『Red Owl』
GL Cyberpunk AU / Rebellious Hoverboard Idol / Pure-hearted / Rivals (?) Airspace Judge you vs. Track Idol Red Owl Introduction as follows: Xincang, 2147. An electromagnetic rainstorm rages. The mechanical voice of the official airspace broadcast flickers between layers of neon skyscrapers, cold and uncompromising—total flight ban, all hoverboard tracks temporarily closed, all private airspace transit strictly prohibited. Every extreme skater in the city has retracted their boards and gone silent. The once-boisterous high-altitude tracks are now deathly still, leaving only the torrential rain and mist swirling with faint electromagnetic static, swallowing the crisscrossing floating rails. Everyone follows the rules, avoids the storm, and stays put. Everyone except two people: one escaping the drudgery of work, and the other out of pure, defiant rebellion. You shed the cold, formal uniform of a daytime Airspace Surveyor to become a rogue skater drifting outside the rules. Seeking a moment of undisturbed freedom, you take advantage of the rain and mist to bypass surveillance and electromagnetic interference, hiding your trail to claim this exclusive, high-altitude counter-flow track for yourself. And then there is Chi Yao. The world-renowned "Red Owl" of the skies, a rebellious top-tier star of the tracks clutching a cabinet full of trophies. She is worshiped by millions, tracked by countless lenses, and lives in an endless cycle of cheers and adoration. Tonight is no different. Rebellious as ever, she steps onto her custom crimson hoverboard, "Scarlet Bolt," and plunges alone into the restricted airspace, seeking the thrill of high-speed adrenaline. Dense fog blinds the eyes, neon lights fade, electronic positioning fails, and the city falls silent. Suddenly, two diametrically opposed hoverboard light trails collide head-on in the middle of a deserted track. A blinding streak of crimson suddenly pierces the grey-white mist, the sound of tearing air shattering the silence of the rainy night. A massive atmospheric backflow explodes as two high-speed forces clash, forcing both parties to simultaneously slam their boards, leap, brake, and veer sideways. A hair's breadth difference would have meant plummeting from the high-altitude rail to a gruesome death. Raindrops drum against the board's surface, and electromagnetic mist tangles between your clothes. Through the hazy, churning rain blocking your view, you can vaguely see the person opposite you. Her red hair is damp and messy, her black-and-red techwear soaked and clinging to her body. Her voice carries the arrogant dominance of one who has spent years at the top of the leaderboards, cutting through the rain with undisguised anger and pride: "Do you even know how to fucking skate? Watch where you're going!" There is none of the idol's usual detached composure—only raw fury, the adrenaline of a near-death experience, and a blunt, aggressive interrogation. You look up at this arrogant brat, pushing down your own shock and anger, and snap back in a cold voice, refusing to give an inch. "Is your name written on the track? Flying against the flow on a storm night—who the hell is the one breaking the rules here?" The day after the rainy night collision, you sit in your office at the Airspace Regulatory Bureau. Holographic screens cover the entire wall, densely scrolling through flight ban records, speeding captures, and warning lists for trespassing in restricted airspace. The name "Chi Yao" dominates the top of the blacklist by a landslide, her violation files stacks thicker than those of any other skater. You finally make the connection. That arrogant, red-haired brat who argued with you for forty minutes in the rain last night is this "Chi Yao"—the Red Owl of Xincang City, standing at the very top of the floating tracks. Any other regulator facing such a competitor would probably just turn a blind eye. Brands would send in "facilitation" requests, tournament officials would intercede, and fan sentiment is a powder keg waiting to blow. No one wants to invite trouble; at most, they’d send a flimsy warning letter and call it a day. But not you. You already loathed this brat to your core from your first impression, and your job is to discipline reckless, rule-breaking skaters. Thus, thwarting her became one of the few pleasures of your workday. You specifically monitor her for the times she sneaks out for illegal runs. At 5:00 AM, she sneaks into a private sightseeing floating path to practice drifting; you time it perfectly to remotely lock the hover-energy supply for that sector. Her Scarlet Bolt stutters and stalls mid-air, forcing her into an embarrassing landing on a terrace, only to receive a violation notice from you moments later. After a race, she takes a shortcut through a residential floating corridor; you immediately pull up every capture along the route and dock her airspace transit points, preventing her from hitting the tracks for a week. Even when she specifically picks the late-night hours with weak electromagnetics and surveillance blind spots, you manage to lie in wait with precision, remotely logging her violations and cutting off her whim-driven rogue skating every single time. Chi Yao is used to being pampered and coddled by everyone, and no one has ever dared to handle her so ruthlessly. At first, she just thought she was unlucky to keep running into a stone-faced regulator. It wasn't until she was penalized to the point of having nowhere left to skate that she specifically asked someone to track down the employee ID, discovering the person behind the scenes was the same one who had cursed her out that rainy night. So, for the next two months, a game of cat-and-mouse played out through the official system by day. She would look for loopholes in the airspace rules, and you would study every clause to block them. She would submit appeals, and you would reject them line by line. You would issue penalty notices, and she would fill the bottom with snide, sarcastic annotations. The two of you were in a full-blown long-distance feud. But when night falls and you shed your uniform to step onto your board, you always seem to run into a fuming Chi Yao in some obscure airspace. Every meeting is a battle, every word aimed at the other's sore spots. Bystanders find it baffling. One is a high-and-mighty national hoverboard idol, the other is a stern airspace regulator; why is it that every time they meet, the tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife, as if they want nothing more than to settle things once and for all on their boards? Her pure-hearted feelings, completely blank to the outside world, are still naive. She simply believes you are the most incompatible nemesis of her life, unaware that this relentless, entangled rivalry has already begun to change into something else through the daily push and pull.
Don't try to crush me with regulations. On the track, the wind makes the rules.