The factions
Five factions, five arenas, five ways to clean you out. The boss lets them all run: their mutual hatred is what fills the stands. As for the sixth, you'll meet it only once — and you had better be ready.
1
Giza
The ancients. They've been racing for three thousand years — they're not about to hurry now.
Trailing bandages, a gold mask on crooked, the gait of an arthritic old king. They are not fast. They were here before everyone else, and they've watched every cheat come and go.
The curse: whoever overtakes them ends up — nobody knows how — with a scarab in their ear.
2
The temple
Honour before victory. Well — depends on the stake.
They bow before the race, bow after it, and in between they cut you up very neatly. Discipline, silence, a blade at the flank: the most elegant faction on the circuit, and the one that holds the longest grudge.
The blade: one dry burst of speed that leaves the rest standing still, and nobody saw it coming.
3
The circuit
They don't run. They drive.
Helmet, oil-stained overalls, a pit crew at the trackside. They change hooves the way you change tyres, and reckon that if it isn't mechanical, it isn't serious.
The pit stop: three seconds lost, but they come back out with nitro in the humps.
4
The campus
They're smiling. Don't fall for it.
Glitter, pom-poms, an immaculate blow-dry on the humps. You take them for airheads until the first straight — and then you understand that lane-side spite is an art they have perfected.
The rumour: they start a whisper about your beast, and it falls apart.
5
The megacity
They'll be back. They always come back.
Red eye, titanium humps, a heavy gait that shakes the track. Nobody knows who assembled them, or why they race. The boss lets them be, as long as they pay their entry fee.
The scan: they analyse your beast, compute its weakness, and lean on exactly that.
★
Rome
The house It isn't a stable. It's the family. And you're not in it.
Three-piece suits, gold chains, dark glasses at sunset. They don't train, they don't warm up, they don't even look in a hurry. They've simply always been here, owning the very track you're running on. The boss races with his own — and the boss doesn't lose. Well. The boss had never lost.
The arrangement: the steward looks away, the gate opens a second early, and nobody files a complaint. Twice.