The wind was strong up here, so strong it overwhelmed my senses. It howled through my ears, chilled my skin, and whipped me with almost enough force to blow me off my jetboard.

Thankfully my feet were firmly attached with maglock boots that kept me from falling into the void. I squinted at the dilapidated tracks ahead, a hulking remnant of what once was a sturdy rollercoaster. Now it was a rotting carcass, barely capable of supporting the carts that once raced around its length.

It was, however, capable of supporting me.

This is what every kid from the shantytown of The Bricks dreamed of: their chance to get a foothold into the death-defying world of professional jetboarding. The coaster I balanced on dominated our skyline and our dreams. Back in the day, it was called the Gold Striker. Now, due to its rusting steel strips and crumbling wooden tracks, along with its terrifying plunge into an entirely darkened mineshaft, it bore the moniker of the Coffin Coaster.

I shot a glance to my side, where my opponent, Riley Mulligan, was leaning into position. To the side, standing on the platform that held the now-useless coaster carts, were the judges. Behind them were the scouts: the ones who could pluck us out of our lives of hunger into the world of riches and glory.

Insane to think that this was it; insane to think that years of training on ancient jetboards and makeshift rails were about to pay off. Riley was silent for once, her eyes closed and face pale. I could see a slight tremble in her shoulders and legs, but the grin twitching her lips told me that it was not nerves, but excitement. She held her slim body near the tip of her board, suicidally close to the edge for maximum speed.

Ever since we were kids, she had a penchant for incredible recklessness. She was always careening headlong towards death, never looking back, never thinking twice about what might happen next. Her blue eyes were always turned towards some distant future, and the hunger in them made me nervous.

And this was her chance, just as it was mine. One of us would take the win, and one of us would go home empty-handed.

We waited there, an instant of eternity, till we heard the blow of the whistle that signaled the beginning.

My heart kicked into high gear, adrenaline pumping through my veins. A split-second calculation flashed through me: I could try to beat Riley on pure speed, or impress the judges with acrobatics and trickery. I built my jetboard with scraps as an all-rounder, so theoretically either approach would work. But I knew that Riley had practiced more than anyone else in The Bricks, and her insane recklessness made her unpredictable. There was another option too: jetboarding had very few rules. Though direct harm to one's opponent is prohibited, a whole range of things are allowed, ranging from dirty tactics to sabotaging the track.

All these flew through my body more as impulse than thought, and my body made its decision. I tipped forward on my board and