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You’d decided it by now- you were winning, right here at the last dash. Damn any obstacles, you made it over once, you could do it again, in spite of how fast you were going.
As soon as you pulled the throttle forth and shot forward, though, the terrain surprised you. Bucked you back and forth, shook you, and in an instant, you were struggling to keep the rebelling machine under you, let alone going where you wanted.
“Shit-!” You swore and, unavoidable heading off the road now, you shielded yourself with your good arm and aimed for a soft looking mass of foliage. The bike whined as it went from having two wheels on the ground to none, and it followed you into the leaves, steadily winding down as the shock left your nerves and left you dumped on your back under the motorcycle. A small wriggling took you from under its weight, and you gasped for breath as you took stock of what had happened. You weren’t impaled on anything, you weren’t smashed on anything, everything could move…
The other motorbike sputtered as it drew near, and boots tromped through the undergrowth.
“Are you alright?” Magnus said to you as he knelt down beside, “Is winning that important, Lady Nowicki? Judge Above.”
“Psh.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine. I’ve had way worse.”
Maybe <span class="mu-i">fine</span> was a lie. You felt sore all over and the brush you’d cushioned the crash with had paid you back by prickling and scratching whatever it could. The motorcycle ran against you hard enough that your thigh felt pretty bruised- an ankle might have been sprained, but you would have to see if it walked off. Compared to what you’d experienced in the past, though, your pride was more hurt than your body.
>-1 Health
Magnus reached his hand toward you, but you pushed yourself up without taking his grip, flopping a few times to get clear of the bush before rocking unsteadily on your feet, brushing off the sticks and leaves. More importantly, you hauled the VAM-6C up from where it had fallen on you, and checked it over. Clicked your tongue.
“I’ll have t’ report that…” you said, rubbing a sore spot on your hip that went to your heinie. It had a healthy amount of padding for good reason, you supposed. The motorcycle wasn’t so lucky, being dinged and scratched, though not broken, and the seat had been torn open by a sharp bit of broken branch. You touched over your behind just in case a similar tear had been made for you. It hadn’t. The piece of clothing that had taken the most punishment had been the thick leather jacket, and your tights, made of thinner fabric intolerant of anything more than the stretching of legs.
Though you could stretch your legs to a degree that tougher tights had been necessary by default anyways.
