The moment the starting lights flashed green, the world erupted.
Engines screamed. The stadium exploded with sound.
Mission was already hoarse from yelling, but she didn't care.
"GO, HOTSHOT, GO!"
Beside her, Carth was shouting too—though it was hard to tell whether it was encouragement or frustration. Mission's voice barely registered over the roar of the crowd.
She turned to Zaalbar—who was… chewing?
"Big Z, are you seriously still eating?!"
Zaalbar grunted mid-bite, his massive paw still clutching a stick of fried nerf meat.
Mission jabbed her elbow into his ribs. "At least PRETEND to care!"
The Wookie gave a halfhearted roar. Mission groaned and turned back to the track. Seth's black swoop shot forward, but—
Too wide.
Mission's stomach flipped as his bike drifted toward the outer wall, struggling to hug the turn.
It was a split-second mistake. But it cost him.
Other racers squeezed past him on the inside, jostling for position. Seth swerved back inward, but it was too late—he'd dropped toward the rear. From up in the stands, it was hard to tell his exact placement. Mission bit her lip. He was somewhere near seventeenth.
Carth was glaring at the track. "This was a terrible idea."
Mission elbowed him next. "Relax! It's the first lap!"
But even she wasn't sure.
Then—
Seth's bike moved.
Not in a frantic, desperate push.
Calculated.
He read the track, learned from his mistake, and adjusted. By the second turn, he was tighter to the wall. Smoother. More controlled. By the end of the first lap, he'd clawed his way to fifteenth.
Mission whooped. Carth just stared at the track, eyebrows drawn.
"Mission," he shouted over the roar of the crowd, "how many laps are there?"
"Two hundred!" she yelled back.
Carth's jaw dropped. "TWO HUNDRED?!"
Mission, still watching the track, nodded.
"Why in the good name of the Jedi are there so many?!"
"It's not too bad!" Mission waved him off, eyes locked on Seth's swoop. "Each lap is only like, forty-five seconds!"
Carth's arms folded. "That's an hour and a half!"
"Just get into it! Time flies once the first crash happens."
Carth shot her a sharp look. "Then we'd better hope that first crash isn't Seth."
Mission bit her lip. "It won't be," she said, more to herself than to him.
Down on the track, Seth could feel it happening.
The first few laps were a brawl—too many bodies packed too tight.
But now, the herd was thinning. Riders were spreading out, creating pockets of space. That meant two things.
One: It was getting easier to move.
Two: It was getting easier to be taken out.
Seth's grip on the controls tightened. He wasn't reacting anymore. He was thinking. Planning. Adjusting. The next left curve approached. Instead of hugging the inner wall too soon, he let himself drift wider before cutting in sharply.
Perfect turn.
His engine purred under him, the momentum smooth.
Faster.
Cleaner.
He closed the distance on the next rider, slipping ahead by inches.
Thirteenth place.
His heart wasn't pounding in panic anymore. It was beating in sync with the machine.
He was locked in.
Seth had barely gotten comfortable in tenth place before the first real fight of the race found him. Tor-Fy's voice crackled in his ear, but the warning came too late. A sharp, violent jolt slammed into his bike from the side, nearly sending him spinning.
Seth's arms strained, forcing the controls straight.
Another impact. Harder this time.
The engine whined in protest. Seth gritted his teeth, jerking his head to the side. A sleek, dark red swoop loomed dangerously close, its rider leaning in with aggressive intent. The gang sigil on the bike's pontoons flashed under the track lights.
Crouching Nexu.
The racer he'd just passed wasn't happy about it.
Seth barely had time to swear before the third hit came—full force. His swoop lurched sideways, skidding toward the wall.
"Come on," Seth hissed, wrestling the controls.
The bike corrected just in time.
The Nexu rider wasn't giving up. He tried to pass on the inside, squeezing Seth dangerously close to the duracrete barrier. Seth twisted his swoop out of reach before he could be boxed in.
Too close.
He exhaled sharply, mind racing. Speed wasn't the problem. This guy was determined to send him crashing. Seth needed a way out.
His comm crackled. "[Avery, it's Tor-Fy.]"
Seth didn't look away from the track. "If this isn't an escape plan, I'm gonna be real upset."
"[You need a break in the pack—get through a gap, and he won't be able to follow.]"
Seth scanned the riders ahead. No openings.
Only tight clusters of bikes fighting for space.
"No good," he muttered. "Nothing's open—"
Then—
A crash.
Two riders up ahead collided, smashing into the wall, metal screeching and sparks flying. The wreckage left a hole in the field.
Seth's pulse spiked.
A split-second chance.
He hit the accelerator.
The Nexu rider lunged after him—
But Seth was already gone. He shot through the gap, his swoop slicing into the open lane, leaving the Nexu rider caught in the traffic behind him.
Another racer cut him off, forcing him to drop back.
Seth's comm buzzed.
"Nice job, kid," Go'lung said, and Seth could hear the smirk in his voice.
"Not bad for a rookie," Livana added.
Seth exhaled, hands steadying on the controls.
Ninth place.
But he wasn't slowing down.
Not until he saw Redros in his sights.
The track ahead was clear now, the chaotic mess of mid-pack racers shrinking in his mirrors.
Only six riders remained in his way.
Livana.
Go'lung.
A few stragglers from the Black Vulkar gang.
And at the head of it all—Redros, the smug, arrogant bastard who had wrecked Go'lung without hesitation.
Seth's grip tightened.
He'd had enough.
As Seth approached, the Vulkar rider ahead of him swerved aggressively, cutting him off. They weren't racing anymore. They were gatekeeping.
Redros had taken the lead, and now his teammates were holding the line.
Seth gritted his teeth.
Fine. He'd just have to go through them.
The Vulkar ahead of him kept shifting left and right, blocking any opening.
Seth wasn't buying it. He pretended to lunge left—
The Vulkar reacted instantly, moving to cut him off—
Leaving his right flank wide open.
Seth shot forward, sliding past him effortlessly. Part of him knew better than to do so, but Seth couldn't help throwing up his hand in an obscene gesture as he slipped in front of the opposing racer.
The Vulkar barely had time to curse.
Sixth place.
Seth's comm buzzed.
"[Step on it, rookie.]" Tor-Fy's voice. "[The prototype was made for moments like this.]"
He flicked a quick glance at his controls. The accelerator's temperature had finally cooled enough for another burst. He smirked. "Let's see what you can do."
He flipped the switch. The engine roared. His bike lunged forward, blurring past another racer.
Fifth.
Then fourth.
The gap to Livana and Go'lung was closing.
Seth wasn't chasing anymore. He was hunting.
"Well, well," Go'lung's voice crackled through the comms. "Look who finally showed up."
Livana laughed. "Took you long enough, Flyboy!"
Seth smirked. "Had to make a dramatic entrance."
Ahead, Redros held the lead. His bike's engine glow flickered in the distance, fast and steady. But Seth was gaining.
Lap by lap.
Turn by turn.
And he wasn't alone.
Livana and Go'lung weren't letting Redros run away with this. They were closing in together.
Seth could see him now—his hulking frame hunched over the handlebars, helmet tilted slightly as if he already knew what was coming.
Redros wasn't worried.
He was waiting.
Seth felt his stomach tighten. Something was wrong.
Go'lung was closing the gap first. He had more experience. More control. Seth saw his bike slide effortlessly into Redros' blind spot, preparing to make the pass.
Perfect position.
A clean overtake.
A split-second moment where he had the lead.
Seth's instincts screamed. Too easy.
"Go'lung, wait—!"
Redros didn't even look.
Didn't hesitate.
His right pontoon jerked outward—
The metal caught Go'lung's engine and ripped it apart.
A brilliant explosion of sparks and flame erupted, Go'lung's bike bucking wildly beneath him. The Bith let out a startled, cut-off shout as his entire swoop lost control. Seth watched in horror as Go'lung's bike twisted, screeched, and slammed into the outer wall. The impact sent him spinning, tumbling end-over-end before finally skidding to a stop.
Smoke.
Sparks.
Silence.
Then—
The crowd erupted. Not in shock. Not in concern.
In cheers.
Seth's breath came sharp, shallow. His hands gripped the controls so tightly his knuckles ached.
The bastard.
Go'lung had been one of the best riders on that track. And Redros had used it against him.
It wasn't racing.
It was execution.
Seth's comm crackled. Livana's voice was tight, furious. "That son of a Hutt is mine."
Seth's jaw clenched. "No."
Livana hesitated.
"This isn't about payback," Seth said, voice low, controlled, ice-cold. "You wanna make that asshole pay? We gotta win this thing." Seth's black swoop surged forward, cutting through the thick air like a missile.
Ahead, Redros was locked in, his bulky frame hunched forward, his bike roaring down the track like a beast set loose.
Livana pulled up beside Seth, her blue swoop shimmering under the track lights.
They didn't need to say it.
They were in this together.
They were bringing him down.
Suddenly, the helmet comm crackled. A voice—weak, strained, but alive. "Ugh… that could've gone better."
Seth's chest unclenched.
"Go'lung?"
"Yeah, yeah. Still breathing. Probably a few cracked ribs, but hey, I'll live."
Livana exhaled sharply, relief hidden under frustration.
"Next time, just don't get wrecked, okay?"
Go'lung chuckled, then winced.
"Yeah, I'll work on that."
A pause.
"You two—go end that bastard."
Seth leaned forward, letting the prototype accelerator sing.
The track blurred around him. Redros was just ahead now, his bike a streak of deep red and orange under the massive arena lights. Livana was right with Seth, their bikes moving as one.
Lap 190.
Lap 191.
Redros blocked every opening, swerving aggressively. Seth jerked his bike left—Redros countered. Livana tried the right—Redros shut her down.
Lap 194.
Seth's engines whined under the strain.
He could feel it—the prototype was reaching its breaking point.
Tor-Fy's voice buzzed in his ear. "[Avery, careful! That thing can't handle much more—]"
Seth ignored her.
Lap 195.
He saw his opening.
Redros overshot the first turn, just slightly—
Seth didn't hesitate.
He gunned the accelerator.
The black swoop shot forward, cutting under Redros and sliding past him.
Wild screaming filled the comms—probably a warning, but Seth wasn't listening.
He was in first.
Seth felt it before it happened. That shift in air pressure, that flicker of movement at the edge of his vision. Redros was going for it.
The Nikto's bike slammed into his side, sending a violent shockwave through Seth's frame. Metal screeched against metal as their pontoons locked together.
Seth gritted his teeth, muscles burning as he fought for control.
Redros wasn't just bumping him.
He was grinding him into the wall.
The crowd screamed in exhilaration. Seth barely heard it.
His world was tunnel vision now—
The wall.
The bike.
The finish line.
Seth jerked his controls, trying to separate.
Nothing.
Their maneuvering flaps were tangled. Every movement dragged him closer to the outer wall, sparks flying beneath his swoop. Redros was winning the war of attrition.
Seth's helmet comm crackled.
"Kid, get clear!" Livana's voice—panic laced into every word.
"I CAN'T!"
Mission was on her feet, gripping the railing so hard her fingers ached.
Carth was tense beside her, jaw locked, arms folded tightly.
Even Zaalbar, normally composed, had gone rigid, claws digging into the metal railing.
The crowd roared in approval as Redros slammed into Seth's bike, locking their swoops together. Mission's breath hitched. "He's trying to kill him," she whispered.
Carth's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. And he might just do it."
Mission couldn't breathe.
She could see it happening—
Seth's bike grinding against the wall. Sparks flying, metal screaming. The track was eating his swoop alive.
The crowd didn't care. They loved it.
Mission's stomach churned. She wanted to scream. Wanted to tell him to break away, to do something, to fight back.
But she couldn't.
He couldn't hear her.
All she could do was watch.
His only weapon was the prototype accelerator.
But Tor-Fy had said it wasn't stable. If he pushed it too hard now, it could overload.
He might win.
Or he might explode.
A one-in-a-million shot.
But Seth had spent his whole life surviving the impossible.
He slammed his foot on the accelerator. The engine wailed, heat spikes flashing dangerously red on the control panel.
The burst of speed was like a gunshot. Seth's bike wrenched forward, metal groaning as it ripped free from Redros' grip.
The Nikto's swoop lurched, suddenly off-balance—
And skidded violently into the wall.
A massive explosion ripped through the track, flames bursting high into the air as Redros' bike disintegrated on impact.
Seth's bike streaked forward. He heard Livana whoop over the comms.
The finish line was seconds away.
Seth's entire body ached. His arms screamed from the force of the controls. His legs burned from keeping the bike steady. His vision tunneled—only the track ahead existed.
The finish line was right there.
But his bike wasn't going to make it. The prototype accelerator was failing—
Sparks shot from the exhaust. Flames licked at the edges of his visor. The controls were shaking violently in his grip, fighting him. Any second now, the engine would detonate.
The crowd blurred.
The noise vanished.
All that was left was him, the bike, and the final second before impact.
He had one shot.
Seth gritted his teeth, forced his aching body forward, and—
Pushed.
Everything.
Into.
The.
Final.
Burst.
The bike lurched. Seth felt the final shudder of the engine, the last gasp of the prototype accelerator. The frame rattled apart beneath him.
One last pulse of speed—
And then—
The engine died.
The swoop buckled, the repulsors failing mid-flight. Seth's body jerked violently forward as the front of the bike dipped—
It pitched sideways, flipping, grinding, crashing into the track.
Seth was airborne.