The Mechaquestrian
She aligned herself so that she was one with her galloping horse. A grounding heat seeped from the mount’s metallic body to her thighs, reinforcing just how frigid the air was.
No amount of speed or trickery had seen her assume her usual position ahead of the racing pack. A ferocious rider stood between her and the victory that would cement her name into the hall of legends.
She tapped a blinking icon on the interface built into her jostling armpiece, triggering the ejection of a compartment from the side of her horse’s trunk. She withdrew the electric whip contained within, aiming for the rider in front. With all the skill and focus of a seasoned warrior, she snapped the whip forward, watching it slither and thrum mid-strike, seeking him like a guided missile. As the tongue of lightning was close to smiting its target, the rider jerked his reigns, escaping its range by a breath.
The whip was a single-use weapon, and the last in her armory. Its lightning fizzed out, leaving her with just the meager base—a useless trinket which she discarded immediately. Now she was out of weapons and they were emerging from the final corner into the ending straight.
Her experience lent her a clarity of mind that eluded younger racers in the panic of this last stretch. With a solemn apology to her wired shell of a mount, she yanked off one of the two horns affixed to the top of its face and hurled it. Instead of seeking the rider ahead, however, it sailed through the air and sunk into his horse’s rump, destroying its weakly framed energy core. With her rival’s mount incapacitated, she pulled ahead, bearing down on the finish line.
The crowd roared, jubilating as her name and track number blared from the lofty jumbotron amidst the stadium. She pulled off her helmet, flashing the audience with a triumphant grin.
She had just raced her name into the history books.
