The old man stood talking on his phone by the edge of a lonely, deserted highway, stranded after his ride broke down mid-journey. Heavy clouds blanketed the sun, casting long shadows across the red dirt below. High above in the stratosphere, a massive orbital space station glided along Earth's magnetic grid.
"Dad~ I'm waiting for you to come home, okay?" a teenage girl's encouraging voice sounded through the receiver.
"I will, sweetheart. Daddy'll be home as soon as I finish up this job."
Hearing that, his daughter handed the phone over to someone else.
"The kid and I are waiting for you, honey... Be careful out there," his wife's voice came through, soft and filled with concern.
"Mmhmm, always am. The Lord looks after good men like me, don't worry. See you at home."
He hung up, pulled out a cigarette, popped it between his lips, and struck a match, taking a slow drag to ease his mind. Then he squatted down beside his motorcycle to inspect which part had given out.
Seventh rule: Always stay prepared, 'cause the road ahead doesn't forgive mistakes.
Using his bare hands, he nudged a small, rusted component out from the engine housing, only to find it completely charred black.
"Aw, hell... spark plug's cooked crispier than a burnt biscuit."
He spent nearly half an hour trying to clean it up, but the part was far beyond repair.
Just then, a pack of teenage street racers came tearing down the desert highway. They sped past so fast they were practically a blur, but one kid with bright pink hair, clearly the youngest of the bunch, slowed down and pulled over to check on him.
"Afternoon, sir! Bike dead on ya?" the kid asked, his voice unexpectedly polite compared to the rest of his crew.
"Looks like the plug called it quits. You ain't in a rush to get somewhere?" The old man looked up at him.
"Ain't racing right now. Need a hand?" The young rider hopped off his motorcycle, willing to help out the old-timer.
"Yo! We're gonna be late, man! Big Boss match is tonight!" his buddy yelled from down the road, idling his engine.
"Go on ahead! I'll catch up!" the pink-haired kid hollered back. Seeing his insistence, his friend nodded and took off.
Once the roar of the engines faded into the distance, the grizzled old-timer asked, "Who's this 'Big Boss' fellow?"
"Ah~ The Dominator. He's the baddest rider 'round these parts. Said there's an 8-mile track speed race tomorrow night. We're trying to put together the best ride we can to challenge him for the prize money. Here, let me see that for a second."
The old man handed the burnt part over, hoping the kid might have the tools to fix it. Thinking about the prize money, the thick-bearded old-timer pressed for more details.
"So this race... prize money really that good?"
"Seven thousand, pop. Money like that can buy you a whole new engine block."
"Hmm~ I see," the old man grunted, nodding his head slowly with a crooked smirk.
It took them nearly an hour, pushing straight toward high noon, until at last, the engine of his beloved chopper let out a deafening, thunderous roar. The old man clapped his hands in genuine admiration, praising the kid who had successfully brought his iron steed back to life.
"Hell yeah! She's breathing! Thanks a bunch, kid. You're a real swell young man, you know that?"
"Swell?" The kid scratched his head, looking totally bewildered. "Sorry, pop... failed English class, had to retake it every summer."
"Means you're a good kid worth admiring. Now, about that race... What's a man gotta bring to sign up? A driver's license or something?"
"Just a small buy-in deposit. If you wanna race, I can make a spot for you. Though if you're planning to take on that Dommy, you're definitely gonna need an overhaul."
POP! Sputter-sputter...
The chopper's exhaust pipe started stuttering and coughing out thick smoke.
"Well, I was looking to upgrade this iron block anyway. Besides, I know the owner over at Richard's Spot. Old friend of mine back from when our arms were the same size."
The pink-haired kid's shoulders slumped the moment he heard the shop's name.
"W-What?! You mean the guy who takes scrap junkers and turns 'em into high-end showpieces for auctions?! That guy's the number-one mechanic in the entire region! Seven thousand bucks won't even buy you a set of tires from his shop, and his repair bills are eye-watering! Not to mention... The Dominator used to be Mr. Richard's top apprentice! Man, my dream's always been to land an internship there..."
"Ha! He won't cost me a cent, kid. Richie owes me a favors from a long time back."
The old man reached into his vest and pulled out a key, definitely not the key to his own motorcycle. Stamped upon it was a stylized 'R' emblem.
The old man narrowed his eyes at the kid, raising a single eyebrow with a sly smirk.
"So... what do you say, kid? Ya comin' or what?"