The tunnel swallowed her. G-forces pressed her chest against the tank. The K-DRIVE banked left, then right, its stabilizers screaming as they fought to keep her glued to the curved wall. A normal bike would have spun out. A normal rider would have blacked out.
Two thousand, one hundred forty-seven days. She’d started this diary when she was fourteen, a scrawny kid who could barely keep the anti-gravity driftbike from scraping its underbelly against the tunnel walls. Back then, the K-DRIVE had been a salvaged wreck—half the conduits fried, the stabilizer held together with zip ties and spite. Hiiragi--39-s Practice Diary -Final- -K-DRIVE--
“One last ride,” she whispered.
Final Session Complete. Thank you for 2,147 days. The tunnel swallowed her
The AI, which she’d programmed years ago with a voice chip from a broken toy, responded in its childish, crackling tone: “You got this, Hiiragi. Let’s fly.” A normal bike would have spun out
