Kwatsura waited in the shadow of the cab station peering out into the soft white light emanating from the streets of Rsola. Bikers flowed by the square opening of the station, their forms indiscernible, in a monotonous line of movement. Behind the white blur of traffic, on the opposite side of the transit, the stark white shell of a tower, its surrounding raised sidewalk and pedestrians walking in either direction appeared.
Ready? An elder poked Kwatsura on the back and whispered in a soft Rsolan lisp. Kwatsura turned around to meet his visage with cheekbones hidden beneath ivrosian plates that hovered awkwardly high over a wrinkled face and a thinning beard died florescent white. The elder was straddling a motor cab, with a raised empty seat behind him at shoulder height. His gown was cut down the middle to accommodate the straddle necessary for driving.
Yes, thanks. Rsola central, East Irdon drinking spot.
The elder acknowledged the directive with slight nod. He revved the engine, its exhaust illuminating the the small black box of station a pale blue. Kwastura climbed into the plush white passenger seat. The cabbie pulled the bike forward and hopped the vehicle into the flow of traffic with millisecond timing.
What was once a indistinguishable blur of moving forms now appeared in bright detail. A densely packed group of bikers (solo riders, couples or groups of three negotiating space on a seat and cabbies with one or two passengers) covered the one way transit like a blanket. They moved swiftly between white walls, beneath bridges and past the raised sidewalks encircling the towers.
Kwatsura glanced to his left and saw a young woman riding a cab like his. Her face was powdered white with cheeks glowing from a layer of pink rouge. Her chest was bare with the flesh pushed back by the wind. Although no foreigners other than Kwatsura were to be seen on the transit, there was something out of place about this woman. She didn’t wear the typical cheek plates and her coal black hair was untied and flowing behind her. The flow of hair almost seemed frozen in space.
Stopping, the cabbie warned Kwatsura as he angled the bike sharply to the right, cutting through a line of traffic and dashing off the transit. The bike came to a swift stop under the glowing purple letters marking the entrance to his underground destination. East Irdon Drinking Spot.
