The southernmost bend in the Provenance River offered slim pickings this time of the year, so Iver Gambit was rather surprised to see a second fisherman pull up a seat next to him on the pier.
The newcomer was a portly fellow with a kindly smile, and the fact he’d worn a changshan for the occasion spoke to a raw unfamiliarity with the rough-and-tumble of the outdoors: likely a wealthy tourist attempting to tick off every item on TripShifu’s Top 10 Must-See Attractions in Fort Auspice. Iver inwardly shook his head, both at the newcomer’s shallowness and at his own hypocrisy—for he himself was presently covered from neck to toe in his cowhide racing suit, making it clear that the fishing per se was far from his primary concern.
“Mind if I join?” The newcomer paused in the middle of already setting down his chair. Iver did his best to reply with a smile that might pass for genuine, and indicated his assent with a slight bow.
The newcomer happily sat and began to lay down his equipment. Iver stole a glance. The gear were of high enough quality, with likely substantial monetary investment behind them, but the choice of lures left much to be desired. Iver’s respect for his companion dropped another notch, along with his opinion of himself—hadn’t he promised himself he’d stop making snap judgments about people he barely knew? Regardless, the newcomer appeared oblivious to Iver’s silent appraisals, nor to the malapropism of Iver’s fashion choice, as he turned to him with another big smile. “Simply gorgeous part of the world, isn’t it? Are you local?”
Iver had to think on how best to respond. In the end, he chose the happy median between truthful and concise. “Currently, yes.”
“I envy you. To have the grandeur of our great Provenance River right in your backyard! I come from Basinside, you see. Allegedly we’re right next to the sea, but you wouldn’t know it with all the shipping containers stacked up to the heavens!”
Iver returned a smile, though he couldn’t quite stop it from coming out more like a grimace. This was turning out to be about as predictable as one might expect from a conversation between an erudite emissary from a bustling metropolis and the country bumpkin he’d graced with his presence.
Iver tried to shake himself out of his default cynicism and instead focused on the beauty of his chosen fishing spot as pointed out by the stranger.
Grandeur was one way to put it, certainly. The southernmost bend doubled as the widest part of the Provenance River, which gave it the illusion of stretching into the horizon like an ocean. The morning light hit it just right to give the clear blue water a flattering sparkle. All around the pier, cuckoos sang and rustled among great maidenhair trees. And in the northerly distance stood the ghostly profiles of the Glorious Peaks.
Yes, Iver supposed all this added up to a lovely if not breathtaking vista for anyone not weighed down by mountainous worries on their mind. Indeed it might almost be enough to make one forget that, only a couple of miles away, Chakrams zoomed around on a racetrack, poised to make a few people very rich today—and ruin the lives of a few others.
Almost right on cue, the newcomer turned and nodded toward the machine that was parked next to the pier. “I couldn’t help noticing. That’s a powerful-looking ride you got there. Are you by any chance one of the racers?”
Here was another question Iver didn’t have an immediate answer to. And once again, he settled on truthful and concise. “Undecided.”
His companion laughed, clearly taking the answer as a joke. “Well, young fella, I suppose you better decide soon, hey? They’ll be finishing their sighting laps soon!”
“Mh-hm.”
Iver could’ve elaborated, but chose not to. His sob story was his alone; not even his closest family members (not that any of them kept in touch with him these days) knew the full extent of the plans he had for himself and his Chakram… which made it doubly upsetting when he’d woken up this morning and realized he was getting cold feet.
He was afraid to race, and admittedly for good reason. Much was riding on the results of today’s Fort Auspice Trophy—perhaps too much for his puny inexperienced shoulders to bear. He’d thought he could go at it alone, that he had to do it alone. Yet now, mere hours away from the main event, he found himself quite literally paralyzed with doubt and fear.
And so, just as he’d always done when it all got to be too much—when he felt himself spinning out of control—he went stress-fishing. Some people did yoga. Some ate ice cream. Still others could seem to clear their mind with just a good roll in the hay. Iver Gambit, on the other hand, always turned to fishing in times of need.
He honestly couldn’t say why; he didn’t even like fishing all that much. But for whatever reason—the serenity of the water, the deceptive elasticity of time, the casual contempt that emanated from the fish themselves—fishing simply for the sake of fishing seemed to have a soothing effect on his frayed psyche.
A soothing effect that had met with interference with the arrival of the chatty stranger.
“Say, does your Chakram have a name?” the stranger pressed on, dauntless in the face of Iver’s extreme reticence. “Forgive me for asking about your Chakram before we’ve even introduced ourselves, but you know how these things go!”
Again, Iver thought for a moment, then decided that sticking to a policy of honest brevity might in fact be his surest avenue to extricate himself from the stranger’s attention.
“Fenghuolun,” he answered, absent guile nor hesitation.
“Fenghuolun? Now, why does that sound familiar…” The stranger frowned slightly, then his hitherto friendly countenance turned aghast as realization set in. “You mean that Fenghuolun? But then, that means you’re…”
“Yup. I’m Iver Gambit. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Silence fell between them. Iver kept his eyes on the water, pointed nowhere in particular. He half-expected the stranger to up and leave in a huff, but his short-lived companion was unfailingly polite even in exit.
“You know, I really should get going,” the stranger mumbled, clearly flustered. “I just remembered I still had a ticketing issue that needed sorting out. So, I better… you know… Um, good luck with uh… good luck with your fishing.”
Good luck with the fishing, but not with the race, huh? Iver mused, a wry smile forming on his otherwise stony face. Beside him, the stranger packed up his expensive gear and ill-suited lures, then left the pier in a hurry.
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All was quiet again save the cuckoos and the faint whine of engines in the distance. Iver was surprised to find that his hard-won solitude did little to relax his mind.
“Welp, I guess that’s that.”
He announced to himself, then stood abruptly, ready to pack it in himself. As he reeled the line back in, he tried to convince himself that his new decision was the correct one.
Face it, I was never going to win this race. It was foolish to register in the first place. Sure, I’ll cop a fine for pulling out so late in the game, but that’s still better than losing Akashic Field for free. No, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. Hire a pilot, one that actually knows what they’re doing. Train, gear up, all the rest of it. There’s no reason to rush into a sure failure. I’ve still got time. I’ve… still got time…
That last notion was the hardest sell. Did he have time? It’d been three years—three long and difficult years—since he’d pulled out every trick in the playbook to save his father’s company from certain demise, three years since he vowed that the Chakram racing world would once more accord the Gambit family the honour and adoration they deserved.
Three years, and he had nothing to show for it. Funds were dwindling faster than Lynx Giallo could lap the Capital Circuit. Sponsors wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole, and not even the greenest and most luckless of rookie pilots could be lured to wear the name Gambit across their backs.
Three years of hopeless inertia had driven Iver desperate enough to register for a race with himself as the flagship pilot. He knew now (had known all along) that it had been a fool’s errand.
He turned to his Chakram, and suddenly found himself on the verge of tears. Fenghuolun had always been and always would be a magnificent beast. Where the newer generations of racing machines had begun to emphasize Auxiliaries in their pursuit of maximum firepower, Fenghuolun was a relic of the simple past where a Chakram was just that: two wheels united by an engine, with a pilot to tame them and draw out their fullest potential.
That wasn’t to say that Fenghuolun was simple in construction; indeed it was anything but that. No, Iver’s father, in close collaboration with his sister, had worked tirelessly to ensure that the family’s magnum opus would be the absolute pinnacle of elegant design and intricate engineering. Every curve along its titanium frame, every piston that powered its engine, and every notch on its wheels of wind and flame contained within them Leter Gambit’s blood, sweat, and tears.
Bubbling over with sudden anger, Iver let out a full-throated yell and cursed up a storm, uncaring whether his erstwhile companion might still be within earshot. He cursed the heartless monsters that had destroyed his father’s life’s work purely for their own gain. He cursed the mindless masses that had lapped up the lies that had buried his family under the dregs of history. Most of all, he cursed himself: gutless, powerless, aimless. He cursed himself for lacking the courage and the know-how to make good on his promise to his father—and to his sister.
Shoulders slumped and head downcast, Iver strapped on his helmet and mounted Fenghuolun. Another day, another defeat before the fight had even begun. But he told himself that he’d keep fighting, that he must keep fighting. He might not be good enough yet, but he needed only to keep plugging away until he was. The 2023 Fort Auspice Trophy would be but a setback—never the end of the road.
Iver gently nudged the throttle, and Fenghuolun underneath him surged forward with casual grace. The engine barely let out a whisper. No matter how many times he’d ridden it, Fenghuolun’s understated power never failed to amaze and exhilarate. If only he’d possessed the skills to match…
The pier led out onto a worn tarmac road that curved along a rolling hill. Iver puttered along at a safe but embarrassingly low speed that could hardly do Fenghuolun justice. Having well and truly given up on the race he was to compete in today, his thoughts had already turned to the next order of business: fines, fees, rent, money, money, money. Perhaps he could wrangle another meeting with Gungho Tyres for that sponsorship deal?
Just then, his entire vision flashed bright red, before a deafening crack shook the air behind him. Iver ducked instinctively, thinking some projectile might be flying toward his head. When no such object materialized, he turned and looked over his shoulder at the source of the commotion.
From the edge of the pier where Iver had sat just moments ago, two tandem riders sped toward him on a strange jet-black Chakram he’d never seen before.
The pilot was small in stature and light of build, tucked low and tight to the frame of their Chakram with impeccable form. Their passenger, on the other hand, was a gangly sort, all awkward posture and flailing limbs. Iver had no earthly idea where these riders had come from, but they’d evidently already hit top speed and were headed straight for him.
Completely caught off guard, Iver opened the throttle and accelerated, thinking if he gave the newcomers more room, they might be able to brake safely to a stop. But as soon as he sped up, he saw that he’d already come up to the first corner on the road, a sharp upward turn that should’ve been of no concern to any sane motorist travelling at the suggested speed limit. But to a pair of Chakrams at full throttle…
Iver began to lean into the corner, and as he did, he felt the air beside him shift. The jet-black Chakram had already caught up to him, and then some. It was already halfway through its turn, its pilot leaning perilously close to the tarmac while their Chakram flattened to an angle near parallel to the ground (and as the helpless passenger hung on for dear life). Even as Iver watched, the pilot smoothly recovered their upright position from this impossible angle, then their Chakram sped safely out of the corner.
It was perfection. It was magic. It was… his sister.
In his astonishment, Iver had neglected his own riding. Even Fenghuolun’s sophistication couldn’t save its feckless pilot from his blunder. His Chakram spun out from under him, and Iver bumped heavily (and painfully) against the road before rolling and sliding to a stop.
He sat up, vision swimming. With blurry eyes he saw that the jet-black Chakram too had stopped, a little ways higher up the hill. Its scrawny pilot remained seated with the engine still running, but their gangly passenger was already loping toward Iver with awkwardly urgent strides.
The passenger removed his helmet to reveal a round-eyed face that couldn’t be older than that of a teenager despite his remarkable height. Then the boy spoke in a strange accent Iver couldn’t place, “Hey, are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere?”
As Iver dusted himself off and stood, he realized that the accent wasn’t the only thing that was peculiar about the boy. He wore some sort of shortcoat that was clearly several sizes too small for him, but this was of a style and material that Iver had never seen outside of some obscure international music videos he might’ve vibed to back in university. And the boy’s pants—he couldn’t even begin to describe what those abominations were.
“I’m fine, I think. Might’ve sprained an ankle,” Iver managed to choke out between heavy breaths. His heart was pumping a mile a minute, but not from pain nor adrenaline. He had eyes only for the pilot on the jet-black Chakram. He said to the boy, “I need to speak to your pilot.”
“Pilot?” The boy frowned. “Oh, you mean Lotus? Listen, we’re really sorry, but I know my sister didn’t mean to hurt you. And… honestly, I think the insurance might be under Uncle Dave’s name—”
“Lotus? That her name?”
Iver ignored the boy’s stammering, and limped over to Fenghuolun. He then set his Chakram upright and cut its engine. He’d have to inspect it fully for damages later, but first he had more urgent business to attend to. For Iver was about to make the most important pitch of his life.
He removed his helmet and dragged his rapidly swelling ankle to the jet-black Chakram and its stoic pilot. As he did, he couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear: the first genuine smile he’d worn in as long as he could remember.
The way the pilot had skimmed the ground with perfect balance and precision as she turned the corner—there was no denying it; he’d promised himself he’d stop making snap judgments about people he barely knew, but this was the one exception he had to make. For this stranger that had somehow burst out of thin of air in Iver’s lowest moment… was the second coming of Arma Gambit.
“I’m Iver Gambit, CEO and currently also the sole employee of Gambit Chakram Company,” he announced, extending a gloved hand toward the helmeted stranger. “How would you like to become employee number two, as our flagship pilot?”