Chapter Text
On the racetrack, he goes by True-Blue. He’s hanging with Big Folk now, and they get weird about names, so he picks that one because it sounds cool. He is sixteen years old, and he’d have a record if the local militia were ever fast enough to catch him. Which they aren’t.
He keeps to himself in the shady garage where he works on his dragon’s engine. It’s what they call their drag-racing autowagons, and he digs the name. It sounds badass. Nobody fucks with dragonriders.
Except other dragonriders, of course.
The garage he uses is neutral territory, a place for all the riders who aren’t affiliated with a gang. In theory, you don’t mess with another’s dragon, and the riders keep it mostly civil among themselves. Honor among thieves and all that. But he’s small, and the other riders make a sport of trying to get under his skin before he nearly pins them to the walls with a few well-thrown knives.
They stop fucking with him after that.
#
Garl the Joker, however, keeps fucking with him. He doesn’t know what the god’s game is, but he seems to have decided that “emissary” means “target of all my stupid pranks.” The tool or part he needs is always conveniently missing. His machines are plagued by bizarre problems that none of the other dragonriders have ever seen before. He keeps having to jury-rig solutions to work around the fact that he'd lend his barely-used 3/7-inch wrench to his cousin Belinda, and the one bolt in his entire rig that requires a 3/7-inch wrench goes wonky and needs to be replaced. For some reason, a standard mid-grade arcane core does nothing for his engine and nobody knows why, but if he beefs up the core's power output by running it through a runed-up titanium amplifier ring, suddenly it works just fine. Of course, he needs to strengthen the pistons to be able to accommodate that level of force, which makes them heavier, which means he has to lighten the back plating on the dragon to offset the added weight.
"Man, TeeBee," says Key, the half-drow who is True-Blue's only real friend in the garage, "you have the weirdest luck."
True-Blue grits his teeth. "It's not luck!" he snaps. "It's Garl being a dick!"
Key raises one pale eyebrow. "Who's Garl? TeeBee, is someone fucking with you?" They look honestly concerned. "Because if someone's been giving you a hard time, just point 'em out." They slam one leather-gloved fist into their open palm. Key is always down for a good fight. They have some rogue training and they'd taught True-Blue the fine art of knife-throwing. True-Blue doesn't like fighting, but he knows how to defend himself, thanks to Key.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, it's not--it's just weird, okay? It's not a problem you can punch."
Key narrows their eyes. "Is this a…gnome thing?"
True-Blue slides back under the dragon with an incoherent snarl. "Just hand me the rubber mallet, okay?"
Key doesn't press the issue. It's one of the things True-Blue likes about them.
#
He stays late one night, fixing yet another bizarre problem, and by the time he gets the engine humming again, it's later than he realizes. His parents are gonna freak. They think he's out at a tutoring session, learning how to speak Elvish. (Key's been teaching him a few short phrases, to help with the ruse.) He shucks on his leather jacket and scurries out of the garage and down to the ferry, since going down the canal is the fastest way to the other side of town. Just outside of the town gates are the forested foothills that his family calls home.
The ferry is closed for the night. He swears under his breath. Looks like he's taking the long way home tonight.
He grumbles over the irony of having a super-fast dragon waiting for him in the garage, and he can't even use it to get home because it's not street-legal.
He cuts through the warehouse district, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He turns a corner and almost walks straight into a pack of Big Folk, all of them sporting leather jackets, the logo of the Timberwolves emblazoned on the backs.
Shit. He skids to a stop, and quickly turns away to try a different route. The last thing he wants is to tangle with the city's most notorious gang--
“Where the fuck you think you’re going?”
He freezes.
“I—I don’t have any money…” comes a high-pitched voice. The Timberwolves laugh.
He glances over his shoulder. They haven’t seen him yet. They’re looming over someone else, someone he can’t see from here. From the way their heads angle down, he knows it’s someone much smaller than them.
“Please,” says the voice, “I’m just tryin’ ta get home…”
True-Blue’s heart catches in his throat. This isn’t his problem. He can just walk away. He should just walk away, if he values his hide.
“Oh we’ll make sure ya get home,” says one of the Timberwolves, smacking one fist into the palm of their other hand. “After we check your pockets. As a courtesy, of course.” They draw closer, surrounding their victim. A halfling boy, looking lost and terrified in the towering forest of their bodies.
Fuck.
“Hey!” he shouts. “Leave the kid alone!”
The Timberwolves turn towards him. Their faces are lean and sharp in the light of the street lamps. They look hungry.
"Hey," says one, "it's the baby dragonrider from the Losers Gym!"
The others snicker.
He clenches his fist. “Y-you assholes pick on someone your own size!”
They smile, drawing closer. He’s much more interesting prey to them. The halfling’s mouth drops open in surprise. C’mon, kid, get outta here, he thinks. Every instinct tells him to get the fuck out of here, but he’s not moving until the halfling escapes first.
“Hey, we’re not pickin’ on nobody!” says a corpse-pale dragonborn, spreading his clawed hands wide. “We just wanna make sure somebody pays the proper fees for trespassing on our territory.” He raises one scaly brow. “You gonna pay it?”
He palms a knife. "Don't f-fuck with me," True-Blue growls. "I don't want any trouble--"
The hand with the knife is yanked behind him. “Kids shouldn’t be playing with knives,” says another Timberwolf. "And they definitely shouldn't be out this late. What are you, five?" His captor twists his wrist sharply; True-Blue drops the knife as pain shoots up his arm.
Another voice snorts behind him. "Where'd he get a jacket this small? It's like my baby brother playing dress-up."
Fuck. He’s surrounded.
"Gimme your jacket and we'll let you go," says the voice behind him. He turns to face a young human woman whose severely-cut hair hangs over one eye. She smiles; her lipstick is a purple bruise color. "I think it'll look wicked on my baby brother!"
True-Blue glances across the street, but the halfling kid is gone. He does some swift calculations. There's at least seven of them, and they could beat him up pretty badly or even kill him if they have a mind to it. If he draws another knife, they’ll probably just escalate, and that would be a world of bad. He likes his jacket, but it's not worth his life.
He shrugs the jacket off. She grabs it by the collar and tugs it off, pushing him aside. He stumbles, bangs his knee on the cobblestones. Someone punches him in the cheek. He swears, reaching for one of the knives in his boot, but his hand is grabbed and yanked back, and he thinks, Fuck, I'm in for it now.
"Fuck you!" he shouts. He drives his boot heel into someone's foot, simultaneously throwing up a burst of Light to blind them. The grip on his arm loosens and he yanks himself free and bolts down an alleyway. He has no idea where he's going, but all that matters is that he's going away from them.
He turns a corner. It's a dead end. He can hear their shouts and footsteps gaining on him. His thoughts are a stream of panicked curses. He dives behind a stack of garbage bins, and tries to make himself small.
If they catch me, they will kill me. If they catch me, they will kill me.
The footsteps slow. "Where'd that little shit-weasel go?"
He wishes Key were here. He wishes he wasn't frozen in place, tucked behind a garbage can and hoping they don't notice him.
Another empty garbage can lays on its side between his feet and the wall. He debates crawling into it for extra protection. He imagines them finding him there, found out by the sound of his amplified breathing, and kicking the can along the cobblestones while he's still inside.
He stares at it. It amplifies sound…
He pulls out all his remaining knives, the tiny throwing stilettos he tucked away all over his person. Several were in his jacket, but he still has four on him. That's two for each hand. He stands up behind the full bin, and casts another Light cantrip near the ground. The light flares in front of him, throwing his huge shadow up against the brick wall behind him. Arms extended with fake claws, he roars as deeply as he can into the empty bin. The sound reverberates down the alleyway, monstrous and distorted and deep.
He hears cries of panic from the far side of the alley. "Holy shit, what is that?!" "I dunno, man!" "Let's get outta here--!" Footsteps take off running. He roars and snarls after them, waving his "claws."
Silence. The Light flickers off, and he sinks to his knees, willing his heart to slow down before it beats its way through his ribcage. He waits several minutes, damp leeching through his pant legs. Then he slips his knives back into their sheaths and gets to his feet.
The halfling boy stands in the alley.
True-Blue stares. “What’re you doing here, kid?” he asks. “You should be home by now! Why didn’t you run?”
The boy smiles, and bows, and dissolves into a shimmering cloud of golden glitter.
A slow clap sounds from above. He looks up to see a familiar face leaning out of an upper-story window of the tenement that forms one side of the alley. It's Garl Glittergold, and he's grinning.
"Good job!" he calls down. "I couldn't have done it better myself!"
True-Blue's cheeks burn. "Th-that was a prank?!" he cries.
Garl shrugs. "Well, I suppose you could call it that. 'Test' would be more accurate."
"A test?!" True-Blue's fists clench, and his tail lashes in fury.
"And you passed, with flying colors!" Garl winks.
"Good job, kid!" says a female voice from behind Garl's shoulder. True-Blue recognizes the voice from the battle-axe. "I'd throw down some confetti, but…no hands."
True-Blue wonders if it is, in fact, possible to punch a god in the face. Instead he turns and kicks the empty garbage bin, sending it rolling down the alleyway.
Another window opens. "Hey kid," a burly half-orc growls, "stop making so much damn noise! Some of us are tryin' ta sleep!"
True-Blue glares. "Well excuse me for having a conversation!" he shouts back. But when he looks back at the upper window, Garl is gone.
The half-orc points a finger like a club in his direction. "That's it, I'm calling the militia! You no-good kids are what's wrong with this neighborhood!" And he slams the window shut.
True-Blue winces at the crack of the wood frame slamming down. He shoves his hands in his pockets and scurries home. The last thing he needs is more trouble.
Nobody else bothers him on the way.
#
The regular pranks are one thing. The other thing that drives him up a wall is Garl's Jewels. He suspects Garl has given them a heads-up about him, because at every service over the past six months, at least one of them has waylaid him at the temple to talk about his future. Temple services are bad enough without having some well-meaning priest sitting down next to him and asking him if he's thought about becoming a cleric.
No, he doesn't want to be a cleric. No, he doesn't want to participate in the service. He doesn't want to become a temple architect, or an adventuring paladin, or a community greeter, or any of the many other temple-affiliated jobs.
He just wants to build machines. Machines make sense to him. They don't talk back or gossip or make him feel small. He can handle machines.
It's the day after Garl's latest stunt nearly got him shanked in a back alley, and he is not in the mood when he sees yet another gnome in the robes of a Jewel sit down in the pew next to him. "Answer's still no," he grumbles under his breath, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the storyteller duo performing on the central dais. "I've already heard the whole spiel." Right now, he doesn't have the energy to care about being rude.
The priest beside him is silent. The storytellers are performing the tale of how Garl acquired Arumdina, his talking battle axe. The story makes both god and axe sound far nobler than they are in reality. There's lots of thee's and thou's and high-minded proclamations.
"Quite a shiner you got there," says Garl's voice. Before True-Blue can even react, he feels a warm finger touch his cheekbone. The pain fades away. "There you go, my little Utirhant. All better!"
True-Blue looks at him, and looks away, sinking down into the pew.
Utirhant. An unanticipated roll of the dice. An unexpected move. He’s not sure how he feels about this name.
"I could've died," he mumbles instead.
"But you didn't," says Garl.
"Why are you doing this?" His fists clench in the pockets of his coat. "Is it because you want me to stop building machines and, and become a cleric? Is that what this is all about?"
"Hmm. Do you want to become a cleric?"
He shakes his head. "Not really."
"Then don't." Garl twirls his magnificent copper mustache. "Unwilling clerics are the worst. It's no fun for anyone involved, believe you me."
True-Blue frowns, and looks away. He guesses that’s sort of a relief. If only Garl would tell his priests to leave him the hell alone.
Garl hums thoughtfully. "Well then, Utirhant…who do you want to be?"
He shrugs. "I dunno. Not a cleric."
“Interesting answer. But I didn’t ask what you wanted to be. I asked who you wanted to be.” He leans back in the pew. “It’s a very important distinction.”
True-Blue doesn’t know how to answer this. He chews his lip. “I guess…normal? Can I just…be normal?”
Clocthi leans over towards him. "Who you talkin' to, Cloch?"
"Just prayin' to Garl," he says automatically.
"Oh. You gonna do the cow joke today?"
"Later," he says, also automatically.
Clocthi just shrugs. It's become almost a joke itself; for three years, he's asked, and for three years True-Blue has given him the same answer. True-Blue has long ago come to accept that he’ll never approach the dais. He’s too big a coward.
“Normal,” Garl muses. “Like everyone else here?”
He nods. “Yeah. Like…like everyone else.”
“You want to be the sort of gnome who tells jokes and dances and performs up on the dais? Is that it?”
He watches the storytellers finish their tale and bow. The congregation applauds enthusiastically, tossing coins onto the dais. “I guess so?”
They look so…confident. Like being up there is the most natural thing in the world.
Garl grins. “Well, here’s your chance,” he says.
True-Blue turns to ask him what he means, when Star Ruby Jella returns to the dais and picks up the microphone. She consults a scroll in her hand. “And our next performer is…” She smiles. “A first-timer to the dais. Please welcome Dwimly Drew True-Blue Utirhant Wrenchfell Cloch Davenport.”
True-Blue’s stomach drops to his feet. His mouth opens and closes, but he has no words.
Garl’s grin widens. “I took the liberty of adding your name to the line-up for today.”
"What?!” he finally squeaks. “I…I can't do this!" He glances between Garl and Jella and his family. His parents look surprised. A few of his siblings give him encouraging smiles and thumbs-up. Far from encouraging him, though, the sight just makes his heart wither.
"Are you scared?" asks Garl.
"Of course I'm scared!"
"Oh good! Only fools are fearless, as I like to say." He claps True-Blue on the back. "Have courage! You'll do fine."
"Just pretend everyone's naked," Arumdina adds.
"C'mon, Cloch!" Clocthi pipes up. "Tell 'em the joke!"
He sits frozen to the pew. Up on the dais, Jella is waving him forward. Others are turning to look at him. "I--I can't--"
Garl leans close to him. "Do you wish you were the sort of person who could?"
He squeezes his eyes shut. "Yes," he squeaks. Gods, he wishes he were brave.
Garl's lips twitch in a smile. "Bravery is merely choosing to take action. That choice is always yours to make." He lifts a finger and twirls it, one copper eyebrow arching. “And as a general rule, we should honor our family obligations.”
True-Blue has never been nudged by a god before. It’s not like being possessed, not like being yanked like a puppet on strings to do something he doesn’t want to do. Because this is something he wants to do. He wants to make Clocthi proud. He wants to impress his family, his warren. He wants to be brave.
It’s like making a decision and finding his heart beating more lightly for it. It’s like stepping onto a path and finding Garl already waiting there, beaming with pride. He’s halfway down the aisle before he realizes what he’s doing, his small courage burning like a coal inside him, Garl’s presence like a hand supporting his back. He’s on the central dais before he even thinks to be afraid.
And then he takes the mic, and looks out at his warren, and he is afraid.
He can't see either Garl or Clocthi in the audience. The overhead lights are so bright, the rest of the congregation seems like a sea of faceless shadows. He takes a deep breath, and lifts the mic to his face.
"So there's a, um," he says. "There's this farmer?" The lights are so bright, and everyone's staring at him. Sweat prickles on the back of his neck. "And this, um, this farmer is counting his…his cows, and."
His eyes are beginning to adjust. He can see Jella and the other Jewels watching him with thoughtful interest in the front row. Some of them are giving him encouraging smiles. Jella is nodding.
He keeps going. "And they're in a pasture, when he counts them." Shit, it's all out of order. "Grazing, you know? Like…cows do." He winces. Of course they know that. What is he even babbling? It's not even a long joke! It's just two sentences.
How could he be fucking it up this badly?
He blinks, eyes watering in the bright lights. He stares blankly at the microphone in his hands, but it offers him no aid. All it does is amplify his failure so the whole warren can hear.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, and shoves the microphone back into its stand. He leaves the dais, ignores Jella calling to him, ignores his family as he speedwalks down the aisle and out the door. He doesn't look up to see if Garl is still sitting in the pew, he doesn't look up to see the inevitable disappointment in Clocthi's face. He doesn't. He can't.
He's not brave enough.
#
There's a knock at his door. "Go away," he snarls.
The door opens, because of course it fucking does.
"Hey," says Clocthi.
True-Blue rolls over in bed to see his kid brother standing in the doorway. His anger crumbles into shame. "Hey," he says. "Um. Sorry for messing up your joke."
Clocthi pads over to the bed and sits next to him. "No, it was actually really cool of you! I just wanted to say, you know…thanks."
True-Blue shrugs. "Whatever," he mumbles into his pillow. "You're probably the only person in the whole warren who thinks that was cool. I couldn't even finish the joke."
"Oh no, the joke sucked," Clocthi agrees with a laugh. "But that wasn't the cool part."
True-Blue looks up from his pillow. "Okay, dummy, what was the cool part?"
Clocthi whaps him good-naturedly with the tip of his tail. "You're the dummy! Didn't you even notice?" He grins. "You didn't even stutter once!"
#
It's three in the morning, the city streets are empty, and True-Blue is performing his final checks on the engine. His dragon, the Streetslicer, is a strange creature in the garage, with an outsized engine and a patchwork chassis and rear wheels bigger than its front wheels. Its throaty engine seems too loud for its narrow frame. It doesn't even have a hood over the engine; he and Key had tried adding one, but quickly discovered that the over-juiced arcane core needed free-flowing air to prevent overheating. And so the dragon's mouth is permanently open, blue fire crackling in her jaw.
He glances around the garage. Other dragonriders are suiting up, getting ready to roll out to the racetrack. But Key isn't here yet, and their empty co-pilot seat is freaking him out.
"Hey, I'm here!" Key says, finally stumbling into the garage. Their face is pale and their eyes are red-rimmed, and the smile they give True-Blue is tired. They wipe their nose with a handkerchief. They're followed by a dwarf in a grease-stained jumpsuit.
"Key!" says True-Blue. "Are you…okay? You look awful."
"Yeah, man, I'm pretty sick, actually," they say. "I shouldn't even be out of bed but I didn't wanna leave you hanging." They lean against a worktable, as if the walk over here has exhausted them. "I can't race, TeeBee. I'm real sorry about that. But I got you a sub." They gesture to the dwarf.
The dwarf nods. “Falin Stonebite,” he says, thrusting out a callused hand. “Och, pleased ta’ meet ya.”
“True-Blue,” he replies.
“Falin’s a friend of a friend,” says Key. “He used to run the circuit back in the day, still works in the garages. He knows his stuff.”
True-Blue gives the dwarf a long, cautious look. He doesn’t like the idea of switching his co-pilot right before the race, especially with a stranger. But he’s not gonna force Key to race when they’re sick. And if Key trusts this person…
“Och, I’ll do ye proud!” says the dwarf, his accent thick as a mudslide. “This here yer rig? Quite a fine beaut, if I say so meself! Is that an amplifier ring ye’ve hooked up ta tha’ core?”
“Yeah,” says True-Blue. He glances up at Key, who gives him a thumbs-up. He sighs. “So, uh…Falin? You know what you’re supposed to do here, right?”
Falin grins through his thick beard. “Watch yer back,” he says. “Tell ye where ta go. Believe me, I been doin’ this since ye were in wee diapers!”
True-Blue shrugs. “Okay, whatever. Get in, or we’re gonna be late.” He slips into the front seat and straps in. Falin squeezes his way in, grunting; the back seat was made for Key’s tall, lithe frame, and while Falin will have plenty of leg room, the seat is a bit too narrow for his sturdy dwarven girth.
“Och, ready whene’er ye are, kid!” he says.
True-Blue glances at Key, who gives him a jaunty salute. He takes a deep breath, and starts the engine.
#
The race rules are, in theory, simple. Get to the finish line first. Don’t die.
The starting line is at one end of the city. The finish line is at the other. Between the two is a maze of ever-changing hazards, including the militia.
A dozen dragons growl at the starting line. Some are sleek and sinuous, others are riddled with spikes and claws. One gunmetal-gray dragon pulls up alongside the Streetslicer, and a familiar face leers at True-Blue.
“Hee-ey, baby dragonrider!” says the woman with the purple lipstick. “My kid brother loves his new jacket!”
His shaking fingers clench the steering wheel.
“Your parents know you’re out this late?” says her co-pilot, the lanky dragonborn with the corpse-white scales. “’Cause it’s way past your bedtime.”
“Och, pay ‘em no mind,” says Falin. “Ye know what ye’re doin’.”
The Stone of Farspeech crackles to life. “Current route is clear. Northwest Boulevard to Lilac Pass, left at the overpass, straight shot down Main to the canal.” The directions are given from a central location, and all the dragonriders hear the same message, so nobody has an advantage. Pinned to the back of the front seat is a city map that Falin will have to keep an eye on, directing True-Blue as the course changes.
A glum-looking drow stalks out to the starting line and lifts a red flag. “Start ‘em up,” he growls.
True-Blue closes his eyes and revs the engine. He feels it thrumming through his whole body. His heartbeat pounds in his ears. He’s nervous as hell, but there’s no place else he’d rather be.
The Streetslicer’s engine crackles with blue lightning. He smiles. “Let’s show ‘em what we got,” he says.
The flag drops. He hits the gas.
The Streetslicer launches forward, roaring. He’s pressed into the back of his seat by the sheer force of his launch, and he laughs, giddy as the street flies past him. A red dragon painted with flames nudges close on the right. He rolls the wheel left, just a little, just enough to give him space. The Streetslicer jerks left, and he swings right again to avoid crashing into an electric-blue dragon coming up on that side.
“Steady, girl,” he says, even though the machine can’t hear him.
“Och, yer steerin’s a bit whippy,” Falin comments.
The Stone crackles. “Pedestrians at the intersection of Northwest and Baker. Rerouting down Muleback Street.”
Falin grumbles. “Next left!”
True-Blue yanks the wheel. The Streetslicer fishtails in the curve, wheels screaming on the cobblestones. True-Blue wrestles with the wheel to straighten her out. It’s like managing a bucking horse.
There’s a screech of metal behind and to the left. “What was that?”
“Och, I think that there Timberwolf jes’ had a snack.”
He glances in the side-view mirror. He sees flames, smoke, the Wolves’ gunmetal-gray dragon streaking up the road towards him. Hungry for more.
He presses down on the accelerator. “C’mon, girl,” he says. He’s a little ahead of the gray dragon but he’s not sure if it’ll last—
A loud crack sounds on the right. The red dragon is right beside him, and the co-pilot has smacked the side of his windscreen with a hammer, sending spiderweb cracks through the glass.
"Falin, what are you doing?!" he roars. "Take care of that!" He banks left, trying to get some space between them.
"Oh right! That's me?"
"I thought you said you knew what you were doing!" He glances behind to see if the dwarf is doing anything at all to fight off their opponents. The red dragon is closing the gap again.
"Aye, an' I stan' by that!" says Falin, fumbling to stand up and draw his wrench like it's a weapon. "But these 'ere new machines're--"
"Less talking, more defending!" True-Blue cries.
"Look out!" the wrench shouts in a very familiar female voice.
True-Blue looks ahead of him and barely has time to yank the wheel to avoid slamming into a fruit cart. The wheels screech as he turns left down a side-alley. He's off-course now, driving blind.
He sucks in a deep breath, keeps driving. Tries to imagine the layout of the city, and what streets might get him back on track.
Behind him, Garl lets out a long breath. "Well," he says, "I guess the jig is up--"
"I already knew."
Garl drops his disguise. "You did? What gave it away?"
True-Blue grips the wheel like it's the only sure thing in his life. "Come on," he says through gritted teeth. "Key gets sick on the day of the big race? And they just happen to have a perfect sub?" He glances at Garl in the rear view mirror. "Every weird coincidence in my life comes back to you." He turns down Miller Lane, deftly guiding the Streetslicer past a line of merchant stalls. "And that accent was awful."
"He's got ya there, Garl," says Arumdina. “I told you we should’ve gone with the halfling disguise.”
Garl sighs. "Well. I suppose you want me to leave, Utirhant?"
True-Blue grinds his teeth together. "I can't do this race alone," he says. "You know that." He sighs. "Not that I'll have much shot at catching up now."
"Don't give up so easily, my Utirhant! I got you into this mess. Let's see what I can do to get you back on track. Take the next right, up here."
True-Blue turns the wheel and finds himself on a side-street he doesn't recognize. "Okay? Now what?"
He can hear the smile in Garl's voice. "Now, we make things more interesting."
The world unfolds around him.
The road splits in two mirror-images, both curving up along the sides of tenement buildings that are themselves tilting up and over his head, dividing into yet more mirror-copies. Straight lines become angles, brick walls slide around each other. It's like the city has become an intricate fractal puzzle-box, its panels opening up to reveal yet more cities inside it.
"Holy shit!" he screams.
"Language!" Arumdina sings. "Wait, who am I kidding? I'm a fucking battle-axe!"
True-Blue maneuvers the Streetslicer with desperate speed, trying to avoid careening into multiplying market stalls and piles of crates. "What are you doing?!" The dragon's side catches on the corner of a brick wall, and metal screams against stone.
"Making a shortcut, of course!" says Garl. "I suggest not panicking."
The road lifts up in front of him and he sails over a gap of starry night sky. And then the Streetslicer plunges through a veil of water before landing on the cobblestones again.
"What the hell was that?!"
"Elemental Plane of Water," says Garl. "My mistake! Cutting through the planes like this can get a little dicey."
"Oh gods…"
"Yes?"
True-Blue ignores him, turning the wheel wildly, weaving through a cluster of identical fountains blooming in the center of a plaza. The Streetslicer's back wheels fishtail on the last turn. He yanks on the steering wheel, trying to straighten out as the world spins around him. "I'm gonna die I'm gonna die I'm gonna die--!"
He bangs his elbow on the door as the dragon stops her spinning and screeches forward. The cobbles transform into a brick wall beneath them. He's driving up the side of a tenement building, straight towards the sky. He hits the roofline and he's in the air, and the world vanishes in a cloud of blue dust.
Time slows to a crawl. He hangs suspended between the seconds. He can see every mote of dust drifting past his cracked windscreen. An hour passes between each heartbeat, each breath. The Streetslicer's motor hums.
"Am I…dead?" he asks, staring at the dust.
Garl chuckles softly behind him. "This is the Demiplane of Time, not the Astral Plane. You're not dead, my Utirhant. But you are almost alive."
His throat is dry. "Almost?"
"So close. So close to being fully alive." Garl's voice is just at his ear, or inside his head, or inside his heart. "You can do this, Utirhant. You know what this machine is capable of. You know because you've built her yourself. And she knows what you're capable of, because she has built you. You've built each other. Listen to her, Utirhant."
The Streetslicer's engine purrs. Lightning crackles like dragonbreath. Too-large pistons pump like a heartbeat.
He can feel every night he's spent with her. Every moment planning, building, tweaking. Reacting to her quirks, kicking his toolbox in frustration and storming away and coming back and fixing her till she hums, till she's complete. Till he's shaped his heart around her and accepted her as his. Every modification feeds smoothly into another. Every bizarre workaround flowers through her form in strange and unexpected beauty.
He breathes. In, out.
The dust parts. The world has flipped, and he's at the top of a road pointing straight down.
He grips the wheel, and slams the accelerator.
The Streetslicer plunges with a triumphant shriek like a diving falcon. The city rebuilds itself around them, buildings blooming and bridges leaping over each other and he drives, she drives, they drive--down the side of a building and across the side of another and on the underside of the cobblestone roads. A bridge springs up beneath them, a curving span that launches them into the sky and catches them on the other side. And True-Blue and the Streetslicer dance through it all, effortlessly, True-Blue deftly maneuvering her through this sliced-up puzzle-box city as it realigns and settles itself around them. They sail down a corkscrew alley that unspools into a straight line, and then they're streaking into a broad boulevard, right into a whole pack of roaring dragons.
A sickening crunch of metal brings True-Blue back into the present. The Timberwolves' gray beast has devoured another opponent, the red dragon, right in front of him. He banks right to avoid the flaming wreckage. The heat stings his eyes.
The Streetslicer roars, building speed on the straightaway, closing the gap between him and the lead. A green dragon with brilliant yellow stripes pulls up behind him, the halfling co-pilot leaning out to aim a club at the glass right next to True-Blue's head.
A cloud of golden butterflies bursts out of the Streetslicer's back seat. The halfling falls back into his seat. "They're in my eyes!" he screeches, and the green dragon veers as the butterflies cover the driver's windshield.
"Whooo!" Garl sings. "Take that!"
"Yeah, fuck you, assholes!" Arumdina shouts as their opponent spins away.
"Um, is it cheating to have a god in my backseat?" True-Blue asks.
Garl snorts. "That was just a cantrip," he said. "I'm all for bending the non-existent rules in all-out death races, but I don't want to make it too easy for you."
"When have you ever made things easy for me?"
Arumdina laughs. "He's got you again, Garl!"
The Streetslicer pulls up between the gray dragon and the electric blue one. True-Blue can see the finish line at the far end of the boulevard. It's a clear shot, down the wide cobbled street and over the wide stone bridge that spans the canal.
The pale dragonborn leers at him, revealing a mouth full of pointed teeth. "Hey, it's the little baby dragonrider!" he crows.
"Time to put him down for a nap!" says the driver, flashing her bruise-purple smile. "Light him up!"
"With pleasure!" And the dragonborn lobs something at the Streetslicer. Not at the windshield, not at True-Blue or his co-pilot, but straight into her jaws. The arcane core bursts, belching out smoke and sparks. The crackling blue light sputters dangerously, a candle about to be blown out.
The Streetslicer slows as the blue and gray dragons pull ahead. He slams the accelerator. "Come on, come on!" He hits the dial that controls the amplifier ring, and the etched runes glow, but the core only gives another half-hearted sputter. The engine whines as it winds down. "No, no, no!"
He knows every inch of the Streetslicer. He knows every quirk, every bizarre mod. The engine's winding down but it hasn't stopped yet, because its overlarge pistons have too much inertia. If he shocks the core with a burst of power all at once, it may be enough…
He releases the ignition button, letting her coast. He turns the amplifier ring's dial all the way up. He takes a deep breath. And he slams the ignition and the accelerator at the same time.
The core bursts to life. The runes flare so brilliantly that he blinks against the light. The Streetslicer leaps forward, roaring, flinging him back against the seat.
But the power boost is momentary. The core flashes and sputters, in danger of going out again.
"Come on, girl!" he says. "You can do this!” They've come this far. They're so close to the end. “We can do this!"
The core crackles again, blue lighting coursing through it. And--
True-Blue blinks, not sure what he's seeing. Weaving between the flashes of lightning are thin threads of white light. They wrap around the core, and there's a white-hot blast and a triumphant roar--and the Streetslicer launches forward, the core glowing as bright and steady as a star in her jaws.
He doesn't have time to wonder what he's just seen. He's tearing down the straightaway, but the gray and blue dragons are nearly at the bridge, ramming against each other.
Their bumpers catch. They twist and spin out of control together, slamming against the stone pillars on either side of the bridge. Flames burst from both dragons.
A pile of fiery wreckage blocks the bridge.
A pile of lumber forms a ramp nearby.
“Bravery is a choice you can make,” says Garl.
He doesn’t know if the ramp is a coincidence, or a gift from Garl, left over from the realigned city. He only knows that if he brakes right now, he can stop in time. He has a split second to decide, less than the length of a heartbeat.
He hits the accelerator.
The Streetslicer revs, her core shining as she tears her way down the cobblestones. He grips the wheel, braces himself. “Come on, girl!”
They hit the ramp. It crumbles under their weight but they’re up and over, they’re catching air, they’re sailing over the canal—
They land on the other side with a hard, axle-crunching jolt. The Streetslicer’s wheels catch dirt and she spins, taking them past the finish line in a whirlwind of dust.
She comes to a stop. The engine dies down, the star extinguished.
For a moment, there is silence. Just the empty city street and the soft shift of dust through the cool air.
"Whooo!" Garl cheers from the back seat. "I haven't had this much fun in a long time!"
"That was some pretty sweet driving, Emissary," Arumdina admits. "Utirhant the Unexpected, indeed!"
True-Blue is silent in the front seat, fingers clutching the front wheel, white-knuckled. His whole body is rigid, his heart is pounding in his throat, and he feels like he'll collapse if he loosens his grip. He sucks breath in through his clenched jaw.
The city still spins slowly around him. He doesn’t—
What just happened?
"Utirhant, you did great!" says Garl, leaning forward to clap him on the shoulder. True-Blue gasps at the contact.
Garl's mirthful laughter dies down. "You're not hurt, are you?" he asks.
True-Blue pulls his goggles off and sags into his seat. "Why did you choose me?" he asks, his voice rough and barely audible. "I'm not…" He wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.
He hears Garl sigh through his nose. "Listen," he says, and his voice is so gentle, so kind. "Divination isn't really my…thing. I can't see the future and my Jewels aren't known for prophecy. But I have a feeling--call it a hunch, call it divine inspiration, what have you--that you're going to be a very important person one day. Someone that the gnome race is going to be very proud of."
"But I'm not," says True-Blue. He hates how much he sounds like he's whining, to a god of all beings. He turns to face Garl, kneeling on the seat cushion, hands now gripping the headrest. "I'm not gonna be important. I'm…I just wanna be left alone to build machines and…" He squeezes his eyes shut, and is mortified to find tears slipping down his cheeks. "Can't you…pick someone else?"
"Pick someone else?" Both Garl's copper-bright eyebrows lift. "'Fraid no can do. I've already told the whole pantheon. I've written your name into the Book and everything." He leans back in the seat, hands clasped behind his head as if True-Blue's feelings mean nothing before his own personal convenience.
True-Blue pinches the bridge of his nose. Faint traces of a long-ago vision return to him, of Garl toasting him at a table full of gnomes, his whole pantheon all cheering for him. The thought makes him sick with embarrassment.
"But you only chose me as a prank," he says, throat tight. "Because I'm the last person in the world who should be your emissary." He bites his bottom lip, looks away. "I build machines and you break them, I try to race and you—you flip the city upside-down?! Like this is just some lark to you? I didn't want--I don't wanna be just a joke to you!"
Garl's eyebrows lift. "You're not a joke! You're a very important person to me."
"Kid, don't sell yourself short," Arumdina adds.
True-Blue sinks low in the seat, pressing his forehead against the leather padding. He wishes he could keep sinking, through the bottom of the Streetslicer and into the earth. "Please, just…can't you pick someone else?" he asks. "Someone who fits better. Someone who can deal with all this! Someone who likes pranks and who can tell jokes and who can make people like them!”
Garl is silent for a long time. True-Blue squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in the scent of leather and engine grease.
He hears the creak of the backseat as Garl leans forward. “You’ll always be my Utirhant,” he says, very gently. “But what that means is up to you.”
True-Blue takes one more hitching breath, and looks up. But his co-pilot seat is empty, and he is alone.