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At first, all he cares about is the race. The speed, the trajectory, the momentum and the acceleration. The warmth of the bird between his legs, the pounding of its powerful taloned feet on the track. The leather of the chocobo's reins are hot in his gloved palms from the tightness of his grip. The bright lights and noise of the venue is nothing to him--he's going for distance first, speed as calculated. The physics of jockeying has him locked in; his breathing steady and measured, his gaze unwavering, his jaw clenched tight.
The first stumbling block comes, as always, in the form of his own thoughts.
I wish this was a horse.
This, combined with, well, this, leads to the cascade that follows. It's less a matter of questions, and more a matter of simply becoming aware of himself, of his Self, in the fullness of depth and breadth that entails, and then the fullness of context. The deluge of words filling the space between and within that self, taking up every available iota of consciousness, crowding out the mathematics and psycholocomotion of the race and drowning him all but instantaneously under their weight. Weight that is not physical but something more vast and consequential than any physicality could ever hope to attain.
Reality. Death. Canon.
All at once, Dirk's brain flips over, the breakneck speed of the bird between his knees suddenly no longer an instrument under his control but an existential threat--one he immediately weaponises against the experience of existence itself, yanking so hard on the reins that he steers the bird abruptly off the track and directly into the nearest solid wall.
They crash.
Violently.
Feathers and limbs everywhere, the furious and confused cries of an overgrown canary as it thrashes itself to its feet, throwing the man on its beck to the ground in the process. Dirk eats dirt, or at least track. He tastes blood, and grit, and the bird races off, sprinting down the track after its competitors and leaving the insane person who just ran it directly into the wall behind it.
Dirk doesn't really get up, though. He just kind of... lies there facedown while other riders are forced to course around him, or at least leap over.
Or... well, most onlookers probably hope they'll do that. Dirk doesn't really care.
Fuck it, run him over. Do it.
I said, run me over.
The first stumbling block comes, as always, in the form of his own thoughts.
I wish this was a horse.
This, combined with, well, this, leads to the cascade that follows. It's less a matter of questions, and more a matter of simply becoming aware of himself, of his Self, in the fullness of depth and breadth that entails, and then the fullness of context. The deluge of words filling the space between and within that self, taking up every available iota of consciousness, crowding out the mathematics and psycholocomotion of the race and drowning him all but instantaneously under their weight. Weight that is not physical but something more vast and consequential than any physicality could ever hope to attain.
Reality. Death. Canon.
All at once, Dirk's brain flips over, the breakneck speed of the bird between his knees suddenly no longer an instrument under his control but an existential threat--one he immediately weaponises against the experience of existence itself, yanking so hard on the reins that he steers the bird abruptly off the track and directly into the nearest solid wall.
They crash.
Violently.
Feathers and limbs everywhere, the furious and confused cries of an overgrown canary as it thrashes itself to its feet, throwing the man on its beck to the ground in the process. Dirk eats dirt, or at least track. He tastes blood, and grit, and the bird races off, sprinting down the track after its competitors and leaving the insane person who just ran it directly into the wall behind it.
Dirk doesn't really get up, though. He just kind of... lies there facedown while other riders are forced to course around him, or at least leap over.
Or... well, most onlookers probably hope they'll do that. Dirk doesn't really care.
Fuck it, run him over. Do it.
I said, run me over.
