Hunted

Act 6; Soulhart's Theatre

The streets were heavy with traffic, a situation which made him glad he owns a scooter and could easily scoot between cars and waste fewer time than he would had he taken the car his parents bought him after he asked for an Initial D game.

Another stroke of luck was the fact that Soulhart's Theater was a stone's throw away from their school, and would have been an easy drive if he didn't have to turn on so many bends.

He couldn't help looking around when he hit another red light. So many cars even for a Sunday. Was Mariposa really that big a deal? He knew a few students assigned to the Arts Department; he should ask them about it sometime.

His sight stopped to a group of teens no older than him on motorbikes giving him funny looks, their grins reaching ear to ear in a sardonic way that made his brow twitch. Well, why wouldn't they laugh at him? He wore a tux worth ten thousand dollars and the type of crash helmet that exposed the lower half of his face, covering his eyes with protective goggles and strapped under the chin. His scooter wasn't exactly new, but he had the school's Auto Club maintain its sleek wax every other week, so it didn't look old, either.

Noah spat to his left on the asphalt by his feet, and revved the engine up just to show off. He didn't have a clue about engines, to be honest, but the Auto Club took the initiative and fixed up the ride from the brand of the wheels' rubber to the last screw on the headlight. To be perfectly honest, he had no idea what his scooter was capable of, but at that moment, he wished it was a lot.

The punk wooed his challenge, and the guy with the piercing on his left eyebrow—who seemed to be the leader of the pack—shooed the girl in the strapless dress sitting behind him and revved up his own engine. The girl took the seat by another dude with a nose ring.

What the heck am I doing? Asked the pragmatic nerd in him. But the competitive jock residing with it merely moved closer to the edge of his seat and stared readily at the traffic light overhead, waiting for it to signal.

The light drifted from red to orange, he found himself clutching at the handles, the vehicles of the intersection stopping.

Then it turned green, and the leader of the pack sped through the street, his cronies following closely behind, everyone who was maneuvering their bikes too focused on anything else, but their pinup girls were all in awe behind the seats of their drivers.

For the last thing they saw was a blur of black and white disappearing from the street.

A few minutes later, Noah was catching his breath in front of Soulhart's Theater, having no idea what in the name of all that was holy happened to him. He remembered pushing his scooter to its limits, and the next thing he knew, he was skidding through the streets, barely escaping an accident by a hair's length.

He thought he was gonna die somewhere back there, but for some reason, somehow, he was still alive.

He gulped down a lump in his throat, the blood draining from his face.

He just survived one accident after a dozen others to get to Mariposa's last show until next month, but was it worth it? After all, Zack was still definitely gonna kill him. And if not, the Heir would do something that'd make him wish he was dead instead.

He wondered whatever it was that prompted him to follow that persnickety king in the first place.

Charisma? That couldn't be all, could it?

Admiration? Nah. How could anyone admire someone that's just as old as them?

Then what?

He looked up to a valet who coughed to get his attention.