The hover cycle races along the small corridor. I avoid a few shots from the lasers by swerving to the right. Sparks fly as the handle scrapes along the wall. Just before the next turn, I jolt the steering bar up to fly over a rocket, just to land hard on the back tire. Before I get a chance to tear to the left, the cycle crashes into the wall. The fireball is all engulfing. Fuck.
"GAME OVER." The robotic voice rattles over the red flashing display.
"Only hundred and ninety points. Must be a new low."
I glare at my brother with narrow eyes. "Oh, shut up, squirt."
"What are you gonna do? You'll never beat Jackson in the tournament."
And we need the prize money. Badly. "I'm sure I'll make it."
"How? That was out last Centrime. You don't even have enough money to practice."
My gaze flicks around the run-down pub. In a forgotten time, patrons occupied these tables. There was always something to do to make a couple of Centrimes on the side. Pulling leeches off the skins of Mahoots. Scrubbing Kennon drool and the occasional vomit off the tables after a long night of gambling. Helping Old Harrison out back to repair the furniture trashed in one of the many Hauk fights. He paid a fair wage. Sometimes, he even tossed in a few sandwiches that were about to go stale. Now that he's gone, his dickhead brother has taken over. First course of action: fire me. Prick claims he can't afford any staff since the latest galactic unrest is keeping his customers away.
Face reality, man. Your potions just suck.
My brother pulls my sleeve. "What are we gonna do, Jonas?"
"Don't worry, I'll figure something out." I always do—just as I did in the old times.