“You ever have that dream where you’ve got a huge final exam, and you suddenly realize you haven’t gone to class all semester? I do. Except it’s less of a dream and more of a flashback.”

  Present day.

  “I'm a failure, I'm an idiot! I am the worst!”

  My name is Jett Fulgen, and on the day of my twenty-fourth birthday, the last thing on my mind was becoming a magical ancient fire warrior. I’d be lucky just to keep my job.

  I was a twenty-something loser. A dyed-in-the-wool underachiever. You ever hear a teacher or other authority figure sigh in that soul-crushing way and say “You have so much potential?” That’s me. They’re talking about me. Ooh, and I’ve got a better one too. “How could you just throw it all away?” Or my personal favorite: “You just don’t want it badly enough.” That’s when you know you’re an advanced loser. You actually almost won, but then you blew it. Success is nothing more than a bump in the road of your loserdom.

  “Freaking idiot!” I muttered to myself.

  I continued my tirade as I sprinted down the sidewalk. My backpack jostled on my shoulders, and my mom’s old locket jingled around my neck. It was a scorching summer evening in the Grand City of Gigopolis, but the entertainment districts of the sixth level were bustling. That meant I had to weave around well dressed couples, all of whom glared at me like the bum I was. A cab pulled up to the curb, and the idiot inside decided to blindly push the door open just as I zoomed past. Not missing a beat, I leapt and vaulted over the door, kicking the hat off the oblivious passenger as he straightened. I then tucked into a forward roll and kept running.

  “Hey, watch it, asshole!” the passenger yelled. I glanced over my shoulder to see him clutching a crumpled hat as he helped a woman out of the cab.

  “I was watching!” I shouted back. “Why do you think you still have a head?”

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I checked it. It was my roommate.

  WALLY: Are you almost there? Are you gonna make it?

  JETT: almost

  WALLY: Let me know if you need me again

  JETT: i won’t

  WALLY: Just let me know

  JETT: ass

  I grumbled as I brushed off my tropical shirt and generally tried to waft away the lingering ozone and burned rubber smell of my recent travels. I even tried a quick spray of deodorant, but it didn’t do much while running full tilt. It did get in my mouth though, resulting in a few moments of uncontrolled coughing, staggering, and another close encounter with a car door. This one clipped my arm, hurting like hell and sending me into an uncontrolled spin. I yelped and engaged my shoes on instinct. The boosters cut my friction with the ground enough for me to correct myself and avoid a fall, and I slid for a moment as I rotated. Once I was facing forward again I resumed my sprint.

  “Arrive by five, arrive by five!” I scolded myself. “Moron! Can’t you just do that?” Of course not. Instead I’d barely left by five, got a little “distracted” during the commute, and had to take a detour around a freaking police blockade that I may or may not have caused. The cops were starting to notice that “Red” was sliding around this area, so I’d have to be more careful next time I visited this neighborhood. If there was a next time.

  Still, it was only 6:05. Just five minutes after my actual set was supposed to start. There was still a chance, right? “Sorry I’m late, folks,” I muttered as I ran, trying to workshop my late arrival into an opening joke. “Traffic was nuts! A cop was trying to pull over one of those damn street skidders. I would’ve been even later, but I didn’t pull over.” Hmm, too blatant? I hinted at my “hobby” during my standup, but I didn’t want to arouse any real suspicion.

  I rounded a corner, still trying to refine the joke in my head, and Holt’s Comedy Club came into view. The front door was shut. My heart sank. I saw a figure leaning against that door. My heart sank even lower.

  It was Lila, the waitress. The cute one. Petite, green eyes. Seemed nice too. I figured I’d ask her out if tonight went well. But unless she was waiting out here to usher me in the moment I arrived…

  She wasn't. She looked up from a study of her nails as I innocently walked the last few steps, trying to act like my lungs weren’t burning from the run.

  “Shouldn't you be working?” I asked, running a hand through my deep red hair.

  “Shouldn't you?” Lila replied.

  Ouch.

  “Um, traffic. Cops. Damnskid. I mean, my bus broke down. You know how it is.”

  Lila sniffed conspicuously. Either the deodorant hadn’t worked, I’d used too much, or she just wasn’t buying it.

  I puffed out my cheeks. “Anyway, my bad. I admit it, I’m a dick and I didn’t plan well. But I’m here, and I’m ready to go on. I’ll talk to Mr. Holt, take full responsibility, even take a pay cut or whatever if that’s what he wants. Don’t worry about it.”

  Lila’s expression shifted from annoyance to pity. A muffled but familiar sound leaked through the double doors behind her. Laughter.

  “Oh,” I said. “Shit. I don’t suppose dinner is still wrapping up and dessert was hilarious?”

  Lila sighed. “Ellington’s doing both sets.”

  My mouth went dry. “The headliner?” Crap. Marcus Ellington was an up and coming comic, already difficult for a little place like Holt’s to snag. Rumor had it he was also temperamental as hell. Great.

  “And he was pissed, and he demanded double the fee. Mr. Holt almost went through the roof.”

  I scoffed. “I would too! What a dick, am I right?”

  “Look Fulgen, you screwed up. It’s over. Just be glad I talked Darius out of meeting you out here personally.”

  “I could take him,” I said reflexively. “I mean…” Shit. Darius Holt, the owner, had plucked my sorry ass out of an open mic night a month ago, made me an opener, and even hinted he'd invite an agent friend in to hear my material. Suddenly it had looked like my career problems—and more pressingly, my back rent—might be a thing of the past.

  But I’d blown it, of course, just like everything else. At the first show I’d arrived early. At the second, right on time. Last week I was late. I’d still gone up on stage with time to spare, but Mr. Holt was one of those tight schedule people, and he’d been pissed. I’d apologized, and I’d meant every word. He seemed to get over it and mentioned that agent again. He said he might be in town at the next show. Tonight’s show.

  Moron!

  “And it gets worse. Ellington’s ad-libbing the first set. Even if you could somehow bring Darius around, which you can’t, the whole house is gonna be against you by now.”

  Lila pulled one of the doors open a crack, just enough that we could hear Marcus Ellington’s gravelly level three accent booming across the club.

  “But enough about his dick stick! Here’s reason number seven why Jett Fulgen is a piece o’ shit!”

  My jaw dropped slightly. “Oh. Oh.”

  Lila bit her lip. “Yeah. He got wind of your career history, so he looked you up. Now he’s roasting you.”

  Inside, Ellington continued. “He had good grades, but he dropped out of high school! He got a scholarship, but he dropped out of college! He won Rookie of the Year in the freaking Grand City Skid Circuit, then ragequit before the end of his first season! The man can not finish anything! I'd hate to be his girlfriend!”

  The traitorous crowd roared. “A sexual prowess joke,” I said. “Brilliant. That’s worth double.”

  Lila looked unimpressed.

  Yeah, few things tank your chances at a pity date like having your junk publicly insulted at least twice—and let’s be real, probably seven times with three more to go. Doesn’t really set the mood.

  “So, yeah,” said Lila, letting the door shut again. The crowd’s laughter still leaked through.

  “You know, I’m actually flattered I’m famous enough to roast.” I chuckled weakly. “Ok look. Maybe, maybe I could get one more chance? I’ll wait out here and talk to Mr. Holt at the end of the night. I’ll clean Ellington’s shoes with my tongue. Seriously. Anything.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Listen, Fulgen. Let me tell you something as a friend.”

  Ouch again.

  “You’re a funny guy. You really are. Your material is good. You’re relaxed on stage. You’re a bit extra at times, but you’re honestly one of the better openers we’ve had. And that’s not just me; Darius thinks so too.” She shrugged. “You just… don’t want it badly enough.”

  Ah, yes. There it was. I nodded and gritted my teeth.

  “Don’t take that the wrong way,” she quickly added, like there was a right way. She played with a stray strand of hair. “It’s just, you know, it’s more demanding to make standup a career than you think. It’s better to figure out early that it isn’t your thing. So really, you should count this as a win.”

  “Oh, sure. I’ll hang it above my mantle. But look, my rent is due and my landlord is chomping at the bit. I’m desperate. I’d be willing to do unspeakable things for Mr. Holt for a few minari. Like wash dishes.”

  “I’m sorry, Fulgen. I’m supposed to tell you that if you try to get inside Mr. Holt will, quote, ‘strap his ass to the griddle and turn it on high.’”

  “And he won’t let me wash some dishes first?” Lila raised an eyebrow. I cleared my throat. “I get it, I get the hint. I’ll just… have to figure something else out.”

  “Well, good luck, Fulgen. I hope you find something that works for you, I really do. I mean, half of your jokes are about skidding. Maybe you could go back to that or something?”

  I smirked at that. “Who says I ever left?”

  I screamed internally as I slumped away from Holt’s. The door squeaked shut behind me as Lila went back inside. Twenty-four, and already a washed up professional skidder and a failed comedian. Ah, who was I kidding? I’d also been fired from flipping burgers and running cash registers. Why did I think I could aim high again?

  You just don’t want it badly enough. It gets tiring, hearing people say you don’t want things you want. But it’s damn hard to prove them wrong. From an outsider’s perspective? Sure, I was a slacker. I’d blown the comedy thing off. I kept showing up later and later. Today I’d just sat there, glued to the couch, until I knew it was too late to bother. I could have at least called in sick, but I didn’t. I came anyway, way too late to make a difference, like I was attending my own funeral. A glutton for punishment.

  Why? That was an answer I struggled to answer even to myself. My best guess? It was simply getting too real. My boss heaping praise on me. An agent. I was actually on my way to becoming a smartass on a professional level. Who knows? Maybe even getting a half hour of fame, since I already had fifteen minutes under my belt.

  And I had wanted it. I wanted it so bad I freaked out. I was paralyzed with want. I tortured myself with thoughts that I didn’t deserve it. I boiled on the inside, even as I stared into space. Wasn’t that wanting it “badly” enough? How could it get any worse?

  So as usual, I’d flamed out. Failed on purpose, you might say. At the same time, it also felt like I was locked inside my own brain, banging to get out, watching some other “me” fail on purpose just to stick it to me.

  But I didn’t know how to explain that to a temperamental comedy club owner or even a hot, mildly sympathetic waitress. So sure. “I just don’t want it badly enough” works. It’s snappy. I could put it on a damn t-shirt. Next time I blew a big chance I wouldn’t even have to explain myself. I could just point at my chest.

  Over the course of my reverie I had wandered out of sight of Holt’s. I was nearing the edge of the cell, one of the divisions in Gigopolis’s vast three-dimensional grid. I looked up at the sky projection several stories above my head, noting that the light was getting pink. I looked across the way at the next superskyscraper over. A large clock face between two levels showed that it was past 6:30.

  I sighed. It was time for plan B. I hated plan B. I also hated that I was looking forward to it. I glanced about and found a suitably empty alley. As I slipped out of sight of the thinning pedestrian traffic, one last realization struck me about my conversation with Lila. Darius. She’d called Mr. Holt “Darius” multiple times during that exchange. She never used first names. I’d been barking up the wrong damn tree, hadn’t I?

  I wasn’t sure why, but that spun me up. I felt angry and oddly vindicated. It was stupid, and I knew it. “Yeah, good riddance Holt,” I muttered. “You offered me a shot at glory, but you were also dating your own waitress. Really dodged a bullet on that one.” Still, I latched on to that stupid feeling because it gave me some semblance of determination. I got my phone out and tapped on a familiar contact. As it rang I checked my surroundings to make sure I was alone, unzipped my backpack, and pulled out a well worn grey hoodie.

  “Hello?” said a deep voice at the other end of the line.

  I put the phone on speaker and set it on a nearby crate as I unbuttoned my tropical shirt. As always, I touched my mother’s locket and the tattoo over my heart—a habanero pepper with beady cartoon eyes—before I moved on. “Hey Squid, is that you? It's Jett again.”

  There was a slight pause. “Good to hear from ya, boy. What can I do for ya?”

  On went the hoodie, and I carefully tucked my locket under the fabric. I pulled out a pair of fingerless gloves. “Listen, you've got a race going tonight, right? Do you happen to have any cancellations?”

  I tied a black bandana around the lower half of my face. A sleek helmet with a face shield went on my head next, and I switched the call to its built-in headset. I then took three pieces out of my backpack and screwed them together. A thick front section, cylindrical but tapered near the front. This joined to a central handle with throttle triggers at the front and back. Finally came the capsule-shaped back, with its control panel and exhaust port. All in all, it resembled a high tech asymmetrical pugil stick with a built in kinetic drive rocket engine. Which is basically what it was.

  My pride and joy, my solace in woe, my sin and vice. My skidstick.

  Squid hadn’t responded yet. I began to feel nervous. Was he going to turn me down too?

  “I do,” Squid finally said. “I can slot ‘Red’ in, but I need you here in half an hour.”

  Half an hour? The race wasn’t ‘til nine. That was unusually early, but I couldn’t complain. Maybe my old manager just wanted to catch up?

  “I can manage it,” I said. “Thanks, Squid.”

  “Anytime,” he said, though not as warmly as I’d hoped. “Take care, Fulgen.”

  I hung up, slipped my phone in my pocket, and snapped my runeband on. The three symbols on the silvery wristband began to glow as I felt the power flow into me. I instantly felt my muscles harden, my awareness increase. I felt myself becoming stronger, faster. In a small way, superhuman.

  My band had two might runes and one alacrity. Without at least one might rune, it was almost impossible to use modern skid equipment without dislocating a shoulder or blowing out a knee. A blue bar appeared near the top of my field of vision: my aethervoir gauge, showing me just how much I could use the runeband before my internal reserves petered out. It was nearly full.

  I tapped my heels together, and my skid shoes came to life, their kinetic boosters humming. A blue glow emanated from my soles, and I felt the ground grow slick beneath me, like hot butter in a pan. Like being on roller skates or a skateboard without those pesky wheels getting in the way. I pulled my hood up over my helmet and grabbed my skidstick.

  Bullet Train was almost two meters long. She was probably one of the most powerful sticks in her class, though it was hard to measure after Wally had modded it so much. I pressed a few buttons and started her up. She hummed to life, and another blue glow emanated from the exhaust port at the rear. Already the kinetic drive was kicking out that sweet industrial smell. Like a cybernetic dumpster fire. My pulse quickened.

  I still had this, at least. One thing I could turn to no matter how shitty life became. I couldn't skid professionally anymore, of course, but there was still cash to be had in the underground amateur league, so to speak.

  But this wasn't about the money. This was freedom. This was what I “wanted.” The speed, the finesse, the completely unreasonable risk.

  I touched another button, connecting Bullet Train to my phone and helmet and opening a direct line to Wally. He answered immediately.

  “‘Ass?’”

  “I was running and my fingers slipped.”

  “So you screwed up another job?” he asked, helpfully.

  “Um… yeah, Wall. I screwed up. I’m fired. Speaking of which, did you find a job?”

  “A couple of nibbles, nothing promising.” Which was his answer almost every day. Losers attract. “So, plan B?”

  “Plan B. And he wants me there early. Can you draw me a path and hack some lights for me?”

  A brief pause on the other end. “You’re good to go, Jett. Knock ‘em dead.” This was followed by a slurping sound as Wally sipped an energy drink.

  A street map showed on Bullet Train’s screen, a GPS style line tracing my route, with arrows showing where I needed to descend in the city’s three-dimensional structure. I had to move several cells over and two levels down. I hung up for the moment and took my stick in a two handed grip, right hand forward and braced to accelerate, left hand further back and ready to steer.

  “All right,” I told myself, “birthday’s not over yet. Time to get myself a present.” I squeezed the triggers.

  Bullet Train screamed. I leaned back like I was in a tug-of-war with a god, or at least waterskiing behind one—just without the water, or the skis—as I blasted out of the alley, banking right and sliding down the street. Pedestrians gawked and shouted. Horns honked as I accelerated toward highway speed, sliding along with my rocket stick pulling me, and only my rocket shoes between me and eating pavement. I gave everyone a friendly wave and shot toward the edge of the cell and one of the bridges. Within moments I was over the abyss.

  It was easy to forget that Gigopolis was no ordinary city when standing among the urban buildings of your typical cell. Oh sure, a ginormous support pillar in the distance would remind you that something was amiss, but it didn’t really hit you until you got clear of the canopy and saw the city’s mind-blowing scale for what it was. Here on level six I was nearly a mile above ground level. The city’s many superskyscrapers still stretched up four more levels. Ordinary skyscrapers took off from there, sometimes reaching another hundred stories. The real sky was a forlorn, distant thing that peeked through cracks in a canopy of towers and spires.

  I freaking loved it. Gigopolis was truly a skid punk’s playground, if one got past the fact that sliding along public roads at fifty miles an hour was highly illegal. Which, fortunately, I had. Every possible kind of ramp and bridge spiderwebbed between the towers, giving way to sublevels with normal urban streets and buildings up to ten stories tall, suburbs stacked densely like plates, the occasional “supercell” that was one giant blocky building, walled all the way around, and the even more occasional quad, where four cells combined to house things like amusement parks and stadiums.

  I zoomed across a high railed elevated highway and into another urban cell, weaving through the streets. Wally, true to his word, was monitoring my position and hacking into the local traffic signals as I went, turning them green in my favor a few seconds earlier or later than normal so I’d rarely have to worry about cross traffic as I blasted across an intersection. I scared many bystanders half to death, but only half. I always gave pedestrians a wide berth or aimed for gaps I knew I could easily clear, careful never to put anyone in real danger. I took pride in that. I might have damaged the odd bit of property during my wild street skidding days, but I never hurt a soul.

  Unless one counted pride. A siren sounded behind me, and I glanced back to see lights flashing. Multiple sets of lights. I grinned impishly behind my bandana. Now the fun could really begin. I’d have to lose all my police tails while I was still a good distance from Squid’s, but that was all part of the challenge. I let go with my left hand long enough to give the officers behind me a salute.

  “Thanks for the escort, boys!” I called.

  Then I squeezed the throttles harder.

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