AGAINST THE RULES: their scentless omega-Chapter 62: I don’t wanna be leader......

(Blue Team – Spawn Point)

"You see buddy, I still don’t understand why you get to be the team leader." Spike’s voice carried a sharp edge of irritation as he leaned against his bike, arms folded tightly across his chest. His helmet dangled from his fingers, swinging slightly with each impatient shift of his weight. His eyes tracked Bulldozer with visible annoyance. "Out of all people here... you?"

Bulldozer didn’t even look at him. He continued his pull-ups on the thick metal bar welded between two abandoned light poles, muscles flexing under the sleeveless jacket as he lifted his weight with steady, controlled breaths. Up. Down. Up. Down. Each motion slow, deliberatem like he had all the time in the world despite the ticking clock hanging over them.

"Do you have any other suggestions?" he finally asked, voice calm, almost bored.

Spike’s eyebrow twitched. "Other suggestions? Hmm." He tapped his chin theatrically, pretending to think. "Let me see... oh wait, I know." He straightened and pointed both thumbs at himself with exaggerated pride. "Spike. Oh, what a coincidence, that’s me." He flashed a grin. "I’d be a great leader. I go all out. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Pure action."

Bulldozer dropped from the bar, boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. He rolled his shoulders once, then twice, loosening the tension before finally turning his gaze toward Spike. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t amused. It was simply assessing, like he was looking at an engine and deciding which part was going to fail first.

"And that," Bulldozer said flatly, "is exactly why you got kicked out last season."

The grin on Spike’s face faltered for half a second. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

Bulldozer picked up a rag from his bike seat and wiped his palms slowly. "You rush. You burn fuel before the race even starts. Leadership isn’t just about strength or who can shout the loudest." He tossed the rag aside. "It’s strategy. Timing. Reading the map, the terrain, the opponents. You forget we’re not just racing the track, we’re racing minds."

Spike scoffed, but he didn’t interrupt.

"We’re up against more than random riders," Bulldozer continued, voice firmer now. "Young Wheels is here. Ethan. Hunter." He let the names sit in the air. "They’re not the kind you bulldoze through by luck. One wrong push and they’ll turn your own momentum against you."

The blue flag above them fluttered violently in the wind, casting shifting shadows across their bikes. Around them, the rest of the team pretended not to listen, but every ear was tuned in. Tools stopped clinking. Engines idled softer. The decision mattered more than pride.

Spike exhaled through his nose and looked away toward the open field beyond their spawn point, the very openness that made them vulnerable. No natural cover. No cliffs. No structures. Just space and exposure.

"...You always make it sound like chess," he muttered.

Bulldozer mounted his bike and adjusted his gloves. "Because it is chess. At two hundred kilometers per hour."

For a moment, Spike said nothing. Then he clicked his helmet into place with a sharp snap. "Fine," he said, voice muffled but steadier. "But if you mess this up, I’m taking the wheel."

Bulldozer’s engine roared to life, deep and controlled. "If I mess this up," he replied, "you won’t even get the chance."

(Red Team – Spawn Point)

"Y–you know... I r-really appreciate the offer," the young rider stuttered, fingers fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket. His eyes darted from one bike to another as if an escape route might magically appear between the exhaust fumes. "B-but I don’t wanna be the team leader..."

Hunter looked at him with the same expression one would give a malfunctioning machinem blank, unamused, already tired of the noise. Beside him, Ethan sat casually on his bike, one boot planted on the ground while his fingers toyed with the thin bracelet around his wrist, spinning it back and forth like he had all the patience in the world.

"The decision is final," Hunter said, tone flat, leaving no room for negotiation.

"B-but you can choose from other members," the rider insisted weakly. He turned around, only to realize the rest of the team had mysteriously scattered the moment the word leader was mentioned. Helmets suddenly needed adjusting. Tires needed checking. One guy was pretending to retie a lace that had no lace. He swallowed. He was the unlucky one left standing in the crossfire. "M-maybe one of you guys can be the tea—"

He shrieked when both Hunter and Ethan looked at him at the same time.

Their gazes met briefly afterward, not in agreement, but in silent refusal. The unspoken message between them was painfully clear: Why would I take orders from him? The air between the two top dogs crackled with rivalry even in stillness.

"You will be the leader," Hunter repeated, slower this time.

"B-but I don’t wanna—"

"I apologize," Hunter cut in, voice colder, "if that came out as a question."

The poor rider’s shoulders slumped as if an invisible weight had been placed on them.

Ethan hopped off his bike then, boots landing lightly on the gravel. He strolled over with a lazy smile, slinging an arm around the rider’s shoulder like an old friend. "Hey, don’t be so tense," he said smoothly. "You should be proud. Not everyone gets handed a spotlight like this." He gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Think about it, the audience watching live, shocked that out of two top dogs... you were chosen. If I were you, I’d be thrilled."

"I-I don’t think that’s helpi—"

"Imagine giving orders to me," Ethan continued cheerfully, ignoring him, "or to that Spanish idiot over there." He pointed a thumb toward Hunter without even looking. "You’ll do great." His grin widened. "Carry that title with pride."

He gave the rider a firm pat that nearly knocked the wind out of him. "Now tell me your name, future leader."

"...Constantinople."

Ethan blinked once. Twice. The smile froze.

"...Oh," he said after a beat, withdrawing his arm. "So you’re the type with zero friends and a lifetime subscription to loneliness, I see."

Constantinople looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

Hunter exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly done with the circus. He mounted his bike and revved the engine once, loud enough to rattle the nearby barriers. "Leader," he said without turning back, "just don’t get eliminated in the first five minutes."

Ethan chuckled as he returned to his bike. "Relax," he added, fastening his helmet. "You don’t actually have to lead. Just... exist convincingly."

The red flag above them snapped violently in the wind, and Constantinople stood there, helmet clutched to his chest, wondering how he had gone from anonymous rider to commander of two walking disasters in less than ten minutes.