The first rays of faux-sunlight filtered through the cracked dome above Neon Borough—District 17 of Earth's last semi-functional vertical city. It wasn't real sunlight, not anymore. Just the filtered glow of UV simulators desperately trying to mimic a world long lost to climate failures and orbital debris. But to MeMe, the light was enough. She stretched on the floor of her cluttered single-room cube, her endless light-blue hair cascading in tangles over wires, synth-pillows, and scattered plushies. It took five minutes to comb just the left side of her head. She gave up halfway through, as usual.
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She blinked her star-sparkled eyes—soft points of glowing silver dancing in her irises—and reached for her pink-laced hoodie. Too tight at the hips. Again. She tugged and twisted until it settled awkwardly over her pear-shaped frame. "Normal girls fit into their hoodies," she mumbled to herself, frowning. "Normal girls don't knock over furniture when they walk."
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A vending catbot chirped and tossed her a foil-wrapped breakfast cube.
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"Thanks, Mr. Whiskers," she said, taking a bite. It tasted like synthetic strawberries and sadness.
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She wasn't born here. Not really. MeMe's origin was lost between dimensions, the result of an experiment, or a mistake, or maybe a miracle. Nobody quite knew. Least of all her. All she knew was she didn't belong—not on Earth, not in the sky cities, not anywhere. Every time she tried to join something—school, clubs, meetups—someone whispered behind her back. Too weird. Too bright. Too much.
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Still, she smiled. Always smiled.
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It wasn't until she stumbled over a glitching drone delivery box outside her door that her fate changed.
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Wrapped in static field plastic, a crumpled newspaper fell out—the real kind, paper and ink, like from old vids. MeMe blinked in confusion. "What are you?"
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The headline hit her like a plasma bolt:
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"THE IRON CIRCUIT RETURNS: A WISH FOR THE WINNER"
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Her fingers trembled as she smoothed the wrinkled sheet across the floor. There it was—images of monstrous vehicles blazing through space storms, jagged asteroid belts, molten deserts. Racers from across the galaxy, some scarred, some legendary, some long thought dead.
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And beneath the article's body in bold lettering:
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"One wish. No restrictions. Anything."
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Her eyes widened. Anything. Not credits. Not fame. A wish. Her thoughts spiraled.
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What if I wished to be normal?
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What if I wished to be human?
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What if… people stopped staring? What if I could finally fit in?
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Mr. Whiskers meowed in digital confusion as MeMe stood up too quickly, nearly toppling the vending unit. She clutched the paper to her chest, breath quickening.
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"I'm doing it," she whispered, almost afraid to say it out loud. "I'm going to enter. I'll win. I'll wish it all away."
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Of course, she had no vehicle. No weapons. No AI system. No combat training. No allies. Just thrift-store boots, a busted hover-skateboard, and unshakable optimism.
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But that was MeMe—naive, determined, heart too big for her body and dreams too wide for the stars.
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So she set off, the paper folded tightly in her bag, the dream sharper than a laser blade.
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Mexico.
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Not the Mexico she had read about in old netbooks—the one with blue oceans and jungles thick with life. This was Neo-Mexico, a dusty, heat-scorched launch compound built on the bones of ancient ruins and corporate scrapyards. The skies above churned with storm-scarred clouds and orbital trails, and all around her, the air buzzed with anticipation and machine static. Engines roared like gods caged in steel.
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MeMe stood at the edge of the massive starting arena, her travel cloak flapping in the dry wind. Her boots were stained from the hundred miles she walked and glided and begged her way through, just to reach this place. Her hoverboard had died outside a rusted-out solar farm three days back. She hadn't slept in nearly two.
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Still, she was here. Somehow.
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The racer intake line stretched for miles, a neon chain of metal giants and monster pilots. Some looked like walking tanks. Others shimmered with cybernetics and scars that told a lifetime of war. A few barely looked alive. And then there was MeMe—a wide-eyed girl with tangled hair, legs that didn't fit her body, and a jacket two sizes too small.
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People stared. They always stared. Some snickered. Others rolled their eyes. One cyborg pointed and said, "Lost, sweetheart?"
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MeMe smiled awkwardly. "Nope. Just… early."
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She clutched the newspaper—the same one she'd carried from her apartment like a holy relic. She had folded it, smoothed it, read it a thousand times. The headline had faded, but the wish at the end still burned in her chest.
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At the sign-up station, a tired AI bureaucrat with holographic lips blinked at her.
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"NAME?"
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"MeMe."
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"SPECIES?"
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"Um. I dunno. Just… MeMe."
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"VEHICLE TYPE?"
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"I don't have one yet. But I will. I promise."
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The AI paused longer than it should have. Its scanners swept over her, evaluating everything from body mass to retinal patterns to probability of survival.
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"ACCEPTED."
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"DO NOT DIE."
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She nearly cried on the spot.
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A wristband snapped into place on her arm, glowing a faint purple with her race ID. She looked at it like it was magic. Like it meant she existed—that she wasn't invisible anymore. That someone—something—had finally said yes.
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MeMe spent the next day wandering the launch city: a bizarre bazaar of alien mechanics, black market dealers, fuel-chugging engineers, and racers doing last-minute adjustments on their beasts. She slept in an alley under a neon taco sign, the burrito vendor giving her free food out of pity or curiosity. She woke to the sound of someone being punched through a vending machine.
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And still, she waited.
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Each day the anticipation thickened, like storm clouds swelling before the downpour. Racers tested their vehicles, fans arrived in ships as large as moons, and the Galactic Broadcast drones hovered everywhere, recording interviews and leaks for the trillions of spectators watching from across the stars.
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She had no fame. No backers. No armor.
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But she had a reason.
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And as she sat alone on the edge of the stadium wall, legs dangling over the edge of the launch pit, she whispered to herself:
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"I don't need to be the strongest. I just need to make it to the end. Then… I'll make my wish. And everything will be okay."
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Behind her, the gates of the Iron Circuit rumbled as the countdown to launch day began.
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Around her, thousands of racers flexed metal muscles, cracked knuckles, and revved up with cybernetic humming. Smoke coiled from the exhaust vents of nearby launch pits, and drones hovered above like hungry vultures with cameras.
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And then, it rose.
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A towering, golden automaton emerged from the center of the Iron Circuit's launch arena, taller than any building MeMe had ever seen. A mechanical giant with a spiral of satellites rotating around its skull, and arms folded like a judge awaiting judgment. When it spoke, its voice rang not through speakers but through the very bones of every being present.
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"WELCOME, RACERS. YOU STAND ON THE PRECIPICE OF GLORY, RUIN, AND THE INFINITE."
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MeMe's heart beat like a trapped star in her chest. She whispered, "This is really happening..."
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The giant's eyes lit up in four blazing colors—red, green, blue, and black—and the ground shook.
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"CHOOSE YOUR DESTINY. CHOOSE YOUR VEHICLE. ONLY FOUR DESIGNS. EACH A TRIAL."
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From massive underground vaults, sleek platforms rose—each holding rows of glimmering, dangerous machines. Racers surged toward the edges to see. So did MeMe, gripping the rail with trembling hands.
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The giant raised one hand, and from its palm, holograms blazed into the sky:
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Type I – Velocity Class (Blue)
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Blazing fast. Jetstream-grade acceleration. Can outrun nearly anything.
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Weakness: Light armor. One good hit can take it out.
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Type II – Fortress Class (Green)
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Heavily armored. Near-impenetrable. Built like a tank.
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Weakness: Incredibly slow. Easy to outmaneuver.
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Type III – Ghost Class (Black)
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Invisibility enabled. Perfect for stealth and ambush.
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Weakness: No weapons. Requires finesse, not firepower.
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Type IV – War Class (Red)
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Well-balanced. Comes with high-grade weaponry.
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Weakness: Burns through space-fuel fast. Risk of stalling mid-leg.*
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MeMe gulped. "We… have to pick those?"
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"WHEN THE GATES OPEN, YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES TO CLAIM YOUR MACHINE. IF YOU MUST FIGHT, FIGHT. IF YOU MUST BLEED, BLEED. IF YOU FAIL—PERISH IN THE DUST."
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The racers tensed. Muscles coiled. Weapons drawn.
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MeMe's eyes darted between the vehicle zones—each one glowing in its assigned color. She didn't know what to choose. She barely knew what she was doing here. The stealth one seemed clever—but it couldn't protect her. The tank was safe—but too slow. The war model was terrifying.
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But the Velocity Class—fast, sleek, agile. It reminded her of herself. Not strong. Not armored. But always moving. Always trying.
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Maybe speed was her only real weapon.
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The gates before them hissed, steam erupting from pressure valves. Sand blasted the crowd. The arena dimmed like a held breath.
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"THE GATES WILL OPEN IN—3…"
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MeMe stepped forward, heart pounding.
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"2…"
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A tear traced her cheek. She didn't know if it was fear or hope.
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"1."
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The gates exploded open.
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All four classes of vehicles stood gleaming on their pedestals, bathed in colored light. A storm of racers erupted forward, shouting, charging, shoving, gunning for their pick.
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MeMe stumbled, then bolted.
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Lasers cracked in the air. Smoke bombs exploded. Someone screamed. The whole arena became a battlefield. Racers tackled each other to the ground, slammed fists into helmets, pulled blades from boots. One vehicle was already set ablaze by a sabotage grenade.
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She dodged under a fighter's leg, spun past a mech with a missile arm, and sprinted into the Velocity Class zone—bright blue lights pulsing like a heartbeat.
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A sleek, compact car sat near the far corner. Aerodynamic, like a bullet wrapped in chrome. Engine glowing soft cyan. Untouched. Overlooked.
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She skidded beside it, heart pounding.
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It looked fast.
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Not powerful. Not scary. But fast. Like it could carry her away from everything—judgment, fear, shame. Like it could fly.
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She touched the door, and it whirred open with a welcoming hiss.
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"WELCOME, PILOT."
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"DESIGNATION: STREAK-9. VELOCITY CLASS. HOPE YOU LIKE SPEED."
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She smiled, breath catching.
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"I just want to catch up."
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She slid into the cockpit.
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3:00 MINUTES UNTIL LAUNCH.
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As MeMe sat in the driver’s seat, hands gripping the steering wheel, she glanced around the interior of the sleek trial vehicle. The engine hummed softly, the tinted windows cloaked her in a strange silence. Her heart thudded with anticipation.
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Suddenly, the passenger-side door clicked open.
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A man stepped in.
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He was about average to slightly above-average height, with a medium-athletic build. His skin was a warm, rich brown, but what stood out immediately were his striking features—snow-white hair that fell in jagged layers, and sharp, purple eyes that gleamed with confidence. Under his left eye was a small black tattoo-like logo that read: RO RO.
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His arms were clearly robotic, sleek chrome with intricate plating and subtle whirrs with every movement. His teeth gleamed oddly—as if they, too, were cybernetic. And, frustratingly enough, he was extremely handsome. Unfairly so.
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MeMe blinked in confusion. “U-uh, excuse me, sir… t-this is my car.”
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The man didn’t even flinch. He casually leaned back in the seat, folding his arms. “Yeah, I know. I was going for this car too, but you beat me to it,” he said coolly, flashing a grin. “So I guess that means we’re teammates.”
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“We are…?” MeMe tilted her head, baffled.
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“Yup. Course we are.” He stretched his arms behind his head. “Hey, AI—are we allowed to panther up with people or what?”
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The neutral voice of the AI responded promptly.
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“There are no rules preventing players from teaming up. You may form alliances freely. However, the statistical likelihood of a stable team formation is approximately 0.0000000000001%.”
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MeMe’s eyes widened. “Whoa. That low?”
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“Yeah, so enjoy this moment, alien girl,” Ro-Ro said with a smirk, wagging a finger at her. “It’s rare to find someone lucky enough to team up with me.”
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MeMe smiled awkwardly. “Well, I’m MeMe! Nice to meet you.”
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The man nodded once. “My name’s Rocco. But you—you—call me Ro-Ro. Got it?”
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MeMe blinked again. “Yes, Rot-Rot.”
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Ro-Ro narrowed his eyes, then groaned loudly. “No no no, you idiot.” He leaned over and knocked lightly on her forehead like it was a door. “ROOOOO-ROOOOO. Say it with me. Not Rot-Rot. What the hell is a Rot-Rot? Sounds like a damn gremlin.”
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MeMe giggled. “Sorry! Ro-Ro.”
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“Good,” he said, sitting back smugly. “Now, I’m gonna make sure you don’t crash this damn thing. You drive like a squirrel with a sugar rush.”
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“Hey!” MeMe pouted, but she couldn’t help smiling. He was rude, sure—but there was something oddly charming about him.
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In her mind, she wondered:
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A human wants to team up with me? I thought all humans hated aliens… but he’s different. Ki
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nda loud. Kinda rude… but kinda fun, too.
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Ro-Ro cracked his knuckles, eyes fixed ahead. “Alright, MeMe. Let’s win this damn thing. And try not to annoy me too much, yeah?”
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“Okay!” she chirped.
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AI: "Trial syncing in 3… 2… 1..."
ns216.73.216.238da2
