Drug Called Adrenaline
By xXSpitFireXx 29 Comments
(I didn’t post this in the actual RP forum. Didn’t feel like it for some reason. I liked it, its just different on account of using 2nd person. I also had a plethora of ideas but do to delay to getting to it didn’t quite deliver what I wanted.)
Tires screech loudly dust kicking up into the air in a blinding storm the smell of burning rubber filled the air. Automatic weapons could be heard going off a spark flashes out the corner of your eye. A fraction of a second out of place and your brain matter would have bathed your windshield. The streets had become a warzone, the lawless land not halting the blood sport. The car spins wildly but with peerless skill you translate the wild machine to instead be in a drift. You pulled it off the final lap can now begin. You smile with a childish grin; time this game was made a real change on what was expected. A thumping is going off in your ears, your heart thundering like adrenaline.
But let us back track and say how you got here….
You wake up as you always do next to a ‘friend’ from a night before. The spoils of being the best driver in these war torn parts of Venezuela. You can feel excitement in your veins coursing nitrous in the tank. You’ve grown tired of all the cliché speed and wheels of the tracks. Years of victory laps have tarnished your initial appeal to the game. Where others might retire however you what with your brilliant mind came up with the evolution of the tracks. Some might say it was what the game of the future the sport of this Western warzone; all you care about though is the rush and the profit. This was to be your baby tonight you would make a real name for yourself. Grabbing a towel, you move around the various clothes on the floor to grab a shower. A chance to take a moment, and reflect on how you got to this point. How did the hopeless thief get here where out of an shthole a future could be made?
Mother Divanova had been a thief long ago, and in that time she had managed to acquire an impressive amount of funds. She often would tell you of bedtime stories revolving around horse chases and robbing train cars. She also told tales about a headless rider, a devil of the shadows who had no love for anything but the rush. For whatever reason though you didn’t find an attraction to the thief who liberated mutants but also kept money to enjoy herself. You also didn’t find a love in characters that ran with that thieving liberator, sure they were great Zombie was especially cool but none of them connected. No you had been a fan of the Rider he did everything for the thrill. Everything was about just being a bad ass, often times everything conventional and logical was forsaken for style. You found a kindred spirit in the ghostly rider. Sure he seemed to commit horrors on his victims and take brutal amounts of damage; even still you wanted to be like him when you grew up. Mom didn’t give you spite for it either just tried to teach you how to use your abilities before they had even come. She new it would be passed down genetics and so almost as soon as you were a mutant you knew how to master it.
As for dad he was a leading figure in the automotive industry. He was hired day in and day out to maintain cars and more importantly come up with designs. You fell in love with the machines the sound of their engines, the blinding speeds they could maintain. And daddy made a promise “I can see it in your eyes your worse then your mom, you my little diva desire to raise hell.” You hated being called Diva, family nicknames were a btch. However you couldn’t argue the fact. After all the day he was saying this you were expelled from kindergarten for the week. You stole a juice box, kicked a bully between the legs and said ‘naps can go fck themselves.’ Dad looked you in the eyes as he kneeled down to your level. “I promise every three months I will get you a vehicle. Now you wont get as many gifts on holidays and things but how can you complain right?” You couldn’t object there either. “Here is the catch however you will only get the one ride you want if you don’t get caught being bad. I can’t stop you I know that for a fact, but I can teach you to not get caught because mom and I wont bail you out.” Mom taught you tricks dad taught you engines, mom made you a pro with projectiles from simple throws to rocket launchers and everything between. Dad made you a master behind the wheel. At thirteen it was safe to say you could build almost any gun or vehicle if you had the specs and materials to make it. And of course you could use any of them. That’s when you learned your powers had manifested and began learning how to use em like you had been taught.
You grew up being a model for the company’s dad and mom worked for. The job was so boring you imagined violence most days but it was okay. For these photo snapping commercial shooting ass wipes had one thing going for them. Money, more chances to spoil yourself. And after the lame redundant jobs you got to play, owning the streets with a showmanship many were envious of. The gangs always saw you as a little sister and backed you up and you returned the gesture in kind. This was your life up until a few months ago when everything changed for not only you or the family but also Venezuela as a whole. War had come…
That brings us to now, when Venezuela was a four-part district and your home was in the worst neighborhood. Mom had died of nuclear fall out; dad took a bullet when fighting for VZ. Not like it mattered soon as the war came you figured best just stay out of the firing range. An adrenaline rush was great but getting shot in the ass wasn’t appealing. That and there was nothing to fight for, politics went to sht big deal. Now though a game more your style could be set up. SPITFIRE now that was something marketable.
“Looters and Gentlebots allow me to introduce you to Spitfire named such because everyone has a gun! You don’t need to boo or spit at that hated individual. Instead feel free to simply open fire!” The automobile you drive at that time reveals a pair of guns. “That’s right you the audience doesn’t just get guns so does the drivers! Automobile automatic vehicular warfare for the masses. Smash the System, Anarchy! All that good stuff!” Ballistics then open fire tearing apart the driver of the car in front of you. Leaning out the window you withdraw your pistol knowing that another racer is about to hit a jump. Eyes do to your spectacular abilities can tell everything about motion. You know how fast the vehicle is going, the trajectory you can read intuitively and that makes the next bit easy. With unnatural precision you fire the pistol releasing a round at the perfect angle needed to strike the gas tank. You were able to improve the speed of the round so it had enough heat to trigger an explosion. By influencing the speed you were allowed to make something seemingly improbable and near impossible happen. The car exploding violently in a ball of flame.
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