In another part of the Slag…
Hotrod’s bike roared as she gunned it as fast as she possibly could. Or as fast as she possibly could on the pockmarked, disused road. That armored van had been sticking to her ass for the past few kilometers like it was glued there. Judging from that fact alone, her tail must be running a top-of-the-line engine to get that kind of horsepower out of a six-wheeler. It didn’t help that the bastard just drove over every single pothole that Hotrod had to maneuver around.
The roar of motors were punctuated by the seemingly muted-in-comparison report of Mary’s machine gun. Hotrod could tell it had little to no effect, given that the van continued to be equally as loud as it was before, no matter how long the cyborg behind her laid into it. A quick glance at the ARO displaying the rear camera's feed reaffirmed that the worst that Mary might’ve done was denting the armor and scuffing the paint job. Even the grille looked like it laughed off any attempts to bypass it.
She pulled a turn sharper than a knife’s edge, and the squeal of six tires behind her let her know that the van wouldn’t be shaken off so easily. Even after multiple attempts. Cut down a back alley, and he’d be waiting to nearly crush her at the other end of it. A sharp S-turn as she cut behind him. Maybe she’d be able to shake him—at least temporarily—by forcing him to completely turn around again.
He had drone support. There’s no doubting it. The rumbling of two engines dueling masked any sort of identifying sounds that would’ve signified an airborne presence, but judging from the ride chasing her? It was more than likely a high-end stealth hoverdrone with all of the dressings. There was no finding the thing, even with knowing where it was in the vague vicinity.
Even after they lost sight of the armored beast that harried them for so long, an uneasy silence hung between Mary and Hotrod, as if either one was worried about opening their mouth and getting cut off mid-thought by the roar of a road predator. Hotrod knew it would only be moments before the bastard reared its ugly grille again. She was only buying time for someone to show up and help.
Not that she was sure how they would help, considering Mary’s RPM probably only caused a few hundred creds worth of damage. She probably spent more on rounds than they would spend on fixing the paint job.
Here’s hoping someone brings something that can take this beast down.
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Onigiri pulled up the guidance system, broadcasting it to the other sisters riding alongside her. Pizzazz, Cherry, Stiletto. All on their own customized rides, their black and purple finishes now streaked with orange from the sunrise's glow. Somehow, she managed to get stuck riding bitch on her own bike. Harry was at the handlebars. Harry wasn’t even a Banshee.
There oughta be some kinda protocol against this, but she couldn’t complain. It gave her time to put her attention to what she did best, and that was playing matrix support. Even if Harry drove like ass and was jostling her around via every pothole she didn’t even bother to avoid.
First step. Cracking into the border control systems. Generally, they kept files on who’s coming and who’s going. If she could find when this mysterious armored black van crossed into the Slag, she could discern a good few things. Maybe it lingered around the Slag for a few days, and there’s a safehouse around here that they need to be looking for.
Regardless, breaking the ICE was literal child's play. Who’s going to bother keeping their countermeasures up to scratch if they don’t think they’re gonna get punked on? This stuff was almost three generations behind the new current standard. They might as well just have taped their passwords to the front of their matrix node. The only difficulty was navigating the files while sitting on a bike ridden by someone who rode even worse than her.
«Sender: Onigiri»
«I'm in. Filterin' out the booth log now. Ah, fuck.»
«Sender: Pizzazz»
«Don't like the sound of that.»
«Sender: Onigiri»
«Which part? The filterin’, or the ‘Ah, fuck’? We’re showin’ more than one van on the logs.»
«Sender: Stiletto»
«Far icy! That means we can still get in on the fun! Where do we go?»
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The glaring issue was that there wasn't a whole lot of info to work off of. Black vans with six wheels and armor plating? Those could be anywh—
A black van with six wheels and armor plating cut them off at the intersection, nearly hitting Pizzazz and Stiletto who were taking the lead. Whoever drove clearly had no interest in them, because they kept motoring onwards at a breakneck pace. Isn’t that thing supposed to be—
«Sender: Onigiri»
«—Think that answers your question, Stil.»
Stiletto pulled a sharp cut, followed by Pizzazz and Cherry. The acrid smell of burning rubber filled the air around them. Harridan wobbled into the turn.
«Sender: Stiletto»
«After the white whale! Time to break backs and crack skulls!»
«Sender: Cherry Pie»
«… the van is black, Stil.»
Stiletto ignored the correction and pulled a wheelie, hollering like a crazed huntress hopped up on the good juice. Cherry and Pizzazz responded with their own hollers, minus the sick wheelie.
Harry, on the other hand, only managed a blank stare over her shoulder in Onigiri’s direction; as if she was expecting her to join in. The only thing Oni joined in on was staring blankly in return.
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“—I think he’s on us again,” Mary called out from the saddleseat. The rumbling beast lurched after them like a dogged serial killer from a cheap slasher movie, tearing up the road and pitching up gravel as it accelerated.
“Fuck.”
Hotrod had been gunning it down the elevated highway at this point. Not the best option when maneuverability was her strongest suit against this six wheeler, but getting jumpscared while taking a narrow turn repeatedly had her rethinking their supposed advantage.
Dip to the left to avoid the husk of a sedan. Crunch. The van simply obliterated it with its fender, sending rusted metal in every direction. Death was approaching on six wheels and didn’t show any sign of swerving. If the girls didn’t show up soon, they’d be viewing the undercarriage in short notice.
«Sender: Onigiri»
«You’ve got a second vehicle coming to you. We’re tailin’ it, but most we can do is slow it down.»
“Fuck. Again.”
“A second vehicle? Uh, did you peeve someone off real bad recently?”
“No one I can think of, but the list would be pretty long, if I'm being razor with you.”
There wasn’t much choice. She was going to have to get creative, or she was going to be getting dead. Crunch. The van smashed through another set of wrecked cars, propelling them off to either side of the road. It was still gaining, as if it was to spite everything it plowed off the road.
Hotrod had an idea. Whoever was driving this thing was far too confident in their ability to take anything head on. She’d just have to wait until the asshole was right on her rear tire. Ease off on the throttle just enough for him to catch up.
“Er. Why are— Why are we slowing down?” Mary called out from her seat, her weight shifting to fire a glance over her shoulder.
“Just hold on.”
Mary’s grip shifted onto Hotrod’s shoulders and tightened. The situation would have to work hard to be more uncomfortable. Hotrod’s entire being practically vibrated as the van began to seriously close the distance, the thing throwing heat like a jet engine even while it was still a few paces away.
A gentle lean to the right. She didn’t want to show her hand just yet. A quick glance at the rear camera feed. He was lining up to center himself on her. Falling right for the trap. Little bit more to the right. He mirrored her motion. He should be at the perfect angle to hit the guardrail if all goes according to plan. Fixated, just like how she wanted him. She took a deep breath.
Handbrake. Pivot. The bike turned ninety degrees hard, with the tires squealing in protest. It’s going to be close cut. Gun the engine. The tires spit smoke and gravel as they scarpered along broken plascrete to catch a grip. Mary’s fingers dug in hard as the woosh of air past them indicated that Hotrod’s pursued matador ploy worked.
That is to say, alongside the horrible cacophony of the vehicle ripping up guardrail and plascrete barriers as it struggled to come to a halt. Followed up by the multiple story drop as it failed to do such a thing, flinging itself from the road like some kind of suicidal lemming.
“Holy sh—” was the best that Mary could conjure up at that moment, rendered nearly wordless in that entire explosive series of events. She was still gripping onto Hotrod for dear life despite that it seemed it was all over.
“Looks like you fell for it, klaptoooooorsk!” Hotrod shouted out over the remnant railing, her words partially masked by the reverberating sound of the van’s fuel tank firing off. Mary opened her mouth to respond, more than likely to the familiar insult. Only to be cut off by a secondary explosion ripping through the air as the van sees fit for an encore, sending a plume of black smoke upwards.
KABOOM.