yvyin-blog

[yvyin-blog]

xtaem‌:

Think we both know the answer to that one, kid.

And that is, weirdly, the one thing that starts to ease the nerves building in his chest. At least he’s up-front about it– Taemin can respect that. He breathes easier in the seconds that follow his mostly-genuine laugh (a little subdued, but can anyone blame him?).

“He said there’s a driver here who looks just like me. And he’s good.” A grin, one full of approval. “Glad I’m not twins with a loser. And nah, no name, he’d just seen you once.. I guess your last race.”

Try as he might, he can’t keep his eyes from drifting to the car behind the guy. “I’m Taemin,” he answers, a little belated, a little distracted. “That thing’s a beast… How fast were you going there?”

He’s been called all kinds of things (reckless, adrenaline junkie, but most often, stupid) for doing shit like throwing himself out of a plane, but Taemin doesn’t care enough to stop himself from proving them right now. Dangerous, yeah– but it looked exhilarating.

He finds it… surprisingly hard to hate his own face. Some would probably call that vanity, and he’s not exactly inclined to disagree. He used to sleep on a giant pile of various treasures and demand mortals worship him, after all. Not much has changed, except that he now sleeps in a penthouse.

Good? He almost scoffs. He’s better than that, better than great, even. But he leaves it for now. Even he gets tired of hearing himself talk about his accolades. And this guy is already impressed. He can work with this.

“Nobody who looks like this is a fucking loser, kid.”

Taemin? As he mulls the pronunciation over in his head, he watches the man fawn over his vehicle. Impressive indeed, though the luster has largely worn off for him by now. He knows it inside and out, headlights to tail lights - he can feel the leather under his fingertips like a ghost against his skin.

“Last trap check, I made three hundred and fifty kilometers.” Wasn’t he going to avoid gloating? “Thanks.”

The crowd starts to shift and there’s a growl from the other end of the track. They’re getting ready to start up again; someone’s even spinning for traction. That’s his cue to get the fuck out of the way. He half-turns, gesturing for his new twin to follow him as he heads back to the car.

“Taemin, yeah? I’m Yazi. Get in, time to go.”

#( SHOUMIAN ) #xtaem #[ just another day in the life lmao ]

[yvyin-blog]

❀ | REPOST! DO NOT REBLOG!

BOLD any bad habits that apply to your muse !

Swearing | Fingernail chewing | Slouching | Slurring | Drinking | Smoking | Drugs | Impulse decisions | Obsessive checking | Bad time management | Slang | Poor grammar |Overworking | Slacking off | Over sleeping | Under sleeping | Skin picking | Poor eye contact | Lying | Rambling | Skipping breakfast | Junk food | Self-criticism |Procrastinating | Day dreaming | Forgetful | Envious | Jealous | Gossiper | Drama seeking | Secret teller | Spitting | Lip licking | Lip chewing | Drinking from the bottle | Yelling | Poor hygiene | Impatient | Hot headed | Biased | Complaining | Scab picking | Cheek biting | Teeth gnashing | Stealing | Scamming | Speeding | Hair pulling  | Large ego | Eavesdropping | Exaggerating | Fidgeting | Free loading | Littering | One-upping | Whining | Borrowing without returning | Unnecessary aggression | Talking during performances | Plagiarism | Copying | Glaring | Spacing out | Ignoring | Over-critical | Messy | Hateful | Overly prideful | Competitive 

Tagged by: @xtaem

Tagging: @jongdayofthedead and whoever hasn’t done this yet!

#( YOUXI )

[yvyin-blog]

Tell us about a time when Yazi was learning to drive wrecklessly, but safely. Surely there was a time when he didn't know how to drift, race, etc. Did he wreck? Did he end up stranded in a ditch from losing control?

Street racing in China didn’t happen for a long time. It didn’t really sink in, saturate the business class, until around the early 2000s. At that point, the Lóng family had already established their footholds in the Chinese and Japanese markets, and was traveling back and forth between both countries freely.

Street racing in Japan kicked off in the early 1990s. Qiuniu was the first to bring it up to the bunch. Being the oldest and with one foot in the door multiple places already, he’d been invited several times to participate in races outside of Tokyo. But also being the most pragmatic, he denied them.

Yazi, being the second oldest, accepted. He, like a lot of their kind, was drawn to the thrill of it all. He was obsessed with wealth and decadence, and racing gave him both in the form of winnings and fancy cars. His first was a 1996 Toyota Supra, no modifications to speak of. He wrecked it in January of 1997.

It was cold. 2:20 in the morning cold meant frost on the windows and steam breath. There was snow dusting the roads out of town, but it wasn’t as severe as the year before. He wasn’t worried. The street lights in front of him flickered as the flags came down, signaling the start of the race. This was his third. And it started normally, as they had before. But this was a new route - one that lead into the mountains. And he was just learning how to drift.

Naturally, things didn’t quite go as planned.

It was the last turn into the forest past the first mountain that he lost control. There was black ice under his front tires but not his back, causing him to spin out through the guardrail. He hadn’t even registered that it was happening until he heard the twisting metal over the engine’s whine.

He couldn’t see anything for twenty seconds - that was how long it took for the car to topple over itself again and again until it reached the mountain base. He couldn’t feel anything but pain - everywhere. He couldn’t hear anything except a trill ring and his own breathing when he was able to register his position again. The smell of gasoline overwhelmed him, almost closed his throat. Was he upside down?

It took a couple of minutes for him to orient himself, pry off his seat belt, and drag himself out of his broken window. The ground was so, so cold. The snow underneath him was red, he realized, and he looked down to find that his previously blue shirt was maroon, and maybe he had a hole in his abdomen.

Was this what it was like to feel… mortal? Fragile, afraid?

His vision blurred as he fished his mobile phone out of his pocket and started dialing. The line connected seconds before it went black. It was a struggle to get air into his lungs. He hears his brother’s voice chime a groggy hello.

“Accident. Four-eleven near Keikan.”

#( XIN ) #[ he's wrecked a couple times but this one #was the worst and the one that left him #unable to race without pixiu for a long time #thank you for askin!! i love this stuff ] #dancxtaem

[yvyin-blog]

Paul Verlaine (x)

#( FANGZONG )

[yvyin-blog]

R X - 7

#( AIHAU )

[yvyin-blog]

xtaem:

Just watching the race is enough to get adrenaline flowing through his veins. It’s half because they’re reaching speeds no human being has any business doing, and half because the crowd he’s part of is assembled too close to be even remotely safe. He doesn’t move back, only squints his eyes briefly as the drivers speed past on the improvised track and throw clouds of dirt into the air.

It’s only when the winner gets out of his car to accept the prize money that Taemin realizes he’s found who he was looking for. It’s oddly satisfying, somehow. Kwonho mentioned the driver who looks like him, but not the fact that he is capable of wiping the floor with his competition.

He’s almost proud of his double. Almost. Would be if the guy didn’t creep him out.

Because now that he’s walking closer, Taemin is becoming increasingly aware of their differences as well as their similarities. He’s got mismatched eyes – inhuman colors, probably contacts – and bleached-blond hair, but otherwise the likeness is uncanny. Taemin’s eyes are scanning his face, registering the curve of his nose, the shape of his lips, even the freckles in the same exact places. Good God…

His doppelgänger opens his mouth, and Taemin breathes out a quiet laugh. Even his voice sounds like his. But of course.

“No shit… so my friend wasn’t fucking with me after all.”

Now that they’re standing so close, staring at each other, he’s seized with the irrational thought that it would be a very bad idea to look away. Like he shouldn’t turn his back on this guy. He’s read a few too many creepypastas to be any kind of comfortable with this. He’s not a superstitious person, really, but this is just too fucking weird for him not to be affected by the things he remembers. It’s never good, what these doubles signify. Death omens. Sinister copies intent on corrupting their counterparts and leading them astray. He’s only half-kidding when he speaks again.

“So are you the evil twin, or am I?”

So this guy knows about him. He’s not sure how much, but if it was more than just whispers, he figures that this wouldn’t be happening right now.

Or maybe he’s into some weird shit - Yazi isn’t one to judge.

His reflection holds his stare and when the words come out, he’s almost surprised at the humor. But it’s mixed with something else. Fear, he thinks. It’s hard to tell - he’s seldom seen the expression on his own face.

He laughs. Not maliciously; instead, he finds himself genuinely interested in whatever else is going to come out of this kid’s mouth.

“Think we both know the answer to that one, kid.”

He doesn’t necessarily think himself evil, though the rest of the world may see him that way. He’s not out to conquer the world or anything. Maybe a long time ago, he would have. Now, he’s… not quite sure what he wants. At this second, he just wants to have some fun.

“What’d your friend say, I wonder? They give you my name?” It’s almost as if he’s musing to himself until he pauses briefly, waiting for an answer. He isn’t known for his patience.

“I haven’t had the pleasure of learning yours yet.”

#( SHOUMIAN ) #xtaem

[yvyin-blog]

Smoke

#( AIHAU )

[yvyin-blog]

xtaem:

Waking up to multiple notifications on his phone is never a pleasant start to the day. Because invariably, it’s something he doesn’t want to deal with. Today, there’s a moment where he thinks he’s finally caught a break. They’re all from Kwonho. It isn’t until he opens them that his neutral expression starts to turn into a frown.

[ From: 권호 ] dude. what the fuck? [ From: 권호 ] i saw you last night… [ From: 권호 ] kind of a weird secret to keep from your best friends, but you do you [ From: 권호 ] just don’t get killed, okay?

The words all make sense on their own, but the picture they paint doesn’t. He wracks his brain trying to recall if there was anything he’d done that would piss Kwonho off, but he comes up with nothing. He hadn’t gotten drunk enough to black out, either – hadn’t drunk anything at all.

[ From: 태민 ] what are you even talking about [ From: 태민 ] i worked last night. came home. ate some chicken nuggets and passed out [ From: 태민 ] what did you think i did???

He’s too tired for this. He leaves his phone on the counter while he washes his face and brushes his teeth, and by the time he’s done he’s gotten a reply.

[ From: 권호 ] oh… well damn [ From: 권호 ] i did think it was a little weird you dyed your hair blond again

It takes several more minutes to get the whole story out of him. Apparently, on the outskirts of Seoul, there is a rather active drag-racing circuit. Apparently, at these races, there is a driver who looks exactly like him. Or close enough to fool someone he’s known for years.

He gets directions. He has the night off. He’s got to see this for himself.

It takes half an hour on the subway, and another half-hour of walking. It makes sense – hard to do this kind of thing closer to civilization without getting caught. When he smells exhaust he knows he’s close. He pushes his way to the front of the crowd for the best possible view of the drivers as they tear past, deafeningly loud. The wind kicks up. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and waits.

He’s by himself again. It happens more often these days, given that his brother has a rather hectic schedule right now. It’s getting easier for him to be here alone. Maybe his most recent friend has been helping. It’s not as lonely.

He’s driving the Skyline again, because his cover is already blown at this point. His name is on the books - or, the pseudonym he uses, anyway. Chances are, he’s not getting a good return on the bet he’d put on himself before rolling up to the starting line. People already know the end of the race before it starts.

But when it does start, it’s almost magical. Always is.

The girl in the middle of the improvised track smiles at the windshields in front of her and the crowd on either side, raises the flag, and it’s like time stops. The last second is always the longest. Engines rev at the peripherals of his awareness. Then the checkers drop and he slams his foot on the gas pedal.

The tires start spinning and he’s propelled forward at a speed that no living creature should be able to attain. Technology is wonderful.

It’s like he has tunnel vision. His awareness is consumed with the road in front of him, the sight of the finish line in the distance, and the hum under his fingertips. One hand on the wheel, one on the gearshift. He has to shift down as he gets closer to his destination, and he takes the time to peer into the rear view mirror. His competition isn’t far behind, but the gap is enough that when he hits the end, victory is indisputable.

Rubber screeches against the pavement as he hits the brakes maybe a little too hard. His head almost thumps against the rest and he realizes he's breathing a little heavy. Adrenaline surges, he kills the engine, frees himself from his seat belt, and opens the door.

People cheer. They always do. Secondhand high permeates the crowd. He breathes it in, revels in it. He grins. A man approaches him with a wad of bank notes and he pockets them. Not as hefty as he’s used to, but hey - he’s not in it for the cash anyway.

He closes the door and leans against the car to look at the throng before they start setup on the next race and he has to get out of the way. He can hear the guy he bested swearing behind him, but pays it no mind. Instead, his eyes trail over various faces, all preoccupied with each other or the event. Except for one.

He almost double-takes. That’s his face. But it isn’t.

The hair is different, the eyes are different, but it’s unsettlingly familiar. It’s not the same as when he looks at Pixiu, either. It’s been a long time since he’s encountered anyone else that looks like they do. A hundred years, at least. His smile vanishes.

He’s not so sure he should look too much into it, but finds himself compelled to find out more about the guy. He doesn’t look away as he pushes off the car and approaches.

“Strange… Thought I left all my mirrors at home.”

#( SHOUMIAN ) #xtaem #[ i feel like i went too fast but ayyy ]

[yvyin-blog]

“I’d say ‘take him out’, but then we might be barred from racing again.”

It haunts him. He said it, but he doesn’t want to bother with precautions. He doesn’t care about consequences. He hates losing. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were to someone he respected, but a fucking cheating human piece of garbage… His blood boils at the prospect.

As night falls and he crawls into bed, he receives a text. It’s from his contact in the SMPA. They were able to find the owner of the custom rims on the car that he and his brother had been racing against. With only so many shops able to do that kind of detailed work, it hadn’t been frustratingly hard. He immediately deletes the notification.

When it’s late and he knows that his brothers have all shut their eyes for the night, he steals away. Struggles into his jeans and a jacket, toes on his boots, and heads for the door. He only stops for a second, to quietly slide open the door of his closet to reach in and grab a long, slender, metal object.

Then he slides it closed again, and exits without make too much of a raucous. It wouldn’t do to be stopped now.

He doesn’t take one of the cars parked in the garage. That would be too conspicuous. Instead, he selects the modest sedan in the driveway, used only seldomly, to be a little more discreet. He doesn’t draw attention to himself as he follows the GPS to the address that had been sent to him.

He was never given a name. It wouldn’t matter even if he had been. He’s not going to be carving a tombstone for this guy.

When he rolls up to the house just outside town, it’s quiet - as it should be at 3 in the morning. Almost eerily so. But he trudges onward, determination outweighing the paranoia he feels as he walks up the driveway with his bat trailing behind him.

Modern locks with keypads are a difficult hurdle, but this guy only has the regular stuff - easily picked through with the kit he keeps in his back pocket. He’s had enough practice. Then he’s in.

It’s a simple house, two stories, split in half with the neighbor. It’s modest, respectable. The furnishings aren’t anything special or anything that screams personality. The most unique aspect of the whole thing is the car he finds through the garage door in the kitchen. Instantly familiar, it renews his frustration. If he were to look any closer, he’d probably find the canister of nitrous that had been used in their race emptied off to the side. The door swings shut and he continues on to kick off the job he’d come here to do.

It only takes a couple of minutes to find the bedroom where the guy sleeps. Upstairs, first door on the left. It’s ominously quiet; the only sound besides the subdued creek of the door swinging open is the guy breathing. Yazi steps forward and the floorboards betray him, eking out a sound that he’s sure will wake the sleeping man. He pauses, but nothing happens. There’s no reaction. If he’d been holding a breath, he’d probably let it out now.

The face that he sees is serene, but he knows better than to assume innocence. The aluminum shifts in his hand and he decides it’s time to get going. If he were a better person, this would end in a scare and a warning.

He’s always been a little too competitive for his own good.

He raises the bat and starts swinging.

#( ZIWO XIEZOU )

[yvyin-blog]

zanshvn:

When the dingy little motel room starts to feel suffocating, Taka goes for a walk. It never takes him on the same route. He tried to explore the woods behind the property once, but the trees grew dense and he found his way increasingly blocked by tangled branches. The next night found him wandering into town to stock up on snacks and aspirin. Tonight, he’s treading in the opposite direction – away from streetlights and tourist traps, toward an empty sky and the hint of salt spray on his tongue.

It’s only been three days since he left and already he feels like he shouldn’t be here. The pull to return is strong, almost impossible to resist, but he stubbornly shoves it down when it tries to surface. If he can’t look Kaz in the face he can’t very well live with him.

The stretch of road he’s been following winds along the coastline, and for a while it’d seemed thoroughly deserted. When he starts to hear things – odd things, like the murmur of a crowd and the roar of motors – he genuinely starts to entertain the possibility that he is finally losing it.

Then the road winds around another bend, and he can finally see what is happening here. They’re drag racing. He debates turning around. He still hasn’t made up his mind but his steps carry him forward regardless.

So he doesn’t want company. If he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, he doesn’t have to. It’s only natural to be curious.

His plan is working fine until someone calls out to him. Because there’s no way it could be anyone else. He can’t even take another step without proving him right.

An almost inaudible sigh, and he walks closer. Do I look like I’m racing? he wants to say, but it makes him cringe even in his head. You fucking nerd. Like you’d ever do anything that cool.

He shrugs. “Just here to watch.” He sinks his hands into his pockets and finally gets a proper look at the one who’d addressed him.

His breath leaves him like he’d been punched in the gut. The car he’s lounging on is obscenely expensive and deadly fast, Taka knows. It isn’t the reason for his confidence, but it does do plenty to justify it. He wonders dimly if this guy’ll win, while the greater part of his brain struggles with how to even talk to someone so intimidating.

Too late. He’s doing it.

“…Nice car.”

His rough greeting does the job; the kid turns and approaches, looking only a little uncomfortable. At least, until he actually looks up. Then there’s a look of realization.

Yazi can see the exact second that this guy’s face changes. It’s almost cute.

“Picked a good one, then. This’s probably one of the biggest meetups in the country. Plenty to see.”

He slides down the hood and finds his footing on the asphalt. And then he chuckles. This one has a kind of awkward vibe, seems like. Probably wouldn’t have talked to anyone if he hadn’t said something first.

“Thanks.”

Most people that show up to these things are either drivers that want to win a pissing contest or enthusiasts who get a secondhand adrenaline high just from watching. Limpy here doesn’t seem like either. This is somewhat refreshing.

He consciously decides he’s not going to brush this guy off like he usually would. He’d come out here for a good time and observing people like this - that’s a good time. He finds himself walking a slow circle around this kid, looking him up and down. It’s almost as if he’s appraising a piece of art. Or a piece of meat.

When he settles back in front of his car, looking at this guy, he smiles. It’s even genuine.

“Wanna see inside? Leather interior,” he says, extending a proverbial hand,” Heated seats and all that. Don���t use them much, but it’s a nice feature.”

香槟，可卡因，汽油...

#( SHOUMIAN ) #( S; XIANGBIN KEKAYIN GIYOU ) #zanshvn

[yvyin-blog]

香槟，可卡因，汽油...

It’s not altogether strange for him to be here by himself, but it is different. His left side feels empty, devoid of the usual presence of his brother. It’s almost cold.

The parking lot is swarming with people.They’re out in the industrial district, near the shoreline, and normally this place is devoid of anything except semi trucks and half-filled warehouses. But after nightfall twice a month, it becomes home to one of the larger meetups on the racing scene. He attends maybe three times a year. Recently, he’s been competing with the Audi Spyder that had been sitting in the garage. Might as well get some use out of it, even if it feels like a cheat.

He sits on the hood, waiting for them to call his name. Few people dare approach him here. It’s almost like they can sense that he’s different - he’s a threat. Not just because of the car. It’s an instinctual response similar to what a mouse feels when it’s left in the room with a cat. He’s watching, stalking... but he’s not interested in pouncing today.

Among the many that pass by, he picks out a dark-haired man (Would man be the right word? He looks more like a boy.) that leans heavy on his left as he wanders around. Beyond his gait, it’s easy to tell that he hasn’t been to one of these events before. This usually isn’t the first stop for newbies, so it’s a little interesting.

“Oi!” Yazi is too old to be reserved. “Kid with the limp! You racing?”

#( SHOUMIAN ) #( S; XIANGBIN KEKAYIN GIYOU ) #zanshvn

[yvyin-blog]

feilxng:

“Someone needs to start checking cars.” Pixiu growls as he sees the front end of the Supra pull ahead of their Skyline, and lifts his foot onto the clutch to shift, only to shove it down harder on the gas pedal after he does so. He repeats the process until he’s in his highest gear, then keeps the gas pedal to the floor. “Right now it’s just us, them, and the road. We can’t let him win.”  Pixiu tries to take the inside of the curves to catch up, and manages to gain enough ground to get beside the car, but on the straight sections he still pulls ahead. “Damnit!” He’s starting to get frustrated, something that is clearly not needed right now, so he reaches over and takes Yazi’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “There isn’t anything we can do. He’s going to fucking beat us cheating.”  “I can gain some ground in curves, but I highly doubt he’s going to let me take the inside again.” His suspicions are confirmed when he tries to take the inside again and the Supra swerves in front of him to keep him in place. “I don’t know what we can do here.” Pixiu attempts to fake a calm facade, but small scales are beginning to show through his skin. It’s very obvious he’s anything but calm. 

“We haven’t even been on the road long and he’s already decently far ahead. 这是胡说.”

“We could put someone on it,” he starts, and the rest just follows in his head - “Might be excessive for a hobby, though.”

When the engine starts firing on all cylinders, he begins to relax. Not because he’s given up, but because he’s found a calm rage. It settles into his chest and his head is full of it, he finds himself drowning in it.

He can only imagine what his face looks like now, extended canines poking his lower lip, scales probably shining around his eyes - iridescent gold. This doesn’t happen often.

This isn’t because he doesn’t like losing (he doesn’t) - this is because he absolutely, vehemently, detests losing to human beings. The inferior race. He doesn’t hate them, no, he’s just... above them. Strength, speed, longevity; he can outdo them in all categories. But he’s been forced to hide it for centuries because despite all of this, humans in large numbers would be able to destroy him.

When he feels warmth in his hand he’s able to back himself up a little bit. His skin returns to its previous state and he can focus a little bit more.

He twines his fingers with his brother’s.

“I’d say ‘take him out’, but then we might be barred from racing again.” He’s learned this from experience. But if it doesn’t happen on the track, they can’t prove anything. He finds himself chuckling, even if only a little. Perhaps it’s a little rueful. “We’re gonna have to take it.”

Tch.

“Fucking son of a bitch.”

拉力賽. . .

#( SHOUMIAN ) #( S ; LALISAI ) #FEILXNG

[yvyin-blog]

feilxng:

“I suppose we’re going in entirely blind.” Pixiu complains, frowning slightly at the situation, as if these aren’t the exact circumstances in which they should be. “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen that car around here. This race must be pulling in newcomers. I suppose I can’t complain, racing the same people every week or so is starting to become boring. Maybe this will add some variety.”

“Still, we shouldn’t be too prideful. That course of action always goes before the fall.” One of the crewmen approaches the two cars and waves them forward, and both cars tires squeal against the pavement before they lurch forward to their places. “Looks like it’s showtime. Let’s hope we can keep our place on the stage.” The smell of heated rubber seeps in through the vents, not the most pleasant smell, but still an element of familiarity in a race with too many unknown variables. He edges the car forward until the crewman tells them they’re even, then he waits. Everything outside of the road blurs, and he focuses all of his attention on the car and the path ahead. 

“I would tell you to hold on to your seat.” He smiles and tightens his grip on the steering wheel, revving the engine with a shaking foot.

A woman walks out onto the track, smiling for the crowd, and lifts her arms into the air.

“But I think we’ve been through this so many times that you can manage.” Her hands fly to her side, and Pixiu’s foot slams into the pedal with all of his pent up excitement and energy. The engine roars as the car flies forward down the street, leaving the supra behind a few feet, and Pixiu grins again. “Maybe this race won’t be so different after all.”

Almost entirely, at the very least.

He takes a mental picture of the rims, memorizes the shape and the construction. You can’t be completely off the grid.

When they start to roll, he wants to take his brother’s hand like he used to. He wants to give a reassuring squeeze, letting the other know that they’ll be fine. They’re always fine.

But he doesn’t.

They’ve gone through this too many times for either of them to be nervous right now. Yet he still finds his stomach turning. He blames the new technology and tries to squash the feeling that’s pressing up against the back of his mind, anchoring its fingers in his throat.

Still, he manages his trademark smirk.

“This is why they invented seat belts, Gēgē.”

The world around them speeds up in an instant. They’re flying again, jerked into motion by the propulsion system intertwined with the chassis and frame of their vehicle.

He hums in agreement.

It’s always been a wonder to him that humans were able to invent such a divine contraption.

But when their adversary’s car pulls ahead, he frowns.

“That’s not right...”

The model doesn’t match up to the speed increase.

“Nitrous?”

It’s been banned in their circle for a little while now, but nobody’s ever done a check on them. Whether it was out of fear, respect, or just general lack of concern, he’s never really known. He supposes he’s just got his answer.

If you can’t afford the right car or the parts, you can afford the right NOS.

It’s a cheat.

拉力賽. . .

#( SHOUMIAN ) #( S ; LALISAI ) #FEILXNG

[yvyin-blog]

feilxng:

“You know I didn’t mean ‘like us’ in that sense. Of course there’s no one like us, outside of our family, that is.” His reply is soft and corrective of his previous statement, clarifying the intent behind it. 

“We may have already heard about him, but they’ve managed to make it difficult enough to establish connections between what we’ve heard about our competitor to what we’ve heard about others.” Pixiu admits, taking a moment to consider any possible ties between what they know about their opponent and what they know about the regular competitors around this area. He racks his brain as he slowly approaches the starting line, but comes up with far too many matches to narrow anything down in the slightest. All of their information is mostly general, which is not much of a surprise since both party’s identities are supposed to remain concealed until the race is over. It’s just unusual for Pixiu not to be able to find out more, even in this situation. He’s done it before, so one would think he’d be able to do it again, but no such luck.

The car comes to a stop just before the wetbox, and Pixiu starts to put the car in park, but stops when he hears the sound of another engine approaching over the purr of their Skyline.

To his left in the rear view mirror, he catches a glimpse of the distinctive headlights of a Supra. “Ah, here he comes. Looks like he’s in Supra, so we’ll have to be on our best game.” He mumbles and brings a single finger to his lips in thought. “The car doesn’t look familiar to me.” The elder states flatly, a tinge of curiosity in his voice. As the car comes closer, there are still no unique marks to link it to anyone they’ve seen before. “Damn, the car doesn’t even give me any information.” He grumbles, instead trying to focus on the windows, but, no luck, they’re tinted black. “Yazi, does anything stand out to you?” 

Of course he didn’t. He never does. But Yazi can’t help it. For most living, self-aware creatures, there’s a nagging in the back of the subconscious that tells them they are not unique, they are just one in a hundred or a thousand. Statistically, humans have about ten other “versions” of themselves, reproduced in some other country on some other side of the planet. He’s not human - the numbers aren’t the same.

He sighs, and wonders if he should start putting out feelers before each race. The idea is that they’re supposed to be blind, not know anything about their adversaries, but he’s never liked surprises. It’s easy to become accustomed to knowing everything when you live forever. Or, rather, a very, very long time. He’s not sure if forever is actually attainable.

So he wants to make every second enjoyable.

His eyes trail over the opponent’s car as it pulls up beside them and tinted windows keep him from seeing the interior. It’s a nice ride - almost as nice as theirs, if he were to be generous. That doesn’t garner this guy any respect, though. Just means he has enough money to show off. There could be a lot to this, or there could be nothing. The only way to know if this guy has the skill to back his car is to look at the upcoming results.

“Nice rims,” he muses, “Those are custom. Looks like Momgwa Maeum.”

He almost wants to whistle.

“Pricey, but traceable. Paint job is...” Hard to tell in the dark, actually. “Probably DIY. Nothing especially flashy.”

拉力賽. . .

#( SHOUMIAN ) #( S ; LALISAI ) #FEILXNG

[yvyin-blog]

“There is no one out there like us.”

The response is immediate. They are unique, some of the last of a dying breed. Only a handful of people in the world know what it’s like to be like them, and they are all family. He’s already got a taste of disdain for their competitor.

“If he’s got a reputation, we’d have heard about him. The number of people that could be classed like us is small enough.” His other eye opens as they round the last stretch, and he sits up.

This is the time to size up the competition and their spectators. It’s easy to pick out who’s won so far and who’s lost; there are smiling faces and there are upset ones, and then there are some that are just counting, money in hand. He can’t find their opponent anywhere. There’s nobody sitting at the start.

This is easier. He doesn’t like talking to these people. They’re greedy people that have no idea how precious their lives really are. He has existed for a long time and seen countless people live and die, and he’s learned it is a lot easier if he doesn’t concern himself with them at all. Prevents a lot of unecessary headache.

He hums.

“Yeah, might as well. We’ll be able to start whenever he shows.”

拉力賽. . .

“Oddly enough, the rumors all seem to lead to dead ends. No one seems to know anything other than that.” Their speed slows as they come upon the turn they were looking for, and Pixiu shifts into a lower gear to accommodate. “There’s always the possibility that he’s like us, in that he’s kept every bit of information expertly hidden away in case it were to influence the race. Like you said, if anyone knew they were up against us, we’d be hearing their tires squealing away instead of their engines at the starting line. We have quite the reputation, maybe he does too.”

 About a quarter of a mile down the road, they come around a curve and the clamor of voices and engines revving increases in volume as the source of the noise comes into sight. All sorts of custom cars parked along the sides of the road, gleaming slightly under the dull streetlights, with their owners standing beside them boasting about the qualities that make them unique. Everyone here has already been through their run, or they’re here to watch, at least that’s what makes the most sense. “We’re here, but we’re a bit early. Should we go ahead and make our way to the starting line? I assume we’re not supposed to socialize or anything until we’ve both crossed the finish line.” 

#( SHOUMIAN ) #( S ; LALISAI ) #FEILXNG

[yvyin-blog]

His own eyes close as they rocket forward even faster. If he lets himself go, it feels like he’s flying.

“If there are rumors, it shouldn’t be too hard to find out who he is. How come you don’t know yet?” The short answer is that they’ve both been busy, the long answer might be a bit more complicated than that. He doesn’t expect a response.

“’Nobody flies faster than the Dragons from the West,’” he says,”If anyone knew they were up against us, they’d tap out before we could even get started.”

It draws out a quiet chuckle, something not rueful nor blithe, and he shifts in his seat. One golden eye pops open.

“Do you think it’ll ever stop being fun?” He’s resting his head on his hand now, elbow dug into the aniline leather on the center console, following the lines of cartilage in his sibling’s ear. “We’d have to go back to pillaging on the weekends.”

拉力賽. . .

Bright lights flash past in a blur as Pixiu sinks his foot down farther on the pedal, flying past any other traffic on the road in the blink of an eye. All of his concentration is on the road, and he misses the first few words of Yazi’s question, but gets the overall gist of it. 

“As they always are…” He chuckles lightly. “Though it makes no difference. Their predictions never really end up being too accurate.”

Five hundred sixty-one thousand. To the average person, betting a sum of money that large would be insanity, but to someone who couldn’t lose, a bet that large is nothing more than a statement to their confidence in themselves. No risks involved. After decades of experience, no competitor could even hope to match the skill of either Long brother on the road, let alone beat them. 

“No, we, and our competitors, are to remain anonymous until both cars cross the finish line. They won’t know us, and we won’t know them.” He takes a right turn at a rather high speed, and the tires emit a high pitched squeal as they slide across the concrete. “Though I’ve heard rumors that our competitor is undefeated, which is fairly impressive, even if that streak ends tonight.” 

#( SHOUMIAN ) #( S ; LALISAI ) #FEILXNG

[yvyin-blog]

拉力賽. . .

He knows only the night.

The underground comes alive when the sun goes down, when everyone else is at home watching whatever reruns are on television. There are nights when he yearns for a life like that; one where he doesn’t have to deal with his own reality, but tonight isn’t one of them.

The air is hot and humid - breathing is like sucking down steam - but he’s safe within the carbon steel and aluminium confines of their Skyline GTR.

His brother is in the driver’s seat tonight, propelling them toward the industrial district. He leans against the door with his head against the glass.

“How much do we have on this one?”

The buildings outside pass by in a blur, eventually dwindling to one here, one there, and then there’s only warehouses. The perfect setting for their favorite activity.

“Five hundred sixty-one thousand? Odds better be stacked.”

The hum of the engine feels like home.

“Didn’t ask for a name, did they?”

#( SHOUMIAN ) #( S ; LALISAI ) #FEILXNG