[i]division. that’s all us drivers see nowadays. the sky and the earth apart sandwiching the sprawl. a concrete tide that buries the promise of the horizon, of endless roads. An unseen finish line. that is why we race. why I race. well, once raced. to escape the division. [/i] [hr] C:>/ver FUTILITY V 2.01 C:>>> FUTILITY [DRIFT_DEMON.exe] C:>>> UPLOADING…….. C:>>> LAUNCH FILE Y/N? C:>>> Y C:>>> LAUNCHING DRIFT_DEMON.exe……… [hr] A single stroke splits the mackerel's head from its oblong body. Only a droplet of blood spills out on the extinct hinoki cutting board. The precision of 2060 augs is something to marvel at as green titanium digits begin making thin incisions along the body with a paring knife. Keah does not show it but he holds a quiet respect for the Iron Itamae’s work. Suraiboshen is an ocean frozen in time. Beneath the bar lies a reef trapped in glass, shoals of silver scales and rainbows moving about, a museum of extinct species. Tuna, yellowtail, squid, even sea turtles. The Iron Itamae once said that his aquarium was the size of a swimming pool. Keah doesn’t doubt it for a second. Deft hands begin pulling out pin bones one by one. The fish still writhes in his hand, phantom struggles of a nervous system. The Iron Itamae looks up at him with mismatched eyes. “ Tell me, driver. Is this fish real?” “ Yes.” “ How would you know it was real?” “ I can eat it. That’s all there is to it.” “ This mackerel is genetically modified from four close sub-species to look like a mackerel. Its protein matrix has been modified in order to make it taste like a mackerel. It’s life-span, reproductive cycles, behaviour and physiology have been altered so radically from the natural analogue by me.” He dabs the flesh in a thick coat of soju. “ So, is it real?” “ If I ran you over, would that be real?” “ So impatient, are we?” He chuckles. “ I’m rather surprised you’re still offering to work for me, given the nature of your new…..client.” The Iron Itamae’s mouth scoffs when he tilts his head. “ Don’t be surprised. I spent my Gaea Naturae connecting as well as experimenting. So, tell me. Why?” “ Contract with you is until September.” He nods slightly to the left, looking at the digital holo-calendar which reads APRIL 1st, 2065 in bracketed lettering. “ Satisfy you enough?” “ Believe that you have a sense of honour? Pah. Honour is a dull ingredient, predictable, boring and too complex.” The Iron Itamae puts the last of the nigiri in a cube and presses a hidden switch on the side. There’s a hiss of nitrogen and helium before the freeze-vac locks. He reaches forth with his right hand, articulated alloyed digits tapping on the smooth metal surface of the storage box. “ Where?” “ Where you belongs, turboblazer” His grin is as sharp as his knife. “ The land of the dead.” [hr] [youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3QcsBFH6zY&list=PLCuEH5Tl2B8qq-98aYCRPmsG16PXUmPRd&index=4[/youtube] The Reclaim Zone was a neon inferno and he was just one of the unfortunate many to have been caught in its flames. Only the Rigg kept him afloat in the sea of kaleidoscopic fire, a flotsal of glass and syncrete spires bobbing around him. His left hand held the gearstick loosely while his other hand pincered the wheel in an eight fingered grip. He was approaching a junction now, two auto-trucks bordering him on both sides of the lane. He looked left and right, and then at the narrowing road. Too slow. Slamming the accelerator down, he bucked the Jury Rigg forward and pulled the steering wheel all the way to the left. The Jury Rigg curled to the right, Keah feeling the inexorable pull of momentum that made his guts roil, as he pulled into a hairpin turn. Keah frowned. There should be something. The dizzying high of excitement. The death defying thrill. The blood pumping adrenaline that surged through your veins. The BPM meter on his helmet didn’t even notch up a beat. He sidled into another sliding drift, went through the same motions again. Nothing. He zoomed past a red light, gazing upwards at the polluted skies of the Reclaim Zone. Why did he take these delivery jobs again? He could have quit after all. The pay that the Iron Itamae offered him was a fraction of what Petrukov offered him. He shook his head. No, it wasn’t the pay. It was the offer of a challenge. No, you’re past that. Remember what happened to the OverDriver? Nevermind that. He was coming near the Duat now. The iconic hieroglyphic sign glowed like a lighthouse, a beacon attracting the underbelly of the Zone. The sun had only just begun to set and already, the lots were glutted with an ensemble of glitzy EngiTech cyclics and FuryTech sports cars that looked like they were compensating for something with their oversized aerofoils. He crunched to a slow grinding halt, parking underneath the shadow of an old flickering street lamp. Someone then knocked on his side-window. His helmet filtered in footage from his car's external cameras. A motorcycle gang. They were all pimped out in extensive holo-tattoos that covered their bodies like some obscure skin disease. There was the usual chrome, of course, but to Keah, it was looking as if they had more bark than bite. “ You fuckin- Hey, open the window right now. That’s our spot, you fuckin- ” He rolled down the window and one look at his helmet was all they needed to back off. Keah inwardly signed. There were days where he hoped he could drive around the streets. Reputation was a double edged sword indeed. He stepped out, not even bothering to look at the motley crew of bosozoku gangers that were mingling about his car. “ Watch over the car, will you?," he muttered, leaving them to talk among themselves excitedly as he entered the Duat. He’d only been to Duat a few times. Most places in the Reclaim Zone were seedy but this place was the wrong type of seedy. The Duat was a different animal from the underground scene of street racing. There were codes of conduct, honor, lines that couldn’t be crossed, closed secrets. The Duat was where everyone could listen in on everyone’s secret all the time, where shady deals were conducted openly to the tune of ethyl and cheap synthpop music. He shouldered on past a couple lost in the rhythm of the dance floor and kept on looking for his client. His HUD locator marked a silhouette sitting nearby the UltraBartender's palace. He continued walking until his client was in full view. The first impression about him was that everyone was giving him a wide berth. No one was sitting next to him and he was the only one at the left end of the countertop. A hood shrouded his features and he was nursing a shot glass. As he walked nearer, his noses retched at the stink of ethyl and tonic that reeked from the glass. He placed the vac-freeze cube on top of the countertop, jingling the shot glass the hooded man was holding. Keah’s eyebrows were furrowed in suspicion right now. A most particular feeling of deja vu was buzzing in the back of his brain. There was just something off about how this person wore their thermo-jacket, high-brimmed collar around his neck and all. “Cred-chip. Now.” The hooded man turned around on his bar stool and took off his guise. He froze. Another helmet. A FuryTech Prism. Racing model. He only knew one man who wore such a helmet. His own face stared back at him through the mysterious man's polarized visor. “ Nice to meet you again, Drift Demon.” Shit. What was the OverDriver doing in the Reclaim Zone?