Friction, fine Sri Lankan rubber spins against the asphalt of the arterial road, Sakaarin is arriving at the industrial zone in thirty minutes.
* Sakaarin raises his right wrist to his face, his amber brows furrowed, eyes piercing through his tinted shades, checking for time*
Scratch that, in five minutes he will enter the merchants' highway to Ahia monopolis, a bustling industrial zone controlled by the Ahia clandom.
Standard for the multinational state of the Wazobiadere kingdom. Tycoon families institute a chokehold on the industrial zones, ruthlessly swallowing hole the entirety of individual firms and whole industries within these cities hook, line and sinker...
Every industrial zone is controlled by such families, thus such a city is called a monopolis.
Sakaarin activates his nitrous boost as he revvs his engine, the twin exhausts sandwiching his rear tire tremble, grey fumes transform into a sapphire blaze which trail into incandescent embers sparkling like a swarm of fireflies, his red jacket flapping like the weathered sail of a ship as the wind beats against him.
If he could go any faster he would.
*Zooom*
Sakaarin lean angles into the merchants' highway that connects the Ahia monopolis and the Aridowu ghetto. Multiple lanes peer in each direction, high speed limits, and limited access points such as on-ramps and off-ramps to ensure unobstructed vehicular movement. Sakaarin let's out a chuckle, must have been a Freudian slip because he immediately caught himself.
Racing on the freeway a thrilling guilty pleasure, his mother would not have this but at least he is outside of his father's territory, beyond the reach of her watchful spies... Or so he thinks.
You know you're entering an industrial city when that foul smell of spoilt eggs from the petrochemical plants assault your nose, this mixed with the fetid odor of sewage constantly in the air.
Now the towering masses of steel pipes begin to come into view as Sakaarin blazes closer to Ahia monopolis, rising up like mountains out of a sea of asphalt as he inches ever closer to his destination.
"Finally!" Exclaims Sakaarin.
The toll gantry has also come into view, very soon he will be inside the city.
Gripping the chains of his ape handlebar steering he rears 'Bad boy' (his bike) like a horse in the throes of it's trepidation before a flooding river, rides on her hind wheels for five seconds before bearing her back to the ground like a pouncing leopard! stabilizing immediately with a daring swerve inches apart from an incoming fuel tanker!
Drifting nonchalantly like that was Tuesday, he sets himself up to Akira-slide towards the fee point at the toll gantry.
...
Now at his favourite bespoke fabrication workshop, 'Anvil engineering'. Sakaarin is helplessly gushing over his custom umbrella repeatedly unfolding and folding the convertible shield that sheathes the bespoke Épée.
Like a curious child he cannot get enough of seeing the fine black wyvern leather of the outer canopy, the lustrous red velvet of the inner canopy made from Cardinal spiders' silk & the canopy's rib structure made with Plium.
The receptionist trying her best to stop him from unsheathing the hidden Épée spine from the hollow Duralid shaft as his fingers run beneath the Chrosmium pommel through through the orthopedic grip of the Épée hilt.
Shades now resting in his tartan trousers, his bottle green eyes sparkle at the thought of going off and even all out. Fortunately to the receptionist's relief, he catches out of the corner of his eyes a familiar fashion.
Navy blue blue overcoat hung over the shoulder, checkered blue blazer won over a white and black etibo shirt tucked into ash grey slacks fastened by a silver buckled brown leather belt with his black Gumberoo tarpaulin canopy custom umbrella looped in through it's hilt strap, and finally oak brown brogues covering the grey stockings.
Sakaarin pauses and considers in his mind: bold shouldering! even the belt is bespoke! And skin like the night sky, so that his eyes seem like a pair of waxing gibbous! And when he smiles he flashes forth like the belt of Orion.
There can only be one person in ALL this conurbation that meets checks all these boxes! Sakaarin thinks to himself.
"DUDUHU"
No response, the person in question just keeps going towards the exit. Sakaarin quickly folds his umbrella and loops the velcro strap of the outer canopy to his studded double eyelet belt and goes after him.
Skidding inbetween him and the door Sakaarin calls out again,
"Duduhu!"
"Beeyidare or just Bida"
*The interlocutor replies hesitantly*
"Nice collapsible umbrella, you didn't strike me as the extending rapier type."
Sakaarin hints restless to compare customs.
"Only the canopy is collapsible, the shaft is exactly the length you can see."
Beeyidare replies.
"What!"
Sakaarin's fixation on his contemporary's umbrella is shaken. With such a short reach how will he contend with the dozens of talented bachelors at The Patrician Academy!?
Voicing his concern Sakaarin cautions:
"Do not be presumptuous in your fencing skills or you'll be humiliated by the variety of functional Épées, it is not too late to buy a factory made umbrella instead."
"It's alright, Saka."
Bida assures, his resolve unwavering.
"Oh well, Iat least I tried"
Saka throws his arms halfway into the air and rotstes his eyes like a rolling beer bottle.
"Aha!" He beams "LET'S PUT THAT CONFIDENCE TO THE TEST!"
Saka proposes, his competitive spirit reinvigorated by Bida's certainty.
Bida shakes his head resolutely,
"Is your allowance robust enough to pay for the fines and damages and bribes after we level this city block sparring?
"Let's not even talk about the lives that will be lost in collateral because we got carried away in carelessness."
Saka slapped by the callousness of his importunity, skirts around the realisation with a joke,
"Haha... They have insurance."
And so they stand in silence, contemplating the fragility of the citizenry and their own aloofness to their might.
*Pitter-Patter*
The rain begins tapping on the sidewalk just outside Anvil engineering.
In the streets it's starting to drizzle.
"That power bike outside is yours right?"
Saka challenges.
Understanding where this is all going Bida accepts,
"First to the city gate wins."
The light drizzle picks up momentum, becoming a light downpour. Both young masters now mounted on their custom motorcycles.
Saka shades on, revving in the rain. Impatient and rearing to go.
Bida, overcoat sleeves now covering his arms, dons his motorcycle helmet and leather gloves.
*Shaaaaa*
The clouds unencumber themselves, showering the land with a heavy rainfall.
*Vroooooooooooooom*
The race has begun.
They will pay for this with a cold and hiccups later. For now to the toll gate.