After leaving Watson, Vash and Jackie headed straight for the outskirts of Night City. Their bikes tore down the highway side by side, engines howling, slicing through traffic like arrows loosed from a bow.
Before long, the city's steel and neon fell behind them, and the Badlands opened up ahead.
Motorcycle racing — especially Badlands Racing — meant throwing a bike (or an off-road ride) across the wasteland for the rawest taste of speed and fury. You couldn't get that anywhere else. Nomads chasing that rush would often set a meet at a clan's turf, then run a race for pride and profit.
There weren't many barriers to entry. You paid to sign up, and the winner took the whole pot. Simple.
And as Night City's go-to guy, Jackie naturally knew exactly where to find one.
They rode south for another two hours. By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, they were close enough to hear it — shouts over wagers, engines revving, the whole place vibrating with anticipation.
"V, you feel that?" Jackie closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, "That's freedom, right there, choom."
"Freedom my ass. Let's go sign up." Vash said, pushing ahead.
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"New round's about to start! Ten slots — two still open. We roll as soon as we're full. Any brave souls wanna take a shot?"
The nomad host's voice blasted through a cheap loudspeaker.
"I'm in." Jackie shouldered through the crowd without an ounce of politeness and walked straight up to the host, "How much to get in?"
"Ten thousand eddies (€$) a head. We start when we're full. Winner takes all." The host said.
Nomads spent their whole lives chasing freedom. They put these races together without skimming a cut — so whatever they got out of it, it clearly wasn't just money.
Jackie pulled €$20,000 in cash from his bag and slapped it onto the table, "Two riders."
Nomads only took cash. After a quick check to make sure it was real, the host dropped it into a lockbox and spoke into a communicator, "Move the barriers. Let 'em in."
The barricade slid aside. Vash and Jackie rode into the arena — and immediately felt the weight of attention. Most eyes locked onto Vash.
The reason was obvious: The Kusanagi CT-3X was flashy as hell!
"Heh… V, looks like you're popular." Jackie teased at his side.
"They want the bike." Vash said flatly, "Jack — Badlands races don't have rules. You can attack whenever you want. If you die out there, nobody's taking complaints. Keep your head on."
Jackie nodded, "Then they better not try me, mano."
As a former merc, his skills weren't the problem. Vash turned his attention to the other racers.
A few of them kept staring at the Kusanagi like it already belonged to them — like all they needed was to knock Vash off and claim the prize.
And while Vash was sizing them up, he spotted someone he never expected to see here.
Panam Palmer…
Vash's brow tightened. By all logic, Panam shouldn't be here yet. The main storyline wasn't supposed to start for another six months.
So what, then? Had his crossing over bent the timeline? Was the game no longer just a game? It was the only explanation that made sense.
"All ten racers in position! Ten-second countdown!"
The loudspeaker yanked Vash out of his thoughts.
Engines were already screaming. Exhaust notes rose and fell like war drums, lighting a fire in every spectator's chest. Everyone waited for that last second.
Bang!!!
A shotgun blast tore the sky — zero seconds.
Almost as one, every rider twisted their throttle.
Vroom Vroom Vroom!
The pack shot forward, ten meters gone in a blink. Right off the line, Vash surged into the lead, the Kusanagi's superior performance doing the work for him.
But the rest weren't amateurs. Most nomads couldn't even afford to race. The ones who could usually knew their way around a garage, and more than a few bikes that looked plain on the outside hid serious power under the frame.
Bit by bit, several riders began to creep up to Vash's speed.
On his left, a guy with a mohawk pulled alongside — then, without hesitation, produced a chain and edged closer, intent written all over him.
In a race like this, you owned every consequence. At these speeds, one mistake meant a fatal wipeout. The mohawk clearly wasn't trying to win clean — he was trying to remove Vash from the equation.
And the Kusanagi didn't help. Even its smallest screws were made from top-tier materials. It was too beautiful, too expensive, too tempting.
The mohawk spun the chain in a tight circle with one hand. The moment he got close enough, he'd strike — no hesitation — aiming to knock Vash off the bike.
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T/N: Comment, give me Power Stones, like and favorite, it all supports me and makes me go foward with this. Appreciate my other stories as well, I guarantee the good work!
That's it and happy reading! (-‿◦)