The Battle Run was not a race—it was a war.
A roaring, chrome-plated, no-holds-barred war of greed, violence, and machine.
The entry fee alone was ten times higher than the normal races. But that wasn't the real price. The real price was blood.
To survive, you needed power, precision—and a vehicle that could withstand hell itself.
Because in the Badlands, a weak engine was a death sentence. A cheap frame meant a quick funeral.
The stronger your ride, the hungrier the others got.
The moment Neo rolled into the pit astride his Rayfield Galatine S9 'Avalon, and Jackie Welles thundered in on his Arch Nazare, the crowd's collective gaze turned molten.
No one had to say it aloud, but every racer there knew—those two bikes were worth more than the entire starting grid combined.
The Arch alone cost around 170,000 eddies, and the Rayfield? The base model was over 300,000.
Machines of that caliber didn't belong in the Badlands. They belonged behind corpo glass and laser fences.
And that's why every outlaw, nomad, and merc in the arena suddenly had the same thought.
Kill them. Take the bikes.
Jackie glanced around, feeling the tension thick as gun oil. "Hermano, I think we just became the main attraction."
Neo chuckled softly under his breath. "Correction. Our bikes did. Out here, faces don't mean shit. Only the chrome they ride."
Jackie smirked. "Yeah, I know these vultures want our wheels. But hey, we came out here to unwind, right? If someone's dumb enough to try—well…" He cracked his knuckles, grin widening. "I'm not the forgiving type."
Neo's voice was calm, but sharp as a blade. "Looks like being gentle's off the table today."
Up above, a rough nomad voice boomed through the loudspeakers.
"Ladies and bastards! Looks like tonight's Battle Run just got a helluva upgrade!" the announcer roared. "We got not one, but TWO beauties out of Night City itself! The Arch Nazare! And—holy chrome—the brand-new Rayfield Galatine S9 'Avalon! Fresh off the line!"
The crowd howled.
"Who's ready to see if these city legends can survive the Badlands Blood Run?"
The cheers became animalistic. Laughter, curses, jeers—half of them already betting on who'd die first.
Neo could feel their stares, heavy and feral, like wolves circling prey. But his face was perfectly still.
He sat astride his Rayfield, visor down, body relaxed, every muscle a coil of waiting precision.
And then—
"Hey. You shouldn't be here."
A woman's voice. Clear, even, confident.
Neo turned his head.
A Thorton Caliburn—desert-tuned, matte black—rolled up beside him. The tinted window slid down, revealing Panam Palmer.
Her eyes were sharp beneath the low sun, her tone calm but warning. "You really shouldn't bring a Rayfield to a Battle Run. Not unless you've got a death wish—or a full replacement policy."
Neo smiled beneath his helmet. So fate was in a playful mood today. "Appreciate the concern. But don't worry. No one's taking my bike. Or my head. If they try…" He tilted his head slightly. "I'll make sure someone prays for them."
Panam snorted, amused despite herself. "Suit yourself. You'll need more than luck out here."
"Luck's for the desperate," he replied.
She smiled faintly, rolled the window up, and eased her Caliburn forward.
Neo watched her go, that faint smirk still playing on his lips.
First meeting: formal. Second meeting—maybe something more.
The engines around them began to rumble like thunder. One by one, racers took their positions.
The loudspeaker crackled again.
"All racers, to your marks!"
"Ten-second countdown!"
A hundred engines growled in unison. Dust billowed. The air vibrated with violence.
"Ten!"
"Nine!"
"Eight!"
.
.
.
"Three!"
"Two!"
"One!"
BANG!
The flare gun cracked the sky open, and hell followed.
Engines screamed. Sand exploded beneath tires. The racers launched forward like bullets from a cannon.
Four-wheelers, bikes, off-road beasts, even modded trucks—all roared down the open stretch, kicking up plumes of grit and chaos.
Neo's Rayfield howled as he twisted the throttle, the engine purring like a god's heartbeat.
In seconds, he surged to the front, a streak of white fire cutting through the storm.
But in a race like this, being in front made you a target.
Behind him, half a dozen vehicles locked onto his tail, their drivers grinning like hyenas.
"That's the Rayfield!"
"Don't wreck it too bad—just kill the driver!"
"Split the parts later, boys! Leave the frame intact!"
Neo caught their voices through the comm interference, his lips curving faintly.
So predictable.
For now, he held his speed steady, matching pace with the lead off-roader beside him. He could have overtaken easily—but where was the fun in that?
"Let's see what you've got," he murmured.
Then—impact.
A reinforced off-road rig swerved hard from the left, slamming toward him with murderous intent. Its driver—a scarred Nomad with teeth filed to points—grinned through his open window. "DIE, CHROME BOY!"
The Rayfield shuddered, but Neo didn't flinch. He let the vehicle come closer. Closer.
Too close.
The rules forbade firearms—but fists, metal, and steel were fair game.
Neo's eyes narrowed. His voice dropped, calm as a storm before the strike.
"Armament Haki… harden."
Black lightning rippled across his left leg, invisible but alive. The next moment, he shifted his balance, leaned toward the impact, and—
BAM!
His foot shot out like a cannon blast, slamming into the side of the Nomad's armored door.
Metal screamed. The rig jolted sideways, tires skidding, frame bending from the sheer kinetic force.
The driver's grin vanished as his vehicle spun out, flipping twice before bursting into flames.
Neo straightened, one hand still steady on the throttle. Dust and fire swirled in his wake.
His voice, quiet through the comms, carried on the wind like a promise.
"Next."
Jackie's laughter crackled in over the link. "¡Madre de Dios! Hermano, you just kicked a truck off the road!"
Neo's tone was ice. "He asked for it."
Behind them, the rest of the pack hesitated for a split second.
Then greed won again.
Engines roared. Tires screamed.
And the real Battle Run began.
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