying to beat them onto the bridge. Laura Blair, running alongside this and unable to see the cops, figures this is another attempt to leave her behind and edges the Vektor over, not quite trying to run Kell off the road. This also prevents Hawke, Van der Prutt, or Brightonburg from zipping past them and onto the bridge. The police cars and the five racers merge violently, vehicles swerving and tires squealing. Ahead of the mess, the wildly painted Subaru the Police are chasing accelerates, pulling away from lawmen and racers alike.

Wade Gree is faced with a wall of cars, some with flashing lights, some with 'exempt from traffic laws for the duration' race tags. He can't get past them, he notes, as they're veering all over the six lanes of the massive bridge. He waits, keeps pace.

Krazy Red Karver, on the other hand, is building his lead. He's crossed the mile-long-or-more bridge in around thirty seconds. He zooms off the other end of the span, through Saveall's Rest, the smaller sister town to St. Lucia. His lead grows.

Toomblee is having trouble keeping up with the Larryian, but she's doing her best. Cutter isn't far behind the Kobald. They exit the bridge only a few seconds ahead of the Murdermobile, which is steadily gaining on Cutter's Camaro.

Dietrich Kell is swearing and yelling. It's understandable. His plans have been upset. The Lucian Straights bridge is a mile long and straight. He'd planned on using it to pull away from his competitors, to accelerate up to something close to what his car is capable of. The police are impeding him.

His eyes note, suddenly, the bridge's wide 'breakdown' lane. Wild Arse shortcuts seem to be working for everyone else, they can work for him. He veers into the lane and accelerates, pulling alongside, then ahead, of the howling police cars. He almost clips a car that'd pulled over to the let the emergency vehicle's by, but that too gives him an idea. Cars were pulling over for the cops, which meant they might as well be pulling over for him. The low-slung supercar roars, picks up speed, as her driver laughs.

Duncan Hawke and Lena van der Prutt exchange a glance. There's more than an agreement on tactics in the smoldering stare, but both get the message anyway. They have to wait. Plenty of civilian cars are in the breakdown lane now, but there's finally the glimmer of a chance. The DB9 and the XK repeat Kell's manuever, accelerating in an effort to catch the Kieric and his supercar.

Laura Blair tries to follow them, but the St. Lucian police are irritated now. A white-and blue prowl car blocks her, and suddenly the cops devote two cars toward sealing off the breakdown lane. It doesn't help them catch the Subaru they were chasing, and is the primary reason for a week-long rash of vandalism directed at the department, for in Larryia, interfering with the race is a serious faux pas, but it does make them feel better for a moment. Blair curses the cops and their mothers.

Behind her, Brightonburg is more circumspect. If impeding a couple of cars helped them catch the outlaw, so be it.

Gree, who's situation hasn't changed due to the cops, doesn't really care.

Karver, meanwhile, is doing something no one has managed to do, save Hawke the day before: Grabbing distance and expanding his lead. He can see Toomblee and Cutter in the rear-view mirror, but they're shrinking. He passes out of Saveall Heights, and the road starts to incline a bit. It's hill country for the rest of the leg.

"Don't you even want to know who it was?" His wife demands.

For the first time since her dramatic revelation, Krazy Red Karver looks at his wife. His teeth are bared in a sadistic grin.

"Sure." He says.

Toomblee notes the madman drawing further away. She'd have to catch up. Not now. Later, the race passed into the mountains. She'd be in the best possible territory then. She'd be faster. Already, the road is begining to undulate, up a hill, down a smaller one.

Cutter is more worried about the car behind her than the ones in front. The big, black Bel-Air is close on her bumper now. She can see the redhead driving it clearly enough to note the blue eyes and glasses. Cutter's mouth quirks slightly. Kinda hot, that little redhead. She blocks as the Murdermobile tries to slip by on the inside of a curve, pulls away, slightly, as the two Chevy's roar up a hill.

Murdermobile and Camaro top the crest of the hill. The downhill run isn't as steep, and not terribly long. The big Gothwagon accelerates, with surprising ease.

"We got the weight advantage! Go!" Nero shouts. Clarissa stomps on the pedal, turns slightly. The Murder pulls alongside the Camaro despite Cutter's attempts to block. There's not much downhill left. Still, cowgirl and co-ed match gazes for a moment.

"Something really familiar about that woman..." Clarissa muses.

"Pass her!"

Clarissa blinks, her concentration back on the road. Inches by inches, the Murdermobile pulls ahead of the Camaro, completing the pass just as the road becomes level, then uphill once again.

Kell is off the bridge, drawing well ahead of his nearest competitor. He sees a car up ahead. Though for a moment he thinks it's a racer, the shape is wrong, and so is the distance...the ones ahead of him have more of a lead. It's the Subaru the police were chasing, he realizes.

The Subaru doesn't slow down, but the Vektor is moving at an impressive clip. He draws alongside soon enough. The Kieric can't help but notice the blue paint job, the 'xTI' logo on the front bumper, and the fanciful jungle scene, complete with leaping Jaguar, airbrushed down the side.

The Kieric chuckles. The Subaru's driver turns his head. His expression, concealed by blue tinted glass, is unreadable.

There's a flash of motion from a side road, a howl of sirens. The Subaru veers off onto another road, a Chevy Corvette in police colors with 'Interceptor' written across the back in hot, close pursuit. Kell notes that the Subaru's license plate reads 'DACZAR', and that Duncan Hawke's Aston Martin is coming up fast from astern.

The Devon's Islander has a welcome tug in his belly. He's back in the groove, and if he can pass Kell, he can move back towards the lead. His deep-green DB9 is on the Vektor in a heartbeat, but the Kieric isn't an easy mark. The black car slides across the road and back again, cutting off the naval commander's attempts to pass. They don't bump and scrape like the Larryian drivers. Their mutual school of racing is a less physical one, more akin to fencing than hacking at someone with a battle axe. For a few, too-brief moments, both drivers feel at home.

Duchess van Der Prutt isn't a fencer. She was close enough to see Hawke move up on Kell, but she doesn't pursue. She turns, heading onto the same side-road the Subaru had ducked down, and accelerates. The road isn't gravel, but it's got a gentler incline and cuts off the main highway not far ahead. She grins. Above her, to the left, she can see glimpses of Kell's Vektor, Hawke's DB9. The road begins to curve upward...not far now...

Prutt blasts onto the highway close enough to Kell that the Kieric is forced to swerve to avoid her. His tires taste gravel, and with a sudden grip of fear, the Kieric driver realizes his car is spinning. He turns opposite the spin, let's the car do what it wants. When the violence of the motion has reduced and the hood pointed the right way, he gives it some gas. The Vektor slides, almost effortlessly, back onto the highway. He's lost speed though, and can't keep Hawke from slipping by.

The Kieric snarls and pursues.

The herd of police cars chasing the Subaru isn't giving up, but word that the Regional PD is on their quarry's tail means they're not directly chasing anymore. As they zip down the highway, still doing their best to impede Blair, Brightonburg, and Gree, they get the word to disperse to cover avenues of escape and such. The posse begins to disperse.

Laura Blair hits the gas, but she's badly placed to get by quickly, and long seconds pass before she can scoot by the cops. Brightonburg is in a similar situation.

Wade Gree is not, and more importantly, no one's really noticed him. The Supra leaps forward, cuts past a police car that had been intent on blocking Blair but which hadn't paid much mind to the rice-burning street racer, and begins to accelerate away from the cops and the other racers.

Blair sees the Wellutrian's sudden charge, and finally bulls her way past an uncooperative cop. The Charger roars, the tone changing with each rapid shift of gears, and soon the midnight blue muscle car is even with Gree's wildly painted tuner. Blair tries to pass, but the Wellutrian slides into her lane, edging her over. She gives up the attempt only to make another, which Gree blocks with more uncharacteristic aggression.

Gree smiles with satisfaction. He might not be getting many moments, but he knows how to capitalize when he does get them.

The Charger and the Supra weave and duck, looking for an advantage as Brightonburg's tiny racer advances on them. The Prince shakes his head at his ill fortune, but knows he's only a long sprint away from his previous top five standing. He looks for a good chance to slip by Gree and Blair. Soon he might very well be challenging the leaders. He wonders idly who's in first at the moment.

"The Prince." Linda Karver confesses. "I slept with Prince Brightonburg."

Krazy Red Karver looks back toward the road. There's homicide behind his smile.

The racer's tear into Norlan Heights, the next checkpoint, near sunset.



CURRENT POSITIONS

Krazy Red Karver is in 1st place, and strengthening his lead! Can raw skill maintain what road rage has given him after the layover? Only time will tell.

Toomblee and Clarissa and Nero are tied for 2nd!

Lynn Cutter is in 3rd place, probably noting that Toomblee's car might fit in the Murdermobile's trunk.

Lena van Der Prutt and Duncan Hawke are exchanging smoldering glances while tied for 4th place, while in 5th place, Kell rolls his eyes at them.

Laura Blair and Wade Gree are tied for 6th! Will the Wellutrian hold onto his looked-for advance, or will the hot-tempered Larryian run him off the road?

Prince Brightonburg is in 7th, and though unaware of the potential trouble he's in, should likely be thanking his lucky stars he's not in 2nd.

---------------

Hope the cameo was enjoyed.

[Czar Mohab]

First: Thanks for the cameo. It was well enjoyed. Doesn't seem to far off; seeing as my current Subaru ('88 POS model) is light blue, with a paw-printed steering wheel cover and blue tinted sunglasses in the glove box. I can't say I've been chased by the cops, but it wouldn't surprise me.

Second: Had I actually placed bets way back when, and the race stopped right now, I'd get my money back, and then some.

Third: I really want to find out the details about KRK's wifey and the prince; not so much the actual act, but something more like when and why (I can only guess last layover).

Can KRK keep the lead? Possibly, so long as the car holds out. Been pushin it really hard of late.

Will the Wellutrian hold onto his looked-for advance, or will the hot-tempered Larryian run him off the road? Banking on the "run off the road" scenario... the kind that somehow, when its all over, puts the duo tied again... like pushed off the road and down a hill that happens to wind up back on the same road, just a tad further down. They are entering hill country, yeah?

I foresee bad things for the Prince. Something tells me he'll be trailing for a while.

Czar "Stupid cops, WRX's ain't for kids" Mohab

[KOTH-KieranXC, Ret.]

Heh... Go back and read the first layover. Knowing what you know now, it should be pretty obvious.

[Czar Mohab]

Kinda figured. Wasn't sure.

Czar "Bad Prince, bad!" Mohab

[Commander La'ra]

First: Thanks for the cameo. It was well enjoyed. Doesn't seem to far off; seeing as my current Subaru ('88 POS model) is light blue, with a paw-printed steering wheel cover and blue tinted sunglasses in the glove box. I can't say I've been chased by the cops, but it wouldn't surprise me.

Enjoyed writing it as well.

Third: I really want to find out the details about KRK's wifey and the prince; not so much the actual act, but something more like when and why (I can only guess last layover).

Yup.  Kieran pointed out the little hints I planted.  More of the possible motivations will be shown in a giant vignette I'm currently editing, sent to me by KRK's controller.

[Governor Ronjar]

Giant? It only took like an hour and a half...

--thu guv!

[Commander La'ra]

Compare it to Brightonburgs.

[Governor Ronjar]

 

--guv!

[Commander La'ra]

LAYOVER: NORLAN HEIGHTS


The distant peak of Mt. Mifune is visible in the distance as the racers zoom into Norlan Heights, and on a clear day, you can still see the ocean from the quiet mountain town.

The view is, in fact, one of the reasons the town is here. It was originally the site of a medical retreat, a cool, airy place in the hills suitable for long recovery of one's health or mind. Despite being utterly dissimilar to the busy and tourist-infested Ft. Solastis, it's often considered a sister town: It's named for a companion of the same legendary warrior-healer that the Fort was named for.

Norlan Heights is still quiet, and there's still a medical retreat. It's not as prudish or conservative as St. Lucia, there's just something about the town that promotes relaxation, meditation, which might be the reason it hosts, in addition to the hospice, the main school of Iron Spirit, an 'internal' martial art popular in Larryia. No one with good sense starts a fight fight in Norlan Heights.

Krazy Red Karver has lost his sense, but he has no intentions of starting a fight fight. He's thinking more of crowbars, ball bats, or bike chains, all smashing into various parts of Prince George von Brightonburg. In the passenger seat of the Camaro, Linda Karver is genuinely scared. She's never known Red to be particularly violent, but there's something very very dark about his mood right now. She's unfastening her safety harness before the purple pony car rumbles into the Breeze Resort's parking garage.

Red thinks he knows why his wife is so eager to get out, but he doesn't stop her. Instead, as the slim blonde jogs over to the nearest race official, he calmy removes his own harness, and lets out a long breath. Somewhere, under all his anger and emotional turmoil, lies the knowledge that he's in first place with a significant lead.

The significant lead is probably why what happens next is not talked about in the news tonight. Karver has arrived sooner than expected, and the press has yet to be admitted into the garage area. They don't see several race security men come over, talking calmly to Red, and then escorting him out of garage. They don't hear Linda Karver imploring a higher official to take him out of the race. They don't hear the official steadfastly refuse; The race's overseers will keep peace during the layover, but the personal lives of the racers are their own business. Linda looks disappointed rather than worried.

The drama has been swept under the rug when Toomblee and the Murdermobile arrive, so close together their positions might be simultaneous. Toomblee hops out of the Silver Bullet almost immediately and begins to fret it's needs. Clarissa and Nero get out just as quick, but spend a little time hollering, cheering, hugging, and dancing. They've made the single biggest advance today, and they know it.

Lynn Cutter's Camaro rumbles in not long after, and the Larryian cowgirl can't help but grin at her competitor's enthusiasm. She fully intends on passing them tomorrow, but their exuberance gives her a little charge.

Duchess Van der Prutt and Duncan Hawke slide into the garage almost side by side. Their exotic cars find the designated spots and the drivers emerge to tend their vehicles, still exchanging the occasional smoldering glance.

Kell isn't too far behind the pair, and while he's fuming at being passed a couple of times, he still knows he's in fifth place. Considering how well he advanced earlier today, he's not too unhappy about his position...especially since there's at least one Vektor-friendly leg tomorrow.

It's a few more minutes before Laura Blair and Wade Gree arrive. Neither driver seems to be paying the other much attention. Those taking note of small details, however, notice a different look than they're used to seeing on Gree's face. Perhaps the rookie has found his race legs.

Bringing up the rear--at least as far as the big ten are concerned--is Prince von Brightonburg. He's in seventh, with all the other major competitors ahead of him, but the nobleman still seems in a jolly mood. Perhaps it's the idea of another night of revelry...with a little less experimentation with hard liquor...and enjoyment of the race. Perhaps it's the fact that, of all the race legs, the next will probably be the one best suited to his car.

Since the Karver situation is a personal matter, Race security doesn't inform the Prince of the Karver situation. They leave that to Linda. Curiously, she never quite makes her way over to the Prince...

Cars are oiled, re-tired, tended. The garage is locked and put under guard. Racers make their way into the hotel, and toward whatever nightly activities they're planning...

CURRENT POSITIONS


At the player's discretion. Have fun! Strongly encourage contributions on this one. Got a couple of doozies already...

[Czar Mohab]

Glad to see that this has made its way back into the spotlight. Almost forgot all about it.

One thing, having never been in, seen, or heard of one, what is a "fight fight"?

Czar "Go black(?) team! WOO HOO!!" Mohab

[Commander La'ra]

One thing, having never been in, seen, or heard of one, what is a "fight fight"?

That, great Czar, is a typo.*eyeshift*

[Commander La'ra]

Posted on behalf of George von Brightonburg's player

Prince George was getting used to the mountain peak, it reminded him of the Brightonburgian Duchy of Cornwallsburg,and it did not suit him, Brightonburgers are sea-level people, Brightonburg City from where he was born,and most of the high noble Brightonburg family was born,did not care for the mountains.

And Norlan Heights was such a place for him, never the less, they were many a fine lass here at this lay over,and he never slept alone if he anything to say about it.

In his mind,a womb is a womb is a womb, and so the Prince hit the pub, first speaking to his mechanic.

"I am off to Breeze Resort , Alex, make sure the car is in proper order, must see what is out in the pubs tonight, I think, I will find me that scary looking goth girl, never shagged nothing that thin before."

"Sire," asked Alex " is there a female you wont shag?"

"Over 60, or over 200 pounds my dear Alex " as Prince George flash a devilish grin " I may try to sleep with every female in the race, just because I can"

"Now make sure my car purs like a kitten Alex, I think I shall wear one of my full dress uniforms out at the pub, they dress so plain in this country" smiled Prince George.



Posted on behalf of Toomblee's player

Toomblee stares suspiciously at the bed. The rules say stay in the room. Kobalds like rules, but these are silly. She sighs and stretches out on the floor, but the carpet dust smells nasty and she doesn't like the look of under the bed at all. She sighs, as usual, this is not going to work. She gets up and slips from her room. A few swift, furtive steps and she is in the stairwell. Things are much better there, she hops up to the railing and slides down. There's some complicated maneuvering to get around the landings, but the challenge is fun in a way and she's feeling better when she reaches the sub basement.

To a kobald, a sub-basement is a place of infinite promise, you can only go down from there, and if you are a Kobald, that is a good thing. Other people don't always see it that way, however. Still, for Toomblee the sub-basement had infinite promise, like the access hatch to the conduits. She stuck her fingers into the prybar holes and pulled the casing free, then she slithered down into the space and pulled the lid after her. There are many fine reasons to be small, power conduits were several of them. She saw in the dark perfectly well, after all, the one thing underground had in plenty was dark. She trotted through the conduit, hunched over as she headed for the safety of her car. She made the turns easily, unerringly as she headed to the garage.

She popped up out of the conduit a few blocks from the garage. She wiggled out and caught the manhole cover before it could make an ungodly racket. She trotted lightly to the garage and slipped inside. There was security, a ton of it, but they never saw or heard her move. No one ever did.

She slid through the dark garage full of sleeping cars. The drivers always had access to their own cars of course, and hers wasn't locked at all, of course, hers didn't need to be. She covered it with lightning bugs when she left it, and those packed a powerful wallop.

The bugs flickered dangerously as she approached the car, then calmed to let her slide inside. She relaxed as the solid metal body closed around her, encasing her in the promise of speed. She closed her eyes.

[Commander La'ra]

Posted on behalf of Krazy Red Karver's player and one half of the Clarissa/Nero team...

Red Karver buried his head in his hands and rested nearly the full weight of his aching body upon the polished, smooth table at the furthest, darkest corner of the bar. Well…the table was not nearly so ill lit as he would have liked it to be. The bar was almost garishly lit, being more of a cocktail lounge than a real, seedy dive…

But still…he could imagine. Hell, he wasn’t even in the corner of the damn place! That damn Brightonburg was! Brightonburg…

“Bitch!”

A few people looked up at Karver’s lightly voiced exclamation. Some of the lounge’s patrons had already gotten used to it. He’d been here ever since the racers had pulled in this evening. Yeah, he’d driven the balls off his car today… That accomplishment and his likable standing in the race hadn’t elevated his mood any. If anything, it had worsened it.

He’d only performed so damn well because he’d been truly pissed. Pissed off at his wife…over her betrayal! Angry, driven to the point of near homicidal rage when she’d admitted to sleeping…

…with another man.

How could she? His sweet Linda, his angel—No…she hadn’t been that in years… Not since he’d gotten back into racing. Had she ever been?

Karver had had his opportunities to sleep around. Particularly in the early days, before she became so damn horrible. Groupies and race fans had been everywhere. Even after his retirement…he’d had his chance. He’d sat on the hood of his pickup for hours talking to that leggy, blonde named Nikki after their shift at that crappy restaurant… He’d been offered the chance to toss his vows aside. He’d turned it down.

Linda had gone ahead and done it anyway. After all the nagging, the jealousy that erupted when he even tried talking to another woman… She’d been the first to f**k another person. Had she done it before, he wondered…

Even his performance in the very thing he loved the most was tainted now. Tainted with the knowledge that’d he’d never have done so well had she not been sitting there beside him, so smug and arrogant, reveling in her admission to him of her infidelity… watching him… Well…at least he’d scared the smug right off of her, the lousy bitch.

“Bitch!” He shouted this time, much more vehement with his tiny, scotch scratched voice. Several of the drinkers nearest him got up and moved away. He didn’t give a damn. To hell with the race anyways…

Karver’s blood-shot eyes scowled over Brightonburg’s direction. The arrogant foreigner didn’t even know… He was wrapped up in his own life, unknowing of the ruin in Red’s. Ruin he’d helped create…

Had the prince…duke…or whatever the hell that guy was even know who it had been he was banging that night? Last night? Less than 24 damn hours ago…when he’d had his hands all over her and his...

Red looked away. He had too. He couldn’t touch that p*i*k. But if he kept on staring at the goofy looking bastard, he’d be over there pounding his face into—

‘Pounding what into gravy?’ His wife’s voice echoed uninvited in his mind. Her mocking, condescending tone always irked him. Made him feel less of a man. Less than human… ‘Go ahead and try to beat him down, Red. You couldn’t whip your way out of a wet paper bag. He’ll hand you your ass on a plate.’

“I’ll show you a beatin’…” Red mumbled to the voice in his mind as he was beginning to rise from his wooden seat.
“I’ll pound yer lil’ fornicatin’ royal stud flat…”

Red’s bleary eyes came upon the visage of an angel.

He knew her from the race. That long red hair. The soft, supple face and caring, shining china-blue eyes… The C cups. She was from that one car… the ’57 Chevy Bel-Air. License plate said: MURDR1…

“Clar…Clarissa.” He stammered.

She was standing there, before his small table, a look of concern on her unlined face, two big books held cradled in her hands. Was she a student? Was he racing college kids now? Damn she looked hot in that form-fitting turquoise T-shirt...

She was a great looking woman…barely more than a little girl, really. She had the ample bosom of a larger girl's, and had deliciously wide, round hips. She guarded those in denim tonight. Her jeans were not nearly so tight as her shirt. They were probably her comfortable pants… The fierce lighting of this establishment made it possible to get a faint look at the outline of a dark-colored bra through the fabric of her clothing.

Clarissa tossed a lock of lustrous red hair over her shoulder and tilted her face a bit. “You alright, Red?”

“You…know my name?” He asked in subtle shock. His butt was now firmly back on the chair, his jaw trying not to sag at the sight of this woman. She knew who he was…wasn’t he just a washed up has-been?

“Who doesn’t know Krazy Red Karver?” She asked as though his question was ludicrous. He leaned back and she sat down across from him.

Karver shrugged in answer to her question.

“Figured I’m ‘bout used up, darlin’. Didn’t think anyone remembered the name any more…”

“My dad was a big fan of yours when you hit the Rally circuit. He followed your Corley Series runs and he really thought you had a chance to win the championship back in ’97.”

Red laughed despite himself.

“I did too. Came in second in the points…”

‘Second place is the first loser, Big Red…’ That voice scoffed again. Red blinked hard, trying to block it out. He looked back to Clarissa.

Claire was looking at him almost in understanding.

“Are you okay. You look like you’re in pain…”

“Yeah…you could say that.”

The urge to come blurting out with the whole sordid tale rushed to the forefront of his mind. The need to tell someone everything! To get it out there and maybe find a sympathetic ear…

But, then, that would look truly pathetic, wouldn’t it? Yeah…the wife would eat that up tomorrow. Red looked anew at the redhead.

“Darlin’… I’ve had a bad day.”

“When I was walking past you, I was like someone was banging cymbals in my ears. I looked right down at you and they stopped.” She told him. Maybe that would all make sense when he sobered up… Maybe next Tuesday…

“Do you wanna talk about it?” She asked further.

“No… That’s the last damn thing I want to do right now.” He told her. Her sensuous mouth…those big, beautiful lips that looked like they’d give a great b—She frowned in a way that said she wanted to help but didn’t know how. He dragged forth another glass which had been sitting on the table untouched when he arrived four hours prior.

“Tell ya what… Le’s just have a drink. A toast to the race…” He tried to edit out the sarcasm, but it was obvious she noticed. “And to…past second place finishes.”

Clarissa looked at the glass like it was venomous. He fell instantly in love with her innocent demeanor. Her apparent naivete. He wanted to take her to his room…make love to her on top of his wife’s belongings. Was she a virgin perhaps? He’d never been with one… His wife certainly hadn’t qualified…

Red tried to look harmless.

“If you don’t wanna drink, we can get ya a pop.”

“No!” She almost shouted back, so abrupt was her response. “Whiskey…Scotch is fine! I just…don’t drink much. But the race today…”

She was exhilarated with the memory of driving today. He’d been surprised to glimpse her form sitting behind the wheel when they’d taken off this morning. That other chick had been nearly passed out on the bench seat beside her. She’d done pretty damn good. Even gotten one over on…him.

Red’s eyes burned back over to Brightonburg’s table. The nobleman had two women talking to him right now. Jealousy and memories of a time when he’d attracted multiple ladies to seek out his company rushing into his brain.
\
Red poured the two drinks, no more than a shot-worth going into Claire’s. He wanted to bed her down, but wasn’t going to stoop to getting her sloshed to achieve it. He doubted Brightonburg had needed it to get Linda in the sack and out of her drawers…

Claire looked dubiously at her swill as she sat with it raised in mock salute. Red raised his to match and grinned amid his unshaven face. “Here’s to racin’!”

As Red tilted his drink back and let it pour, a pale, long arm snaked in and armor clad fingers snatched the whiskey from Clarissa’s homeward driving hand. The redhead looked right in surprise as her scantily clad partner sank the shot with a sultry smile on her thin, black painted lips. The Gothic princess looked back scoldingly to her friend.

“I told you booze was no good for you, dear.”

Red looked up in morbid fascination at the queen of darkness. The Goth Chick was clad from nipple to hip in a torn, nearly see-through gown of black satin. It left almost nothing to the imagination, and in the lighting of this lounge…the imagination had plenty of help on the rest. Six-inch stilettos clad her tiny feet, their black laces twisting around and around her long, ghoulishly white legs and over the hole-filled black fish-net stockings she’d belted on beneath what little consisted of her skirt. Her chest all but spilled out of the slit she’d cut in the front of her gown, and the mid-part of a shiny black bra shone from beneath the material, straining to keep her triple D’s in check. The girl looked unbalanced. Like her massive boobs would topple her. She barely had hips, though what he’d seen of her rump was nice enough. Black lined her eyes and flared out into Cleopatra-style accents at the outer corners. Her long, jet hair hung straight from her scalp to the small of her back and she looked at the bottle on the table with hunger in her cosmetically assisted green eyes.

The Goth took a deep breath, enjoying the widening of Karver’s eyes as her chest swelled. Clarissa sat back, arms crossed with a slight pout to her full lips as she stared up at the newcomer.

“It was just a toast. You can hardly talk, Nero!”

Nero? What the hell kind of name was that?

Nero wiped at the curve of her black lips with the edge of the glass as she sat down. “Who’s talking about what? I just wanted a drink.”

Nero made a show of parting her legs, showing Red her lack of underwear and the lengths to which she went to reduce aerodynamic drag about her lower half, and also withdrawing the silver flask strapped to the inside of her thin thigh. She sparkled a grin at both her drinking partners and poured the contents of the container into both the available glasses. “This’ll have more kick than what’s stocked in this place.”

Red stared at the clear liquor dubiously. The burn of what he’d already drank was nothing more than a dim memory. He leaned his neck back and sucked this new concoction down. It burned like race fuel. It kicked like a Nitris Injector. He couldn’t tell what the hell it was. Karver slammed a fist down on the table top.

“sh*t!”

“sh*t!” Coughed Clarissa.

Nero made a disgusted face as she stared at the offending flask she herself had drank directly from. Her red haired companion looked back plaintively.

“What the hell was that, Nero?”

The Goth shrugged, throwing the canister over her shoulder, hitting a busboy in the back. “f**k if I know. But I ain’t never buying it again!”

The Goth chick’s hands, both of them, were clad in polished silver armor, hooked and clawed at the ends of her thumbs, pinkies and ring fingers. She tapped those now on the table and looked at Red with idle boredom apparent on her face. At least, that’s what it looked like… But she wasn’t rolling her eyes and looking away like Linda would have by now.

Nero looked back to her friend.
“Finished reading?”
“No…got too crowded to concentrate. Left the Ipod in the garage and they locked it down before I realized…”

Nero reached into her gown’s top, right beneath a massive breast, and produced a tiny Ipod and it’s little head phones. “I noticed, babe. I snuck in there and got it for you.”

Red’s eyes bounded in shock.

“How the—“ Red glanced about to make sure his out burst went unnoticed. Thankfully, everyone in the bar was used to him spouting loudly by now. He lowered his voice several octaves. “They have guards to make sure we don’t tamper with our engines unattended…” The rule was more intended to keep a driver away from everyone ELSE’S vehicles while the race officials were not present.

Nero shrugged with lack of passion.

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, my man.” She tilted her head much in the fashion Red had seen Claire perform. The Goth’s hair spilled onto her right shoulder and hid her bosom. He only then realized how much he’d been looking. He looked back to the equally appealing, but much safer looking Clarissa. He began to realize her didn’t have a chance in hell of bedding this girl. Now that her disdainful, obnoxious friend had shown up, the Goth would ensure another night of pleasuring himself in the bathroom while Linda slept.

Nero glanced at Clarissa once more.

“You’re behind ‘cause of this race."

Claire nodded eagerly.

“You’re right. I’ve been cramming, but it all just bounces around in my head without music. Now I can get some work done. You comin’ to bed…or…whatever?”

“Not yet.”

“’kay…” Clarissa stood up and hefted the two books she carried. Advanced Physics and Trigonometry. Only now did Red notice the slim glasses case also held in her hand. She was a book worm. Paired with a Goth bitch. What the hell?

“Night, y’all.” Claire bid them, then left the two of them alone.

Nero looked at Red dangerously.

“You were tryin’ to bag my friend you old fart!”

“I was not!” Karver sputtered, stunned and pondering the idea of stomping out of here. But…the only place he had to go was to the room where his wife waited… “It was just a friendly gesture! A toast! I wasn’t gonna get ‘er drunk!”

Not that I wouldn’t like to, he added in his mind.

Nero didn’t seem convinced.

“You didn’t have the pope’s chance in hell of getting my Claire drunk, old-timer. But you were movin’ in. I know all the moves, a*sho*e!”

Red waved in the air futilely, trying to stave off her anxt.

“Hey, even if I was, she’s free, white an’ twenty-one, right? She can do whatever she wants…” A thought came to Red Karver’s mind just then, one that almost made him blush and made him all the more aroused. “You guys aren’t…you know…”

“You were hoping we were gay!” Nero spat back, “<bleep!> no, she ain’t!”

“She…?”

“And no matter what her age, I’m not gonna let a married bastard like you try and take advantage of my friend. You so much as look at her again and I’ll have your eyes as mirror ornaments!”

Karver just sat there, staring back at the woman who’d threatened him. He glanced at the long, sharpened knives on her finger armor. The thought of what this slutty looking tart might do to him got his blood to boiling. She had that unhealthy… ‘I shouldn’t sleep with this girl’ feel to her.

And that made Red Karver suddenly want to screw the living hell out of her. Linda would be incensed.

Nero was no longer glaring at him. Her look was measuring and almost interested. “What the hell was with all that driving today?”

“Got pissed.” He answered.

“At who?”

“Don’t you mean ‘why’?”

“Nothing happened for there to be a ‘why’.” She replied. “So I’m asking ‘who’.”

Karver was silent. Why the hell should he tell her?

He did anyway. It needed to be said…to SOMEONE.

“My wife.”

Nero smiled a closed-lip smile of pure acid.

“She screwin' around on ya’?”

It needed to be said. He looked to the woodgrain of the tabletop, ashamed to even admit it. “Yeah…”

“Recently?”

“Yeah…”

“Las’ night?”

Karver’s eye turned darkly to Brightonburg as the noble stood and stepped out of the lounge, laughing with the two girls he was leading out. Hate brimmed in his soul.

Nero followed his gaze and looked back just as quick, stunned and incredulous. Those were two expressions he’d have been sure he’d never have seen on this woman.

“That <bleep!>?”

Red nodded, again staring down, embarrassed beyond measure. “Him.”

Nero looked on the retreating backside of the Brightonburg noble. “That piece of <bleep!>…”

The devilish look that took over Nero’s face was one that sent chills up the middle-aged racer’s spine. “Come with me.”


***



The garage was unlit as the two tip-toed their way through the echoey cavern full of vehicles. The security outside had been supposed as fool-proof. There were no camera’s in this section of the garage. With all of the guards outside, no one had believed them necessary.

Nero had found them a way back in. The Hotel’s dumb-waiters serviced this section. This garage had once been a wide pool house with a veranda meant for enclosed outdoor eating with a view of Mt. Mifune. The pool was long since filled in, the walls reinforced and the tables and finery abolished. But the dumb-waiter remained.

This ‘garage’ was primarily a storage section now, but was far enough removed from the public that it could serve easily as a garage and afford the drivers a protected way to and from their cars, away from the fans. Fans were cool. But the term was derived from fanatic. Sometimes fans showed a driver the root form of that word…

Nero and her giddy, balding charge paused in front of several cars before they settled in front of Brightonburg’s rig. Both leered in the filtered moonlight and leered down at the defenseless vehicle beneath their steely gaze.

“So…” Red paused…at a complete loss. “What do we do to it?”

“We can’t screw it up.” Nero stated the obvious. Any real damage and there would be an investigation. An investigation would hold up the race until culprits were found.

“Think it’s got an alarm?”

Nero blatantly touched the hood of the offending car. Nothing happened. “Officials disabled the alarms while I was leaving the first time. It’s so tightly packed in here, the techs won’t be able to get around without setting something off. I imagine an alarm would be painful inside this concrete building…”

Red nodded. He didn’t have an alarm on the Camaro. He didn’t really need one, as everything inside the car was race-legal. No radio, no frills. He’d had to install a second bucket seat for his wife to ride with him.

Nero tried the door, finding it locked. A wry grin formed on her black lips as she tried again. Karver thought he saw a flash of metal or something similar just before the door popped open with a click. The interior light snapped on as Nero crawled in, inviting Red with a waggling finger.

“Get in.”

Red followed as far as the open door, but hesitated to crawl in after her. “What are you gonna do?”

“What are WE gonna do…”


* * *


Nero came crashing down atop the red faced man. His comb-over hang down comically. She grinned like a kid having just pulled a great prank.


“Alright…round two!”


* * *



Race time came once again, and found a clear-eyed Red Karver stepping proudly toward his waiting ride. His wife leaned against the fender, smudging the hell out of the wax just like he’d asked her not too time and time again. This morning, he was beyond giving a damn. He walked happily around her.

“What’s with the stupid grin?” She asked him.

“Swallowed the canary."

Red opened the driver door and arranged his pockets and the seat of his pants to climb into his car. He looked to the rear of his car, where a black Chevy waited with open doors. Clarissa was already buckled into her five-point harness. Nero leaned on her open door. She wore a simple black T shirt this morning. Her hair was pulled back into a tail. She wasn’t wearing the contacts that made her eyes super-naturally green. Her makeup was intact, but missing was the body frost that made her look like a ghost. She wore no finger armor, but her nails were long and black. Her lips were a bloody hue of red.

She blew him a kiss without hand motion, and winked at him. Red smiled back. He looked her over once again. She had been great. She looked even better to him now that she wasn’t throwing her goods into everyone’s face. Nero slid into her car and fired the engine with the bellowing roar only eight-inch headers could deliver.

Red turned back and prepared to slide into his Plum Krazy Camaro. His wife was staring at him crossly. “Just what the hell was that!?”

Red almost blanched, his heart skipping a beat at the fear of her fury. A new voice echoed across the garage, though, that made him smile…

“Why does my car smell like sweat and fornication! Alex!"

Karver grinned like a lark, sliding into the open cab.

“Never you mind, darlin’. We got a race to win.”

[Commander La'ra]

Posted on behalf of the other half of the Clarissa/Nero team....


Customers milled about the bookstore and attached coffee house. Their activities didn't seem to bother the curvy redhead in the big leather chair. She was fast asleep and quite oblivious to the disapproving glances of the coffee server and the frequent stares of passing males.

There was a sound that did intrude on her slumber, though. Footsteps with a certain 'click' to them. She knew they were caused by black, heeled boots on thin, pale legs. She didn't open her eyes. She'd let her booted friend speak first sometimes, just to see what she'd say.

"What was all that <bleep> about us not leaving the hotel?" Nero asked.

Clarissa opened her eyes. She was sprawled out in the coffee shop's chair, medium-red hair in disarray. A stack of books sat on the table next to her, and light-volume jazz still played through her iPod headphones. Her glasses were tilted; one half of her gothed-out friend was closer than the other.

"Well they didn't notice us leaving last night..." The redhead reminded.

"That's cuz they don't <bleeping> care." said Nero. "But those are the rules and <bleep>, right? Wasn't that what you were saying?"

Clarissa smiled serenely. Her body had been tired, worn out from hours of driving and the summer heat. She felt...better, now.

"Yeah...I know..." She looked around at the books, the three empty cups that smelled of vanilla mocha. Saxophone music was teasing her ears, and the memories of a really great dream still lingered. "But you have your adventures and I have mine...."

The Goth rolled her eyes and smiled. Clarissa laughed.

[Commander La'ra]

LEG EIGHT: OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY


Morning comes to Norlan Heights, with a dramatic sunrise over Mt. Mifune and peaceful birdsongs from the many trees. You can't really hear the birds today; there's too many people lining the streets, eager to get a good, close look at the start of the third and final day of the Transnational Road Race.

The racers pulls themselves out of their beds, make their morning preparations. Despite the idyllic surroundings there's a deep tension in the air. Today, someone wins, and lots of other folks lose. Most of the drivers are eager to get started.

Most are also a bit frustrated, for whatever forces that decide such things have made an early start impossible. A dense layer of fog has settled over Norlan Heights, and the race officials have ruled that today's leg will not start till it clears. There's some talk among the foreign drivers about this; it makes sense to them, but the Larryians have been rather fanatical about the anything goes nature of the competition. Delaying a start due to weather seems inconsistent.

The officials have their reasons. The next leg, from Norlan Heights to Lyttonfield, goes straight through mountain country. It's a dizzying spiderweb of narrow roads, ridiculously sharp curves and extreme inclines, and should a racer fail to negotiate any one of those, there's usually a long drop to the bottom of a deep canyon. This has been, historically, the single most dangerous section of the Transnational Road Race.

For several years in the mid-nineties, the leg wasn't even part of the race. One too many racers had taken a fatal plunge, and protests from various groups had pressured the race sponsors to insist on a safer route. Through those years, the racers took the freeway from Norlan Heights, which is a far longer route, circling 'round the mountains rather than traveling across them.

The leg was restored in 2000. Two years later, it claimed another driver: A racing veteran named Joseph Sykes, better known as 'Old Black Joe' due to his age, name, skin color and wardrobe selection. The leg might've been cut again, had it not been for Sykes' family's insistence that Old Black Joe would've wanted to go out in such a fashion (a claim reinforced by audio recordings: As the veteran driver's '78 Firebird flew out over Bottomless Gulch, his last words were 'Oh hell yes!')
Old Black Joe is on several of the racer's minds today. Especially the mind of Krazy Red Karver. He'd raced against Joe a time or two, back in the day. Karver wonders, maybe, if the old man had pulled a Vanishing Point. He'd been past his prime, no longer all that competitive in the sport that he loved. Karver himself has had ideas of that nature, of going out in the driver's seat by design rather than chance.

Such thoughts aren't bothering him today. Hot memories of the night before, a quiet wife, and the revving of a whole posse of engines have the Larryian driver feeling younger than he has in years. Today would be a good day.

Nearby, Toomblee is similarly convinced. Fog or no fog, she's ready for some velocity. This is her leg, she knows. The mountain roads are windy. She can't go as fast. But the roads go through the mountains. Ancient stone. Stone is her element. Stone will help her win.

Over in the Murdermobile, Clarissa and Nero banter in their usual fashion. Nero's driving today, though not for tactical reasons. It's simply her turn, and besides, the big black Gothwagon is her baby. If the pair win, it's only right that Nero be behind the Bel-Air's wheel.

Lynn Cutter adjusts her Cowboy hat and lounges in the driver's seat of her Camaro. She's studying the girls in the Murdermobile with a certain degree of interest, though who can say why?

Duncan Hawke and Lena van der Prutt aren't staring at each other this morning. This seems to require effort on their part, as mechanics and other drivers note the occasional glance, or a quick grin from one to the other. If anything happened between the Devon's Island sailor and the Brochenstein noblewoman, they've managed to keep anyone from knowing, and the charade, if it is one, continues.

Dietrich Kell could care less about inter-racer relationships. He's been keeping pace through most of the legs, neither advancing or falling back except for one incredible sprint early yesterday morning. That's dandy, as far as he's concerned, since he's kept relatively close to the leaders...but he can't settle for that today. Today he has to win. This next, mountainous leg isn't to his advantage, though. His car likes straight lines and high speeds. He has an idea, though, and smiles as he thinks about it.

Wade Gree is really in the same boat as Kell, having neither moved up or fell behind. His one real pass has him tied with the dark-haired Larryian in the car next to his, and she seems to have a temper. He'll deal with that when the time comes, he supposes.

Laura Blair does certainly have a temper, and she's giving Gree's Supra the evil eye. The Wellutrian's little tuner is better on mountain roads than her burly Charger. She'll have to be creative to get loose from him and move up. Creative...or aggressive. Bulling the little rice-rocket and it's driver around is a thought that keeps bubbling back up...

In last place among the big ten, Prince George von Brightonburg can't decide whether he's pleased or irritated with his mechanic. Obvious signs have led the Prince to believe that someone had a little fun in his vehicle last night. Alex denies any skullduggery of course, but who else could it have been? The Brightonburg nobleman ponders the issue at some length. On one hand, such hijinx could only enhance his partying reputation, but on the other, if anyone should be coupling in his car seat, shouldn't it be him? It's an issue.

There's some discussion among the race officials, some curious peering out of the garage. It's almost midmorning, but the sun has finally burned off the mist.

Karver roars out of the Breeze Resort's garage before the green flag is halfway up. There's a squeal of tires, a shift of gears as he turns onto the road, as the middle-aged driver turns onto the city streets and blazes off. Karver is not a curve-oriented driver. He knows if he wants to keep his lead today, he needs as much distance as possible before the other racers start. Tourists cheer as the purple Camaro zips by. A bevy of Karver's Kuties squeal and flash the passing car. Karver doesn't notice. He's already 'in the zone'.

Back in the garage, the countdown begins.

Minutes pass. Just how much of a lead Krazy Red Karver grabbed the day before hasn't become clearly apparent until now. Toomblee fidgets in her seat, making not a sound, but obviously eager. Finally the right Larryian gives her a signal and the Silver Bullet takes off like a rocket...with the Murdermobile almost kissing it's bumper. The roar of the big, black, Bel-Air drowns out the peaceful hum of the Ponkapaugi racer as Nero follows the kobald through Norlan Heights and onto the mountain byways.

Lynn Cutter has to wait a minute or two more, but she's not a high-stress driver. Seconds count down, and she pops in a Nightwish CD. There's a song on there appropriate to today's leg. She puts it on repeat just as she gets her signal and the blue Camaro takes off. Somewhere removed, an older gentleman eagerly watches the race on his television set, and urges his daughter to catch up with the leaders.

There's another short countdown. A half-second before the light flashes green, Duncan Hawk and Duchess van Der Prutt exchange a meaningful glance. A reporter notices. The lead story of the Larryian Investigator is being typed up about the same time the green Aston-Martin and the candy-red Jaguar launch themselves out of the garage.

Dietrich Kell's Vektor screams out of the garage only a second or two later.

Wade Gree and Laura Blair emerge from the Breeze Resort already neck in neck. Blair's decided that, if she can, she'll just out-muscle the little tuner right at the starting line. She's got the horsepower, and the plan almost works. Her midnight-blue Charger pulls ahead of the wildly painted Supra, but she knows she hasn't got quite enough distance yet. The tuner tries to slip past on the first turn. Gree doesn't quite make it, though, and the two cars are again parallel. Sprint, turn, sprint turn...the exchange continues until Norlan Heights falls behind them, and the Wellutrian dark horse and the Larryian hothead are still close enough to spit on each other.

Prince von Brightonburg gets his signal about the same time Gree and Blair pass the city limits sign, and he guns his little modified with enthusiasm. The city streets are lined with people. He waves to them, but without his usual noble verve...he's got to catch up soon, or there will be no more chances. His little racer buzzes around corners and down narrow streets until he's out of town. This has to be his day.

The drivers are being conservative today, for obvious reasons, and as the line of racers works there way into the mountains, there are few attempts to pass, to better ones position. It won't last. It's the last day, and while good sense might dictate caution, fans and even the driver's know they'll start being more aggressive soon.

It's Lena van der Prutt that notices that there seems to be a racer missing. She knows Dietrich Kell should be behind her. She doesn't give it much thought. Some of the tourists lining the street do, and the television commentators are already talking about him, for the sleek Kieric supercar and it's driver are headed away from the mountains, away from the race, really. A heliborne reporter catches sight of the Vektor pulling onto the freeway.

Kell's hand's grip his steering wheel, his blue eyes watching with worried satisfaction as his speedometer dials upward. It's a stupid plan, downright mad. It hadn't even been his idea, really. He'd simply heard one of the lesser racers mention that, were you fast enough, you might be able to get to Lyttonfield via freeway, and get ahead of the other racers. Sure, the distance was longer, but it was straight and easy, and no one would be bumping or blocking you. Kell had listened to the half-drunk fellow for a moment then had walked, excitedly, to his room. A map had been pulled out, distances measured. The math was right. If you could go fast enough, it could be done.

Cars fast enough had been in the race before. Ferrari's. Lamborgini's. But no one had tried it since the mountain route was undeniably shorter, and perhaps there was a certain allure in testing yourself against the 'Dead Man's Leg'. Still, why hadn't it been tried? Was there a reason?

There had to be, Kell worries. It was a mad plan, almost Larryian in it's temerity...but then he was in Larryia...perhaps there was something in their water. Despite himself, Kell grins.

Meanwhile, the other racers have penetrated deeply into mountain country. Karver's Camaro rounds dangerous uphill curves, throwing gravel when he strays too close to the shoulder. In the passenger seat, Linda is as white as a ghost. That suits Red fine, he's got better things to worry about than her. There's a flash of silver in his rear-view.

Toomblee is in heaven. She zips around curves as fast as her little racer can manage, accelerates up hills and does her best to manage the acceleration on the downward grades. Even better, she's catching up! She can see the madman's purple car ahead of her. She has company, though. The girls in the death car are hugging her taillights, and she can't manage to ignore them. Powerful girls. Powerful bond. Sisters? Not enough. Sisters by choice. Very worrisome. The Kobald accelerates, trying to pull away.

"Freaky little critter won't slow down!" Nero complains, taking with effort the turns Toomblee is scooting around ably. Clarissa is oddly calm. Roads like this seem normal to her. She looks out the window at the uneven terrain, the dense trees...it's the land of her birth.

Lynn Cutter isn't gaining too much ground on the Murdermobile, but she can at least see it occasionally. The bobble-kitty on the dash is quiet; her friends aren't going to distract her right now. Another well-known voice is quiet, too. There were old things in these mountains, these woods, that even it respected.

Duncan Hawke, not being of a mystical bent, respects the mountains as well. Like shoal-ridden waters, they could kill him if he's not careful. Thus, he's being careful, even forgoing the usual playtime with the Duchess. Careful observers note that he's not losing much speed, taking curves with elegant grace.

Next to Hawke, Lena van der Prutt is waiting. Finally, the side road she's waiting for comes up, and off into nowhere's-ville she goes. Mud flies, gravel crunches, and a redheaded noblewoman shouts with excitement.

Hawke almost follows her. With a shake of the head, he decides against it. He's not taking any kind of chance this leg.

Blair's deep-blue muscle car and Gree's neon-green tuner are still locked together, roaring around dangerous curves with reckless abandon. Blair's getting aggressive now, bumping and pushing the little tuner car. She isn't quite trying to run him off the road, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows that a crash here will likely put him out of the race. At this particular moment, few things would make her happier.

Gree is answering the Larryian's bullying with sheer evasiveness. She tries to nudge him into the guardrail, he brakes, tries to slip by on the other side. It almost works, but again, he can't quite get ahead. The Charger sideswipes him, and for a second, he's peering off the road, down the long slope into a wooded canyon. He lets off the gas, let's Blair have a momentary lead. The road's uphill grade sharpens, and suddenly he has the advantage, his lighter car pulling even with the bigger Charger once more.

Close behind, Prince von Brightonburg sees the dueling pair. He's not in a cautious mood, and slams his foot down on the accelerator. His featherweight car leaps forward, streaking uphill easily. Blair is nudging Gree over again...there's space for a pass.

Blair snarls as the Prince's tiny modified zips by, and for a heartbeat, forgets all about Gree. She gives her car what little gas she isn't already giving it, straightens her course, determined to keep pace with the rocketing nobleman.

In the dayglo Supra, Gree does not hesitate. He lets his car drift into Blair's, giving her a tap. It's enough, with her sudden course change to disorient her, and the Charger is suddenly headed for the earthen wall on the 'safe' side of the road. Blair turns, brakes, but the actions sets her car a spinnin' and the dark-haired Larryian tries desperately to stop, regain control, anything. Her eyes go wide as she sees the guardrail, the canyon. Only a wild manipulation of her steering wheel keeps her from going over the edge, but there's an ugly screech from the back end of her car which ceases only when the Charger comes to a merciful halt. Blair takes a moment to reorient herself. Her car is facing the wrong way. She hits the gas. The engine roars and there's the sound of gravel and a weird rocking. She looks out the window. A section of the guardrail is gone, and her passenger side rear tire is off the road. Disturbed gravel rolls down the canyon wall. Blair screams a curse.

Not far ahead, Gree is grinning slightly, and gaining on Brightonburg.

Far away and at much lower altitude, Dietrich Kell's Vektor blasts down open freeway. He's going fast, though not quite as fast on yesterday's sprint on the CCH. Top speed won't help him as much, with his crazy plan, as a higher speed her can sustain. He's got his car at a comfortable roar...but comfortable for the Vektor is faster than some cars can go at all. Numbers roll in his head. Will this work?

He frowns when an orange road construction sign comes into view, a line of slow-moving cars becomes visible. He takes his foot off the pedal....but a white truck with a 'follow me' sign pulls onto the road in front of him and slides onto a 'construction vehicles only' path. There's a well-tanned arm sticking out the truck window, motioning him to follow, so Kell does....as he follows the truck past the stalled cars, the Kieric driver hears horns honking, people shouting. Stuck drivers and construction workers are giving him thumbs-ups. The Kieric blinks. The positive attention is new to him, but he doesn't know how people are talking about what he's doing, doesn't know that his risky maneuver has gotten him a little more 'over' in Larryia. He waves back, regardless. A chorus of air horns from various tractor-trailers cheers him on as he pulls back on to unobstructed freeway. The 'follow me' driver waves goodbye, and Kell guns it.

Back in the mountains, Krazy Red Karver is fighting a losing battle. The silver car chasing him is quick on the turns, and he's on the type of road that's just not suited to his skills. With each curve, Toomblee gains a little, and there's hundreds of curves on these lonely mountain roads. He gains a little distance on a straight stretch through a small town called Mt. Edna, loses it as soon as the twists and turns start again.

Toomblee can see that she's gaining, can feel the mountain giving her help. She's ecstatic. She loses no speed when turning. She's a little faster than the madman. He takes a turn too loose. She slips by him. She's in first. The little Kobald howls with delight.

Karver curses. In the passenger seat, Linda smirks. Red feels himself slipping backward towards the guy he was yesterday morning, and tries to stop the regression. A quick glance out the passenger window helps; There's a green-eyed Goth staring at him from the driver's seat of a black Bel-Air.

Nero winks to Red as the Murdermobile races alongside the Plum Krazy Camaro. Then she sticks out her tongue, making suggestions with it. Clarissa laughs and shakes her head.

Karver grins widely and hits the gas. The Murdermobile can't get ahead, but doesn't fall behind either. Clarissa decides mood music would help. She pops in a Led Zeppelin CD. There's an appropriate song on it.

Lynn Cutter zips through Mt. Edna. A trio of men, sitting on the open tailgate of a grey El Camino, toss out a few catcalls. There's three of them...one thin, one medium, one husky. The biggest one is kind of cute. She waggles her eyebrows at him as the blue Camaro blows by. She can see the Murdermobile and Karver wrestling for position ahead. It'll be hard to get by them on this part of the race. Hoping for a convenient side road or runaway truck ramp, she keeps pace with them, takes a look in her mirror. There's a green DB9 advancing on her.

Duncan Hawke might not be taking any chances this leg, but perhaps there's something to be said for conservative driving. He's slowly gaining on Cutter, who's not far behind the leaders. He reminds himself that greater chances might be necessary later, but for now, he's in a tail chase with a knot or two of advantage: Given time, he'll pass someone.

Duchess Van Der Prutt, on the other hand, has no use for conservative. Insane is much for fun. Her mint condition Jaguar snarls down roads marked for ATV use only, through mud puddles so deep her engine almost drowns, and through deep-woods recreation areas that haven't seen use in years. She's on her way to a healthy advance when she 'rounds a corner and suddenly slams on the brakes. In the middle of her well-planned shortcut, there's the immovable bulk of a fallen oak tree. She blinks at it, notes the deep culverts on either side of the road making a turn around impossible, and begins cursing loudly and at some length in her native tongue.

She had taken such possibilities into account: Her pacenotes document an alternate route. It's a couple miles back. She pulls out her Luger and, still cursing, puts four rounds into the fallen tree, then throws her car into reverse. A few hundred yards back the way she came, there's enough room to whip the XK-E around, and she's on her way again.

Prince von Brightonburg has no need for shortcuts. His car is proving ideal for the twisty mountain roads of this area, and though he dislikes the mountains, he's beginning to wish following legs had more of them. He zips into Mt. Edna, noting the people gathered on the side of the road, watching the racers come through. He gives them his best royal wave and is rewarded with a barrage of empty beer bottles. He doesn't understand why, but does note that the projectiles have but one source: a trio of men sitting in the back of a grey El Camino. He shakes his head. There were hooligans in every country, he supposes.

Wade Gree is making good time, but not quite good enough to catch up with the Prince. He's not slipping behind though, and that's good. At least his biggest problem is out of his hair.

Laura Blair fumes and curses as she ratchets up the jack. A couple minutes of effort have raised her snared tire away from the embankment. She runs forward, puts the car in neutral. It doesn't roll forward, but she feels some give. She gets out, and, heedless of the steep slope that she has to brace her feet against, she puts her shoulder against the back end of the car. It begins to roll downhill with surprising ease, the forgotten jack falling onto the asphalt. Blair almost falls on the loose dirt of the mountainside, but keeps her footing, and manages to get herself in the driver's seat before the Charger gathers too much speed. With a squeal of tires, she's in the race again, the brawny Dodge roaring like an angry rhino.

The dark-haired Larryian narrows her eyes. She has time to make up, and a score to settle with a certain Wellutrian.

Miles pass, and slowly but surely, the racers begin to emerge from the mountains. Toomblee notes the gentler hills with some sadness, but even that can't change the fact that she's in first and going very very fast. She hasn't stopped singing since she passed Karver.

Karver and the Murdermobile are beginning to speed up, beginning to draw closer to the Silver Bullet, but neither can seem to pass the other. Not far behind, Lynn Cutter is having similar trouble getting past them. She adjusts her hat and passes the Lyttonfield checkpoint.

Duncan Hawke eyes the sides of the road, wondering from which side road the fiery Duchess will emerge from. She's nowhere to be found. He feels a little worry as he passes a sign saying 'Lyttonfield -- 1 mile'.

Prince von Brightonburg has noted the smoother terrain as well, and though he regrets no longer having a great advantage, he's confident he can speed past Hawke. The Devon's Islander is up ahead, perhaps even unaware. Brightonburg speeds up, hoping to catch Hawke's DB9 before the checkpoint, but he brakes suddenly when a low black shape rockets onto the road from the freeway.

Dietrich Kell has a very very large grin on his face as he cuts off his continental rival and accelerates. Hawke is practically alongside him, and he knows from his radio that the sailor is in 4th, with only one tied pair ahead. Kell had hoped to steal a bigger march than two spots, but he's moved up, and that's what mattered. The Kieric can't wipe the satisfaction off his face. He hits the gas as, behind him, Brightonburg struggles to keep up.

Lena van der Prutt emerges from an ill-used mountain road and sprints off down the highway. She knows she's lost some time. She thinks she's lost more than she actually has: She can see the 'Burger ahead of her and last she knew, he was in last place. Her usually happy expression tightens a bit, and the red Jaguar picks up speed.

Gree's neon-green tuner isn't far behind the Dutchess. The Wellutrian has put one overly aggressive woman behind him. It'll soon be time for another. He's not aware that a few miles behind, Laura Blair, red-faced with anger, is eating up the distance between them.

Lyttonfield passes like a quick daydream, and the next leg begins.


CURRENT POSITIONS

Toomblee is in 1st place and having the time of her life! But close behind....

....Krazy Red Karver and Clarissa and Nero jockey for 2nd place!

Lynn Cutter is in 3rd, looking for an opportunity to pounce.

Duncan Hawke is in 4th place and having to contend with Dietrich Kell, tied for the position after an incredible freeway sprint!

Prince George von Brightonburg has moved up to 5th place, regaining much of the ground lost in yesterday's reverses. Will this trend continue?

Lena van der Prutt is making good time after an unfortunate reverse, holding onto 6th place.

Wade Gree is gaining on the Dutchess and occupies the 7th position. The Wellutrian seems to be, at last, dipping into his reserves, but will that help him when...

...Laura Blair in 8th place, catches up?


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The title of this leg is a 4-way reference. One is obvious, two are mentioned in the text of the leg, and the last is more of a 'titling style' thing.  While this leg is 'in the past', as far as the current status goes, I haven't gotten any correct answers.  Name one or more of the references and...erm...karma point, cameo, something.

[Czar Mohab]

He sees a car up ahead. Though for a moment he thinks it's a racer, the shape is wrong, and so is the distance...the ones ahead of him have more of a lead. It's the Subaru the police were chasing, he realizes.

The Subaru doesn't slow down, but the Vektor is moving at an impressive clip. He draws alongside soon enough. The Kieric can't help but notice the blue paint job, the 'xTI' logo on the front bumper, and the fanciful jungle scene, complete with leaping Jaguar, airbrushed down the side.

The Kieric chuckles. The Subaru's driver turns his head. His expression, concealed by blue tinted glass, is unreadable.

There's a flash of motion from a side road, a howl of sirens. The Subaru veers off onto another road, a Chevy Corvette in police colors with 'Interceptor' written across the back in hot, close pursuit. Kell notes that the Subaru's license plate reads 'DACZAR', and that Duncan Hawke's Aston Martin is coming up fast from astern.

It doesn't have jungle scenes or jaguars or 'DACZAR' vanity plates, and technically it isn't mine, but it stays in my garage and I do get to drive it. Damn fine automobile if you ask me. Please excuse the crappy cellular phone pictures in a crappily lit garage... the sun hasn't cooperated for me to get a good outside photo. The story here was part of the inspiration to help talk the wife into getting the car that she's dreamed of owning for ages.

http://i186.photobucket.com/albums/x303/CzarMohab/Image160.jpg

http://i186.photobucket.com/albums/x303/CzarMohab/Image161.jpg

Czar "Will there be a winner before you start the 16th annual race?" Mohab[/color]

[Commander La'ra]

Yes, last leg is complete, just need to write it up.  And post the ones I haven't posted here yet.

And dude...that is my favorite shade of blue. Sweet ride.