Another random thing that decided one night to hijack my brain. I've recently become absolutely obsessed with Razer, thanks in no small part to my dear friend Robin and her insanity known as Room and Board. This has absolutely nothing to do with that story, by the way, but it was something of a character sketch I did trying to get into my new favorite chain-smoker's brain.
~Tawnya
When he'd started down this path, Razer had known it wasn't going to end well. There simply wasn't any other way for it to end. Racing was what he'd wanted to do with his life; from the moment he'd first sat in a driver's seat until the sport he loved decided to take his life, it alone was what he lived for. He reveled in the power under his hands, the unique freedom that came from watching the world blur as it failed to keep up, and the purr of a finely tuned engine was far more enticing that any other noise on the planet. The adrenaline of a living moment by moment, always that one step ahead of Death, always knowing there was that chance of fatally screwing something up and laughing anyway... He had loved nothing else with as much passion and dedication.
And to race, one needed to go through Mizo.
He could have done something else with his life—his mechanical skills alone could have easily left him in a pit crew and thus close to the lifestyle he lived now, though he would have always pined for the chance to take the machines he helped build out and put them through their paces. He could have stayed in the lower class races, stayed away from the limelight, stayed as safe as someone ever could be in a city like Kras, but that would have been a gross betrayal of his potential. He had been raised to always be the best he could, to give his everything to whatever he set his heart upon. Which is exactly the way he drove; pedal to the floor, weapons blazing, no quarter, no mercy. He held nothing back when he raced, gambling it all on his skill and luck to make it through, preferring to die on the track in a grand blaze rather than slip into old age and a broken hip.
And Razer had probably lived more in the last sixteen years than he had in the first sixteen because of it. He'd risen steadily in the rankings, always ready to take on the next challenge thrown his way, to try something new and potentially lethal. Practice had refined his technique to the sharpest edge his skills could carry while charm and a certain amount of steel in his spine and balls got him through an organization that was known for eating its own tail. He became the best at what he did to the point he'd sometimes give himself arbitrary handicaps just to make it more interesting. From the son of no one to the right hand of Mizo himself...even his grandest dreams had never gotten that far.
So maybe that was why he was paying the price now. Because there was nowhere else for him to go, nothing left for him to achieve that he wished to own. There had always been a chance in all these years that the next competitor would be just that much faster on the draw, have an engine that burned hotter, could muster more torque to pull a frame through the sharp turns and up the steep hills. No one was the best forever. Everyone was replaceable. Even a living legend such as himself, as high as he was in the Syndicate, wasn't above meeting a sticky end in a back alley for any number of reasons. Depending on who it came back to, the repercussions could be either be a tidal wave or a drop in an empty bucket. In the end, few would be bothered with his demise, no matter which way it went.
Though he would have preferred to meet his death as he had met life, he'd accepted that it would be unlikely when he'd "retired" to fully take on the duties of a right hand man rather than just the title. As he let the throttle out and began coasting on fumes alone, Razer realized he'd missed his last chance to do as such. It was certainly possible to keep going. Just because the eco beacons were shutting down and the track crews were starting their clean up didn't mean he had to stop. Track was track, and he knew them all so very well. He didn't need markers to tell him which way to go, where the turns were, what the best shortcuts to shave off seconds were. It'd be easy enough to just go and not look back, or purposefully find that fireball he had always wanted, but... That was a bit too much like admitting defeat for his tastes. When it was all said and done, he was still alive, after all.
Which meant there were still choices to make.
In the end, he did what he'd always done after a race. He packed his car up and took it back to his base, inspecting the damage and critiquing himself while he still clearly remembered the runs that caused the damage. Panel damage was rampant, but he'd built his Havoc to last and it showed. A few loosened wires here, a couple twisted pieces of frame there. Things the usual maintenance teams could fix without complaint or hassle. In three days time, it would be as good as new, ready for its off-season nap long before any of the drivers would be. Razer stroked the hood fondly and turned, scrawling a quick note about a stabilizer he'd noticed coming loose during the races. The garage light clicked out behind him.
There was no victory to celebrate, but that didn't stop him from pulling the cork on a bottle of champagne when he returned to his home. He was starving after eating so little in the previous few days and tore through the majority of the food left in his fridge without too many issues. He took a long, hot shower, spent some time in the heated tub just to help relax some more, and finished the champagne sitting on his bed in the dark, looking out the floor to ceiling windows over Kras's skyline with its countless glittering lights. He fell asleep without notice and woke again with the sun, plus a minor hangover a cigarette and cold water went a long way towards allaying.
With every minute the sun rose, his time grew shorter. However, he was a born racer and he knew the stretch of time that existed in between heartbeats. Seconds were all he needed.
Like most who lived within the internal structure of Mizo's Organization, Razer was as prepared as anyone ever could be for the sudden and immediate dissolving of said structure. Anonymity had been the key to success for the family, the ability to completely erase oneself and become reborn as someone new. Mizo had done as such with his flamboyant G.T. Blitz persona. Razer had done it with his car and his skills. Yet he'd never truly given up who he'd started as, and who he was now returning to. A little richer in some ways, poorer in others, and always kept ready in case something like this happened.
He could stay and try to find a place within Rayn's new empire, but honestly, he'd been a second in command to the enemy. He'd never be trusted, never in a position of power, never allowed to breathe without the speculation that he was planning a coup of his own. Never mind that he didn't want any of that, that he'd only taken the position in the first place because it had been required if he wished to continue racing, that's just the way it would be. His life as "Razer" had reached its end. No need drag out the death throes when a clean cut was all that was needed to escape.
It was amazing how little it took to turn him into just another random citizen. He left his hair down and only shaved enough to make all the growth even. Gone was the expensive fabric and designer labels, replaced by the rougher, sturdier clothes of someone who worked further down in the trenches. All the trappings were left behind save for the cigarettes (and truthfully, he'd meaning to get off them sooner than later anyway) as he packed what few things really mattered to him away with the clothes and money he'd already had set aside. Then it was down a side stair and out the back door without a backward glance. No one looked at him. No one seemed to even notice he was there.
There was one stop he had to make and another he decided to make anyway. The one he needed to make was to the Bloody Hook. Three premade envelopes were left with the bartender, no questions and no comments as to the contents or to whom the recipients were to be, especially after a hefty tip for silence. The second left him standing outside an unfamiliar garage debating the merits of seeing if someone was still there or to take his chances by simply leaving his last words as a racer on the doorstep. That was ultimately decided when another messenger came by, who easily agreed to take the extra letter on after a little monetary incentive.
It was barely ten in the morning by the time he found himself watching the city he'd spent the vast majority of his life in start to slip away. The cargo ship was headed out for a long haul towards the Brink, a trip that would be long enough for the last bit of "Razer" to finally be put to rest so that "Sorrin" could come back. From there, who knew? He'd traveled quite a bit for the races before the world had turned into a fragmented mess. He could do so again and see what had changed, what had stayed the same, and if the people he knew still knew him.
He watched Kras become a smudge on the horizon before finally pulling out the communicator he'd always had on him, kept as a final failsafe. He could only assume that by this hour and its silence that his messages had been delivered and that it was well and truly over. Still, it was a hard thing to let go of. It was the culmination of so many things in his life—a life that would never again be his. As efficiently as he'd been able to leave it all behind, a part of him still felt dead for it, angry at his lack of will to take that last stand yet still very much afraid of what would happen if he went back or had tried to stay. Now that he had the time to actually think, he began to doubt.
At least, until he looked at the tattoo on his forearm, which had been partial drunken stupidity and partial heartfelt sentiment. Those who had seen it had only seen the flames and assumed it was a mark of Mizo's, an indication of dedication. He had not disillusioned them, content to know that it was not simply the representation of fire on his arm, but the animal that had become legend for enduring the immolation, only to rise again. The sun birds of the Brink had been as close to a living representation as could be found anywhere, and were endlessly fascinating to watch during their morning and evening flights—much in the same way the one who'd shown them to him had been. In another life, he may have chosen flight over traction and stayed. Yet, at the time, his heart had truly belonged in Kras, so he had left behind the only other thing that had ever come close.
Choices. He'd made one then. He could make a different one now.
The communicator went flying with every ounce of strength he had.
()~()~()
If you're reading this letter, then as of this hour, I must be dead. This is not an attempt on my part to solicit some sort of false emotion from you, but merely a statement of fact. This moment has been long in coming and everything here is merely my attempt for you to learn something that you, as my successor, will find nowhere else.
As the man who had been champion told me when I took his title, so I tell you—nothing lasts forever. Perhaps this is what truly draws us to our current point, the impermanence of victory that we feel, the hunger for something more challenging, the adrenaline rush that comes from shaking Death's hand. Though I make no claims to your motivations or state of mind, I know that there will always be something to drive you forward, beyond the bounds of other's perceptions and even their understanding. I know this because nothing less could have brought us to this end. But remember, nothing lasts forever. And one day, sooner than you imagine but later than you expect, your victory will become defeat.
For the day this happens, I give you my own advice—choose. It matters little what the choice is, how grim the prospects or slim the chance, I merely tell you to make it. Nothing lasts forever, but when that end comes, you will be given a choice. Be active and make a decision. You may only have seconds to do so, though we both know how long seconds can truly extend. Make them count. Choose, and let nothing stand in the way.
I have made my choice, and though it will take time to settle, I am at peace with it.
When your day comes, I wish you the same.
The end. TK'12