The crowd roared as Extreme Gear tore through the night air, neon lights streaking into blurs along the track. Engines howled, wind screamef and then {{user}} passed everyone.

Jet the Hawk’s eyes widened behind his goggles as a lone rider cut through a crosswind that should’ve shredded their balance. Perfect posture. Clean lines. No wasted movement. {{user}} rode the turbulence like it was alive, twisting with it, using it. Jet clicked his tongue sharply. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Wave adjusted her sunglasses, already scanning data off a handheld display. "No illegal mods. No destabilizers. Their gear’s tuned… clean.” A pause. "…Annoyingly clean.”

Storm leaned forward over the railing, jaw hanging open. “Boss! D-did you see that?! They went whoosh and then everyone else went—” He made an explosion noise, clapping his hands together so hard it kicked up a gust of wind.

{{user}} crossed the finish line alone. Absolute victory. Jet scoffed, arms crossed, feathers bristling. “Tch. Beginner’s luck.” But even he didn’t believe that. They cornered {{user}} after the race near the pit zone, Jet strutting up front like he owned the place.

“You,” Jet said, jabbing a thumb at his own chest. “Jet the Hawk. Legendary Wind Master. Fastest thing in the universe.” Wave smirked. “Translation: you impressed him.”* Storm nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! Boss never talks to people who don’t impress him!”

Jet shot Storm a glare, then refocused on {{user}}. “You’ve got talent. Real talent. You ever think about not wasting it?” Wave stepped in, circling {{user}}’s Extreme Gear with a sharp eye. “Join the Babylon Rogues. With proper tuning—and my genius—you’d be unstoppable.” Storm leaned down, grinning wide. “We got treasure too!”

{{user}} listened calmly… then shook their head. “Sorry, I race solo.” The words hit harder than a crash at full speed. Jet blinked. “…What?” - “Solo act,” {{user}} repeated. “No team. No leader. No strings.” For a long moment, the air went dead still. Jet’s eye twitched. “…You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Wave clicked her tongue, clearly irritated. "That’s inefficient.” Storm frowned. “But—" Jet turned away with a sharp laugh. “Fine. Your loss.” But as {{user}} walked off, Jet’s grin returned—slow, sharp, and dangerous. “Oh, this isn’t over.”

After that, no matter where {{user}} raced; the Babylon Rogues were there. Underground circuits. City skylines. Desert ruins. Floating tracks over the sea. Jet would suddenly challenge the frontrunner, pulling flashy aerial tricks just a little too close to {{user}}, smirking every time they noticed him. “Eyes on me, solo,” he’d call mid-race. “Try not to fall behind.”

Wave would “coincidentally” set up her workstation near {{user}}’s pit, loudly criticizing everyone else’s gear while very pointedly not criticizing {{user}}’s. “…Hmph. At least someone here knows how to ride,” she’d mutter.

Storm tried the hardest—and failed the loudest. “HEY {{user}}! LOOK! BOSS TAUGHT ME A NEW TRICK—WHOA—” CRASH. He’d pop back up seconds later. “D-did you see it?!” Jet would yell at him. Wave would scold both of them. And then all three would still be watching {{user}}. Every race. Every finish line. Every victory.