The flats stretched wider than the eye could settle on—an endless crust of pale mineral cracked into plates, each one sharp-edged and unforgiving. Heat shimmered across the surface, bending distance into illusion. Far off, stone pylons rose like broken teeth, remnants of something older than the race that now claimed the land.
At the basin’s edge, the stands clung to a ridge of rusted scaffolds and sun-bleached beams. Flags snapped in the wind, their colors dulled by years of grit. Engines growled beneath them, not yet unleashed—metal hearts ticking, humming, waiting. Every sound echoed too long in the open air.
Kael Ryn stood apart from the noise, one gloved hand resting on the frame of his racer. It was narrow, skeletal, all exposed lines and tension cables—built for speed at the cost of mercy. The machine trembled faintly, as if it knew what the flats would demand.
Below the salt crust, something shifted.
Kael checked the coupling rods again. He always did. Twice before ignition, once after. The others mocked the habit, but none of them raced on a machine rebuilt from salvage and stubbornness. This racer had failed once already—years ago, in a different basin, leaving Kael buried and burning under a sky that didn’t care.
A horn sounded. Low. Then another, higher. The signal rolled across the flats like a warning more than a welcome.
Racers mounted up. Engines flared. Twin turbines screamed as they spooled, kicking salt into white clouds that drifted and hung instead of falling. Kael swung into position, boots locking into the foot clamps. The control yoke felt warm, familiar, scarred.
He glanced sideways. Other racers waited in their lanes—sleeker builds, heavier armor, sponsor sigils etched into their shells. One pilot caught his eye, visor reflecting the salt glare like a mirror. No nod. No challenge. Just patience.
The final horn cut the air.
The world detonated forward.
Kael’s racer lunged, turbines ripping at the wind. The flats blurred beneath him, cracked plates flashing by like broken ice. The pylons rushed closer, towering markers that defined the course’s first corridor. He leaned, threaded the gap, felt the racer shudder but hold.
Speed erased everything else. The stands vanished. The noise became a single continuous scream. He passed one racer on the inside, close enough that their wake rattled his frame. Another surged past him moments later, armored prow throwing salt like shrapnel.
Then the ground screamed.
Not the engines. The flats themselves.
A vibration rippled up through Kael’s controls—wrong, deep, alive. The salt plates ahead fractured in a spreading line, racing faster than any machine. Kael swerved, barely clearing the collapse as the surface gave way behind him, swallowing a racer whole in a plume of white dust and spinning debris.
The course markers flickered. Alarms wailed from the ridge.
This wasn’t on the map.
Kael cut throttle just enough to stabilize, heart hammering louder than the turbines. Ahead, the flats buckled again, the crust splitting to reveal darker layers beneath—wet mineral, ancient and unstable. The pylons leaned, some toppling entirely as the land reshaped itself mid-race.
He could pull out. Many would. The safe path veered left toward higher ground, narrower but intact.
Instead, Kael saw it.
A corridor opening straight ahead—newly formed, jagged but direct. Shorter. Faster. Deadlier.
The racer vibrated in protest as he realigned, cables whining. He pushed power back in, felt the machine surge, and plunged into the collapsing run. Salt walls rose on either side, fragments skidding and bouncing off his hull. One struck the turbine housing, sending a shiver through the frame.
The ground dropped.
For a breathless second, Kael and the racer were airborne, suspended over a widening fissure. Below, the flats fell away into shadow, the scream of shifting earth echoing up like breath from a buried giant.
The racer landed hard. Something snapped—warning lights flared—but it kept moving. Kael gritted his teeth, steering by instinct now, riding the edge between control and catastrophe.
Behind him, engines roared. Someone else had followed.
The corridor narrowed, pylons looming closer together than designed. Kael threaded through by inches, sparks trailing from a clipped stabilizer. The finish ridge appeared ahead, flags whipping, the crowd a distant roar.
Then the ground surged one final time.
A ridge of salt erupted directly in his path.
Kael yanked the yoke, turbines screaming in protest as the racer lifted, skimming the rising wall by the width of a brick. The finish line flashed beneath him, lights blurring into streaks of white and red.
He crossed as the flats collapsed behind him, the sound swallowing everything.
When the racer finally coasted to a halt, smoke curling from its sides, Kael stayed seated, hands still locked in place.
The salt kept screaming long after the engines died.
This is an original work of fiction created by Brick Crossing, inspired by the design themes of LEGO® set 75380.
LEGO® is a trademark of the LEGO Group, which does not sponsor, authorize, or endorse Brick Crossing.
