*Author note*
You can skip this page/chapter as this has nothing to do with the current story you are reading. I watched the 2008 Speed Racer movie and really it wasn't appreciated as much as it should be.
This story is 2 chapters of a Warhammer 40k/Speed racer Universe. It takes place during the great crusade and the world We focus on for now has been out of contact of the Imperium for generations. The tech stage is the 21st centurish with certain aspects devolved or more advanced to fit.
Chapter 1:
(Pov Speed Racer)
The massive elevator descended through layers of civilization like a mechanical beast burrowing deeper into the bowels of Meridius Prime's central hive city. Each layer they passed told a story of stratified society - from the pristine spires of the nobility at the top, through the bustling commercial zones, down past the cramped worker districts, until finally arriving at the industrial underbelly where the forgotten masses eked out their existence.
Speed Racer pressed his face against the reinforced viewing panel, watching the crude graffiti and flickering lumen strips blur past in the darkness. At eighteen, he had seen most of the upper levels of the hive, but never ventured this deep. The familiar scent of his father's workshop - oil, ozone, and metal - had long since been replaced by something far more acrid: recycled air thick with industrial fumes, sweat, and the unmistakable odor of human desperation.
"Level One approaching" announced the elevator's mechanical voice, its tone flat and emotionless. "Please mind the gap between the platform and the elevator floor."
Pops Racer stood beside his son, his massive frame somehow seeming even larger in the confines of the elevator. The man who had once been the chief engineer for Meridius Prime's most prestigious racing corporation now wore simple coveralls bearing the logo of Racer Motors - his own independent venture. His weathered hands, scarred from decades of working with temperamental racing engines and volatile fuel cells, gripped the elevator's safety rail with unconscious strength.
The elevator shuddered to a halt, and the doors groaned open with a hydraulic hiss that seemed to echo through the vast chamber beyond. As they stepped out onto the platform, Speed felt the weight of hundreds of eyes upon them. The first level of the hive was a maze of makeshift shanties, industrial workshops, and jury-rigged living spaces that stretched as far as the eye could see. Massive support pillars, each the size of a city block, disappeared into the smoggy darkness above.
The underhive was a lawless place where violent gangs ruled and the only currency that mattered was working technology. It was home to criminals, outcasts, and those who had been exiled from the upper levels, where might made right and atrocities went unpunished every day.
Workers in grimy overalls hurried past, their faces hidden beneath respirator masks that filtered the worst of the toxic atmosphere. Children with prematurely aged eyes ducked between the adults, some carrying tools or spare parts that looked far too heavy for their small frames. The constant drone of heavy machinery created a symphony of industrial noise that reverberated through the metal corridors.
"Stay close" Pops murmured, his voice barely audible over the cacophony. "And try not to look like you don't belong."
As they made their way through the crowded thoroughfare, Speed became acutely aware of the attention they were drawing. Gang territories overlapped here, and powerful lower-level gangs sometimes received legitimization from planetary governments to serve as unofficial defense forces. Speed could see the subtle signs - graffiti marking territorial boundaries, clusters of young people wearing similar colors or symbols, the way conversations stopped when certain individuals passed by.
"Is that...?" one of them whispered from a group clustered around a modified racing bike.
"Can't be. What would he be doing down here?"
"I'm telling you, that's Pops Racer. Look at the size of him."
"And the kid... that's gotta be Speed."
They continued through the maze of corridors and walkways, past workshops where sparks flew from welding torches and the sound of metal on metal rang out in steady rhythm. Speed glimpsed workers repairing everything from industrial lifters to what looked like modified racing vehicles - though these bore little resemblance to the sleek machines that competed in the official circuits.
"There" Pops said suddenly, pointing toward a structure that stood out from the surrounding chaos.
The building was larger than most of the improvised structures around it, and significantly more permanent. Unlike the jury-rigged shanties that dominated the level, this establishment had been built with purpose and care. The walls were constructed from reinforced steel plates, and the entrance was marked by a sign that flickered with neon lighting: "OMNIS OASIS" in letters that had seen better days but still managed to cast a welcoming glow in the perpetual twilight of the lower hive.
As they approached the heavy entrance doors, Pops stopped abruptly, his expression growing thoughtful as he stared at the familiar facade.
"Haven't been here in about eight years now" he said quietly, more to himself than to Speed.
Speed's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Eight years? You used to come here regularly?"
Pops' weathered face creased into something between a smile and a grimace. "It's worn down a bit since then, but for the first three layers of the city and a bit of the fourth, this is where racers come to chat. Gang members too, but they mostly keep to themselves unless there's business to discuss."
As if to illustrate his point, Speed noticed several figures near the entrance who didn't quite fit the profile of racing enthusiasts. They wore the telltale signs of gang affiliation - modified clothing with specific color schemes, cybernetic enhancements that looked more like weapons than medical necessities, and the kind of alertness that spoke of constant vigilance. A few people recognized Pops and deliberately moved away, while others seemed oblivious to their presence entirely.
"Pop" Speed said, his voice dropping to match his father's hushed tones, "exactly why did we come down here? What kind of people are we dealing with?"
Pops reached for the heavy door handle, pausing for a moment before responding. "The kind of people who still remember what racing used to be about, son. Before the corporations took over everything."
The door opened with a heavy thunk, and immediately the sounds from within became clearer. Voices raised in animated discussion, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter, and underneath it all, the ever-present background hum of machinery. The air that wafted out was noticeably cleaner than the surrounding atmosphere, carrying scents of real food and genuine beverages rather than the synthetic substitutes that dominated the lower levels.
As they stepped across the threshold, Speed felt as though he was entering another world entirely. The interior of the Omnis Oasis was far more spacious than the exterior had suggested, with a high ceiling that disappeared into shadows above. The walls were decorated with an eclectic collection of racing memorabilia - some pieces looked like they belonged in a museum, while others appeared to be recent additions from local underground racing circuits.
Tables and booths filled the main floor, occupied by groups of people engaged in intense conversations. Speed could see mechanics with grease-stained hands gesturing animatedly as they debated engine configurations. Pilots still wearing driving suits sat hunched over drinks, their helmets resting on tables beside them. In one corner, a group of younger people clustered around a holographic display showing what appeared to be race footage, their voices rising and falling with the action on screen.
But what struck Speed most was the diversity of the clientele. While the upper-level racing establishments tended to cater to a very specific demographic - wealthy sponsors, corporate executives, and their carefully groomed drivers - the Omnis Oasis seemed to welcome anyone with a genuine passion for racing. He saw people of all ages, from teenagers barely old enough to hold a racing license to grizzled veterans whose scars told stories of decades behind the wheel.
The bar itself was a masterpiece of improvised engineering. What had once been a standard pattern dispenser unit had been modified and expanded into something that could serve dozens of different beverages simultaneously. Behind it, shelves lined with bottles of varying origin and quality stretched up toward the ceiling, and the bartender - a woman with cybernetic arm enhancements that marked her as a former mechanic - moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who knew exactly what each customer needed before they asked.
"Throne's sake" came a voice from the crowd, cutting through the general din. "Is that Pops?"
Conversations began to die down as more people noticed the newcomers. Speed felt the familiar weight of attention, but this time it felt different. There was recognition here, but also maybe respect.
Pops approached the bar with the easy confidence of someone returning to familiar territory. The robotic-armed bartender looked up from the glass she was cleaning, and her weathered face broke into a genuine smile.
"Well, I'll be damned" she said, setting down her work. "Pops Racer, as I live and breathe. Thought you'd forgotten about us little people."
"Sarah" Pops replied warmly, extending his hand across the bar. "Good to see you're still keeping this place running. Is the Sir in his office?"
Sarah's expression shifted slightly, and she chuckled with what sounded like bitter amusement. "You really have been gone too long, Pops. Sir's been gone for three years now. It's the Madam you'll be wanting to see."
Pops looked genuinely surprised, his confident demeanor faltering for just a moment. "The Madam? What happened to—are they okay?"
Sarah waved off his concern with her cybernetic hand, the servo joints whirring softly as she made a dismissive gesture. "Oh, they're fine. Just decided that management wasn't their calling anymore. Had a bit of a switch-up in the organization - 'Omnis' changed hands, and now the kids run things. More specifically, the daughter."
"The daughter?" Pops' eyebrows rose. "But she couldn't have been more than—"
"Fifteen when you last saw her," Sarah finished. "She's twenty-three now, and tougher than her old man ever was. Runs a tighter ship too, if you ask me. Less sentiment, more business sense."
Sarah leaned across the bar, lowering her voice. "Head up to the third floor. Take the door at the back of the hall - they're ready for you."
As they made their way toward the staircase, Speed caught fragments of conversation from the other patrons. Words like "resistance," "underground circuits," and "real racing" drifted through the ambient noise. He realized that what he'd initially taken for a simple bar frequented by racing enthusiasts was actually something much more significant.
Pops placed a heavy hand on Speed's shoulder as they began climbing the narrow staircase that wound its way up through the Omnis Oasis. The metal steps clanged softly under their boots, each footfall echoing slightly in the enclosed space.
"Thanks for everything, Sarah" Pops called back down to the bartender. "Tell Marcus I'll be in touch soon."
"Will do, Pops. And Speed" Sarah's voice carried up the stairwell, "Dont worry so much."
Speed remained silent, his eyes taking in every detail as they climbed. The stairwell walls were lined with more racing memorabilia - photographs of drivers he didn't recognize, trophy pieces that looked handmade rather than corporate-sponsored, and what appeared to be engine parts that had been polished and mounted like works of art.
As they reached the second floor landing, Speed peered through a partially open door and was surprised by what he saw. Where the ground floor had been populated by mechanics, drivers, and gang members in practical clothing, this level seemed to cater to a distinctly different clientele. The lighting was softer, the furniture more refined, and the people inside were dressed in what could generously be called "business casual" - not quite the opulent finery of the upper hive levels, but significantly more polished than the industrial wear of Level One.
"Middle management" Pops explained quietly, noticing his son's curious gaze. "Corporate representatives who aren't quite important enough for the executive levels, but too valuable to leave in the general population. They come here because it's one of the few places where they can get information about what's really happening in the racing world without their conversations being monitored by their superiors."
Speed nodded, understanding. The hive city class system was clearly visible even within this single establishment - the working classes on the ground floor, the middle managers on the second level, and as they continued climbing to the third floor, he began to see yet another demographic entirely.
The third floor was noticeably different from the levels below. The lighting here was dimmer, more atmospheric, and the conversations he could hear carried a different tone - sharper, more urgent, punctuated by the occasional laugh that held more menace than mirth. This level was clearly the domain of the gangs that ruled the underhive territories.
Speed caught glimpses of the clientele through doorways and alcoves - groups of young men and women whose clothing bore the subtle but unmistakable signs of gang affiliation. Modified jackets with specific color schemes, cybernetic enhancements that looked more like weapons than medical necessities, and the kind of alertness that spoke of constant vigilance. These didnt seem like the desperate criminals of the deepest underhive, but rather the middle-tier gang leaders and lieutenants who controlled territory and resources throughout the lower levels of the hive.
"They're here for the same reason as everyone else" Pops murmured as they passed a group engaged in what appeared to be an intense negotiation over racing bikes and territory rights. "The gangs have their own racing circuits, their own competitions. And they're just as affected by corporate interference as anyone else."
As they reached the back of the hall on the third floor, Speed could see their destination - a heavy door marked only with a small plaque bearing the symbol of a skull surrounded by gear surrounded by stylized racing flags. The symbol reminded him of some of the imagery he'd seen in technical manuals, though simplified and adapted for a different purpose.
Pops knocked three times, paused, then knocked twice more - clearly a prearranged signal.
"Enter" came a female voice from within, clear and authoritative.
As they stepped through the doorway, Speed found himself in a room that was both larger and more sophisticated than he'd expected. The space had clearly been designed as a meeting room, with comfortable seating arranged around a central area, technical displays mounted on the walls, and what appeared to be communication equipment that looked far more advanced than anything he'd seen on the lower levels.
But it was the room's two occupants that immediately captured his attention.
A young woman, perhaps twenty-three years old, sat on a curved couch positioned to command a view of both the entrance and the room's various displays. She was reviewing what appeared to be technical documents spread across a small table in front of her, but looked up as they entered. What struck Speed immediately was her throat - where he would have expected to see normal skin, there was instead a complex arrangement of metallic components and small pipes that curved around her neck like an elegant, functional collar. The augmentation was clearly sophisticated, far more advanced than the crude cybernetics he'd seen, yet not as extreme as the full-body modifications typical of runners.
When she spoke earlier her voice carried a slight mechanical undertone that suggested the throat augmentation wasn't merely cosmetic but served some functional purpose – perhaps for working in toxic atmospheres.
Seated in a separate chair nearby was a young man, also appearing to be in his early twenties. He was focused intently on what appeared to be a complex piece of machinery, holding a wrench that looked far too heavy for normal human strength to manipulate comfortably. Speed could see that several of his fingers had been replaced with mechanical alternatives, and portions of his arms showed the telltale signs of enhancement. The mechanical fingers moved with precision that would have been impossible for flesh and bone, manipulating tiny components while his augmented arms provided the strength needed to handle the heavier wrench.
He was murmuring something under his breath in what sounded like a mixture of technical jargon and what might have been prayers but The walked further into the room, his enhanced fingers freezing in their precise movements as he looked up to assess the new arrivals.
The moment the woman saw Pops, her augmented features transformed into something unmistakably warm and genuine. She rose gracefully from the couch, her movements fluid despite the obvious weight of her cybernetic enhancements, and walked directly toward him with her arms outstretched.
"Pops!" she exclaimed, the mechanical undertones in her voice somehow making her obvious joy even more pronounced. She embraced him in a hug that spoke of genuine affection and long familiarity.
"Kira" Pops replied, returning the embrace with equal warmth. "Look at you. Last time I saw you, you were barely tall enough to reach the engine bay of a standard racing bike."
The young man set down his heavy wrench and rose from his chair, approaching the group with a more reserved but equally genuine smile. "Good to see you again, Pops" he said, extending a hand that was half flesh, half precision machinery. "It's been too long."
"Tor" Pops gripped the offered hand firmly, apparently unfazed by its mechanical nature. "I see you've been making some modifications since I last saw you."
Tor flexed his cybernetic fingers with a slight grin. "The work requires precision that flesh alone couldn't provide. Plus, the strength enhancements help when dealing with some of the heavier equipment we work with."
Speed watched this reunion with growing amazement. These weren't strangers his father was meeting for the first time - these were people he clearly knew well, people he cared about. The warmth of the greeting was unmistakable, and it made Speed wonder just how much of his father's past he didn't know about.
As the initial greetings concluded, all four of them moved toward the seating area where Kira had been working. The curved couch and surrounding chairs formed a natural meeting space, and Speed found himself settling into a chair across from the two siblings - for it was becoming clear that they were related.
"Speed" Kira said, her augmented voice taking on a more formal tone as she turned her attention to him, "I'm Kira Synaxis, and this is my brother Tor. To get things started, I should probably explain who we are and why your father brought you here."
She gestured around the room, taking in the sophisticated equipment and the obvious signs of serious organization. "We're the siblings who run Clan Synaxis - one of the major gangs that controls territory on the lowest levels of the hive. We have jurisdiction over most of the first level, and our influence extends into the second. Although we used to control more but circumstances change things."
Tor nodded, setting his tools aside and giving Speed his full attention. "That's why Pops brought you here. Our clan has a history with your family that goes back years - before you were born, actually. Your father helped us establish some of our early racing operations, back when we were just starting to build our reputation."
"Racing operations?" Speed asked, his curiosity overriding his surprise.
Kira's augmented features formed what might have been a smile."Gangs don't just control territory and resources, kid. We also run some of the most honest racing circuits left on this planet. Independent tracks, real competition, drivers who win or lose based on skill rather than corporate manipulation."
She activated one of the wall displays, which began showing footage of racing events that looked unlike anything Speed had seen in the official circuits. The tracks were crude but challenging, the cars were obviously modified rather than factory-built, and the driving was raw and aggressive in a way that corporate racing had lost long ago.
"This is what racing looks like when it's not controlled by people who see it as nothing more than a business opportunity" Tor explained, his precise voice carrying undertones of passion. "Down here, in the underhive, racing is still about speed, skill, and courage. It's still about the connection between a driver and their machine."
Speed felt something stir inside him - a recognition of something he'd been missing in all the corporate presentations and sponsored events he'd been exposed to in the upper levels. This looked like racing the way it was supposed to be.
"But" Kira continued, her expression growing more serious, "we need to understand something about why you're here. Your father tells us you've had some interactions with the corporate racing world. Specifically, with someone from Axiom Dynamics."
Speed nodded, the memory still fresh and uncomfortable. "Director Voss. He offered me a contract to race for his corporation."
"And?" Tor prompted.
"I turned him down" Speed said. "My family... we've always been independent. Pops built everything we have from scratch, and signing with a major corporation felt like selling out everything he'd worked for."
Kira and Tor exchanged a look that Speed couldn't quite interpret.
"How did Director Voss react to your refusal?" Kira asked carefully.
Speed felt that familiar chill as he remembered the conversation. "He... he told me things. About the racing world. About how things really work."
"What kinds of things?" Tor's mechanical fingers had begun making tiny clicking sounds - whether from habit or tension, Speed couldn't tell.
Speed took a deep breath, remembering Voss's cold smile and the revelation that had shattered his naive view of professional racing. "He told me that all the major races are fixed. That corporations like Axiom Dynamics don't just sponsor races - they control them. They decide who wins and who loses based on what will be most profitable for their investors."
The room fell silent for a moment. Kira and Tor didn't look surprised by this revelation - if anything, they looked like they'd been expecting it.
"He said that racing hasn't been about skill or courage for decades" Speed continued, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. "That it's all just entertainment designed to make money for people who've never felt the thrill of real speed, who don't understand what it means to push a machine to its absolute limits."
"What else?" Kira prompted gently.
"He said that if I wouldn't race for him, he'd make sure I never finished another race. That independent racers like my family are a threat to the system they've built, and they can't allow us to succeed."
Tor's clicking sounds had grown more pronounced. "And that's when you decided to come here."
"That's when Pops decided to bring me here," Speed corrected. "I didn't know places like this existed. I didn't know there were still people fighting to keep racing honest."
Kira leaned forward, her augmented features intense. "That's exactly why we need to talk. Because Director Voss wasn't lying about the race fixing - that part is absolutely true. But he was wrong about one thing."
"What's that?"
"He was wrong when he said independent racers can't succeed," Tor said, his precise voice carrying a note of determination. "They can succeed. But only if they're willing to fight for it."
Kira activated another display, this one showing what appeared to be organizational charts and data flows. "Axiom Dynamics is part of a cartel of corporations that have effectively taken over professional racing on Meridius Prime. They coordinate their efforts to ensure that race outcomes benefit their collective investments. They control who gets access to racing licenses, who gets media coverage, who gets access to advanced equipment and fuel."
"But they don't control everything," Tor added. "They don't control the underhive circuits. They don't control the independent mechanics and drivers who've refused to sell out. And they don't control the gangs who see messing with corpos as a matter of honor."
Speed felt a growing sense of excitement mixed with apprehension. "What exactly are you asking me to do?"
Kira's augmented voice took on a challenging tone. "We're asking you to prove that real racing can still win. Besides that, the rest wont be your concern. You focus at what your good at and we will be the same."
Kira stood up, her augmented features fierce with determination. "The corporations think they've won because they control the official circuits. But they've forgotten something important - they've forgotten that racing was never about them. It was about people like you, people like us, people who understand that speed isn't just about getting from one place to another."
She gestured toward the displays showing the underground races. "It's about freedom. It's about pushing boundaries. It's about the moment when you and your machine become something more than the sum of your parts."
Speed felt his heart racing as he absorbed what they were proposing. This wasn't just about joining an underground racing circuit - this was about becoming part of a resistance movement, about fighting to preserve something essential that was being destroyed by corporate greed.
"The question," Tor said quietly, "isn't whether you're brave enough to race against our competitors. Most of them learned to drive in places that would make the corporate tracks look like children's playgrounds."
"The question is whether you're brave enough risk everything your family has built to prove that racing can still mean something."
Speed looked around the room - at the sophisticated equipment that represented serious organization and planning, at the two young leaders who had clearly dedicated their lives to preserving something they believed in, at his father who had brought him here because he trusted these people with his son's future.
He thought about Director Voss's cold dismissal of everything Speed held dear about racing. He thought about the corporate tracks where drivers performed predetermined scripts rather than competing with genuine passion. He thought about the underground footage he'd just seen, where racing looked alive in a way he'd almost forgotten was possible.
"What do I need to do?" he asked.
Kira's augmented features formed a genuine smile. "First, you need to understand what you're getting into. Racing in the underhive isn't like anything you've experienced. The tracks are dangerous, the competition is fierce, and there are no safety guarantees."
"But," Tor added, "it's also the most honest racing you'll ever experience. No predetermined outcomes, no corporate manipulation, no artificial drama. Just drivers, machines, and the pure test of who's fastest when it really counts."
Speed felt a surge of anticipation unlike anything he'd experienced in months. This was what he'd been looking for without even knowing it - a chance to race for real, to test himself against genuine competition, to prove that the passion his family had always felt for racing could still matter in a world increasingly dominated by corporate interests.
"When do we start?" he asked.
__________________________________________
Chapter 2
(TOR Synaxis POV)
Tor Synaxis stood before the polished metal mirror in his modest quarters, his mechanical fingers making soft clicking sounds as he adjusted the collar of his red robe, The garment was a deep crimson, the color of old rust and spilled blood. The fabric was heavy and practical, lined with tiny protective elements that would shield him from the worst of the forge's heat and the toxic fumes that perpetually filled the air of the lower hive levels.
A low chuckle escaped his throat as he pulled the robe over his shoulders, the familiar weight settling around his frame like an old friend. The irony wasn't lost on him - here he was, preparing for another day of maintaining the machines that kept Clan Synaxis operational, and Pops Racer had actually brought Speed down to them. He and Kira had been certain that the young racer would eventually sneak down to the lower levels on his own, driven by curiosity or desperation. They'd planned for that scenario, prepared contingencies for how to approach him if he came seeking answers about the corporate corruption plaguing the racing world.
But this was so much better. This was so much easier.
Having Pops personally escort his son to their door lent legitimacy to everything they were about to propose. It meant that Speed would be more likely to trust them, more likely to believe that what they offered was genuine rather than some elaborate gang trap. Most importantly, it meant that the Racer family's transition back to what it was will be all the easier for it.
Tor reached for his respirator, a sophisticated piece of equipment that filtered the worst toxins from the air while still allowing him to speak clearly. Unlike the crude masks worn by most dwellers, this one was a masterwork of modified technology, adapted specifically for the conditions within their forge complex. The breathing apparatus connected seamlessly with his augmentations, creating a closed system that could sustain him even in the most hostile atmospheric conditions.
As he secured the respirator in place, Tor's thoughts turned to the conversation they'd had with Speed and Pops. The young racer's expression during the discussion - had been everything Tor had hoped to see. There had been hunger there. Speed had the passion. He had the skill. And now, thanks to his father's decision to bring him directly to them, he had the opportunity.
Moving to his equipment rack, Tor began the process of arming himself for the day's work. First came the wrenches - four of them, each the length of his forearm and precision-crafted from recycled steel. Two slotted into magnetic clamps along his upper arms, their weight familiar and reassuring. Two more found their places along his underarms, within easy reach should the delicate work of machine maintenance suddenly require more robust tools.
Finally, Tor reached for his most prized possession - a massive wrench that had seen decades of service in the deepest parts of the hive's industrial sectors. The tool was easily fifty pounds of solid metal, its surface stained with a patina that spoke of countless hours of 'fixing complications'.
Tor flicked up the hood of his crimson robe, the fabric falling around his face in a way that partially concealed his features while still allowing his augmented senses to function properly. The gesture was both practical and symbolic - practical because it provided additional protection from the forge's harsh environment, symbolic because it marked his transition from Tor the individual to Tor the forge keeper guardian of Clan Synaxis's.
Tor stepped out of his quarters and into the short hallway that connected the residential section to the main forge complex. The corridor was narrow but well-maintained, its walls lined with blessed conduits that carried power and data throughout their underground facility. The soft hum of electricity and the occasional flicker of status lights created an ambient atmosphere that was both soothing and functional.
As he walked, Tor's enhanced hearing picked up the familiar sounds of the forge coming to life below. The deep rumble of massive furnaces beginning their daily cycle, the rhythmic hammering of metal against metal, the hiss of steam and the crackle of electrical systems - all of it blended together into a symphony that spoke of purpose and productivity.
The corridor opened onto a scaffolding platform that provided an elevated view of the main forge floor, and Tor paused to survey his domain. The sight never failed to inspire him, even after years of overseeing these operations.
The forge stretched out below him like a metallic cathedral, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows far above. Massive support beams, each one large enough to serve as the backbone of a smaller building, created a framework that supported both the physical structure and the complex network of machines that filled the space. The air shimmered with heat haze from the furnaces, and the constant background noise of industrial activity created an almost hypnotic rhythm.
But what truly warmed Tor's mechanically enhanced heart was the sight of his fellow adepts beginning their morning rituals. Dozens of figures moved through the forge, each one wearing robes similar to his own, though with varying levels of cybernetic augmentation depending on their role and seniority within the organization. Some were relatively new initiates, their augmentations limited to basic enhancements that improved their ability to interface with machinery and work in the forge's harsh environment. Others were veterans whose flesh had been extensively replaced with metal and circuitry, their forms more machine than human
Near the central furnace complex, Tor could see a group of adepts engaged in one of his favorite rituals. They moved in carefully choreographed patterns, swinging ornate thuribles that released streams of blessed incense into the air. The smoke carried with it not just the sweet scent of sacred oils and herbs, but also the binary cant and sacred hymns that helped awaken the machine for another day of service.
The chanting that accompanied the incense ritual was particularly beautiful this morning. The adepts' voices, enhanced by various throat augmentations, created harmonies that seemed to resonate with the very structure of the forge itself. The cant mixed with the Old language prayers, creating a linguistic tapestry that spoke to both the logical and spiritual aspects of their work.
Turning away from the inspiring sight below, Tor made his way toward the short staircase that led to Kira's quarters. His sister would want to know about his observations from the morning ritual, and they needed to discuss the next phase of Speed's integration into their operations. They had the young racer in their grips so far but if he was anything like his bro then he is a psycho.
Tor reached the top of the staircase and approached Kira's door. Without bothering to knock he activated the door's opening mechanism and stepped into his sister's quarters.
The moment Tor crossed the threshold, the sharp crack of gunfire filled the air. Three quick shots rang out in rapid succession, the distinctive whining buzz of stub rounds whipping through the space where his head had been just milliseconds before. His augmented reflexes kicked in instantly, mechanical fingers clicking as he raised both arms in a defensive cross, the heavy wrenches attached to his limbs deflecting the projectiles with metallic pings and sparks.
"Kira!" he called out, his voice carrying both amusement and exasperation through his throat augmentations.
"Tor, you absolute scrap-head!" came his sister's voice from the direction of what he knew was her private washing area. There was the sound of movement, likely his sister scrambling to find cover or at least secure clothing. "You know better than to just barge in here unannounced!"
Tor couldn't help but chuckle, the mechanical undertones of his laughter creating an oddly harmonious sound in the confines of the room. "My apologies, sister. I thought you'd have finished your morning by now."
"Well, I hadn't!" Kira's voice carried the kind of indignant irritation that only siblings could generate in each other, regardless of how much cybernetic augmentation they'd undergone. "And my reflexes are apparently still functioning perfectly, thank you very much!"
From his position near the doorway, Tor could see the stub pistol she'd used - a compact but reliable weapon of underhive manufacture. It was one of the many locally-produced firearms that were common throughout the lower levels, simple enough to maintain but effective at close range. The weapon was now sitting on a small table next to what appeared to be her sleeping area, wisps of smoke still curling from its barrel.
"Your aim was off," Tor observed with honesty. "Three shots and you missed me entirely."
"I wasn't trying to hit you, you mechanical moron!" Kira snapped back. "If I'd wanted to kill you, you'd be dead. Those were warning shots."
"Ah, of course. How foolish of me to assume otherwise."
"Give me a few minutes," Kira called out, her tone having shifted from irritation to resigned acceptance. "And next time, knock first. Or at least announce yourself before you come barging in."
"Mhmmm" Tor replied, moving further into the room to find a place to wait. Kira's quarters were similar to his own but with subtle differences that reflected her personality and role within the clan. Where his room emphasized functionality and tool storage, hers showed signs of the strategic planning and information gathering that were her primary responsibilities.
Tor settled into a chair that was clearly reinforced its frame adjusting automatically to accommodate the additional weight and bulk of augmented limbs. As he lounged, he let his feet rest on what appeared to be a storage ottoman, relaxing for the first time since beginning his morning routine.
A few minutes later, Kira emerged from her private area wearing practical shorts and a fitted shirt that accommodated her various augmentations without restricting movement. Her dark hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and Tor could see that the metallic components around her throat gleamed with fresh maintenance - she'd clearly taken the time to clean and calibrate her respiratory system during her morning routine.
Like Tor, Kira bore cybernetic modifications across various parts of her body, though hers were focused more on information processing and communication enhancement rather than the heavy work that Tor's augmentations supported. Her arms showed the telltale signs of neural interface ports and data connection points, while her eyes had been enhanced with targeting displays and data overlays that allowed her to process multiple information streams simultaneously
She approached his chair with the easy confidence of someone comfortable in her own space, and without ceremony, kicked his feet off the ottoman where he'd been resting them.
"Move your mechanical appendages," she said, settling into the seat across from him. "We have work to discuss."
"Indeed we do," Tor agreed, pulling his legs back and sitting up straighter. "I take it you've been monitoring the situation since our conversation with Speed last night?"
Kira nodded, her augmented features taking on the focused intensity that indicated she was accessing multiple data streams simultaneously. "I've been tracking corporate communications, gang chatter, and underground racing circuits. There's a race coming up in three days that would be perfect for Speed to start with."
"Three days?" Tor's mechanical fingers began their characteristic clicking as he processed this information. "That's quite soon. Do we have time to properly prepare him?"
"It's the Racer family, the kids ready" Kira replied. "The race is a mid-tier event - dangerous enough to be meaningful, but not so extreme that it would be certain death for a newcomer. Most importantly, it's being held in neutral territory, which means the major corporations won't have their usual level of influence over the outcome."
Tor nodded slowly. The racing circuits in the underhive operated on complex hierarchies of risk and prestige. Low-tier races were essentially training grounds where new drivers could learn the brutal realities of underground competition. High-tier events were gladiatorial spectacles where veteran drivers risked everything for massive payouts and legendary status. Mid-tier races occupied the sweet spot where genuine skill could triumph over pure desperation.
"What's the competition looking like?" he asked. "And more importantly, which gangs are expected to show up?"
Kira's expression grew more serious. "That's where things get complicated. I've confirmed that at least four major gangs will be represented, including the Rust Devils and the Chrome Skulls. Both of those groups have established drivers with significant experience in underground circuits."
"The Rust Devils I can handle," Tor mused. "Their vehicles are well-maintained but their drivers tend to rely too heavily on brute force tactics. The Chrome Skulls are more concerning - they actually understand the technical aspects of racing."
"Agreed. But the real question is whether the corporations know about Speed's involvement yet."
Tor's mechanical fingers fell silent as he considered this. It was the critical question that would determine whether Speed's first race would be a genuine test of skill or an elaborate trap designed to eliminate him before he could become a threat to corporate interests.
"They know," he said finally, his voice carrying absolute certainty.
Kira raised an eyebrow, the gesture causing subtle adjustments in her facial augmentations. "You sound very sure about that."
"I am sure," Tor replied. "The moment Speed and Pops stepped into that elevator to come down here, corporate surveillance systems would have flagged their movement. The major corporations maintain monitoring networks throughout the hive - not comprehensive coverage, but certainly enough to track the movements of high-value individuals."
"And when he disappeared into the underhive with his father..." Kira continued the thought.
"They would have immediately begun trying to determine why. By now, they'll have identified the Omnis Oasis as the most likely destination, and they'll have connected that to our operations. It has been a few years since we moved up there but a few still remeber."
Kira leaned back in her chair, her expression grim. "So we should assume that his first race will be more than just a simple competition."
"We should assume," Tor said, his mechanical voice carrying undertones of determination, "that it will be a war."
The siblings sat in silence for a moment, both processing the implications of what they were planning.
"The question," Kira said finally, "is whether we're ready for that level of expansion."
Tor's augmented features formed something that might have been a smile. "Sister, we've been preparing for this fight since the day we took control of Clan Synaxis. Speed Racer may be the catalyst, but we planned for this world to be ours eventually."
"Exactly. And now we get to remind them of that fact."
The day was beginning in earnest now, and there was much work to be done. But for the first time in years, Tor felt genuinely optimistic about their chances.
____________________________
Chapter 2
Three days had passed since the meeting at the Omnis Oasis, and now Tor found himself standing in the pre-dawn gloom of the underhive racing complex, watching the distant lights of approaching vehicles pierce the perpetual twilight of Level One. The makeshift racing circuit had been carved out of an abandoned manufactorum district, its crumbling walls and rusted gantries repurposed into a treacherous course that wound through multiple levels of decaying industrial infrastructure.
Beside him, Kira adjusted the collar of her outfit - clothing that bore the subtle influences of middle-management fashion, the kind worn by residents of the third and fourth levels of the hive. Her jacket was cut in the formal Imperial style, with high shoulders and precise lines, but adapted with practical modifications that allowed for movement and concealed weapon storage. The dark fabric was accented with silver threading that caught what little light filtered down from the upper levels, and her boots were military-grade but polished to a corporate sheen. It was the perfect ensemble for someone who needed to move between the underhive gangs and the middle-level corporate representatives who sometimes attended these events as unofficial observers.
Around them, twenty-five robed figures lounged trying to project strength while conserving energy. Each wore robes similar to Tor's - deep crimson fabric lined with protective elements, though theirs lacked the extensive tool attachments that marked him as the clan's primary tech-adept. Some bore additional augmentations visible beneath their hoods: enhanced optics that glowed softly in the dim light, cybernetic limbs that moved with inhuman precision, or throat modifications.
The garage bay they occupied was one of dozens that ringed the racing circuit, each claimed by different gangs or racing syndicates. The massive industrial doors had been reinforced and modified over the years, creating secure staging areas where teams could prepare their vehicles without interference from rivals. Overhead, the skeletal remains of ancient cranes and loading mechanisms cast twisted shadows in the artificial lighting, while the constant background hum of generators and recycling systems provided a steady drone that masked conversations.
"The track conditions look favorable," Kira observed, consulting a data-slate that displayed real-time environmental readings from sensors positioned throughout the circuit. "Atmospheric density is within normal parameters, temperature variance is minimal, and the structural integrity monitors aren't showing any critical failure points."
Tor nodded, his mechanical fingers clicking softly as he processed the information. Underground racing was always a calculated risk, but races held in abandoned industrial complexes carried additional dangers. Structural collapses, toxic gas pockets, and unstable power conduits were constant threats that could transform a racing competition into a survival exercise without warning.
In the distance, across the staging area, Tor could see the other gangs making their own preparations. The Rust Devils had claimed a bay near the main access tunnel, their signature orange and black colors visible on both their robes and their vehicles. Their racing machine was a brutal-looking creation that emphasized raw power over finesse - exactly what he'd expected from a gang that preferred intimidation tactics over technical superiority.
Further away, the Chrome Skulls had positioned themselves in a bay with optimal sight lines to the main racing circuit. Their silver and blue livery gleamed even in the dim lighting, and Tor could see the telltale signs of sophisticated electronic equipment being deployed around their staging area. The Chrome Skulls understood technology almost as well as Clan Synaxis, which made them dangerous opponents in any competition that required both speed and strategy.
Several other gangs had claimed their own territories around the circuit: the Plasma Serpents with their distinctive green and gold colors, the Iron Hounds whose vehicles bore the scars of countless underground races, and at least three smaller syndicates that Tor didn't immediately recognize. Each group maintained careful distances from the others, creating an intricate web of territorial boundaries and unspoken truces that could shift rapidly if circumstances changed.
"Movement on the main access road," one of Clan Synaxis's spotters reported through the encrypted comm network. "Large vehicle approaching, probably a transport truck."
The truck that emerged from the tunnel was exactly what Tor had expected from the Racer family - practical, well-maintained, but lacking the armored modifications that most underhive vehicles required for survival in the lower levels. It was painted in simple white and blue, with the Racer Motors logo prominently displayed on the sides. The vehicle moved with the steady confidence of experienced drivers, but Tor could see the careful way it navigated the unfamiliar terrain, suggesting that the family was taking no chances in this dangerous environment.
As the truck approached their garage bay, Tor could make out the occupants through the reinforced windows. Pops Racer sat in the driver's seat, his massive frame easily recognizable even at a distance. Speed was visible in the passenger seat, his expression intense as he surveyed the underground racing complex for the first time. In the back of the truck, Tor could see what appeared to be the rest of the family support crew
The truck rolled to a stop just outside the garage bay, and Tor could hear the rumble of its engine as Pops shut down the systems. For a moment, there was silence except for the ambient noise of the racing complex - the distant sound of other teams preparing their vehicles, the hum of electrical systems, and the occasional clatter of metal on metal as equipment was moved and adjusted.
Then the doors opened, and the Racer family began to emerge.
Pops was the first out His weathered face was alert but not fearful, and Tor could see the way his eyes immediately began cataloging potential threats and escape routes. This was a man who had spent decades in the racing world and understood that competition could turn deadly without warning.
Speed emerged from the passenger side, and Tor watched the young racer's expression carefully. The enthusiasm and determination were still there, but they were now tempered by a growing understanding of what underground racing really meant. Speed's gaze swept across the other garage bays, taking in the heavily modified vehicles, the armed gang members, and the general atmosphere of barely controlled violence that permeated the underhive racing scene.
From the back of the truck came the rest of the support crew. Tor recognized Trixie, Speed's girlfriend, whose practical clothing and alert demeanor suggested she understood the dangers they were facing. There was also a young boy - Spritle, Speed's younger brother - and remarkably, what appeared to be a small chimpanzee that had been adapted with miniature protective gear suitable for the harsh underhive environment.
Speed's face lit up with genuine enthusiasm, the first completely unguarded expression Tor had seen from him since their initial meeting. "Yeah, she's ready to race."
But as Speed looked around the staging area, taking in the robed figures of Clan Synaxis and the distant preparations of rival gangs, his smile began to fade. The reality of what he was about to face was clearly settling in - this wasn't going to be a simple racing competition, but something far more dangerous and unpredictable.
Kira noticed the change in Speed's expression and stepped forward, her augmented voice carrying a note of gentle reassurance. "Don't worry about what you're seeing here," she said, gesturing toward the gang members and their obvious preparations for potential violence. "We're good at what we do, and you're good at what you do. Believe in yourself and listen to what your family has said over the years. That's what will get you through this."
Her words seemed to have the desired effect. Speed's shoulders straightened, and some of the confidence returned to his expression. "You're right," he said, looking back toward the truck where his family was waiting. "Let's get her unloaded."
When the Mach 6 finally emerged from the truck, Tor felt his breathing pause for a moment. He had seen racing machines before - both corporate-sponsored vehicles and underground modifications - but the Mach 6 was something different entirely. It combined the sleek aesthetics of upper-level racing with obvious modifications for the harsh realities of underground competition.
The vehicle's white and red colors gleamed even in the dim lighting of the garage bay, but Tor could see the reinforced armor plating that had been integrated into the design, the additional sensor arrays, and the defensive systems that could mean the difference between life and death in underground racing. This wasn't just a racing machine - it was a marvel.
"Bring her in quickly," Kira instructed, her voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to managing complex operations under pressure. "We want to minimize exposure time until we're ready for the actual race."
The family responded immediately, working together to guide the Mach 6 into the secure garage bay. As the massive doors began to close behind them, Tor felt a sense of satisfaction. The first phase of their plan was complete - Speed Racer and his legendary racing machine were now under the protection of Clan Synaxis
The heavy garage doors sealed shut with a pneumatic hiss that echoed through the staging bay, followed by the distinctive whir of locking mechanisms engaging. Tor could hear the muffled voices of Kira, Speed, and the rest of the Racer family as they began their pre-race preparations inside, but his attention was drawn away by the familiar sounds of his fellow adepts moving into position around the perimeter.
The twenty-five robed figures of Clan Synaxis spread out in a defensive formation that had been drilled countless times in the depths of their forge complex. Each adept carried the tools of their trade - blessed wrenches, sanctified cutting implements, and the occasional modified laspistol or stub gun for those whose augmentations allowed for such precision work. Their crimson robes rustled softly as they moved, the sound mixing with the ambient mechanical drone that permeated every level of the underhive.
The blessed red of their robes spoke to their dedication each garment lined with protective elements and inscribed with the sacred canticles that would ward them against both the toxic atmosphere and the malevolent that plagued corrupt machinery. Every piece of equipment they carried had been sanctified with ritual oils and blessed incense, for the cult demanded that all tools be treated with the reverence due to fragments of the Omnilords divine essence.
Tor settled against a reinforced support pillar, his massive fifty-pound wrench resting beside him like a loyal companion. The weapon - for in the underhive, every tool was a weapon - bore the scars of countless hours of both sacred maintenance rituals and brutal combat. Around the racing complex, similar scenes were playing out as other gangs completed their own preparations. The constant background noise of generators, ventilation systems, and machinery created a symphony that eventually became background noise once you lived long enough.
The familiar crackle of the complex's public address system suddenly cut through the ambient noise, followed by the booming voice of the race announcer. The voice carried the practiced enthusiasm of someone who had spent years narrating the brutal spectacles of underhive racing.
"Ladies, gentlemen, gang members, and assorted denizens of the lower levels!" the announcer's voice echoed through the vast industrial space, reflecting off the corroded metal walls and lost machinery that surrounded the makeshift racing circuit. "Welcome to another glorious day of pure, unfiltered speed and mayhem here in the abandoned Manufactorum District Seven-Seven-Alpha!"
A cheer arose from the various staging areas as gang members, racing enthusiasts, and the occasional corporate observer raised their voices in appreciation. Tor could see members of other gangs emerging from their own garage bays to listen to the pre-race announcements - a tradition that served both as entertainment and as vital intelligence gathering about the competition they would soon face.
"Today's competition features some familiar faces and some dangerous newcomers," the announcer continued, his voice carrying a note of genuine excitement. "First up, representing the Rust Devils with their signature brutality and complete disregard for both safety regulations and common sense, we have 'Iron Jaw' Marcus driving the Scrap Burner!"
The distinctive orange and black colors of the Rust Devils were visible in the distance as their crude but powerful racing machine emerged from their staging area. The vehicle was exactly what Tor had expected - a heavily armored monstrosity that prioritized raw destructive power over any consideration of subtlety or precision. Smoke belched from its exhaust ports, and the sound of its engine was more akin to an industrial grinder than a racing machine.
"Next, showing that technology and strategy can triumph over mere brute force, the Chrome Skulls present their champion driver 'Circuit Breaker' Silva in the Lightning Rod!"
The Chrome Skulls' vehicle was a stark contrast to the Rust Devils' approach - sleek, sophisticated, and bristling with electronic warfare equipment that could disable rival vehicles' systems from a distance. Tor made a mental note to ensure that the Mach 6's systems had been properly shielded against such interference, though he suspected that Pops had already accounted for such threats.
The announcer continued through the roster, naming drivers and vehicles that represented the various power factions of the underhive racing scene. Each introduction was met with cheers, boos, or combinations thereof, depending on the political allegiances and personal grudges that characterized the complex relationships between different gangs and racing syndicates.
"And representing the Plasma Serpents, we have the always-dangerous 'Voltage' Torres in the Storm Surge!"
"The Iron Hounds contribute their veteran driver 'Slag Pit' Johnson, whose Demolition Derby record speaks for itself!"
"From the depths of Sector Five, the Shadow Runners present their mysterious pilot known only as 'Ghost' in the Phantom Strike!"
With each announcement, Tor could see more vehicles emerging from their staging areas, creating an impressive and intimidating display of modified racing machines. Some were clearly built for speed, their streamlined forms designed to cut through the toxic atmosphere with minimal resistance. Others were constructed like mobile fortresses, prioritizing survival over velocity. A few appeared to be technological marvels that combined both approaches in ways that suggested either brilliant engineering or catastrophic design flaws.
But it was as the announcer reached the end of his roster that something shifted in his tone. There was a pause - not long enough to suggest technical difficulties, but sufficient to indicate that something unexpected was happening in the announcer's booth high above the racing complex.
"And now," the voice resumed, carrying a note of surprise mixed with what might have been recognition, "we have an unexpected entry. Driving for... wait, let me confirm this... yes, representing Clan Synaxis and the Racer family, we have young Speed Racer in the legendary Mach 6!"
The announcement sent a ripple of reaction through the gathered crowd that was unlike anything that had preceded it. Where the previous introductions had generated the expected cheers and jeers, this one created a moment of genuine shock followed by rapidly building excitement.
The announcement was met with a growing roar of approval that seemed to come from every corner of the racing complex. Gang members who had never met Speed Racer were cheering for him based solely on the reputation of his family. It was exactly the kind of response that his sister had hoped for, but it also represented a level of attention that could prove dangerous.
As the cheering reached its peak, one of Clan Synaxis's spotters - an adept whose augmented eyes had been replaced with sophisticated surveillance equipment - appeared at Tor's shoulder. The figure moved with the practiced silence of someone whose mechanical joints had been perfectly calibrated to eliminate unnecessary noise.
"Movement on the perimeter Multiple groups converging on our position."