The team drove up to the Netherlands early Friday morning in a two vehicle caravan. The two RVs led for the most part, their drivers playing with each other a bit on the road between hyperloop exchanges to stay awake. That in and of itself was a bit crazy as both were also hauling big trailers stuffed with tools, gear and the bikes. Everyone else in Nika’s RV was asleep in their bunks despite the trip only taking two-ish hours mostly via the ‘loop, so the woman rode shotgun and poured over her track book.

The racer was silent for the journey while the mechanic driving, Tomas, had chatted incessantly. He did this with everyone until they told him to shut up but Nika listened out of one ear as she went over her notes and diagrams. She responded to a question about the gearing they'd run in the last race at Mugello as she turned a page and he stared briefly at her before continuing. 

'So I figure here, 'cause there's those two straights and you're light as a bird, that we'd try to go down six teeth initially...' Normally they worked in increments of two. He was running it by her kind of as a test. The mechanics were always trying to figure out how much exactly she knew about these things.

“Save time on setup in practice?”

The man's eyes all but bulged in his head. 'Exactly!' And he went on again about it.

Nika turned another page and studied the turn displayed.

Luckily it was a short trip the way the boys drove. Tomas wandered off with the other mechanics and techs to unload everything into the garage and Nika met up with the team’s sleepy-eyed Public Relations Manager, Annessa Caulier and Team Principal, Robert Harding. Both were veterans at Ducati. 

Alex called her wallet  as they were out walking the track.  'Hey, Nicky.'  For some reason everyone be it media, the team or other riders, were always assigning her different nicknames.  Nothing permanent had stuck yet.  What was wrong with, Nika?  As long as it wasn’t ‘Princess’ or something else ridiculous she’d just go with it.  ‘Listen, you walking the track?' “Yeah, we're looking at Turn 8 right now.” 'Good, good. Hey, I want you to go back and look at the bump on the middle line of T6.' Robert tapped the face of his watch, they were on a tight schedule apparently. “Yeah I saw that. It's been patched. The seams are good but I have a feeling it'll be slick.” She could almost hear his smile. 'That's my girl! Yeah, I'd stay off of that line if you can.' The young woman agreed. 'And let me know if you have anything for me after Free Practice, okay?' “I will, thank you.” 'Good. Kick ass.' Nika smirked. “I will.” Alex laughed. “Okay, I imagine Rob is trying to push you along so I'll go and I've got Luca here doing the same. He says hi.' His voice grew muffled for a second as Alex told the engineer she’d said the same. 'Okay Nick...talk to you soon.' “Alright.” 

When the trio returned to the pit garages, the paddock was abuzz with activity. Mechanics and techs scurried about like a kicked ant hill, team livery announcing their allegiances. Reporters and officials intermingled along with the occasional fan trying to look as though they belonged. Security was tight and special passes were required to get near anything interesting. To have one you either worked for a team, won a contest or paid a nice chunk for the privilege. 

There was a schedule for literally everything and Nika’s day did not accommodate free time. Upon her arrival she'd walked the track for a blessed quiet hour to study before a rider's meeting. Then it was off to the Michelin paddock to pick up her tires for the weekend and then back to the garage to deliver them to her mechanics who had been busy unpacking. While the boys mounted the tires Robert and the Head Engineer, Giancarlo Luca, hovered over a laptop to determine which tires to use first. They talked about the temperature of the actual track versus the actual temperature versus humidity and weather. The weather radar was checked at least five times during the conversation and a drone with a temperature attachment had been sent out to call in with the asphalt temp as well. When finally a consensus was reached the appropriate tires, in this case a soft front and medium rear, were pulled and installed on the bikes and the electric tire warmers were wrapped around the rubber. 

Nika in the meantime had been gearing up. She wore a full-body compression suit under her leathers, which helped beyond words in the removal of the same. The leathers themselves were skin tight and custom fitted, that in and of itself made getting in and out of the things a bitch. No one could do so without assistance which made for some interesting contact should anyone be allowed to watch the process.  There were never any witnesses.  She  wore a separate spine protector under the speed hump sewn on the suit's back in addition to a hard chest plate. The chest shield she could add and remove herself but sometimes the spine protector shifted before the suit was zipped up and the only way to place it properly was to have Annessa stick her arms inside the suit and coax it. The fanbois would have loved to get a ticket to that action. 

Nika Raskov was a rookie in MotoGP but in the seven races so far this season she had won six and finished third in the other. She currently enjoyed a comfortable lead over her teammate Alex Castori in Rider's Championship and third place hadn’t even broken 100 points yet.  The little Russian wasn't the first woman to race in the series but she had been the first to do well. This made her a sort of magnet for the women dragged to the races either as family or with family. Alex had seen this and was working at finagling sponsorship accordingly. While the other racer didn't think that it was wise to 'girl-ify' Ducati’s not-so-secret weapon, as he called her, the man did see the value in attempting to reach the microscopic female audience. Of course sometimes he neglected to mention this to his teammate.

Nika and Annessa emerged from the gear room where they'd fought with the leathers again for a good ten minutes, there was an absence of the typical male reactions when two attractive women surface after a time spent in a cramped room. While the team were professionals and not scum, they were still men, if a little geeky at times and they had only required one ‘correction’ by the women to make the entire lot shut their faces. Of course, being men, they didn't let the tech who'd been knocked on his ass by a girl forget it either. That was allowed.  Later on Nika had smoothed things over by getting him really drunk...and then filled his hotel room with blow-up dolls. 

Luca walked over and handed the rider her helmet and gloves then barked at her in his typical Italian way. 'Let's go Nicky, bike's not gonna set itself up.'  He didn't mean it at all and actuality adored the little rider. He called her 'precious' too but out of earshot.  Her retort was to salute grandly with a grin.  "Aye aye, Cap'n!"

The boys pulled off the blue tire warmers with excellent efficiency while the the woman pulled her helmet on and tugged on the tight leather gauntlet gloves. She could hear the other bikes in the paddock start even through the earplugs. The engineer nodded at the temperature reading Tomas gave him on the tires while Nika stretched over briefly touching her toes and then squatting before standing upright once more. Her own bike was rolled out of the garage and started. Tomas held the front cowl with as she threw a leg over the seat. She pulled her left foot up to click the shifter into first gear and released the clutch after looking around to see if she was clear. The racing machine eased out toward the track and slowed twice as the brakes were checked independently of each other. First her right foot pressed down for the rear brake, then two fingers squeezed the lever at her right hand. Satisfied, Nika entered pit lane and then nailed the throttle once she was clear. Eyes friendly and otherwise watched her go.

Free practice was an hour long session packed with chaos. Teams sent out their riders both to learn the track and to find the optimal setup for the bike at this particular track. A properly setup bike would, in the best-case scenario, have gearing customized to provide maximum speed down the straightaway while having the maximum power out of the corners. It was what all riders and teams sought and guarded carefully, it was a difficult endeavor to master and it changed every single time with every infinitesimal variable. The factors could be anything from wet versus dry, cold versus hot, tire compounds, humidity...literally anything. 

Luca, being the Head Engineer, called the shots on how exactly the team ran their session as they only had an hour to 'dial it in,' as he was fond of saying. Nika was to run for ten minutes unless a major problem presented itself before coming in for the first time. The crew tweaked gearing first and by plugging in the computer to the bike, they knew where to start. Lap telemetry and feedback from Nika herself aided in the rest and then things started to change. Everything was pre-prepared down to the last nut and bolt needed for fine tuning. Hell, even the gears were mounted on the rims complete with tire and the wheel was wrapped in the tire warmers so that a complete change was done inside two and a half minutes. 

Forty-five minutes into practice saw the team making serious headway into their setting. Nika was comfortable on the bike and was looking fast and good. She'd been running solo for most of the session and had just rocketed past the number seven bike on the second straightaway whose pace had been off. The woman took note of the braking markers in her fully tucked position before sitting upright and downshifted twice. The rear tire slid from side to side as the brakes were applied and ultimately the bike settled to the left. The woman placed the toe of her boot on the right hand peg and stuck out her knee. The bike seemed to fold over in a precisely smooth action as the high speed corner was negotiated. Nika's head and eyes were already focused on the next corner and she did not see what went on behind her. 

Teams watched the practice session live feed on monitors in the garage while their riders were out. Scrolling bars gave information on the various competitors and two commentators discussed a wide range of topics. Currently the screens were showing the Fast Motorsports/KTM bike as it negotiated the esses. ...'Cooper has been struggling with feeling in the front lately and if he can't sort that out, I don't see him running in the top group.' Another voice piped up. “Look at that, wide into the turn again. It's almost looking as if he can't get a feel for his tires...” The other voice broke in. 'Reports of an off in T13.' The screens switched to a view of a cloud of dust and two mangled bikes. A group of people adorned in official track attire huddled around a rider. 'Looks like...the number ninety-nine and seven bikes.'...“Hard to tell, really.”...'Yes, Trackside says Raskov and Hargrave.'... “Let's see if we've got footage of what happened.” 

Hargrave’s number seven bike had indeed been off-pace from Nika Raskov's machine however, not for long. As the ex-Ducati rider was passed, he twisted his throttle almost violently in an attempt to catch up. His line was different around the corner as he was attempting both to out-brake his opponent and pass her on the inside. He screamed along behind her on the straight and waited a full second and a half after she started braking to do so. This closed the gap certainly but gave him less distance to slow. Seeing this too late, he crammed on his brakes and locked up his rear wheel. He then panicked as his line around the turn intersected Raskov's. The rear brake was released mistakenly.

The cameras captured it perfectly. The number seven bike shifted to the side almost casually before twitching violently back to the right. It's rider was thrown forward over the bars and cleared the bike completely only to land feet-first on the asphalt and tumble like a rag doll. The riderless bike meanwhile had resumed its trajectory forward to ram the tail section of Nika's fully leaned over bike at more than 140mph. The red Ducati’'s tail section all but shattered and allowed the offending machine to continue forward again only to meet the back tire next. The pseudo-braking scissored the number seven bike left and onto the back of the unfortunate rider who had, milliseconds before, been pitched head-first at her oncoming windscreen and the triple tree of the clip-on handlebars. Raskov, still hovering in seeming slow motion since the initial impact as though on a six inch cushion of air, went limp after taking her bike's punch while the other bike and gravity finally seemed to engage. Nika's left arm and shoulder hit first and were visibly wrenched backward, then her lolling helmet bounced twice before the rest of her hit. The friction sucked the rider to the track to roll bonelessly as both bikes continued their arcing backward spins yet continued their momentum forward in a bizarre demonstration of physics. 

The inert form of Raskov flattened to pass somehow impossibly underneath the spinning bikes. She slid along behind them contrasting the cyclonic nature of the two-wheeled beasts as she seemed to casually fold at the waist, unfold and back again, arms wrapping and unwrapping around her own torso until the tarmac was cleared and she disappeared into the great cloud of gray dust kicked up by the battling race bikes. 

Gravel dust settled quickly and orange-clad crash team members followed by green-clad medical workers vaulted over the crash barriers to assist the downed riders. Debris littered the track and corner workers frantically waved red flags. Hargrave had simply slid for a hundred and fifty feet or so and was up walking toward the wall inspecting his highly scuffed leathers. He spared not so much as a glance toward the accident his mistake had caused.  Raskov did not appear to have been as lucky and remained motionless facedown in the gravel.

The sports channels as well as the track's closed-circuit televisions showed the workers in cluster around the woman. One shot focused dramatically on the dark broken visor in the middle of the track's corner, evidently torn from the points-leader's helmet at some point. Behind the scene a crash truck had arrived for the two demolished bikes and the ensuing debris. Hargrave had climbed over the wall by now and was being ushered by a green-vested medical official toward an awaiting cart. Meanwhile the cluster of medics around the downed rider were busy securing her to a stretcher. She looked small and vulnerable on the thing as it was loaded into the ambulance. The lead medic climbed in, talking on his radio. The remaining crew closed the doors and sent the vehicle on its way to the Mobile Clinic where the series doctor was standing by to assess the damage.

Jacinda had read the posts. Hunt here. Hunt there. Bored. Ten had been a mother hen. And yeah, Jaci loved it. So weird too. Ten was not her mom. Not even a bit.

The age difference was kinda big. In the opposite direction.

But she cared. Bout broke her heart. It had been so long. No one was like Ten. And Ten was was her sister. Almost (Shut up.) For some reason that bothered her a bit. 

Katy was coming here. Jaci never let herself be a girl. Mostly. Never girlie, anyway. But she already was smiling. For this.....how could she not? Katy was in her 60s. And she had be been there for Jaci. No one knew. No one. She had saved her.

Jaci bought two tickets. No biggie if it was unused. It'd be nice. But not necessary. Katy had been her freedom. Represented anyway. The beginnint. And Jaci wasn't gonna miss it.

She hoped Ten would go. But even if not...well, she would.

You’ve tuned in to MotoGoGo; a chatcast for everything fast.  My guest tonight is MotoGP’s newest phenom, Ducati Corse’s own Nika Raskov.  I am your host, Colin Mackay.  You’ve been here before and you know the format.  Use the MotoGoGo App to send your questions for Nika.  As those queue up, I will remind our audience that we are completely naked in the studio.

Nika Raskov:  Clothes invite drag, Colin.
Colin:  I’m in drag, Nika.
NR:  I can see that.
CM:  You cheeky fucker.
NR:  Language!  Kids could be reading this.
CM:  It’s nearly 4AM.
NR:  You’ve heard of time zones?
CM:  I’ve heard it all, darling.
NR:  So we’re done here then?
CM:  Ha. You people should see this woman.  She’s pure evil I tell you.  The evillest, cute-as-a-bug’s ear demon you’ve ever set eyes upon.
NR:  I’ll not dignify that with a comment.  Surely some drunk insomniac has written in.  Unless your app sucks.
CM:  Actually, no one has written in at all.  You’re terribly unpopular.
NR:  That’s unsurprising.
CM:  And a huge lie.  The Welsh lie, don’t ever forget that.
NR:  I’m sorry, did you say something?
CM:  I’ve got some facts in front of me, do you want to hear them?
NR:  Are they as fun as learning that the national animal of Scotland is the unicorn?
CM:  Err...yes?
NR:  Alright then.
CM:  You’ve raced professionally since age 15 in the bigs.  You debuted in Formula Moto, won British Superbike at 17, won World Superbike at 18, World Supersport at 19...won MotoGT at 20.  Then 2nd at GT at 21 and you stayed despite everything that happened, we won’t get into that…
NR:  Thank you.
CM:  ...and you won another GT Championship at 22.  I’ll remind everyone, in caps please, NO ONE STAYS IN MotoGT LONGER THAN A SEASON BECAUSE IT’S CRAZY.
NR:  (chuckles darkly)
CM:  Now at 23 years of age, you’ve moved to MotoGP...and are leading in the championship points.  That’s remarkable.
NR:  Thank you.  It’s all the bike though.  Du-CAT-i.  (laughs)
CM:  Bollocks.  I’ve watched you race.
NR:  (whispered)  Creeper.
CM:  (laughs)  Really, you’ve got phenomenal control.  Very smooth.  Except when you change your style.  Then you make my heart leap from my chest because I think you’re about to high-side.  Really.  Stop that.  Why do you do that?
NR:  (laughs)  Le Mans?
CM:  Yes!  You started the season riding as though on rails.  Why were you sliding around all of the sudden in France?
NR:  Well since nobody is reading this...we had an issue with the motor update.  We were due for fresh engines, it’s every three races now for everyone, and there was a shipping problem where only one arrived.  We gave that to Alex and I kept on with the old motor.  I was down on low-end power by far so I had to keep the revolutions up and that meant sliding around.
CM:  God.  It was amazing to watch.  You looked as though you were just playing around.
NR:  Well I was.  (laughs)
CM:  What?
NR:  We dyno-ed the motor very briefly and it was down so much that (Giancarlo) Luca wrote it off.  We didn’t think the bike would be able to make the minimum qualifying pace at all.  You saw how slow it was in the beginning of Friday’s Free Practice.  
CM:  Yeah the commentator’s were all over speculating you were testing some little, insignificant thing like you do that ends up making you look brilliant in the end.   
NR:  If it works at all.
CM:  Things haven’t worked?
NR:  Oh, many times.
CM:  Go on.
NR:  So I had ten minutes left in the morning session and decided to “test the tyre longevity” while I was out there.  I was sliding around trying to eat them up as quickly as possible and Luca put my lap times in through my HUD as I was mid-pack with what the satellite riders were turning in at that point.  I went back to the garage and everyone was just staring, thinking I was this amazing genius when in fact I was just trying to waste some tyres.
CM:  You were just goofing off?
NR:  (laughs)  Yeah!  I’m really five years old when it comes down to it.
CM:  I have heard rumour in the pits of some mysterious prankster…
NR:  Oh there’s no mystery.  I couldn’t keep a straight face about anything if I tried.
CM:  Do go on.
NR:  I explained what had happened and Luca green-lit me for FP2 while the crew changed some configurations to better suit that kind of riding style.  Then I stole Alex’s tablet and looked up a guy called Garry McCoy...and what lines he took.
CM:  Are you serious?  McCoy was what, 40 some odd years ago?
NR:  Yes.  Famous for his sliding style.
CM:  I can’t believe it.  
NR:  Ha.  FP2 went well and we had some more things to change before qualifying.  So while the lads tweaked the bike, I studied the track like mad and plotted my lines.
CM:  Then won from Pole position on a damp track.
NR:  Yes, that part worked in my favour as I was planning on sliding around anyway.  It was just a mad run of luck is all.  Bad then good in the end.  
CM:  You’re a nutter.
NR:  Never denied that.
CM:  Ready for the game then?
NR:  I was getting bored of the conversation.
CM:  Cheeky fucker.
NR:  Language!
CM:  Right.  For the uninitiated, this segment is a series of questions from our audience meant to be answered in one word or a brief sentence.  You may pass on a question but then will owe that person an autographed photo.
NR:  Oh I despise that.
CM:  What?  You’re well known for your lengthy autograph sessions!
NR:  I never know what to write!  “Thank you for not making me sign your hairy chest or bald baby’s head.”  Or, “Please do not make this into a tattoo.  You have your whole life to live yet and I am not that popular.”  True all.
CM:  Oh God, you are horrid at something after all!  That’s refreshing to know.  (Laughs)  We’ll begin now.
NR:  Bring it.
CM:  Favorite race track and why?  @lexi_nation
NR:  Mugello as it’s very technical and the fans are amazing.
CM:  Number of tattoos and what are they?  @99_demon_fan
NR:  Zero.
CM:  Really?
NR:  Fact.
CM:  Interesting.  Sorry, next up.  Personal romantic status?  @pashion_ducati
NR:  Married to sport.
CM:  (laughs)  First thing you do when you get home.  @pangalmania
NR:  Open the door?  Or water my plant.  Depending on specifics.
CM:  Favorite non-motorsport related hobby.  @two7ive5hoes
NR:  Reading.
CM:  Prettiest trophy you’ve won so far and why.  @little80peep
NR:  The Catalan GP gave out a magnificent working seascape...quite posh and unnecessary but I’m a sucker for fountains.
CM:  Such a girl.
NR:  I can like pretty things!
CM:  Next question.  There was a rumor that you worked on your own MotoGP bike at Qatar.  Is that true and why?  @greasem0nk3y982
NR:  That is 100% accurate.  Alex crashed in qualifying and needed the extra hands so I sent my mechanics over to help him.
CM:  Didn’t he end up beating you at Qatar?
NR:  Yes he did.
CM:  Bad idea then.
NR:  Yeah.  (laughs) See if I ever help him again.
CM:  Do you have your CCD motorbike endorsement for the street and if so, what do you ride?  @pansyf*cker
NR:  I do have the license, yes.  I ride a ‘43 Superleggera Stoner Edition that Casey gave me after the second GT title.  
CM:  You ride that on the street?  What the hell do you do with it?
NR:  Sometimes I like a good hamburger.
CM:  So what, you just park a 90k motorbike in a lot?!
NR:  I pull it up on the sidewalk.  Then I let kids sit on it.  It’s fine.
CM:  I hate you.  I’m no longer a fan.
NR:  Back down to none then.  Alright.
CM:  Well here’s a creeper for you.
NR:  Awesome.
CM:  Where do you live?  @raskovmarryme
NR:  In my home.
CM:  Nearly done.
NR:  Thank God, you’re insufferable.  I bet all of these questions are yours.
CM:  What type of music do you listen to/what’s on your playlist right now?  @picachu3
NR:  Right now...Red Hot Blues, Anna Kendrick, Kit Kat Splat from Dark Ages and Pink.
CM:  O-kay.  Penultimate question.  Along the same lines as clearly you should not be allowed in public.
NR:  I couldn’t agree more.
CM:  Favorite telly program and movie.  @teateainacup
NR:  Uh.  I might need to pass on this one.
CM:  Oh come on.  Inquiring minds.
NR:  You didn’t care for my last answer.
CM:  Answer the damn question, woman!
NR:  I don’t watch the telly.
CM:  What?
NR:  I don’t have time to follow programs.  I watch movies though, nothing recent or anything you’ve likely heard of.
CM:  Indulge us, you’re getting paid for this.
NR:  I am?
CM:  In bitcoin.
NR:  Nothing useful then.  You might’ve said carrots.
CM:  Pay you in carrots?
NR:  Carrots are delicious and great for the eyes.
CM:  Are you drunk?
NR:  No, I don’t drink.
CM:  Ever?  Don’t drink, never have or never been drunk.  There’s a difference.
NR:  Don’t drink, never have and never have been.
CM:  As near-Irish, I honestly don’t know how to respond to that.  Are you even human?
NR:  Sometimes I wonder.
CM:  I’m going to need you to distract me by listing movies you’ve watched in the last...we’ll say...month.
NR:  Lilo and Stitch.  Trolls, Trolls 2.  The Incredibles Trilogy.  Bug Out.  Mission Impawsible.  Annie.  Ghostbusters 2016.  Moana.  Frozen.  Nero and the Temple of Athens.  Titan A.E. .  Peaches and Nash Go to Broadway.  Despicable Me.
CM:  Stop.  What the hell?  I haven’t heard of any of those.
NR:  Cartoons mostly.
CM:  You really are five.
NR:  I told you.
CM:  Alright.  If you weren’t racing motorbikes for a living, what could you see yourself doing?  @birdistheword77
NR:  Oh, well.  Maybe a pilot?  
CM:  You like flying?
NR:  Not in passenger planes, no I hate it, but a plane with a bubble-type of cockpit because I like looking at the world from afar...like high above it where you can see the whole horizon.  It’s so peaceful.  Pilot or...cosmonaut on the space station!  Yeah!  I’d never get any experiments done though as I’d just stare at the world the whole time.
CM:  Interesting.  Last one is always mine.
NR:  Naturally.
CM:  You’re remarkably successful at what you do.  What’s your secret?
NR:  I practice and train constantly.  Train like it’s the real thing, that’s how I approach it.
CM:  Outstanding.  Thank you.  Nika Raskov, everyone.  I appreciate you coming in and I thank you especially for that Tomboy-X ad, which is blown up and framed in my bedroom right now...and my living room and my bathroom.
NR:  (laughs)  Body double but you’re welcome, world.
CM:  You, dearest, are full of shit.  
NR:  Truer words have never been spoken.  I thank you for your time and I’d like to thank all the fans for their support.  Please don’t ask me to sign your hairy chests; it ruins the markers.  
CM:  (laughs)  Be sure to tune in tomorrow as Round 7 on the MotoGP calendar gets underway at Mugello.  Best of luck, Nika.  I’ll be cheering for you to win.
NR:  I bet you say that to everyone.
CM:  Yes I do.
NR:  (laughs)  I won't disappoint you then.
CM:  See that you don’t.  I want you to autograph my chest.
Nika Raskov:  Ugh!  Bring your own marker.
Colin Mackay:  I will.  Now shut it, I’ve got to end this horrible interview.


MotoGoGo out.

Her lips...she'd turned. His chest had enveloped her and her arms had hung low, unsure, and she was lost in the moment and then, finally, she turned into him...her arms around his neck, kissing.

Marcus let a little bit go. A taste. She had no idea.

Ducati Team scores a fantastic 1-2 victory at Silverstone.  Nika Raskov takes the chequered flag ahead of Alex Castori at first race of 2045.

It was an all-Italian podium at the premier race of MotoGP.  Newly promoted long-time Ducati test rider and two-time MotoGT Champion Nika Raskov won the day followed by Pole-setter Castori and Yamaha’s Antoni Rizza.  Five-times MotoGP Champion Castori and reigning Champion Rizza picked up where they left off last season and battled tightly for most of the race leaving Raskov to pull away alone at the front after a wide pass against the two in the early stages of the day.

Honda’s Yoshi Taka was next in fourth followed by KTM rider Thomas Jorgenssen, Team Suzuki’s Pierce Dakkett and ousted Ducati rider James Hargrave on the second Yamaha Works bike.  If the season’s first race is any indicator, 2045 is set to be a thrilling year for motorcycling’s premier racing class.  

See all of the action live including post-race interviews and behind the scenes access right here on MotoGP's Official News Network, Speedfeed.

Yesenia mingled the tables, her tray flashing like a disc perched upon elegant, expert fingers. Feathers trailed in her wake, tickling noses along the way. A smack to her thigh and she turned, smile big, a wink freshly flickering from sinful-lashes. She placed a Slippery Nipple upon a table on a spin and caught the eye of the lights-master before hurrying back to her post. The lights would go down in a moment and skyscraper heels were dangerous platforms in the dark. 

A flamboyant and mischievous compere commanded the stage, brilliant spotlight illuminating his form. Yesenia smacked her lips at a passing patron, stealing the empty stems like an expert thief. The band, Top Shelf chiseled at their brass, and all eyes swiveled forward. Giant feathered fans, burlesque dancers, acrobatics, vertiginous high heels.. the flash of exotic glamour gripped Yesenia by the soul. She was a lifer and always would be. Hopefully the CCD didn't shut them down after tonight! 

She paused long enough to listen to the initial denunciations of their first act. Hoots and hollers whistled forth when he spoke.

Her was mood was dead.

Upon entrance she helped herself to a bottle of vodka from Jaxen's cabinet, shedding the ruined dress and sharp heels as she did so. The lace left bloody smeared patterns against her shoulders, darkening the delicate underwear beneath. But Ori was hardly one for modesty. On the bathroom floor she systematically picked out the splinters from her wrists and knees, a blush of the power scouring what the eye could not see. Though it ached like a healing wound to wield it. Her lips twisted a grimace, less from pain and more from frustration.

The echo of the ijiraq's loss was like a fucking heartbeat, underscoring every breath. Its pain felt like her pain. Its loss felt like her loss.

She swallowed the vodka periodically, but it didn't drown the feeling. Or not enough. She sparked like something darkly electric, aware of Jaxen's movements but unwilling to engage despite his hospitality. The water she stepped into raised to a scald, like she was trying to strip the skin. Ori took no comfort. The set of her jaw; the burn of her eyes -- she looked like she wanted to ram a fist into the wall. Truth but not the whole of it. Beneath the hostility her chest was aflame with pain.

She did not stay, and she did not thank him. Her dress remained a ruined puddle on his floor. He would find his closet absent a shirt.

Years had passed since she last found herself in Moscow, but it was still home. Nothing much had changed in the dark jewel of a city, nor in all its beautiful shadows. She was well acquainted with those cool dark places of the Underground, and never found much fault with Ascendancy's blind eye towards its more illicit activities. Darkness need spread somewhere, after all.

The Custody paid for her flight home. An assignment would come, but for now she was simply instructed to convalesce -- though for someone like Nhysa, the word had something of a unique interpretation. Her body felt wasted, at least to the standards she was used to, and yet she discovered little in the way of challenge presented by tonight's entertainment. Perhaps they mistook leanness for weakness, or perhaps it was only that too many years had passed and her reputation here had faded into dust. 

Tonight Almaz gave her insufferably fragile opponents.

The rounds blurred beyond number before she even felt the first stings of sweat at the back of her neck. Smashed noses. Crunched bones. Split lips. Quick, efficient brutality. She might as well have been picking fucking roses. Then a blow caught her stomach, radiating a spectrum of pain that flickered a curl to her lips. She doubled over, wheezing a laugh. A moment later and the sharp crack of an elbow took him in the chin, whipping his head back. A sweep relieved him of his balance. Perhaps he hit the ground awkwardly, for he was disappointingly unconscious by the time she leaned over to peer down at why he had not yet gotten up.

She rolled her eyes, straightening. Her stomach twinged sharply. Handlers dragged the dead weight of her opponent away, until he became lost in the shadows of the concealed pit entrances (the darkness, it had to be said, watched a little curiously). Nhysa swiped a hand over the back of her clammy neck, eyes momentarily rising to the brightness above. The roar of music drowned the fussing of the crowd. Screens projected for those unable to capture ringside seats, though Nhysa didn't much care for the audience; or at least, it made little difference to her whether they were there or not.

When her attention lowered it was with impatience for the delay. "Next?"

"You're bleeding."

"And?" She looked down, and found herself faintly surprised by the amount of blood burst brilliant against the front of her tank. One of the handlers peered out of the shadows, beckoning her to move off, his face looking just about ready to puke. Nhysa's lips flattened disapproval, acquiescing only reluctantly. The darkness grew a little blacker as she passed. "It looks worse than it is."

Rooms for the competitors were nothing like those for the guests, who watched the decadent violence from thrones of luxury. Creaking pipes ran overhead, rushing on water to the communal showers. The light was sallow, better to disguise the blood, though you could smell it like iron in the air.

Ilya waited just beyond the entrance. Habitual black draped his shoulders (better to hide the blood), his bearded face like a disembodied skull above. He snapped the gloves on his hands, smiling faintly, brows lifting with the offer of assistance. He remembered her, if no one else; damn doctor was as old as the pitted walls. Nhysa waved him off with a wink. Rumour these days said the guy kept young girls whose fingers healed or mangled at a touch, but such was reserved for the highest earners (or those with the richest patrons). Most of those had the privacy of their own rooms anyway.

Cold tiles stung underfoot as she hit the showers. The slap of the water echoed like a rainstorm, the rip of its touch like little needles. She raised her face to the pain for a while before she inspected the wound. Some of the necrotic crust had ripped away, which explained the pain. Gooey red tissue peeked beneath, too shiny new to even be considered close to repaired skin. Blushing pink swirled away at her feet as she poked a little at the wound amidst a swell of frustration. How long until the fucking thing healed?

Ivan squinted and covered his eyes at the brightness of the sun as he stepped out the door. He looked back at the guy in black- the dick was giving him a hard eye- and stepped out.

It was odd how a night in the tombs or wherever and you suddenly felt like a rag that had been wrung out hard. His tux no longer was crisp, collar hanging open, tie in pocket, jacket on his arm trapping the heat enough he was ready to chuck it.

He felt dirty and just wanted a shower to wash the night off him. He called a ride and headed home. The night was a blur. Again and again they asked what he had done. Had it been an accident.? Why? A billion other angles.

Ivan was a fucking cop, man. He knew how to push. These were jumped up assholes Brandon decided deserved to be rods or pricks. All the same. Brandon was swinging his dick around, showing off how tough he was, what a man he was. Trying to alpha the planet. Didn't take a genius to see the connection.

And Ivan, who had been his man from the get go was treated like shit by these guys. He still remembered the flick in Brandon's eye. The dismissal.

That was what loyalty meant to him. Not a goddamn thing.

So yeah, Ivan was out. And fucking angry. And done. And ready. You know what? Fuck Brandon. He's too busy being an asshole to protect Moscow.

Well, Ivan would do it. By any means necessary. Idly he wondered what Yun would think.

Oh she was gonna pay. He'd make sure of that. Put a gun to his family's head? Nu uh. But first he'd cozy up to her. And get what he needed. She thought she was something?

Ivan was done being a nice guy. Fuck that.