[This is meant to be a fragment of a short story written by one of my civilian characters, Phylande Lightriver; part of a series about Mechanocat racing on Mechagon Island. Features some speculation on how robot animal mounts operate.
Addendum: for clarity, all characters mentioned are Gnomes or Mechagnomes.]
As Bracsi approached the course, all seemed fixated on her. She tried hard to ignore the gazes, as well as the myriad whispers among crowds. It was as surprising as it was confusing. An all black Mechanocat was quite rare, but was that cause for such attention? Perhaps it was the extra pair of legs, or perhaps the Felpaw had more of a reputation than she believed?
Three large metal plates formed the start and finish for Crashcog. In the bigger races the rapid clanging of metal feet beating down upon it could be heard as far as The Heaps, an impressive distance for such noise; often rivaled by the roar of eager Pistonheads. Four cats moved into columns of two, facing towards the forest. One of the spotlights was off, pointed down the track. Once it came to life the race would begin. Bracsi was at the rear. She took a deep breath, stone faced and staring into the relative darkness ahead. The crowd, despite their proximity, seemed distant to her, their noise gradually dying away until she heard the loud click of the spotlight. The cats began to charge down the now illuminated straight, maintaining formation into the first turn.
At a casual glance, Crashcog seemed like a rather simple course. Its turns were many, but most appeared soft, and the straights, while somewhat narrow, were long enough to invite easy passes and encourage slingshots. Those who saw these things often didn’t consider the length of each bend, the great cogs and fat pipes that lined the course, or even the speeds for which the fastest riders strive on monstrous cheetahs of steel. Bracsi had made the mistake of underestimating Crashcog once, she would not do so again.
Three large gears marked the circuit’s most technical sector, a long tightening right into a pair of hard left and right corners. The gears’ presence merely added potential peril, especially with how fast the Felpaw could accelerate. Bracsi’s caution was justified. She let off the throttle just before the first bend. She watched with clenched teeth as her opponents quickly began to pull away, fighting the urge to engage the throttle again. She needed to be safe; to be sure her exit wouldn’t put the cat into a wall, or worse. For her old Strider, patience was merely a boon in situations like this, but for the Felpaw it was needed, demanded. Halfway through the final turn of the sector she pushed her foot down and her machine seemed to spring to life again. The engine sent a rattling roar through the machine’s entire form, as if overjoyed to apply its power once more. A metallic scream invaded the air, accompanied by the surprisingly quiet footfalls of the Felpaw as Bracsi shot past the closest of her opponents going into the next corner. She had to pull hard on the handlebar, leaning to get into a sharp enough turn, metal feet sliding and scraping against the hardpack in a desperate struggle for traction.
She managed to line the cat up with the center and as soon as she had she was chasing the others into the chicane. This was perhaps the only truly easy part of the course, a quick zig zag, just a bit too soft to be much of a significant challenge on its own. The true challenge was the corner afterward, a long, walled, shallow bank left into the final stretch. Another gear marked the inside, but with her speed, that part of the corner was of little concern. She continued full throttle, only letting off just at the entry point of the turn. The Felpaw’s gait continued as it began to turn, coasting further along the outer reaches. A loud screech and a brief spray of sparks inspired a gasp of excitement from the audience and a sign for Bracsi to begin accelerating once more. She was rocked by the impact, apparently stronger than she anticipated, but she was in second now, with two laps still to go.
The passes over the line roused the raucous cheers to greater heights over the next lap. Bracsi was close to the leader now, so close she could almost touch the sparkling orange paint of her cat’s frame. Still, it and its rider managed to remain just out of reach. She was so close. There had to be something Bracsi could do to gain an edge over her. She grew bolder going into the final lap. The banked bend seemed a reliable means of maintaining speed, even if it roughed her up a bit. She kept on the throttle a little longer, pulled the bar a little harder, and managed to whip the Felpaw around, scraping its tail along the wall as she dashed down the straight. A sudden succession of beeps hit her ear on the run. An unfamiliar light caught her eye, coming from her cat, an unfamiliar indicator of something. A loud screech quickly followed. She looked back to find the cat’s tail split apart, now a wriggling brace of six, each glowing green with infernal magic.
Bracsi felt the air blowing harder against her face, the inertia was harsher than it had ever been before. Her knuckles went white on the handlebar, her straining muscles overexerted in the dual effort of steering the now glowing machine-beast and simply staying on. She zoomed past the orange mounted leader, nimbly taking the next set of corners with impossible precision, but she was scared. Tears struggled to gather as she desperately pulled against the handlebar, trying her hardest to stop the cat’s momentum. The next left was fast approaching, its edge as filled with spectators as every other. She leaned deep into the turn, hoping it would help slow her down. The glow that once enveloped the machine-beast was finally gone, but very little speed was lost. Ripples ran through the crowd as spectators retreated from the wild mechanocat. Its paws dug into the ground where the front most layer once stood. Where its tail last scraped against the metal of a wall it now grazed the arms and shoulders of fleeing Mechagnomes. The banked turn was next. Its wall presented an opportunity as well as a tremendous risk. She aimed the Felpaw at the wall, right where it began, placed her hands on the seat and lifted herself off.
Bracsi couldn’t see her cat’s fate, only heard a fragment of the terrible sound of its collision over the horrid sounds of her fall. It was finally stopped, of that she was sure. Moving on her own seemed impossible now, though whether it was shock or something worse she couldn’t tell. Several spectators began to surround her. She felt them grabbing her, lifting her, but everything else had vanished, drowned in despair over it all; the loss of the race, the Felpaw, and worst of all, her nerves.