Placeholder At the peak of the gig economy, delivery services became more and more extreme as to mitigate saturation of the market. Enter the platform known as Wheel-D. Wheel-D, like many other delivery platforms, had a bit of an extra feature. That feature was the ability for another rider to steal another person's quarry. This kept it fair, and not everyone had the stomach for it. Also, the higher the score in this particular platform, the more interesting, the more valuable the game is.

The trio was at the local motor pool. Monthly maintenances costed a lot, but then what costed even more is having a dullard go on the frets. Clyde, in his usual way, responded with his usual low twang (“okay boss”). He lined himself in, led the mechanics, and they give him a once over. A tightening of bolts here, a spot weld there. Good as new.

For a few months straight, Sidney had managed to break into the top ten. That’s how he earned the nickname Backalley. The guy knew every shortcut, every drainage path, every forgotten service road in the city. No navs, no overlays—just instinct and nerves.

“You should listen to me more, Trixie,” he said once, cocky grin under his helmet. “I’m a man with a nose.”

“You have a nose,” Trixie shot back, voice dripping with sass. “Using it’s another matter.”

She was a Servitor built for the job—fast, sharp, loaded with the latest map data and a mouth that never shut. Her tone was all punk attitude and Cyndi Lauper sparkle, and she didn’t take guff from anyone—whether it was Sidney, Clyde, or any dullard dumb enough to get in the way.

And then there was Clyde. He wasn’t built for speed—pretty much like a draft horse isn’t built for horse racing. His chassis was originally the one of a mid-size warehouse lift that was modded for the races. Even if they shaved some weight on him, he wasn’t particularly fast. However, what Clyde did have going for him was stability. Trying to knock him down on the side of the road was basically negotiating a fistfight with a Sherman tank. Not happening.

But somehow… somehow, Sidney made him move like a butterfly. “All skill, baby, all skill” He kept saying to whomever had the misfortune to ask.

Clyde responded with his usual chime, simple and matter-of-fact. Just smart enough to do the job, dumb enough not to backtalk.

And honestly? That’s exactly what you want in a Dullard.

Sidney was at the local motor pool. He wandered past the facilities, past rows of vending machines, grabbed a snack, then returned to to his team.

Tahir, his favorite mechanic, was giving Clyde a once-over. He knew every engine quirk, every idiosyncrasy and every spot weld on the dullard’s chassis, and he kept quiet about a certain feature, that required secrecy and understanding that cost him extra mondo. "It's agaist the rules Sid!!" Trixie moaned. Sidney didn't care "button your lip Trixie, we got to have the edge."

Sidney fired up the Wheel-D app, tablet mounted on his tablet, Trixie, who’s AI module was jacked in directly into it and, proceeded to scanning the streets like a hawk for the next delivery request.

Then it happened. A chime. One chime that would change everything.

The job pinged just like any other: PACKAGE – PRIORITY, PREMIUM.

Sidney “Backalley” Brown leaned against Clyde’s handlebars, scanning the details. Jewelry. Custom. Hand-delivered. Nothing he hadn’t run before. His repscore gave him first dibs.

Then Trixie piped up from her console, voice sharp with realization.

“Oh shoot. Look at it! This custom piece is for Jamal Singh. As in Motorpool 1-0. The biggest dullard depot in the tri-state.”

Sidney shrugged. “So a richboy has a custom piece to flash at the next party. Big whoop”.

Mounting Clyde he went for pickup, some eccentric artist across town. The package was placed in a secure container in Clyde’s storage compartment.

Suddenly, his console buzzed an alert. Trixie blurted “SIDNEY!! You are NOT going to like this!!”

The order screen had a warning in caps “ORDER CATERGORY: RUSH – OPEN CONTRACT”

Sid’s face fell. They had gotten first dibs—and now, due to some man’s impatience, that meant every delivery jockey in the district was locking in on them.

He clenched his jaw. Two things could sour a run fast: an entitled client who thought you had a warp drive under the seat, and a job turned into a general call. Now he had both. It meant racing and fighting off every Tom, Dick, and Harriette within fifty miles in order to reach to the top.

And the rule of the game was clear, Once the package was picked up, the ball was in play.

“Clyde, let’s ride.”

Clyde grunted “OK, Boss.”

Clyde’s frame shuddered to life, his tires squealing as they blasted out of the alley. Five minutes later, after they made the pickup and made some distance, Trixie broke the silence.

“I got three closing in on you—two dullards, one scooter. ETA three minutes.”

Sid jumped onto the rig and hit the throttle.

“Two more bugs on your six. They’re closing fast,” Trixie warned.

“Yeah, I see ’em.” Sid caught the glint in his rearview mirror—fresh paint, new treads. He remembered their score. They’d been stuck at rank five for weeks, hungry for a top-three slot and desperate to ditch milk runs. This gig was their ticket up.

They pushed hard for a mile before one made his move, veering to overtake. Clyde’s proximity alert screamed, and Sid jerked the handlebars, clipping the rival’s side. The courier slammed into a wall in a shower of sparks—game over.

The other scooter held back, waiting for the perfect opening.

Sid squinted the other courier was closing in.

“Trixie! How close am I to the old market?”

“Two minutes.”

“Good. Plot me a course there.”

Wheels screamed as Clyde tore through a side street and into the old market. The place was empty—perfect ground for shaking off the pack. With all that open space, Clyde’s heavy frame would have the advantage.

“Come and get it,” Sid hissed.

They didn’t disappoint. The scooter rolled in first, followed by two more couriers—every one of them hungry for a high-stakes win.

Sid wasn’t worried. Most of these jockeys ran on standard Servitors for navigation.

Trixie was different. She was a custom job. Since Clyde was built from a sturdy bot, Sid had reworked Trixie’s navigation core to match every angle and quirk in his frame. She knew how he moved—where he could pivot, when he could throw his weight, like a pilot who was trained to use a massive bumper car.

Under her guidance, Clyde became a juggernaut in a steel ballet. Sid danced through the chaos, turning the market into a demolition pit.

By the end, the place was littered with upturned Dullards, groaning riders, and bruised egos.

Another proximity chime came through.

“Trixie, what is it?”

“Someone’s coming for your throne.”

“Yeah, I got a taste of it from these greenies. How many?”

“One. It’s Damascus. He scared off the small fry.”

Sidney rubbed his temples. “Oh great. Him.”

Damascus Jones — the epitome of a sore winner. Custom rig, patron money. Word was, he’d cozied up to one of the Singh cousins and got himself a shiny new setup. He’d been gunning for Sid’s spot since last year.

A year ago, Sidney was on a run and Damascus was gunning for his quarry. A chase happened but along the way, Damascus lost control and his rig got critically damaged. He lost also his servitor, equating to a complete disconnect from the platform. Luckily, He was able to get a sponsor by aligning himself with one of the company towers. And the only reason he competes, is to regain his reputation.

The company doesn't care, they get their brand shown.

He has gone back to basics ever since, claiming that his failures were based on relying on machines, and vowed to be the first deliveries to be without assist, he was pretty vocal about it, looking down every other courrier.

"Oh sure, he blame us!! Don’t blame the controller, blame the player!!" growled Trixie, taking offense to Damascus' loss being blame on a servitor in solidarity of their own.

That being said Damascus' rig was old school: an honest-to-god motorcycle retrofitted with twin battery stacks and electric guts. It gave him both range and punch — a killer combo.

Clyde was running half-charge and twenty miles out.

Sid muttered a curse and floored it, weaving through alleys and side streets.

In the mirror, he saw him — Damascus — coming in fast, hard, and smug.

They stopped, engines humming low, eyes locked. They both knew — this wasn’t about the delivery anymore. It was about the flourish. The statement.

Sid kicked Clyde into gear and tore through the city streets, Damascus right behind him, a streak of chrome and arrogance.

Sid kept the route clean, weaving through intersections, making sure no bystanders got clipped.

“He wants his rep bad,” Trixie warned, voice trembling through the comms. “And Clyde’s running on fumes.”

“Don’t worry,” Sid grinned, sweat rolling down his cheek, “we still got an ace up our sleeve.”

He meant the capshot — a jury-rigged bank of supercapacitors wired between Clyde’s twin batteries that Tahir has meticulously engineered and hidden on Clyde. It was dangerous, illegal and reckless.

Perfect.

He he had paid a handsome fee to have it made. A whole bank of capacitors that bypasses both the battery and it's management system, giving the electric equivalent of a nitro charge from last century.

This, could wreck a dullard's motors and burn out it's controller if not configured proprely. This was made against the rules of Wheel-D when too many accidents and public outrage became known after boosted rigs made courriers lose control due to their inexperience with speed.

Sidney however, was smarter. He trained himself in handling faster speeds by letting Trixie act like a gyroscope to correct him. His instincts, paired with her failsafes. Still illegal regardless.

But in that business, one has to invest in securing your position. With that in mind and the peace made with it, he started the mental countdown.

He let Damascus close the gap. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten—

“CLYDE! CAPSHOT!”

The command hit. Power surged through the dullard’s frame. Motors screamed like they were being torn apart from the inside. The speed increase was felt like an whiplash.

The capshot bought him speed — and maybe bought Clyde a death sentence.

Damascus reared his bike. Like an horse neigh's the whine of his quad engine flashed. He was keeping up!!

Then Sidney had a grim realization: "LITHIUM!!"

That bike had speed, scream and lithium. The fact he had lithium batteries showed the sponsors of Damascus invested in things that were hard to come by.

Lithium batteries were hard to manufacture and in order to get them, you had to invest a king's ransom. Damascus didn't sign on the dotted line at that tower, he sold his soul.

They weaved through the streets, the passersby retreating into their shops and dwellings, not knowing what to make of this high-speed chase, this rivalry of circuit and steel. Clyde’s bulk and Trixie’s synergy allowed Sidney’s congnitive load to fully think his way through the next intersection, the next side street until the GPS chimed in with the destination in sight.

The last stretch felt like an eternity colored with the scent of heated metal and burnt capacitors. Clyde was overheating and the delivery spot was in visual range. Damascus, still intent on seizing the quary, tried to keep up but resigned himself as he knew the delivery was on point and stopped.

Sydney was barreling down, Clyde smoking, Trixie screaming obscenities like no chatbot ever did. They were barreling down. 100 feet, 50 feet, 10 feet. Clyde, full stop, the screeching of tires and then drifting, stopped in against a curb.

Further down. A young woman stood on a parapet facing the sun, a sight fit for a romantic bollywood. Her saree, maroon silk trimmed with gold, shined in the light of the sunset. Her hair tied up in a simple ponytail that flowed like an obsidian river, her eyes bright and with a dept that spoke with regal measure.

Close to her, was Jamal Singh, VP of MotoPool-01, clad in saphire and checking his watch. He was fidgeting and it was getting clear that Priya, the object of his affection, started to notice his anxiety, something he never displayed openly.

They both hear a commotion in the distance, and are witness to the incoming trio arriving hot, crazy and fast. The drift maneuver had allowed Sidney to arrive light as a feather, jumping off his rig to then run towards the young couple with the box. Without really knowing why he did this, he bows as would a squire, almost as if the magic in the moment required it. Jamal picks up the box, opens it and presents the ring.

Priya, shocked by the commotion and feeling the elation of Jamal’s proposal.

Damascus flips his visor on his helmet in the distance, looks towards Sidney, salutes him and drives off. They would meet again. The wannabe king wasn't done with him and tomorrow was another delivery.

Sidney, who went back to Clyde and Trixie, sees the scene unfold. Another successful delivery and the begining of a journey for a young couple.

Trixie: "I am sorry, can't access Clyde's optics, did she say yes?"

Clyde: "Girl. Happy."

Trixie: We better be invited to the wedding...

Sidney looked at Clyde's engines "Tahir is going to charge me a mint!!"

And he did. The motor controller burnt like bacon, the engines needed rebuilding and the tires worn down to the belt, making the finally bill half a years pay (The bride used part of her dowry as a thank you to the team.)

But the scoreboard still showed who was #1 back at the motorpool. They spoke about it for months.