AUTODUEL (Action / Combat / Mild Advanced Tech/ WB) - IC

[Talchyon]

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CAR-nege arena, Lexington
10:07 a.m., Aug. 14, 2068
Geoffrey Ahmadi

The smells are always the best. Oil, grease, burning metal and smoke, rubber and asphalt, mixed in with the scents from the food vendors and the cologne of the rich. You can't get that scent anywhere else. And duel days have these scents to Nth.

Geoffrey Ahmadi stretched his hands after having them buried in the engine of one of the cars he'd be competing in. This was going to be a tournament. And what a tournament! Open entry, head-to-head, winner take all, any class free-for-all. No cap limit as to how much you could spend on your car. And a bigger credit prize, thanks to a generous donor. The open entries were always fun. They paid better. You could find a daredevil on a motorcycle taking on a souped-up semi, because any ground vehicle fit the bill. This tournament didn't care how many competed, either. Which made it more dangerous, to be sure. But danger was the name of the game.

His thoughts were interrupted as some of the arena marshalls got into an argument with a guy about seven stalls down. The guy was loudly protesting that the marshalls had it all wrong, that he was innocent, that he didn't know anything. But the man was shown a video clip as the marshall's skin on his arm turned into a video screen and played back damning footage. The man was a cheat, a saboteur, and had been caught. Those who gave out the big credits didn't like unfair play. Didn't stop people from trying to cheat. In fact, they tried as many ways as they could, from hacking into engine computers to planting explosives under cars. But with the tight security and the all-seeing marshalls, most cheats were caught. Most. Geoffrey didn't want to chance anything, so he tried to never leave his car alone and always got edgy when someone came up wanting to admire it before a duel.

He had had to leave his cars a few times, of course. Paying the entry fee took his eyes off their car for a few minutes, because you couldn't just pay on the spot. Had to go to an official's booth. Inserting his currency card into the slot next to the administrator's screen, Ahmadi watched as the few hundred credits detracted from the card's amount. And that had taken him away for about 20 minutes. Then there was always going to the bathroom! But each time today that he had had to leave, the anti-cheat measures he had put up around his stall hadn't been tampered with, suggesting that no one had come up. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry. So that's why he carefully went over every inch and ran some anti-hack programs, every time. It had worked for he and Eya so far.

His partner, however, was nowhere to be found. Ahmadi bit his lip and forced himself to focus on the rest of his preparations.

---

Jeremiah Glass

Taking a shot of rum from his personal bar, the well-dressed man tossed it back in a well-practiced move. The long, dyed, wild hair and the hard eyes gave quite the impression - especially when his associates and underlings had failed to live up to expectations. Glancing down at the still-struggling man held by two ugly goons, the well-dressed man took a fatherly tone to his voice.

"You have one more chance, Bialas. Just tell me what I asked."

The struggling man, seized with fear, stopped struggling and began blubbering out everything he knew. Some of it was right on. Some of it was obvious lies. Some of it was just urban myth. But the man believed it all, apparently. He knew what happened to business associates of Jeremiah Glass who fell into his disfavor.

The thing was, he was a dead man, and he knew it. The man began to plead for his family, while the fatherly voice of the well-dressed man questioned something here, asserted something else there in the prisoner's testimony. And Glass, the well-dressed man, now broke into a smile at the man who had talked. That man gulped and a dead silence fell on the room. Then, with a slight nod, the well-dressed man walked to the edge of his room with the bottle of rum in his hand, out the door and into an armored car. The car sped off as the muffled screams of the man faded in the distance.

The urban myth was right. Jeremiah Glass was a lot more dangerous when he smiled. Still, the job was only partially done. This traitor was no more, but now various agents would turn their attention to the man's family and loved ones. His men had already been watching the little wife and their infant son, but she had dodged them before and she was jumpy enough to do it again.

Trivialities. He had a front to run today, and a pittance of his hard-earned credits would be handed out to the tournament champion today. And while all the eyes and minds were on the autoduels, Glass' real business dealings could continue. No one ever bothered to ask where that money he gave away came from. Of course, they probably knew that asking questions like that was suicidal, and most people had the desire to live another day. And because of that, Glass smiled again.

[New Castillan Empire]

10AM, at a McDonald's near the arena
"AND STAY OUT!" A woman screamed as Nathan and Hans were literally thrown out the front door, landing flat on their behinds.

"Well, isn't THAT a fine how do you do?" Nathan angrily muttered before turning to Hans. "Oi, mate, what do you actually think got us booted in the first place. Breaking that table? Destroying the indoor kids' playground!? DROWNING THAT BLOODY SOD IN THE DEEP FRIER!?" Nathan loudly proclaimed, looking at Hans with an insane glee before calming himself down and getting back up.

"Well, whatever it was, YOU really buggered it up this time!" Nathan said, ironically as the whole chain of events was actually set off by him groping a waitress. "I was gettin' sick of that place anyway. Besides, we've gotta get back to home base! There's a bloody tournament comin' up, an' I'm not gonna miss the bloody chance to get that precious moolah..." Nathan whispered as he laughed in his trademark insane manner as they got inside their Ford Model T and drove out.

As they eventually reached their garage in their inconspicuous flat house, Nathan and Hans wandered up to Freda, who was peeking under a cover of some sort that was concealing a large device, before noticing the duo and turning around with a look of glee.

"Ah, mein kameraden! You're just in time to witness the creation of zhe mighty wunderwaffe I have been striving years to bring to life!" Freda said as she jumped up and down, giggling innocently.

"Wunderwaffe? Sounds delicious, but we just ate. I'm sure Hans would love some, though." Nathan said, pointing to his bigger friend, who pulled out a severed human arm. "I am taken." He said in a deep, thick Swedish accented voice as he went over to Freda's blood-stained medical table with his butcher cleaver in hand before Freda grabbed his arm.

"Hans! Zhat medical table is for experiments and medical operations, not perparation of meals! Now go and do it in the shed, like I told you to!" Freda ordered as the big lug stared, then wandered out of the garage through the back and into the shed. "Anyways, where were we? Oh, ja! You ready to see meine mighty waffen?"

"Oh, come on, Freda, we've been over this, mate; I don't really love you, alright? I'm not going to-" Nathan facepalmed.

"Oh, get your head out of the gutter, I wasn't talking about mein muschi! I was referring to this, of course!" She said, pulling the covers off to reveal a giant computer-like tower with lights, buttons and all.

"...you build a giant calculator?" Nathan inquired.

"Heavens no! Zhis is zhe mighty Biomechanical Extraction Device, patented 1941 and, granted our immoralistic yet righteous circumstances, would have provided unmatchable power to the mighty Deutches Reich if I had just a little bit more time." Freda said, leaning on the machine as she drew her Ubersaw. "The fluids and viscera samples taken from our enemies can be converted into fuels and energies with it. And guess who's going to be providing me with the bodies required!?"

Nathan had to think for a little bit, but he was overcome with joy as soon as he figured it out; this fuel is going to power his car and requires nothing but blood or other bodily items to run. He went into insane laughter once again as Freda joined him for a moment. "Oh, Freda, you cheeky shiela! You are a mind beyond your time, I tell ya! Ahahahahahaaa... but by the way, is their any catch to this?"

"Oh, not much... ALl we need to do is wait 4 months for me to divise the parts required to run on zhis new alternative fuel." Freda giggles as Nathan's face turned to disappointment for a moment.
"Cheer up! I was just joking, I had the engine, battery and such sorted out and replaced already while you were out from zhis antiquated Mad Max bucket of rust! Only issues we've encountered is having to replace the radio with an old DVD player and some loss in the quality of your subwoofer speakers..."

"Aww, did we really have to compensate the bloody subwoofers? I loved those things!" Nathan complained. "Though nothing bests the sound of a good explosion, I'm tellin' ya! Also, just wonderin'... where did you get those samples from beforehand anywhom?"

"...we'll save that question for later. Anyways, zhe tournament is going to be on soon, and we cannot be there a moment too late!" Freda said as she slammed the palm of her hand on the hood of the car as Nathan jumped up.

"Bloody 'ell, you're right, Freda! We gotta get goin', because as you know, an oppurtunity missed can often lead to very bad things. At least for the other bloke." Nathan giggled as him and Freda hopped in, along with Hans, eating a bowl of what appeared to be chili.

Later, in the pits at the CARnege Arena...
As Freda was making finishing touches with the new fuel and the polishing for the look of the car, Nathan and Hans were admiring the impending crowd.

"Just take it in for a moment, Hook. The crowd cheering your name, the smell of the fresh air, soon to be polluted with the almost orgasmic scent of charred flesh, viscera and gunpowder, and the adredalin in the thrill of it all!" Nathan giggled to himself as Hans gave a half-laugh. "Gotta admit, Hookie, this whole Autodueling thing is a MUCH better career than our old mercenary work. Now we can blame Freda instead of you if anything goes wrong!"

"Who's he?" Hans said, looking across to Geoffrey.

"Don't be too scared of 'im, mate. He's a competitor, a mere speed bump on our road to that beautiful grub." Nathan whispered to Hans. "Besides, he reminds me of this once character I played in a video game. What was he... err... like, some sort of ruddy builder? I can't recall, really..." Nathan said as he knocked at his own head. "Anyways, we gotta get ready. You'll never know who we're gonna face up-front..."

"Don't worry, I've prepared for it for a while myself." Freda said as she pulled out a large trombone case while having a deep chuckle.

[Zjaum]

Habakkuk Kechman made sure to keep his distance from the big dumb Swede and his sidekick as he entered the garage. He'd taken a lot of risks staying away from his ride, and this time he took one too many. It wasn't to his ride, however, that he strode. No, his destination was the 2020 Lexus Vision, where his coworker was making adjustments with her wrench, songs in a long-since forgotten language blasting from her stereo. "Hey, Nolan? HEY!"

She turned around. "Oh, hai!"

"I think someone tampered with my turret."

Nolan sat down and shuffled around playfully. "What makes you think that, Happy?"

"Well, it's probably got something to do with the C4 on the bottom of the turret. Say, didn't you promise you'd watch the cars while I'd pay for the both of us?"

"Uh..."

"What are you even wrenching? You know we made all the adjustments back at the shop."

"Did you see the new T-shirts? How sugoi-kawaii!"

"Jessie, focus. Look," He brought his normal voice down to a hushed tone. "Look, I'm going to need you to be my gunner. I can't risk disarmament on my own right now, not with this little time before the match."

"YOU WANT ME TO WHAT?!"

Remembering the stereo, Habakkuk reached over his comrade to turn off the car's radio. "You have to be my gunner. You know that my vehicle has better armaments than your glitter gun, and it's better for this one."

The girl's face lit up. She threw open her arms and embraced her friend. "Happy, YOU can be my Onii-chan!" she shouted in a voice that could be heard for a good hundred meters, even with all the hubbub. Some of the more jealous fans of Bonzai-chan gave Mister Firewall dirty looks. Mildly embarrassed, he resumed his whisper, while trying to breathe through his newfound little sister's death grip. "I found a relatively unused corner of the map. I'm going to point it out for you. A few minutes in, get to that point. You'll hop out of yours and into mine, and we'll use yours as a backup. Sound good?"

"ONII-CHAN!" she exclaimed in response.

Fine, whatever. Nolan might be clinically insane, but at least she's trustworthy enough to listen and follow orders. Kechman waited a full minute before the vice grip subsided, and he returned to his Lincoln, just to be sure that no additional unwanted modifications had arisen.

On his way to the car, he was confronted by fans. They heard everything, or at least enough to ruin a lot. "Oh, wow, you're teaming up with Bonzai-chan? That's amazing! Who's gonna be driving?"

"I don't trust anyone with my Town Car except myself," was the response.

"Can you give us your slogan?"

If he didn't cater... well, just say that he couldn't risk unhappy admirers who knew too much. "Hope you got asbestos on your computers, cause you can't deal with... Mistah Firewall!"

The small contented crowd scurried off, after a few signings of course. Let's hope the race plans go as smoothly.

[Main Nation Ministry]

The Horsemen

Somewhere on route towards Kentucky, where the region that wasn't a wasteland started to become more urban, three riders on hogs were driving on the highway with their route already known. There were driving towards Kentucky. The city of Lexington could be seen in the distance where since it was the future, it was rebuilt to look like an utopia. The Insurrections who would come to Lexington to give morale support towards the Horsemen would see the city as horse apples, especially since some of the land they roam was truly never rebuilt. The Horseman of War understood. He clearly wasn't a maker of peace, oh no, he was a maker of war.

He knew even after the Horseman of Death died from the cops. The Horseman of War remembered the time he kicked down the doors of that bar and torched the place. It was a bit of a satisfying sight. After the rival gang The Devils ended up in flames, the Insurrections considered it their own version of the Burning Man festival with some fireworks at the end, when the fire reached the drug lab in the basement. Oh, the Horseman of War wondered what would happen if the Horseman of Death was still around. He still remembered his kick ass leather jacket that he snatched from that thug who tried to kick their asses. That was a bad idea for that poor sap.

Of course, there was the time the cops had enough and decided to go after one of them, even without an arrest warrant. It all started without warning. A simple misunderstanding at the convenience store, a bullet storm breaks out, and the Horseman of Death gets blamed for it. It wasn't him who shot first, however. So while the Horseman of Death was riding his hog, several police cruisers started to drive full speed at the lone rider. What happened next made the Horseman of Death an ironic legend. He attempted to Evel Knievel it over a canyon, which the Insurrections tend to use for several drug runs. At first, the Horseman of Death looked like an angel, until he looked more like Icarus who flew close to the sun and crashed at the bottom of the canyon.

The Horseman of War was the first one to discover the mangled, but still breathing body of the Horseman of Death. "She looks beautiful.." the Horseman of Death weakly stated, as his life ceased in front of the Horseman of War. After that, the leader of the Insurrections seemed to have more of a grudge towards the authority, despite the fact he has been hating authority since the Insurrections were formed. The Horseman of War were simply following instructions with the Horsemen of Famine and Conquest for one simple goal. To show the United States of America that if you mess with the Insurrections, you're bound to end up dragged on the highway road. As the Horsemen saw the CAR-nege Arena in the distance, the Horsemen of War pulled off a wheelie to get the others excited.

[Talchyon]

Geoffrey Ahmadi

"Where is she?" Geoffrey was watching the time tick away before he and his gunner were supposed to be out there. They had been assigned to track #8. Any one of these other autoduel teams might be the ones they were facing. You never knew until the duel had started. Some teams used the surprise effect to great advantage.

Just then, a half-woman & half-robot bustled in to Ahmadi's stall. "Geoff!" she proclaimed with a bright, cheerful voice. She was wearing a sunny yellow smock, with cream-colored skin and long, beautiful, straight blonde hair. It made a stark contrast to the robotic legs jutting out of her denim capris. The legs tended to turn away potential romantic suitors. His partner.

"Where have you been, Eya? We need to get rolling!" Despite her usefulness behind the gun switches, Eya Reyval could sometimes be a complete airhead.

Smiling, stars in her eyes, Eya responded, "I was just talking to some really friendly people. They were all here to see the duels. Oh, and you should have seen the facepaint on their kids!"

Geoffrey scowled. Eya was true to form. That was her - except those times she was her other self. That was a whole 'nother story.

"Eya, we have to book it! We're on track 8 in ten! We have to go!" Grumbling, Ahmadi closed the hood of the car. Eya didn't seem to notice his mood.

---

Track 8, Ten minutes later

The CAR-nege Arena had multiple tracks for multiple different kinds of duels. There were the standard race tracks where you had to race around, try to make it past the finish line first while blowing your rival up. There were the tracks more like the off-road stunt tracks, where daredevils of old used to do tricks. These now had been turned into autodueling areas, where every inch of space could be used.

Then, there were the tracks set up like Track 8 was now. Tracks that was kind of a mix between the two, with a "finish line", with every inch of space available, but also with machine guns and flamethrowers built into the walls. Autoduelers had to survive both every other team, as well as the house. If both dueling teams didn't survive before the time was up, the house won the round. And the arena wanted its cut, too.

Geoffrey Ahmadi, decked out in his armor, flipped a few switches and felt the hum of the car beneath him. Beside him, Eya sat with her armor, smiling pleasantly and abstract-mindedly. The corridor they were in had been closed behind them, and the gate in front of them was set to open in 10... 9... 8...

Looking over at Ahmadi, Eya said, "Don't you just think people can be really wonderful?"

Ahmadi just scowled, as the gate to Track 8 slowly opened...

[Zjaum]

Unfortunately, while Kechman was away, there was another attempt at sabotage. Apparently word got around that Chromium cars were really easy to hack. Lucky for Happy, though, this new explosive was also rigged to the turret remote. For all their communication, the troublemakers really didn't know how to coordinate. Regardless, he was going to have Jessie with him at the far end of the course, so ideally he wouldn't be completely defenseless. Plus, the flamethrowers on the bottom of the car were untouched, and those could leave quite a mark. Well, such as it was, Habakkuk needed to tow his vehicle to the starting line as soon as was conveniently possible. Bonzai-chan was still blasting Yuki Kajira music, but she had already started up her car and moved towards her spot at the Track 6 entrance.

As per Conglomerate regulations, the weeaboo music was turned off at the start of the race. Bonzai-chan replaced the noises with innocent giggling, all while staring creepily at the other competitors. Not that she was actually interested in doing awful, dirty, no-good things to them... at least, so long as they didn't get in the way between her and her onii-chan. Otherwise... her eye twinkled, and her other was hidden in a matte of bleached hair. Jessie kept laughing quietly as she stick-shifted her gears to the most fun setting.

Kechman had a brief respite to calm his nerves before the big race ahead. He couldn't and didn't, but, you know, a couple minutes or so was fine. He simply hoped that the two of them could make the switch fast enough to make a clean getaway, without attracting the attention of the more suspicious drivers. Hopefully the others will mistake it for a husk whose driver was out of the competition and spare it, but perhaps that was too much to hope. The glitter might give it away, regardless. Nolan was relatively too far up for him to remind her of the plan or even to yell at her, but that would soon change. The folks in front of him looked like no-names, so he should be able to pass them up and bring the hellfire and brimstone just fine. Mister Firewall waved at the crowds and pointed at the stands before turning on the air conditioning. If it wasn't already, it was about to get hot.

He spoke to himself in a rumbling voice. "Ready... Aim..."

[New Castillan Empire]

As Freda and Nathan were chattering amongst themselves, the sound of Jessie's 'onii-chan' caught the attention of the group for a moment.

"Onii-chan? What bloody 'ell does that mean? Isn't that, like... some sort of Chinese word or somethin'?" Nathan said.

"It's not Chinese, you fool!" Freda said as she looked back to Nathan while putting the new bio-fuel in the car. "She's clearly speaking Irish Gaelic!"

"Wait, how the hell do you know how to speak Irish? You're German, aren't ya, Freda?" Nathan curiously asked as he toyed with a dynamite stick.

"Well, yes, but I was stationed in Dachau until I got transported to Chelmno in 1941. You get a whole taste of dialects with the POWs, and luckily a couple of nationalists from Northern Ireland bargained with the Sturmfuhrer and got a seat as interpreter of the Gaelic radio transmissions flowing to and from Scottish or Northern Irish corps." Freda said as she laid down the can and screwed on the camp. "Of course, I managed to learn a few other linguistics there too. I could also speak French, Dutch and Norwegian. Really helped with sorting out the Jews on my public duties."

"Idioter..." Hans growled.

"Hey! I understood THAT one, muscles! Don't think I got gunpowder in my ears, because... oh wait..." Nathan said.

"Anyways, you best be getting onto that track. Those dummkopffs won't bloody up themselves." Freda said as she opened the driver's seat for Hans as Nathan climbed through the back to the passenger seat and buckled up, giggling like a psycho as they drove to the gates.

As soon as they stopped to their track, Nathan snapped his fingers and jumped. "Oop! Nearly forgot!" He said as he pulled out a DVD from the glovebox saying 'Music That Totally Wasn't Pirated' on it and pushed it onto the player and looked for a good song until he came across an old favourite, getting ready for the race to begin.

As the countdown began, as Hans steadied himself to get ready to race, Nathan's hand was already shaking as it hovered over his grenade launcher. It had been 30 minutes since he last blew something up, and it was going to be like an orgasm to him once he finally got his violent craving. He really couldn't wait.

[Main Nation Ministry]

Famine

Somewhere at Track 11, where the audience cheered as each rider entered the arena. According to the rules, only one Horseman has to be on the track, however this was no big deal to the Horesmen, as they have chosen Famine to go on the race track, first. Famine looked more like a greaser with sunglassess, than an actual biker. Wearing a white shirt and some blue jeans, Famine drove his bike to the starting line, where he lined himself up with several other vehicles. Famine wore a holster that wrapped around to his back with several javelins that were originally used for athletic contests, now used for throwing spears. While waiting for more vehicles to show up, he gotten out a sub-machine gun, similar to an Uzi, which he checked and loaded in a clip. He was all set. Now all he had to do now was wait till the countdown started. That was when the mayhem would begin.

[Wyrdsister]

Rhea's cigarette butt landed in a puddle of dirty water, and she shifted her boot to smother it, sending ripples across the surface. One of Lexington's Finest tucked her hands into her pockets and looked over the stadium - the burning, acrid scents of engine fumes and diesel motors sinking through her filters and covering up the smell of tear gas stuck to her t-shirt. She hadn't changed out of her work clothes except for taking off her uniform and pulling on an old leather jacket and a pair of jeans covered in stains and tears where the edges of her mechanical legs had worn through the denim.

The smell of Kentucky bourbon mixed with the rest and helped keep out the worst of the assaults on her senses. The off-duty officer was quietly tapping her finger against the side of her glass and staring at the disheveled five-foot-eight tangle of nervous energy that had managed to stuff itself into a knock-off designer suit. "Switchblade" was his persona, or racer-name, or whatever they called it - she'd looked up his file in what passed for this city's criminal records department and found the far tamer sounding Brendon Whiles, born in Shriners. He gave her lopsided grin before glancing away from her blank, featureless face from where he was leaning against the railing with his own glass of something vaguely ethanolic, tapping his foot and looking half ready to explode from managing to stand still so long.

"So, Mr. Whiles-" she began, pausing for a moment as the man's head spun back to face her hearing her finally speak. "Ah! Please, call me Switchblade!"

The movement had caused his glass eye to dislodge slightly, and he now was staring at her and at the remains of some kid's ice cream cone in the mud beside them. Rhea was half expecting his tongue to dart out past his lips and snatch it up. It confused her that someone could put so much work into looking like a professional, successful athlete and manage to make himself look even more like a deranged lunatic who drove scrap-metal death cars for a living. She sighed inwardly and started again. "So you're interested in buying heavy weapons?"

"Yeah! Yeah." He lowered his voice, realizing he'd been overly loud at first. "Yeah, just need me somethin' big and I'll be a sure win. There's a nice little spot in the armor plating, perfect for a big fuckin' beauty of a gun - then I'll have my All-Wheel-Drive Fort Knox."

She nodded and held her jacket open slightly, reaching in to pull out a piece of paper and slowly unfolding with a whirring of mechanical fingers. "Fort Knox was actually overrun and looted back in '47."

"...It was?"

"Yeah. Anyway-" she held up the list of wares and nodded towards it, small diagrams of weapons systems displayed beside technical specs. "This is what I'm able to get my hands on for your casemate mount. Anything special order will take a bit longer to acquire..."

Brendon- Switchblade, rather - reached over and took it from her, lifting his glass to his lips and humming around the rim of it as he looked over the selection. She watched his eyes go all the way to the bottom, down to where she'd listed to highest calibre weaponry - he swallowed his drink and tapped the bottom-most one with his thumb. Or what was left of his thumb. It looked like he'd shoved it in a meat grinder once or twice. "Mm. This one. One-fifty-fifty millimeter. Em-Seven-Seven-Seven. That right there is like a winnin' slot machine number-"

"The M777 howitzer?" She wasn't able to keep a keep her thoughts to herself and shook her head. "Nah, on your little buggy? In a stationary mount? With your budget? That's..."

Brendon- sorry, Switchblade seemed to have difficulty taking constructive criticism and screwed his face up into a scowl. "Uh, hey, holy fuck, what happened to the customer is always right? I don't wanna hear it you fuckin'-"

"Hold up, shut up for a second." Rhea's mechanical hand whirred dismissively as she tried to wave his weaselly voice out of the air like a particularly bitchy gnat and reached back into her jacket, pulling out a large 30mm explosive-tipped shell that made Switchblade's eyes widen for a moment. "I'm not here to sell you big flashy toys, alright? You understand that?"

"Bullshit," he scowled. "You're an gun runner, you sell me whatever the hell I like! And it's bigger bang, bigger bucks in this business, bitch."

"Fantastic alliteration. I'm going to punch your teeth down your throat if you call me that again." She pressed the bullet into his chest like a knife and twisted it slightly, her eyes dead as they stared down into his as she spoke in a flat monotone that seemed to carry more threat in it than if she was raising her voice. Switchblade tensed and looked increasingly like he was ready to jump out of his knock-off pinstripes. "I'm an arms dealer. Okay? I don't run around selling people Chinese knock-off AKs, I sell everything from quality instruments of divine, righteous fucking judgement to a nice fat hunk of iron and lead that gives you a bit of extra weight to your balls when you feel it in your jacket. The fancy, egotistical term for what I am is merchant of death - but not your death, because that would cut into my profit margin, you inbred fucking greasemonkey.

"So, you don't buy a giant cannon that'll do nothing for you if you can't angle your car properly and'll only hit things in front of you. And you don't buy a giant metal tube that'll stick out a couple dozen metres from your windshield and unbalance the car and paint a giant target on anyone who wants to be in front of you. You can only fit so much ammunition on these cars, bud - if you have one bullet left, you shoot the guy with the bigger gun who looks more dangerous. Make sense?"

Switchblade's scowl seemed to waver slightly as he lifted his glass back to his lips and nodded. She knew his type - an amateur frustrated at his lack of glory and victories, who usually spent all his winnings on flashy clothes and weapons in the hopes it would give him an quick leg up over the competition. Customers like that didn't always like being told how firearms worked, or how logic worked, and that sort of thing - they had played ALL of the Call of Honour: Blood Massacre vehicle missions when it came out, and they wanted tank cannons strapped to their compact sedans, dammit. It was a welcome rarity to encounter an Autodueler willing to listen to her proposals and not blow themselves up and deny her a repeat sale. She lifted her eyebrows and continued.

"You want something that'll punch through armour and make some nice big sexy explosions, I get that. Really express the fact that you're not to be fucked with, hate people in positions of authority, weren't hugged enough by your mom when you were a kid - whichever, I don't care - and give the crowd a good time. You can do that with something smaller and less expensive." She placed her finger on the list of military-grade hardware and ran down the line, pointing out one with a much cheaper pricetag and a smaller size. Not to mention it raised more questions and trouble than it was worth to deal with heavy artillery most days, and she only had a limited supply...

"This one here: 40mm automatic grenade launcher. Basically a machine gun on steroids. Can turn a lightly protected opponent into scrap metal, blow away tires and other unprotected spots for the ones with heavy armour - and for the weak, light vehicles, it'll chew through them like spicy Thai value meals chew through your pasty white virgin asshole. Short, compact, discrete, makes a lovely sound when used, big bang in a small package - all the best attributes of a Malaysian whore, but in a belt-fed German-engineered frame. We have a special on right now..."

"That..." Switchblade frowned for a moment as he simultaneous worked on mentally calculating how many Thai food value meals and Malaysian hookers he could buy with the money he saved. At length he nodded. "That actually sounds great. I'll take it. Hell, I'll take two."

"You're a smart man. Twice the firepower - I can throw in a double-mount for you, free of charge." Rhea's eyes narrowed as she wrapped an arm around the man's shoulders, tapping her glass against his as he began giggling ominously at the mental image of two explosive-flinging barrels of carnage sticking out of his car. "We have a deal?"

"Oh, hell yes."

"Glad to hear it..." She lifted her bourbon to her chin and nudged a small button on the underside, splitting apart some of the plates there - she carefully tipped her glass back against the thin, flat drinking tube that extended free and felt cold alcohol against her tongue and flowing down her ragged throat. With a tired sigh she patted her latest buyer on the shoulder and steered him back towards the stadium's bar, where she could make sure he was literate enough to actually fill out the paperwork and potentially get him drunk enough to agree to more purchases. The two automatic grenade launchers would make her a decent amount of cash, but what really sealed the deal was the fact that he'd be paying for twice as many ammunition belts, and they cost a lot more than machine gun rounds.

She didn't buy any more drinks for herself though, just finished off the one she'd started and had been nursing all morning.

The law was still the law. She didn't like to drink and drive. Just a bit for courage and she was set.

- - -

Officer Kaczka pulled open the sliding door of her garage several minutes later and grabbed a crowbar off a pile of tires, advancing on the man currently trying to scramble out from under her car - his fingers still tangled in the wires attached to a block of C4 - with a snarl. He almost managed to slip away, but she caught him in the head with her first swing and he stumbled as blood splattered across the concrete. She heard his cheekbone break - his shirt ripped as she hauled back on it, and he scrambled out of her grasp with a tearing of fabric, coughing and swearing through the loose teeth in his mouth.

The crowbar clattered to the floor and she sighed, before crouching down to cheek for damage. Didn't cut the brakelines, like a sane person would have... she counted herself lucky that she'd only had to deal with dumbasses today. Smart Autoduelists were dangerous - they were all insane of course, either way, but there were some clever bastards to contend with and if you underestimated them just because they liked to scream about meat piñatas and paint themselves green... standing up, she reminded herself to beat the shit out of the guy she hired to watch her car while she was gone. Apparently he was too easy to bribe. Or if he just gotten to go get a hotdog maybe she'd just take a refund and a pound of flesh off his sorry ass - but for now, she had a match to deal with.

The door slammed shut, and she took a deep breath as she placed her hands on the wheel. This was her first time, her first duel - she was effectively a nobody, and while she wasn't exactly scared there was a sense of nervousness to it, not to mention the knowledge that she was about to step into a world that went against everything she'd ever stood for in her life.

Bloodsport. Murder on wheels, death by diesel, madmen butchering each other for a cheering crowd - in school she learned about gladiator fights in Ancient Rome, and how they fed unarmed slaves to wild beasts, and called themselves civilized. She started her engine, let the car rumble to life around her and drove out towards the starting gate for Track 15, and tried not to think about whether she'd be a slave or a animal by the end of this... actually, why the fuck was she worried about philosophical crap? She could be dead by the end of this.

Narrowing her eyes and sighing, Rhea shifted gears and set her boot on the gas, pulling her helmet on over her head. Eh bien, voilà rien.

[Zjaum]

Most fans were watching the riders line up for the new show, but soon the attention of a sizable section of them began diverting away from the tracks. Standing head, shoulders, and chest above the crowd, Sethunya carved her way through the crowds. She carried a rope with her, and that rope was chained to her ride: a yellow Niello Mini, and he was carrying it around like a timid Saint Bernard. See, she really didn't want to show up in this thing; it was terrible enough that she was going to be cooped up in there for a few hours, with even a short bathroom break meaning total dismemberment of her ride. She sure as heck wasn't going to drive up in it, and she could drag it along as easy as a grocery cart. She tried not to make eye contact with the people cowering in fear at her very presence, but the lucky ones that did manage to catch her at-least-mildly-curious stare were practically turned to stone. At least the genetically-enhanced apes back at the lab would challenge her or something, open some communication. She spotted a young child and crouched down. Still she was taller than the parents, so when she said "Good day, little one," the child ran away and the mother fainted. Such was life now. So this is what Kentucky must be like. Interesting; she would have to learn more.

"Who is that woman?" "Is she... is that a..." "Boy, am I glad I left my race car at home!"

Everyone thought that she was walking with a purpose, but honestly she had nowhere to go. This was her first time, outside of training, that she'd actually gone to one of these races. She was a complete newbie; she didn't even know where the check-in booth was. By the time she'd travelled around in a circle, the gig was up. A few people were laughing internally; not daring to bring it up. They survived the post-apocalypse for a reason; they most certainly wanted to make it to the end of the day, at least. An official in a blazer approached her. "Um, hello, Miss..."

"Tsogang. My name is Sethunya Tsogang. And you are?"

"Uh... my name's Harrison. Ford Harrison. I... I don't think we've seen you before. Where are you..."

"Let's cut to the chase, Harrison. Where is the lane where I am supposed to go?"

[Talchyon]

Track 8
Geoffrey Ahmadi and Eya Reyval

Daylight streamed in from the newly opened gate, and the roar of the engine was only slightly less than the roar of the crowd watching. Gunning the engine, Ahmadi drove out onto the track. It was all dirt, mostly flat with a few small ramps that went up about six feet and then down shortly after. The other autodueling team was coming out an entrance at the opposite side. Geoffrey his first look at what they were going against, and nodded his head. Armored pickup. Good choice for this track. But he wasn't scared.

However, as both drove out and began their opening shots, panels on the sides of the track opened up, revealing automatic weapons, flamethrowers, and other assorted weapons. Geoffrey cursed. Of course, the tournament wanted to make some things a little more in their favor. It wouldn't be the first time he was trying to outduel another team while being shot at by the track. But on his very first track in the tournament?!

The pickup swerved to the left while a gun on a turret out the back aimed his way. To compensate, Geoffrey turned to the left and then quickly to the right. Trying to throw off the gunner, he told Eya a simple, "I'm going to try to ram him. You get the flames ready." She had already begun, flipping the switches to get the chemical mixture prepped. She had a smile on her face - but not her normal one. Geoffrey tried to dodge one of the guns in the wall that was jutting out. It was the last thing they needed to get stuck in their car.

Meanwhile, the other driver had headed up a ramp, its rear gun shooting and hitting. The bullets made their impact in the armor, but the armor held. It usually did, the first several machine gun blasts. Take too many of those, however, and you were toast. Geoffrey swung the steering wheel all the way to the left, fishtailed, and began to close the gap between them and the pickup. It was just as he had thought. Of course the truck had 4-wheel drive. Those guys tended to do pretty well in tournaments. But there was always a way to beat them.

Coming down off the ramp, the other driver was content to let its main rear gun focus on Geoffrey and Eya. While he tried to swerve some at first, he couldn't both dodge and gain enough momentum to ram the truck like he wanted. So they ended up getting three concentrated streams from the main gun, annoyed, but a little less annoyed that it didn't stay on target the whole time. Eya, on the other hand, shot at the truck with the configured shotguns built into the car's hood, useful for firing straight ahead but unable to swivel. The shotgun blasts hit, for no visible effect.

Flamethrowers off the sides sent off fiery blasts of heat towards the pickup, and the visibility of the other driver was blocked for a moment. Geoffrey used that time to speed up, taking an angle that would lead directly into the truck's mid-body, if he could only get there without the other driver turning...

[Main Nation Ministry]

Famine - Track 11

A traffic light was in front of the starting line, as it was going to be a race. A race to 1st place and a race to not have their vehicle become shredded metal. The countdown started, where Famine revved up his motorcycle, ready to drive. The moment the light went green, all of the vehicles at the starting line accelerated forward, where Famine accelerated while doing a brief wheelie, which excited some of the viewers from the stands. The track wasn't a normal race track, as it went uphill to form a twisted knot of asphalt and metal. Famine pulled out his sub-machine gun and laid a storm of lead at several cars that were trying to overtake him or attempt to run him over. Driving uphill, he looked behind him before focusing on the road.

Suddenly, an explosion shook the air behind him, as when Famine turned to drive downhill on the track, he said an intimidating vehicle of destruction behind me. An armored sedan with machine guns on the front and plow to hit him was barreling towards him. Famine immediately had the motorcycle pedal down, as the driver of the sedan was toying with him to see if he would accidentally fall off his bike. To the onlookers, it looked like a deadly cat and mouse game with the two vehicles, where some even stopped getting popcorn to watch the tense scene.

[Zjaum]

TRACK 6

"BONZAIIIIIIIIII!!!" screamed Jessie, in a manner that would steal the very hearts of anyone not previously familiar with her opening catch phrase. It was her namesake for a reason. Other drivers in the sedan category tried to shout their starting one-liners, but hers was far and away the loudest and most familiar. And so the race began. A number of vehicles had decided to use flamethrowers on the sides of their rims. Whether they plagiarized Happy or vice versa was of no matter now; the only thing that mattered was who could wield their vehicle the best. For now, Nolan and Kechman slammed on the gas and accelerated to speeds previously unheard of for a Towncar and a Vision. They'd been doing some upgrades- within regulations, of course. Seeing as the intial positions of cars were relatively compact, a number of rivals decided to ignite their Bunsen-Burners, making the first minute a hot one in every sense of the word. Paint wore off quickly, and some doors welded together. Others were set ablaze. Habakkuk chuckled. They shouldn't have left their rear windows open, no matter how hot it was. One spark comes in, and a fifty thousand dollar investment goes straight down the drain.

Position change was slow but steady as the superior engines and skill of the two protagonists paid off in spades. Nothing mattered, though, unless they could make that transition easily. As Happy pulled in to first, he began jostling second and third, swerving this way and that to get them to slow down or, better yet, cause a pile up. After a few minutes of work, his plan finally came to fruition. Second slid into a wall, knocking into third and causing everyone behind to slam on brakes. They were a little past the checkpoint he wanted, but he'd made an alternative. Four barely missed Two and Three, landing so much as a scratch and a broken headlight on the Vision, and parked beside him. Bonzai-chan reached in and pulled the handle for the shotgun door. Nothing. It was welded shut.