Volume 2: The Sunvault Massacre

The train car vibrated gently beneath us, the low hum of motion blending with the soft static of the overhead speakers.

“Here we go, folks! The moment you’ve all been waiting for Solaris’s most celebrated holiday, the Sunvault Grand Prix!”

The announcer’s voice echoed through the cabin, rich with rehearsed excitement. I glanced up just in time to see my mechanic roll his eyes.

“All twenty racers are en route to the surface, headed for the Carlotti starting line,” the voice continued. “And for those unlucky enough to be stuck underground—don’t worry! This year’s Grand Prix is being broadcast in full via anonymous sponsorship, with live holograms and drone footage projected across Solaris!”

I stared at nothing in particular, caught in my head again.

“You alright, Gideon?” my mechanic asked.

I blinked and sat up straighter. “Yeah. Just… zoning.”

I shook the thought loose before it rooted too deep. I didn’t want a slow start. Not today. Not with Juno and Sylvaine technically out of the picture.

The train car was wide and stripped down, industrial and echoing. Steel flooring. Exposed metal beams along the ceiling. My V2 stood locked in the center of the car, secured with four heavy clamps that hissed faintly with every shift of the track. We’d been riding for two and a half hours. Above us: layers of earth, concrete, and finally, the sky.

“We’ll be arriving soon,” my mechanic said, glancing at the time on his wrist display.

“Right,” I murmured, leaning back into the seat again.

When the train finally slowed and hissed to a halt, we stepped into the blinding surface sun. A wave of dry heat hit me first. Then the sound.

Buzzing.

Everywhere.

It was like we’d walked into a nest.

I looked up—dozens of drones hovered in the air, blinking red and green, wings spinning so fast they blurred. I stopped cold.

“Gideon,” my mechanic said gently. “Relax. Just drones.”

He patted my shoulder, and we started walking toward the tents.

I led the V2 alongside us, trying not to clip anything or anyone. It was a sponsor-backed bike, and a beautiful one at that—sleek, mean, and painted to turn heads. I didn’t want to scratch it before the starting line.

Countless tents blanketed the outskirts of Carlotti, their fabric rustling in the breeze like the city had grown a second skin. Under every flap of shade, people worked. Grease-stained mechanics barked orders. Racers paced. Wrenches clanged. It smelled like burning coolant and victory sweat, like heat-soaked oil.

My tent was quieter than most.

I sat in the shadow of our tarp, staring at the dry-cracked floor beneath me while my tech adjusted something near the undercarriage of my V2. He was humming something old and offbeat.

“You know,” he muttered without looking up, “I know you have a fear of flying objects, but you’re gonna have to grow a pair. There’s other things to be scared of.”

I didn’t answer. Just kept tapping my foot, fast and sharp, like I could drill a hole through the desert.

The line was still out there, clear and sharp, glowing red across the sand, marking the border between chaos and calculation. Fifty feet long, shimmering like heat distortion. Just past it, nothing but scorched dirt and blue sky. The old village of Carlotti waited at the horizon, quiet and broken.

The starting line.

“Fifteen minutes until the race, everyone!”

My tech stood up and stretched. “You think she’s here in person?”

“Who?”

“Your crush?” he teased.

I gave him a dead look.

“Milo,” I said flatly. “That’s not funny.”

He just laughed, wiping his hands with a cloth that used to be white.

“Honestly, dunno. She was the mechanic for that Pacifist guy, right?”

I nodded slowly. “But he’s disqualified, right?”

“Yep. Can’t race.” He leaned back dangerously close to the bike. I winced.

“It’s about that time folks! All racers line up on the red line!”

I walked the V2 out to the far right of the grid. Being on the end meant I was closest to the old underground rails. If I cut straight through, I’d hit the Solaris tunnel network first. The others would have to adjust their angles, drift wide. It was an advantage assuming the sand didn’t eat me alive first.

The rest of the line filled fast. Racers checking straps. Kicking wheels. Stretching like soldiers before battle. I rolled my shoulders and checked the grip of my gloves.

And then the announcer’s voice boomed from the speaker tower behind us.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Solaris and beyond, it is with great pride we announce this year’s Sunvault Grand Prix! Let’s introduce your contenders!”

The crowd in the grandstands roared. The announcer began calling names with showmanship that belonged in an opera.

“Aleya Voss, riding the Obsidian Arc!”

“Grimm Orun, the Terror of Dune Eight!”

“Nova Raine! Cassien Vale! Ferro Klee! Andelus Skye!”

I caught glimpses of them across the line, flickers of helmets, flashes of chromed bikes. Someone revved their engine and the sound rumbled in my chest like thunder. I glanced down at my own ride. Dark blue, silver and white, smooth as water, mean as hell. My sponsors wanted elegance. I gave them power.

“The Pacifist!”

I froze.

That shouldn’t be possible.

I looked five bikes down and there it was. That old V2. Sylvi’s machine. It gleamed beneath the sun like someone had scrubbed it back to its bones.

I saw them. Sylvaine and Juno, whispering to each other, heads bowed over a folded slip of paper. Sylvaine was yelling something at him.

Then they were running.

Straight to the commentator’s booth.

More names were still being called.

“Emil Drex. Vanta Kross. Zara Murn.” But the announcer suddenly choked.

“Uh—”

I heard a voice, slightly distorted, come over the loudspeakers.

“Here, read this.”

A pause.

Paper ruffling.

“…Unfortunately, The Pacifist has been disqualified for disclosed reasons.”

The reaction was immediate. Murmurs rippled across the starting line. Some racers glanced at one another. Some just scoffed. Others tensed like a trap had just been sprung.

“But—” the announcer continued, trying to keep up, “There will be someone taking his place!”

A beat. The sound of the crowd rising.

“This new contender is one of the best.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“He is the Exorcist to the Pacifist, a mentor.”

Gasps. Some scoffs. No one spoke.

I watched Juno and Sylvaine walk back onto the line. Behind them was someone new. Taller. Shoulders squared. Their helmet was tucked under one arm.

They moved slow, but with weight.

“A 100% win rate,” the announcer said, quieter now. “They’re not known as the Exorcist to those close to them.”

The figure raised their head.

He put on the helmet.

And the two beside him, Juno and Sylvaine, stepped aside.

They didn’t get on their bike.

They simply walked past.

“He is not a he,” the commentator continued.

“Those who know of her wrath call her...”

“Sylvaine D’Armond! The Golden Tyrant!”

The crowd erupted.

I couldn’t hear my own thoughts.

My mechanic said something. I didn’t catch it.

I just watched her walk, slow and deliberate to the V2. She mounted it, Juno flashed a thumbs up, and she threw one of her hands in the air, then pointed at him, I couldn’t see her facial expression she had, because of her goggles and a hood over her head.

That cloak she’s wearing, that’s Juno’s, they’re sharing clothes?

A shrill whistle rang out across the desert plain.

“All mechanics, clear the track!” the announcer barked. “Back to your stations, drone usage is mandatory!”

I stood near the far end of the line, visor half-lowered, and watched as figures peeled off the starting grid one by one.

That’s when I saw him.

Juno.

Walking away with the other mechanics. Tablet in hand.

I blinked.

Wait. That meant… he wasn’t racing.

I snapped my eyes five bikes down.

Sylvaine.

Still mounted. Still helmetless. Only goggles and a hoodie.

She had taken his place.

They switched.

Is that even allowed?

Before I could finish the thought, Milo—my mechanic—put a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t go easy now,” he said, smirking.

I said nothing.

Then came that sound.

THUMP.

A low, mechanical pulse rolled through the sand like a heartbeat. It vibrated through my boots, through the V2. I looked around—but no one else seemed to notice. Or care.

Then—

Engines roared.

Every V2 lit up like it was alive, turbines whining, stabilizers flaring as racers gripped their handlebars and adjusted their stances.

“Racers ready!” the commentator called, his voice sharp and theatrical over the speakers. “The countdown begins now!”

A flicker of static filled the air.

“Three!”

I caught movement from the corner of my eye. Sylvaine—she wasn’t looking forward. She had one hand to her earpiece, brow furrowed, her mouth moving.

“…I’m not doing that—are you stupid?!”

“Two!”

“One!”

She fell silent.

Her hand dropped from the earpiece.

She gripped the V2 handles tight, muscles tense, jaw clenched like a locked vault.

I did the same.

“GO!”

The starting line erupted.

A hundred thousand pounding screamed across the sand as racers surged forward in a spray of dust and light.

I pushed off hard, already slicing left to set my line, eyes darting to my flank for positioning.

But something was wrong.

She wasn’t there racing.

I looked left, nothing. Looked back,

Still at the line.

Still not moving.

Her V2’s engine was on, steady, untouched.

Her grip hadn’t changed.

But she didn’t launch.

The crowd around the edge of Carlotti started murmuring. Drones swooped overhead, trying to capture the moment.

Then the announcer’s voice cracked in confusion:

“What… is the Golden Tyrant doing?”

I had no answer.

And neither, it seemed, did she.

The sand was vibrating. Golden Tyrant was the best he could come up with?

“Three!” the announcer called, full of drama.

I winced as the earpiece crackled again.

“Sylvaine DONT FUCKING MOVE.”

“What?! You’re hurting my ear.” I hissed under my breath, adjusting my earpiece so no one else could hear me. “I’m NOT doing that, are you stupid?!”

“WHATEVER YOU DO—“

“DONT.”

“MOVE.”

“Two!” The commentator continued counting down

I stared straight ahead, knuckles whitening on the grips.

“DONT MOVE UNTIL I GIVE YOU MY SIGNAL.”

No time to ask what he meant. I was already too far in, too far forward, too committed.

“One.”

“Go!”

The racers launched like bullets, dirt and heat and plasma kicking up behind them in a sonic wave.

I stayed.

The V2 rumbled under me, engines humming, but unmoving. Like it was holding its breath, same as me.

I could feel eyes on me. Drones hovering. Voices rising around the edge of the track.

I knew what they were saying. What they’d all be saying in about three seconds.

“Is she broken?”

“Is she scared?”

“She flinched.”

“She choked.”

But I didn’t move.

And then—

it happened.