Five minutes until the race began.

Bo relaxed back into the driver’s seat, the seat leather sticking uncomfortably to her bare shoulders that glistened from Black City’s midnight heat. This was her favorite part before the race, the few minutes before when all her muscles tensed and adrenaline started to pump – the anticipation kills her every time. Nearby, stalled cars revved nervously, echoing her eagerness, though Bo hoped they were a lot more nervous than her. They should be, Bo plans to leave them choking on the exhaust.

Most of the cars were vaguely familiar to Bo – not enough for her to remember their drivers, though. There was a car up ahead that seemed fresh, unseen before, but Bo could just be forgetting someone else. Her hands twisted around the steering wheel, the friction of the plastic and her racing gloves causing an aggravated creaking noise.

“Ants under a boot. Ants under a boot.” Bo recited, letting out a long breath. They were ants under her boot, she needs to remember. She’s above, suspending, she will win. No doubt.

How many minutes did she have? Bo glanced at the LED clock, but when she looked back onto the road she couldn’t remember the time for the life of her.

A car next to her rumbled, startling Bo from her daze. There was a vague outline of a person, the windows too tinted for her to get a good look. Yet, there was enough for a sick feeling to drop in her stomach, though the girl didn’t know why. A sense of impending doom hung over her, and Bo swore loudly, in the safety of her vehicle.

She can’t be nervous, this isn’t her first rodeo. The heat is getting to her, that’s all. It was too hot and it was frying her brain slowly, causing her to be paranoid.

“Ants under a boot.” Bo repeated firmly, clenching her hands around the wheel until her nails bit into the plastic and ached.

The marshal, who’s name escaped Bo at the moment, waved a white rag in the air to signal everyone’s attention. Bo’s foot hovered over the gas pedal and her right hand rested on the shift, muscles tense and red lips pursed. The marshal tossed the rag into the air and there was a brief moment, barely a millisecond, where everything was quiet and unmoving. Then, all at once, drivers slammed into motion and Bo was quick to join.

You haven’t lost a race yet, Bo.

Bo didn’t know if time was moving slow or fast.

She had seen him in her rearview mirror, that car she noticed earlier was zooming and zigzagging around the other cars. She hadn’t thought anything of it, just wrote him off as an overly ambitious driver wanting to get his name in the game. Maybe that was her arrogance talking.

The distant blast of a horn came just a tad too late. Bo could hear the sound of her tires tearing – and, well, the first thought to her mind was: fuck, those were $40,000 tires. The tires run flat and road jostles her around, her seatbelt digging into her collarbone like a knife. In her mirror, Bo can see the son of a bitch take aim again and she attempts to swerve out of the way, but she isn’t exactly mobile at the moment.

This is when time slows down, the moment where his finger presses the trigger and the bullet wedges itself into her gas tank. Everything else is like snapshots, single moments that her brain barely registers as her car flips and skids across the road, into the direct line of the moving cars. Heat makes her neck prickle with sweat, but it’s not scorching. Her precious, and very fucking expensive car, slides to a stop.

Bo is disoriented at first, and she presses her hands above her onto the roof. It is only when she can feel the hot blood rush to her head that she realizes that she’s upside down, barely held up by the pressing, cutting strap of her seatbelt. She unbuckles herself, slamming down onto her knees hard, glass slicing through her leather pants. Bo is scrambling for purchase, for a gun, a weapon, anything, but her feet have no traction it seems and she keeps slipping on her roof and her legs are shaking from adrenaline. Bo is vaguely aware of something wet and sticky on her face, but she pushes it from her mind – she can’t think about that, not right now.

Through the shattered window – she paid good money to make those windows durable, what a fucking ripoff – she can see boots crunching on debris and asphalt and tiny pieces of her prized car. There’s a vague idea of death, niggling in the back of her brain, causing her brow to sweat, but she can’t quite process the thought. She can’t die, she just can’t.

“Where the fuck is my gun. Where the fuck is my gun. My gun, my gun, my gun.” Bo chants desperately, her hands trembling as they attempt to open the latch of her glovebox. The glovebox is slightly squished, and tented in the middle from slamming against the road again and again. It’s stuck, it won’t open and Bo begins to panic even more then.

Because, death seems a lot more plausible now.