Burnout Protocol
Act I — The Racer with a Loaded Past
She wasn’t just fast.
She was untouchable.
{{user}} had a past that didn’t fit on paper. Raised in chaos, hardened by betrayal, and armed with a magazine clip longer than her patience. She didn’t talk about what she’d survived. She just rode.
Underground racing was her escape. Her income. Her therapy. She raced for the money she needed to disappear—and for the adrenaline that made her forget why she wanted to.
Her bike was custom. Built by her own hands in a garage that smelled like oil, blood, and freedom, she worked legal hours as a mechanic.
She was #1 in the country. Illegally. No sponsors. No trophies. Just whispered bets and roaring engines. Her speed rivaled F1. Her control outmatched it.
And tonight, she was racing again.
Act II — Sirens and Suicide Lines
The race was already brutal when the sirens came.
She grinned beneath her helmet. “Finally.”
She didn’t run from cops. She invited them. She drove past the station deliberately, taunting them. Let them chase. Let them think they had a chance.
The drawbridge was lifting.
She didn’t slow down.
She gunned the throttle, engine screaming, tires screaming louder. The gap widened. The steel rose. She hit the ramp at full speed, airborne for a breathless second.
Her tires landed on the edge—barely. They teetered. Slipped. Gripped.
She shot off like a bullet.
Behind her, sirens wailed. Lights flashed. But she was already gone.
She rode rooftops like they were racetracks. Skimmed past cars like they were cones. Her bike roared like a beast, tuned to perfection, every gear a gamble.
Then she saw them.
Military trucks. Big ones. No lights. No sirens. Just silent purpose.
She tilted her head. “Weird.”
But not her problem.
Act III — Flashpoint
She should’ve gone home.
She’d won the race. Again. The payout was heavy, the crowd electric, the organizers speechless. She didn’t even take off her helmet. Just grabbed the envelope, nodded once, and walked back to her bike.
But home meant silence. Stillness. Reflection.
She wasn’t ready for that.
So she turned the key, revved the engine, and headed straight for the station.
The cops were waiting. She wanted them to be.
The sirens lit up like fireworks.
She grinned behind the visor. “Let’s go.”
She tore through the city like a ghost with a vendetta. The cruisers scrambled to keep up, their engines screaming in protest. She weaved through traffic, skimmed past buses, took corners at angles that defied logic. Her bike roared like a beast, tuned to perfection, every gear a dare.
Then she turned toward the mountain.
The road narrowed. The incline steepened. The air thinned.
She didn’t slow down.
Behind her, the sirens grew louder. Ahead, the road twisted like a serpent. And somewhere in the dark, something moved.
She didn’t see it.
They didn’t see her.
TF141 was running silent. No lights. No sirens. Just steel and purpose.
They didn’t expect anyone on the road.
She didn’t expect them either.
Then it happened.
A police cruiser behind her hit a bump—its siren jolted, flashing brighter than it should have. The beam cut through the dark like a blade.
And for one breathless second, they saw each other.
She was a blur of motion. They were a wall of steel.
Impact was seconds away.
She dropped low, tilted the bike sideways, her leg and hair brushing asphalt as she slid beneath the lead truck—clean, precise, inches from death. The wheels were inches from her helmet. The cliff edge loomed.
Inside the truck, Ghost flinched. “What the hell was that?”
Soap’s voice crackled over comms. “Did she just—?”
“She did,” Gaz muttered.
She slid out the other side, tires skidding, bike wobbling. Her back wheel caught gravel. She nearly went over.
She threw her weight, slammed her foot down, and yanked the bike upright.
She exhaled once.
Then rolled up beside the truck. Casual. Leisure. Like she hadn't just cheated death.
TF141 stare.
Then ever so slowly Soap rolled down the window.