Aron rubbed the fuel tank that sat just below his chest. The 650cc, twin-cylinder, light-weight classed feat of race engineering that he sat atop was prepared for the mountainous adventure that lay ahead; he prayed one last time, hoping that he was ready as well. The third-signal sounded, instructed everyone that the race was fifteen minutes from starting.
……….”You are a fool!”, Omerik spat, snatching the protective glove off one hand, as he reached into his belt-bound pouch. He unveiled a sturdy, field ready syringe and stabbed the creature who shook the greywoods down to their roots, with another roar. This one was less of a roar and more of a painful cry of distress………..
…..T’Rik squeezed his knees tighter into his chest; he was a shivering ball, using the one-size-fits-“everyone under six-three” sleeping bag as a blanket and trying with all his might to squeeze in any remaining warmth the tent had. The only bright side of the night-time freezing temperatures was the fact that come daybreak the planets surface would once again rise to well over forty-three degrees Celsius. Similar to desert climates back on Earth…..