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Post by Shell on Sept 14, 2019 11:24:25 GMT -8
Born to Be Wild: Desert Wolf Motorcycles has begun a test run of motorcycles, and are aiming to find some good test riders to push the performance of their new Wolf Fang Choppers. It should be noted that there have been walk-offs for this job before because of the danger, but where there’s risk there is reward. This mission may be as short as 1,500 word long or as long as 7,500 words long. You gain an additional 25% per Effort Points per word for doing this mission, and if you reach the 5,000 words written for the mission, you also get a first edition Wolf Fang Chopper - 25% time reduction on travel over land if you role-play using it. |
“A...chopper?” Shell quirked his ridged eyebrow at the company man. They were in the middle of the desert. Sand and towering rocks, stratified stone pillars and boulders bigger than your head, surrounded them. There were no roads anywhere he could see, and this motorcycle factory was practically in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Shell had only come here to seek respite from the desert’s arid air and sandy intrusion. Namekians didn’t need food, but they did drink water, and the Namekian had started to run low. The motorcycle plant naturally had a small town sprung up around it, and various water collectors and humidifiers were working overtime to provide enough moisture to eek out a living in the unforgiving desert. Shell could only wonder why anyone would come all the way out here to set up a shop like this. It sounded like utter insanity. If Shell hadn’t been passing through the desert already, he never would’ve even considered coming here, let alone stopping to buy a motorcycle.
“Yea, totally! Choppers!” The company man was a wiry slip of a guy, all skin and bones and overalls with no shirt underneath, a pair of thick gloves, greasy smears and goggles in his hair which stuck up in every direction. His voice was pipey and squeaky, fitting him far too well. “They’re motorcycles, but like, way cooler! They’re choppers!” He wiggled his eyebrows like that would make his point for him. “Desert Wolf Motorcycles! With a ride so smooth you’ll say ‘Hawoooooooo can they possibly make them any better?’” He gestured at the building behind him, clearly proud of the slogan. It had to be a slogan, because no self-respecting person would say that just for fun or worse, because they thought it was good or cool or remotely normal. “But this is how we do it!” the wiry man said, “Possibly make them better, that is. We hire people just like you to help us test our newest cycles. And I mean, no normal testing. No sirree, I could do it myself if it were just drive cone adjustments or fuel intake flushes or air filter permeation regulations. We want you to straight up drive these things into mortal peril, race across the desert, try and break it down and bring it back to us with a report on how it worked.” The wiry man, whose overalls read ‘Clint’, continued as if he knew the question Shell was going to ask. “The desert is a harsh place to take any vehicle, but especially a motorcycle, which has no inbuilt defenses to sand or heat or wind. If we build em and ride em and test em under the worst conditions, we know for sure they’ll survive in a city with weather controls, paved streets, and a much lower threshold for acceptable violence. By starting way out here, we assure the best possible quality any motorcycle could ever have!” Clint seemed to have this conversation a lot, it would seem.
“Look, I’m sure that’s great, but I just came to find some water to refill. I don’t have time, or honestly, the desire, to test drive a motorbike as some kind of experiment for you,” Shell was not eager to stay in the desert, and was honestly growing annoyed with this conversation. The chirpy personality of the motorcycle engineer was wearing thin on him, and his lip was curling into a sneer, holding back his desire to smack this poor whip of a man into the ground. So he sharply turned and moved to walk past Clint, heading towards the little shanty town that had sprung up from the factory’s workers. He was likely to be price gouged for the precious liquid in the desert, but he didn’t have much of a choice, and he wanted to leave the desert behind him as quickly as he could. The dust was settling into everything, and Shell was eager to find a river, or some place he could wash clean. The idea of a long shower at any temperature was so seductive that he was mad at himself for even imagining it, because it would just torture him until it came true. On foot he was looking at another week, possibly longer, before he came to the edge of barren wastes. He didn’t have time to waste on stupid frivolities like being a motorcycle guinea pig out of the kindness of his heart.
“I’m sure I can make it worth your while!” Clint said, straining as Shell started to brush past him. The namekian had already deemed his cause not worthy of time or attention, so he’d mentally shut him out as he continued on his journey to get water. Clint started to get nervous and fidgety, sure he’d lose a perfect test subject and have to wait even longer to test the first new batch of Wolf Fang Choppers. Who knew when another adventurer would stray close enough to the factory for a real test drive? His last three test drivers all bailed mid test, walking right off the project. How could he convince this namekian to do it for him? Clint bunched his hands up in his overalls, having a tiny conniption fit over the amount of time he’d be setback if he couldn’t stress test the choppers. He was hopping from foot to foot, tugging at his hair, looking around frantically for something, anything to make the deal more attractive. Oil? No. Wrenches? No. Water? Maybe, but not sweet enough. Uggggh!
“Free motorcycle!” Clint shouted shrilly. He clamped his hands over his mouth as soon as he said it.
But Shell turned his head, pausing mid stride, waiting for the details. Not even fully turning around, just cocking an ear to hear the offer. “Y-y-you heard me right! If you can stress test the new line of Wolf Fang Choppers, I mean really push them to the limit, then I’ll give you one for free! Heh? I couldn’t possibly make a deal better than that! And I couldn’t help but notice that you are on foot. You could leave the desert a loooooooot faster if you could ride out on a motorbike. And after stress testing them, you’ll notice that they are the finest choppers you could possibly acquire, in this desert or anywhere else!” Clint just kept tossing selling points out, one after the next, because he was on a deadline and couldn’t ship out the cycles without testing them. “They have multi level suspension for the smoothest ride! And blinkers, for signaling your turns in busy highways! They have ultra bright LED headlights for those late night rides on the beach, or that visit to lover’s lane with your girl hugging your back! Um…” he racked his brain for more details, “...they also have all terrain tires, so you can drive on or off road! And they...have a unique memory foam seat! Your bike will literally memorize your butt for you! And they are made of the toughest carbon steel alloy we can think of! These things won’t get wrecked from a demon’s energy blast, or bullets, or anything! Those monsters can’t blow up your bike, ever again!” Clint was souning lsightly out of breath, getting more and more frantic with each avertising point, waving his arms about like a buffoon. “Desert Wolf Motorcycle’s Wolf Fang Chopper is the choice for any enthusiast, bike lover, or needer of transportation! Please sir, I need someone who won’t bail on me to test this bike, and you’re the only person in town who is even remotely brave enough!” Shell quirked that eyebrow again, as if to say ‘what do mean, how do you know I’m brave?’. The motorbike engineer just gestured at his hip, “You’re carrying a sword! Only really tough dudes carry swords! And you got that ‘half dressed martial artist’ look going on! And your spikey arm and the horns...you, you gotta be savage with all that. No dinosaurs would scare you away from testing the bike! You’re already like half dinosaur! No sirree!”
Shell felt a surge of bile come up his throat at how casually he called Shell half-dinosaur, basically calling him a lizard. It was a profound insult to the proud namekian, but he swallowed his thoughts, letting himself relax in the knowledge that this little idiot knew nothing about him, and was taking everything based on his appearance. As if wearing a sword meant someone knew how to use it. The teal-skinned warrior debated drawing that sword, chopping off a bit of his wild, greasy hair just to showcase how ‘savage’ he could be. He knew Daimao would tell him he should’ve destroyed this pathetic human for daring insult him. But Daimao was too focused on destruction and wanton chaos. Shell could kill this man, and then killed everyone else here and take the bike. But such destruction would doom other people to death in the wastes. These stupid humans were basically a man-made oasis. An oasis that could help people. An oasis that could save the life of a tired namekian one day. A namekian who perhaps wasn’t as ‘savage’ as Shell, who hadn’t planned for the desert, and ran out of water with no way to get more. And for that reason alone, Shell would spare them. Give the future travelers this respite. So killing them all was off the table. “And water,” Shell said at last, “You’ll give me a free bike, and water. As much as I can carry.”
Clint seemed taken aback at first, unsure he could demand free water from the workers or pay for it if they wouldn’t part with it for free. But he also heard the agreement in the words, and his worry was quickly overcome with the joyous knowledge that the man was saying yes to his request! He did a quick dance in a circle, radiating contentment and joy at Shell’s acceptance. “Ooooooooooh fantastic! You won’t regret this Mr….?”
“Shell,” the namekian answered drolly.
“Mr. Shell!” the wiry man said, racing forward to clasp Shell’s hand. His chitinous hand, with its talons and its rough texture. The hand Shell usually refrained from using. But the engineering had it trapped in both hands like he was trying to squeeze it off. “Let me say it is an honor to work alongside such a distinguished adventurer as you! I can tell we’re gonna be fast friends, Mr. Shell!” Clint said, rapidly shaking his chitinous hand up and down. The engineer had vastly misread Shell’s grudging support of his stupid tests, and Shell was certain they’d never reach ‘friends’ at all, let alone fast ones. Shell hated the desert already and wanted nothing more than to flee it as fast as humanly possible. He never intended to return here if he could avoid it, so he doubted he’d ever see Clint or his bike shop again, either, let alone be friends with the man. “Now, there are a few waivers I need you to sign, some silly paperwork guaranteeing no fault on behalf of Desert Wolf Motorcycles in the event that you should meet with an untimely crash, maiming, death, electrocution, drowning, immolation, voring, breaking of bones, or any future or ongoing medical conditions that may arise as a result of this test.” Clint started to move towards the back of the motorcycle garage, practically hopping, glad that he found someone to do the testing he so desperately required. Shell stayed put, blinking slowly. Clint’s pace lagged, slowly stopping, “Or, I could fill out the paperwork and you could just go get started on the testing. I mean, regulations and potential legal ramifications, but heh, who needs to worry about those?”
It was obvious Clint could, would, and did worry about such things, because his words were laced with a tightness. “I could just sign them for you, if that’s okay. I’ll uh, do them while you’re out testing.”
Shell blinked a few more times. “Fine. You mentioned dinosaurs?” The namekain crossed his arms over his chest, trying to make sure tht this little guy wasn’t setting him up for failure. “And people quitting?”
Clint got nervous, a sweat bullet inching down his forehead. “Well, uh, you see, in order to properly test the motorbike...multiple biomes are necessary to make sure it has all weather performance...heh, and well, you know, the nearest oasis is up Banbree Hill there...and that’s the lair of a notorious band of velociraptors...so some of our testers…may have been eaten but what’s the harm?” Clint’s voice cracked nervously, and he spoke so quickly at the end that most people would’ve missed his point about testers being eaten. Shell was not most people, and he merely blinked a few more times. Clint was easily overwhelmed, and started to immediately assuage what he were sure were incoming fears. “Buuuuuuut! Not all of them! Several survived their injuries and made it back! They were just in no solid shape to keep testing so I had to find other riders. And many just got lost. A few had actual bike problems...the choppers had a bad tendency to explode when their internal components were exposed to methane...which is why we test them! Problem’s been fixed now! You should have no problems at all! Should be a super smooth ride, guaranteed! And if those ol velocis come on out, you can just ‘ha! Ha-ha!’ and clean em up…” Clint made a few hand motions that clearly were meant to mimic the idea of energy blasts, which he assumed someone as adventurous as Shell could do, despite it being a fairly advanced technique, “...you can do that right?” He looked nervous, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him that Shell could be weak, or the sword could be his only weapon. He was temporarily terrified of offering a motorbike to a weakling.
Shell sighed. “Yea, I can do that. You need dinosaurs dead or a motorcycle tested? Those are different jobs, Clint.” Shell was largely just fucking with the twitchy man now, enjoying watching him sweat and squirm every time Shell showed obvious displeasure.
“Uh, um, well, the bike is the most important thing! Test the bike! Yes of course!” Clint said, “If the motorcycle gets tested we won’t have a need to exterminate the dinosaurs...unless they creep closer to the factory, but that shouldn’t be a problem, since they have the oasis and cave systems. There’s nothing for ‘em out here except dust and motor oil. But hey, if you see any android velociraptors, you let me know right? Hehe.”
Shell shook his head, embarrassed for the little man. “Where’s the bike?” he asked simply, wanting to look over whatever he was going to be riding. He didn’t want to die because some engineers foolish contraption had a loose nut or a torn belt or something.
“OH right! The Wolf Fang Chopper! You’re gonna love it! I’ve already sung its praises enough, but you know, seeing is believing.Come on over and check her out!” Clint said excitedly, half skipping through the shop, moving to a new line of shiny motorbikes. They were all identical, a fresh series ready for testing and shipping to parts unknown. “This one will be your test machine, WFC-206.” Clint pointed to a bike that looked much like all the other bikes. “Don’t worry about conditioning of the bike, I intend to give you a completely, utterly brand new bike as part of our deal. This is just the model we use for testing. Yours will be, of course, capsulized, so to make it easy for transport.”
Shell wasn’t really listening to the minutiae or drivel that Clint kept spewing. The tiny details didn’t matter to him one bit. He was inspecting the bike. He’d seen “choppers” before, and this was one, but barely. It had the low seat, the forward pulling handlebars, and two wheels. That’s about where the similarities ended. The wheels, for example, were almost entirely encapsulated in a matte silver metal, like little domes. On the very briefest portion of the tread was exposed, just the immediate portion that touched the road itself. Probably a smart move considering desert dirt and dust, as long as it didn’t get absorbed into the that little dome. Then it would get trapped and trash the wheel.
“Inspecting the tread system?” Clint said, and Shell almost jumped out of his skin. He’d tuned him out so hard he didn’t see him approaching. “Its ingenious, if I don’t say so myself. But I do. It’s ingenious! A standard wheel could never handle the roughness of the world. Who even designed wheels with vulnerable spokes that could be felled by any tiny stick or rock gumming up the works? Well we at Desert Wolf Motorcycles found an answer. These wheel pods are state of the art! Took us fourteen iterations to perfect it.” Clint bent down and pressed something on the side of the...wheel pod. The metal retracted spiral-style and revealed the inner workings of the tired...which wasn’t even there. It wasn’t just a wheel encased in metal. The metal of the pod created the wheel somehow. That spiraling in and out of the metal formed the wheel. “The smart steel construction spins up in the pod itself, and then settles into a wheel shape as it descends to the bottom of the pod. Every rotation, your wheel is disintegrating and reforming out of microsteel latticework so soft and supple you wouldn’t know it wasn’t rubber if you didn’t know any better. And since the wheel is constantly being created and broken down, the treads are always 100% the same as they are when the bike is first manufactured. No flat tires. No running out of air. Run over a nail? Or a rock, or some sand? No problem! As the tire breaks down, any foreign material is pulled up into the pod and ejected back out the bottom when the next rotation of the wheel is fabricated. You suck up some dirt? Your bike will literally spit it back out! Tell me that isn’t cool!!!”
Shell chanced a smile. “That is rather cool. A tire that never goes flat, a bike that can’t break down. Possibly even genius.”
Clint beamed at the praised, then corrected Shell slightly. “Well not unable to break down. Just unable to have a destroyed wheel. And it does require fuel to operate the fore and aft wheel generation pods. So if you got no gas, you got no wheels. But that’s when you just poof it back down into capsule form until you can find a fuel station. We’re working on a next generation solar fuel or biofuel model, but as of yet, the chopper requires simply too much energy to be a perpetual machine kinda deal.”
Shell nodded, the restriction seeming kind of obvious. If you didn’t have gas you couldn’t drive anyway, so why not tie your wheels to that function, too? The wheel pods were sleek, and as Shell moved up the bike, more details slid into view. The front wheel pod was connected to the steering shaft, like any chopper, but the number of shocks and stabilizer were insane. Smoothest ride was seeming more like a promise and not a selling point. The bike had a wolf’s head embedded right by the handlebars. “Is that changeable too? That smart metal stuff?” Shell asked, pointing at the wolf.
“Ah! Not a wolf guy? Sorry buddy. But especially if you’re gonna be riding one of these around town, to remove the desert wolf logos and stuff would be a crime of advertising. Besides, no, the smart metal is an extremely expensive construct. We use all we can produce to make the wheel pods. This one is just molded steel. Maybe you’ll come to learn to love it, but I can’t flex on this one. Our presses can’t make like, a namekian head or anything. You’ll have to live with a wolf. Unless you can find someone to fabricate a new plate for you on your travels.” Clint had a surprising amount of backbone on the issue. But his reasoning made sense. He couldn’t easily change it for a bike he was giving away for free, and the advertising would be amazing for his company.
Shell shrugged. No big deal. He might find a metalworker in a nearby city who could change the plate for him. He was thinking the seven dragon balls, as if maybe by honoring them he could also will them to come to him, or fix themselves, or something. “So be it. Can’t win everything.”
Shell’s assent seemed to take Clint by surprise, as his eyebrows shot up and then he got this sort of cocky look on his face, like ‘yea, you better take what I say! Yea!’. He was so glad that Shell didn’t push him on the issue that he completely forgot to over-explain the bike as Shell looked over what was left to inspect. The engine was contained in a smooth, rounded container that had wolf scratches molded into the casing. Know how little power the bike was supposed to consume, Shell was certain Clint could go on forever talking about fuel consumption rates and the new state of the art injection system, and how the unique casing allowed them to get some kind of new, revolutionary torque that made the bike miles above any other bike, but he was thankfully silent as Shell moved over to the seat, feeling the bucket seat and swinging a leg over to take a seat.
That seemed to stir him into action, out of his reverie and momentary coolness. “Oh, yes! No innovation there I’m afraid, just the highest quality hand stitched leather seating you could possibly encounter. But the memory foam, you remember, I already told you bout that little bit. Memorizes your butt, no ride more comfortable!” Clint stood by, watching Shell grab the handlebars, settling into his new ride. “So, ready to go give it the test of its life?” Clint asked, a smile gracing his features. “You just lift this cover here, under your right hand, and tap the injection button. That’ll kick up the engine. Then she’s all yours.” Clint seemed almost giddy at seeing the motorbike rev up for the first time.
Shell had to admit, the bike was comfortable. The handle bars felt natural, the seat was indeed soft and supple, and the bike didn’t feel weird or unwieldy. He squeezed his hands, even his chitinous clawed arm, and the handles felt smooth under them, easy to grip. Brake were in easy reach. He adjusted a couple of quick gears and settings on the bike, then he felt fangs poke out of his mouth as he smirked at Clint. “See you in a few hours, bike boy.” Then he did as he was bade, flipping up the cover and thumbing down on the fuel starter. The bike lit up, lights under all the panels whirling to life, making the entire chopper look surprisingly futuristic. With the engine running, the bike seemed to right itself, some kind of self propulsion that made sure it didn’t topple. Shell almost felt like the bike was floating. He let out a roarish laughter, a kind of high throated bellow of excitement.
“I see you like it then,” Clint said, starting to also smirk at the namekian, “I hope your testing proves fruitful. Push it to its limits, try to break it, please, do whatever you can. But I think you’ll find that this bike is the finest that can be found in any desert or city beyond. My only requirements to your testing is that you need to hit its maximum speed, you need to test it over sand, grass, and water, and your test needs to run at least two hours to test engine cooling variables. Other than that, I encourage you, Mister Shell, to have fun!”
“Well if you insist, Clint,” Shell said, and the bike roared once before he gunned it out of the factory floor. Clint must have thought ahead, because the large garage door was already rising up as he zipped out under it. It barely cleared his head, and he ducked on instinct to avoid clipping his horns on the corrugated steel. Then the bike was ripping into the sunny day and dusty road, kicking up a storm behind it as Shell moved into the testing phase of the adventure.
As badass as his initial takeoff was, Shell immediately felt the bike buck and fight underneath him. He noticed a few things immediately that he hadn’t expected. For one, that weird hovering feeling was definitely intentional. The bike was almost catastrophically light, and the high speed caused it to wobble, which caused whatever stabilizer to kick into high gear, only increasing the feeling of weightlessness. The bike was in no danger of tipping over thanks to whatever mechanism was hidden along the sides of the bike, but it was incredibly unsettling, and getting on the bike without warning was definitely a cause for possible concern. Perhaps adjusting that weight distribution would allow the bike to settle more naturally. Shell would have to include that in his report for sure. It was possible that you could get used to that feature in time, but if you want to wow on the first ride, the feel of ‘riding’ was extremely lacking. Maybe even if they just used the same technology in reverse, making the bike unquestionably light while the rider was subjected to suddenly feeling more heavy, would cause them to balance out. Clint could definitely some up with some sort of solution. He’d seemed to think of every other possible facet of the bike. Or perhaps it was odd because of the next, very cool feature. The rear wheel was articulated, allowing the bike to turn the actual frame at a near ninety degree angle. The rider sat snugly in the middle of the angled frame, with no fear of falling out or getting clipped by the roating wheel. It was extremely well done, especially since Shell didn’t notice the articulation until after he started riding. It allowed the bike to whip around turns tighter than a bike of its size had any business doing. Combined with that weightless stabilizer feature, the bike had unprecedented mobility, and Shell spent a lot of his initial time just forcing it to drift into turns that sent a scream ripping up from his throat. He’d rarely experienced a true feeling of flying, but this motorcycle came damned close. He enjoyed the sensation: that truly weightless moment as he would hit a small jump, combined with the gut wrenching lurch when he slammed down directly into a drift, the bike bending and moving in a tight donut before he ripped the engine back open to near full speed, racing off into the sandy desert.
Shell very rarely “played” with anything. But he played with the bike, enjoying something in a pure, unadulterated way. One of his first bits of “fun” in his life that didn’t involve blowing something up, the surly namekian found himself whipping the bike first one way, then the next, feeling the bike rise and fall into each turn, not unlike a jet ski. He weaved these “s” shapes into the sand, then switched to figure eights, and then back to tight donuts. He played with making spiral shapes in the dunes, starting in a tight drift then gradually releasing it so he spun in ever wider circles. Then he reversed it, going into a very casual, comfortable drift, and slowly tightening down until the bike was practically spinning in place. No motorcycle had ever been capable of doing that. The mobility of the bike was truly astounding.
He also had to admit, it was the smoothest, most enjoyable ride he had ever experienced, and he could practically hear Clint beaming into his thoughts, his various promises and stats all piling up in a very positive way for the machine. “You got me Clint,” he said to nobody as he finally let the bike roar to a stop, breathing heavily. Not because he was tired, but because he was having fun, “The bike is a masterpiece.” The son of the demon king smiled, fangs flashing out here were nobody could see it and he was in no danger of losing his tough guy facade.
Then he kicked the clutch back open, revved the engine, and took off. A plume of dust roared up behind him as he shot off like a bullet towards the northwest, aiming for that location Clint told him about. He needed to really test the bike in a variety of environments. Sure, he could play with it out here in the open. Flat, sandy land would push the bike’s sealed components to their limit. It was amazing how little the dust bothered him personally while riding, when it had all but driven him crazy while walking. Turns out when you’re moving faster than any person can normally travel, the dust tends to stay behind you, no matter how much you kick up. He did have to be careful, though. If he slowed the bike down and he was downwind, all the dust would come soaring back at him. He ate a few unfortunate mouthfuls this way, but it didn’t hamper his enjoyment of the bike. Only taught him lessons. But the smoothness of the ride couldn’t really be ascertained until he took it over someplace a little bumpier. So the rocky outcroppings and faint outlines of palmy trees stoop stark in the distance, calling him to do what he’d been hired to do.
As he went after the oasis landscape, he tried to push the bike as fast as it would go. As expected, the weightless feeling ramped up, and Shell would swear the bike wasn’t touching the ground. The landscape around him blurred with the speed, the Namekian having never moved so fast in his life. Then he did something stupid, but something that was pretty important for a bike.
He slammed on the brakes.
The bike bucked, and actually seemed to bounce off the ground as the same stabilizers that kept it upright tried to course correct for a bike that was no longer anywhere nearing operating at normal levels. Not to mention the sheer gut punch of going from nearly two hundred miles per hour to suddenly zero. Shell’s chest felt it was about to cave in, and he let out an audible ‘urg!’ as the bike kicked up into the air. He immediately regretted his mistake as every inch of his was thrust back into the seat hard enough to possibly break something. He was grateful his mouth was closed when it happened, or his tongue might’ve been a goner. The bone jarring sensation filling his mouth was definitely enough to make him want to lock his jaw down, so make sure nothing clacked or clanged together with enough force to shatter his teeth. His body did not take the rapid deceleration well, and he felt it across his entire body. Even his eyes felt like someone was driving their thumbs into his sockets.
The bike, however, was phenominal.
It lurched high into the air, stabilizers trying to kick it back upright. They didn’t truly succeed, but the bike’s articulated tail bent inward as far as it could, which pulled the bike’s weight down and one side, making it rapidly finish its flip instead of sailing upside for several hundred feet or even crash landing with Shell’s head pointed down. When the wheel’s touched down, all of the bike’s unspent moment went to spinning it in place. So while a drunk individual might suddenly throw up after a crash of that caliber, the bike didn’t go anywhere. It spun in place until whatever safety feature kicked in and the engine shut down. The ground was full of dust, Shell felt like he’d been punched all over his body at the same time, and little streams of smoke were issuing up from the bike in a few places, but he had sustained practically no injuries. A little bruised, perhaps. But not dead, smashed against the ground, or flung off the bike to parts unknown. He was glad he strapped in, though. This could’ve gone much differently if he had been riding without his seat straps on. So they weren’t pretty, but they definitely saved his life. Note to self. Thank Clint once again for his foresight in making a grumpy namekian buckle up. He fumbled with those exact buckles, undoing them so he could wobble away from the bike for a moment, feeling sick after the intense impact and sudden, horrifying rotation. He needed to not be on the bike, and since the engine was off it felt safe enough to simply leave sitting for a moment while Shell took a breather.
He spent the next few moments bent over, hands on his knees, somewhere between wanting to collapse and wanting to void the contents of his stomach into the dirt. Not for the first time, he thanked the evolutionary development that stopped namekians from requiring food. The only thing he could vomit out was water at this point. While that would be awful to do in a desert while he was already low on the liquid, it would be far less disgusting than having to puke out some half eaten burger if he were one of the monkeys that inhabited this planet naturally. Dehydration would be better than smelling like organic sick all day. He took this momentary break to get a drink anyway, unsure how long he’d been out in the heat. He’d lost track of time whirling about on the bike, and he needed to make sure he didn’t drop due to dehydration. So once he was sure he wasn’t going to throw up, he drained the last of the water he’d brought with him, relying on Clint to keep up his part of the bargain, giving him a top up before he rode off with his bike. Then he spied out the oasis, which was closer than he’d imagined. The bike had put some serious speed on before he more or less intentionally crashed it. He should be able to get there in no time if he went anything close to maximum speed. There was nothing left to do but to get on the bike and shoot his way into the hilly country now, however. He’d calmed down, drank some water, and even the bike had ceased smoking. So he swung a leg over the seat, groaning inwardly at what would surely be some very sore muscles tomorrow, and thumbe the fuel injector button again, feeling the bike shudder a bit dangerously before settling back into that comfortable weightless feeling. “Whoa nessy, don’t collapse on me just yet. We haven’t even done the hard part. That was just a test crash. What say we go find us a real one?” Shell grinned at the inanimate bike, revved the clutch and swerved off towards the hills and cliffs, the articulated wheel fishtailing a little bit behind him before falling in line.
Shell let out a roar as he gunned it, feeling the wind kick up around him.
The sandy desert switched to the hilly land around the oasis pretty quickly. The dunes got thinner, and the dust kicked up by the motorcycle was slowly thinning, being replaced instead by small rocks and dirt. The sand started to turn more to stone, and the ride momentarily got a lot less smooth, until the wheels could adjust to the new terrain. The bike began to sound choppy and wobbly, then all of a sudden the sound mellowed back out. The wheels had adapted for maximum traction and speed in the rocky terrain. Shell was grateful, but he stopped at the edge of the first of the cliffs, checking out the oasis he was sent to test the bike in anyhow.
The little oasis was nestled inside a large ring of cliffs. Probably the only reason is had the water was because the shade of the cliffs kept it cool, and allowed condensation to occur without the sun rapidly evaporating all of said water. It was a trick of the land that turned this tiny part of the desert into something hospitable. Shell was marveling over the sheer luck factor of this little pocket existing, when he saw the thing he was supposed to be afraid of. A colorful plumage made the bushes in the oasis below rumble, and then vanished, but a small screeching sound alerted Shell to its presence even if he couldn’t see it. Then three more cries answered it. Raptors were pack animals, and it seems this crew was in the middle of hunting something. “Sorry if I burst in on the party, boys,” Shell said with a smirk, revving the bike and heading to the edge of his cliff.
He didn’t leap directly into the basin. That would be suicide and probably destroy the bike in the process. Instead he aimed to obliquely sail off the edge of the cliff, the bike momentarily hanging in the air before dropping down onto a narrow ledge. With that maneuverability earlier discovered, Shell found navigating the narrow pathway a lot easier than another bike might find it. He skidded around the edge of the canyon, bunny hopping from one ledge to the next. He focused on precision, not speed, and he found the bike was highly effective at making slow, short steps into the balmy canopy. He found the articulated wheel didn’t particularly help here, instead he was leaning on that weightless stability. Either way, he eventually touched down onto the grass.
From down here, the oasis zone looked like a whole different world. If he tried, he could make out the cliff edges, but they seemed so far and so sparse above him. The palmy trees almost completely obscured them. It was also hot. A wet, sticky heat like a swamp or something. In all actuality, the little oasis was probably no more wet than a lawn in summer after the sprinkler has run, but compared to the absolute dryness of the air around it, Shell was practically sweltering. He pushed his tunic off his shoulder, because the fabric felt uncomfortable against his skin. He was grateful for the moisture, however. Namekians did not tend to favor highly hot climates, and the humidity was a welcome boon.
Then the first trill echoed out.
It sounded a bit like a hissing canister, like an aerosol, but with one of those wooden rattlesnake toys played with at the same time. A skin tingling blend of both ratcheting and hissing. Shell tensed up on the bike handles, expecting to hear three more, and intending to use those sounds to figure out where the raptors were. He listened. He was quiet, but nothing answered the initial raptor call.
Then the raptors exploded from the underbrush.
There were three of them. Short, squat, low to the ground, and running fast, like those lizards who could move across the water. They came from all different directions, trying to limit and cut off any options Shell had for escape. Shell only belatedly realized that the prey had been hunting...might have been him. They’d started communicating when he appeared at the edge of the cliff faces, and had probably tracked him as he moved down into the enclosed space. Well, he would show them that he was not a prey they could take down easily. He lifted a hand at the raptor coming straight at him, and with a soft hum of power a purple-white sphere of energy appeared in his palm. “Night night, doggy,” he said with a calm tilt of his head. The ki sphere zipped forward, detonating against the raptor and throwing it to the side. Dead? Not likely. But now the center path was open and Shell gunned the engine, motorcycle shooting forward into the gap in the raptor formation.
Riding in a forest was different. Harder. More challenging. He couldn’t just keep the motorcycle flared flat out. Instead he found himself tapping the break every few moments and swerving to avoid tree roots and rocks in the way. Now the articulated tail really showed off what it could do, counterbalancing the motorcycle and running over obstacles with little more than a whisper of a bump. Would Shell want to ride hours through this terrain? Of course not. But given that he had two raptors chasing after him (and a third sure to join in later) Shell definitely appreciated being able to zip around in short spurts. The bike continued to live up to its reputation, and while he wasn’t being quietly he definitely was moving fast enough to stay ahead of the razor toothed terrors. This must be one of the many iterative changes the bike had seen, but some of the debris Shell had to move around were carcasses of other motorbikes that had either crashed or been caught by the dinosaurs because they couldn’t outrun them. Clint may have inadvertently been training the raptors to recognize and hunt the bike riders, since they had clearly known what he was and where he would land as soon as they’d heard the bike along the cliffs.
Eventually the trees broke and Shell had to turn sharply to the side in order to run along the coastline of a small pond, water kicking up over and around the bike. Water testing? Check. The bike seemed to handle it just fine, although he regretted that he couldn’t go fast enough to sail over the water. Being landlocked meant he had to take the long route. And he saw the raptors pop out of the underbrush, chattering excitedly. All three were now assembled and had gained some ground while he had to skirt the water’s edge. Shell gritted his teeth and tried to put on a little extra speed, causing little waves and a constant spray to jet from behind the bike. He felt himself gaining distance, only to hear a fourth screeching voice issue from the wilderness ahead of him. The fourth raptor! Shell felt like an idiot, forgetting that he’d counted four distinct raptor sounds. This one seemed a little larger, and the namekian warrior realized he’d done exactly what the raptors had wanted. They’d flushed him out of the deep brush into the open, and pushed him towards what was clearly their alpha, who roared his screechy roar and charged the bike. Shell had played right into the standard pack hunting tactics.
Unfortunately for the raptors, Shell wasn’t the typical prey they hunted. He could destroy them if he dedicated his time to it. Their continued existence was solely due to the fact that he wasn’t on a mission to kill them. Like he’d told Clint: testing a bike and killing raptors were two different missions. “Wanna play chicken?” Shell said with a dark grin, “Game on, featherhead!” Shell put more speed into the bike, roaring the engine and heading right at the Raptor. As he did, he took one hand off the handle bars. It was dangerous, but he held his demon arm up as energy started to cackle across it. He roared his own challenge and raced at the raptor neither willing to turn away, both sure that they would win.
Unfortunately for the raptor, Shell’s cockiness was right.
He dipped his hand under the snapping maw, which bit down on his arm and a grunt of pain as Shell’s hand wrapped around the velociraptor’s throat. The chitin of his arm kept the raptor from severing the limb, though its teeth did break beneath the demonic surface and drew blood. The velocity of the motorcycle, however, meant that despite the purplish blood seeping down his arm, the raptor was yanked off the ground, and Shell held him aloft. The cycle continued to race forward, and with a shout of triumph, Shell thrust the head of the raptor to the ground, releasing the cackling purple energy across his arm with a deafening explosion.
Energy swelled into the ground and under the bike, which was thrown aloft on the upsurge, sailing into the air. For a few precious moments, Shell was drifting in midair, the pained screams of one raptor matching the enraged screams of his friends, too far away to attack Shell and too slow to stop their prey from escaping. In that moment, Shell reached down and tapped a button on the side of the motorcycle, and a sudden puff of smoke exploded around him as the motorbike vanished into a convenient capsule. Shell’s injured arm snatched up the capsule, and his good arm began to fire off a sustained beam of energy, pushing the, now much lighter, namekian towards the cliffside, where he landed on confident feet, watching his energy beam detonate in the middle of the pond, causing water to launch up and fall back down in a small rain that felt heavenly to the oven baked alien.
Shell had to catch his breath after such a feat, and stayed by the cliffside for a few moments, hearing the raptors regroup and assess injuries while he recovered from the expenditure of his ki and the sheer adrenaline of pulling that off. He didn’t want to be a target once they were up and running again, so he followed the paths out of the oasis on foot, only redeploying the motorbike when he was back on the flat desert scrub land. Having thoroughly put the bike through its paces, Shell had no qualms about turning the bike back to the workshop, opening it up and utilizing its intense speed to zip down in his own dust cloud, eager to get back to Clint and collect his reward.
This ride was far shorter, Shell spending more time just cruising along, and less playing with the bike. Mostly because he was a little tired, repeatedly firing big ki blasts causing him to wear himself a little thin, but also because he’d already done it on the way north. And also, Shell was about to get a bike for his very own, so he could spend all the time he wanted testing and racing and playing with his own motorbike. The sun had started to set, turning the desert a sharp purple color as light was leeched out of it, the oppressive heat turning into a much more enjoyable cold.
“You’re alive! I mean, back!” Clint exclaimed as Shell’s bike pulled into the garage. “I mean, I knew you’d be able to handle it! So tell me, how was the girl? Did she sing like I promised you? Did she blow you away? What about the stabilizers and safety features? They were the newest addition, and I definitely want to make sure I get feedback on them.” Clint was eagerly rubbing his hands together even before Shell had parked the bike, clearly excited to have a tester who came back alive, mostly unharmed, and able to report on his performance.
“The bike was excellent. I’ve never had a smoother ride or a more responsive bike. The stabilizers might be tuned a little high. There was an uncomfortable weightlessness at first that led to some wobbly performance. I got used to it after a while, but you may want to adjust the output of some of the stabilizers. Tweaks, not changes.” Shell stopped talking, because Clint’s jaw dropped open. Their entire conversation had been overly dominated by the little scrawny engineer’s piping voice going on and on. Shell hadn’t said more than four words to him in any of his responses, and now was replying with sophistication on mechanical problems and triumphs in his ride. “What? Did you think I couldn’t speak in complex sentences? Did you think me a brute, or a simpleton?” Shell said, completely serious-sounding. He didn’t give the little engineer even the hint of a smile. It was a power move.
“N-n-no! Of course not! I just didn’t expect such a loquacious response from you. The sword, the horns...you seemed more like the stoic type. Honestly, I didn’t mean anything by it! Please, continue your report!” Clint scrambled to find a pad to write down the minor adjustments he’d need to make to bikes for the commercial release.
“The crash control measures were highly effective. Were I on a motorway when they kicked in, damage to myself and other drivers would’ve been minimal. Using the stabilizers to prevent the bike from falling flat and crushing me was genius. You’ll save lives with that. Overall I have very few complaints with the bike. You’ve done well.” Shell reported.
“I’m glad you think so! Because our deal was a deal, and that thing about the stabilizers is definitely going to go into the next iteration!” Clint said, walking up to the bike Shell had ridden, plugging a tablet into a little hatch that was under the seat. The tablet in his hand chirped and downloaded the data gathered from the trip out into the desert. “I’ll just collect all the diagnostic data, seeing where your tops speeds were, total ride time, stress points. You know, boring statistical stuff. But while I do...” Clint said, setting the tablet down and waving Shell to follow him. He lead him to a newly polished motorbike, not unlike the one Shell had just brought in. It was a deep purple color run through with black, giving it a very regal feel to it. The bike was all set up for travel, with a pack strapped to the back that was clearly three large jugs of water tied together. “...I prepared your payment while you were out. As promised, one Wolf Fang Chopper, and enough water to see you through the desert. I was optimistic you’d return!” Clint said, gesturing to the bike like showgirl presenting a prize, or something. “I couldn’t change the wolf on the front, but I picked one with a color scheme I thought you’d like. Something spicier than just the standard silver or black. It’ll be one of the custom color options available for deluxe models. An extra thank you for all your hard work.”
“I think it’s great, Clint. You’ve outdone yourself,” Shell answered, moving to collapse the bike back into pill form.
“Ho! Wait! Not just yet! I’m going to use the data your brought me to update your bike’s software and guidance computer! It’ll be ready in the morning, guaranteeing an even better ride than before!” Clint said, his panic stopping shell. “You’re welcome to stay in town until morning. I’ve already made accommodations for you. Sleep now, rest off this day which I’m sure has been stressful.” Clint point a finger at Shell’s bite wounds from the velociraptor. “Maybe get yourself cleaned up. Desert sand is not good for open wounds. Meet me here in the morning and you’ll have your bike ready to go!”
Shell wanted to deny him, but he had to admit Clint had him pegged. The crash, the bite, and the general day out in the sun had zapped him of his energy. So he sighed. “Okay Clint. Just because you went through the trouble already.” Shell couldn’t ever admit he was tired. It would wreck his tough guy look.
So he slept the night away in a room above the workshop. And in the morning, one bike richer and refilled on water, the namekian rolled away from Desert Wolf Motorcycles. He’d had...fun, which he had to admit, hadn’t been on his agenda. Perhaps he could find some more out there? Even the son of the demon king didn’t know what the next day would bring…
[8721/7500 Words] [Mission Complete!]
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