Neon Hunger- Short story

NEON HUNGER 

The artificial twilight of Grid-12 unfurled across the horizon — a moribund glow fractured by the skeletal silhouettes of steel monoliths. Within the sanctified expanse of the Vault, where obsidian floors mirrored the void itself, a singular resonance disturbed the oppressive quiet: the deliberate cadence of metal-heeled boots against polished stone.

Cassian stood before the Cycler. The machine — a marvel of biomechanical synthesis — exhaled a low, resonant hum, its chassis pulsating with an inner luminescence that mimicked a sentient heartbeat. To the uninitiated, it was a mere conveyance. To him, it was a living extension of his sinew and marrow, a mechanical avatar of his indomitable will.

He pressed a gloved hand against the cold, liquid-metal contours of the frame. The surface trembled beneath his touch — not with mere kinetic response, but with something perilously close to consciousness.

“You crave it… as I do,” he intoned, his voice a low benediction swallowed by the vast chamber.

The Cycler answered — a guttural purr, as though affirming an ancient covenant.

They called him a zealot. A madman ensnared by the narcotic of velocity and the siren call of the raceway. But Cassian understood what the others could not: the grid was not an arena — it was a crucible. A domain where flesh and steel merged beneath the immutable laws of momentum and mortality.

Tomorrow’s Ascension Race awaited — a clandestine rite of passage reserved for those audacious enough to wager existence itself. No accolades. No spectators. Only the immutable truth of speed, and the immutable finality of consequence.

Cassian gazed into the fractured visor of his helm. The reflection that met him was stark, gaunt — a visage carved by obsession and calcified resolve. He appeared less a man than a specter; a revenant bound to the machinery of his own making.

“I will not command the roar,” he murmured with grave deliberation. “I will become it.”

He ascended the machine. The Cycler’s engine ignited — an abyssal growl, reverberating like the subterranean moan of a world cracking beneath its own gravity. Chromatic veins of light surged along its frame in violent, arterial pulses. The foundation itself seemed to recoil in somber deference.

And in that solitary conflagration of man and machine, Cassian transcended the dichotomy. He was no longer rider nor ridden. He was singular. Absolute.

When the Vault’s gates yawned open, the darkness received him like a final absolution.

A solitary figure, consecrated by purpose — pursuing a race none had ever survived… and none but he would ever comprehend.