Most of Erica's living space was a workshop, with a curtain separating a room off to one side that was her bedroom, and a door across from that which led to a cramped bathroom. Heading into her room, she changed into her racing leathers; they were a bit scuffed, but otherwise in good shape. The more well-off racers -that lived long enough- could afford the thermal skinsuits that regulated body temperature and resisted fire, among other things; but, her leathers had served her well enough, and besides - the skinsuits looked like they gave a wedge-up something fierce. Erica fastened her helmet on, the visor sliding smoothly shut with a beep; her gloves were last, the knuckles had been rather covertly reinforced with steel, should she ever need to "help" someone get knocked out of a race.

Now dressed, Erica headed back out into the workshop, where her hoverbike stood ready. It was a work of love, and a lot of time and patience; she had assembled it herself out of the scraps left from crashes, but the more delicate pieces she had bought with her own hard-earned cash. In the beginning, each race was a test - she worked out what needed to be replaced, and what could be improved; the reward for her labour was a hardy bike that could accelerate like a much newer model, and was built just for her. The bike was painted mostly navy blue, but she kept a few parts unpainted to maintain the sort of mismatched charm it possessed.

Erica hopped onto the bike and pressed the ignition button, it started with a ready purr, lifting a foot or so off of the ground.

"Not so old, are you girl?" she chuckled and patted the bike affectionately, before setting off on her journey.

Night had truly fallen by the time she reached the service tunnels; the hosts -some bigwig corporation- had organised an unofficial shuttle of sorts for the wealthier gamblers; everyone else was on foot if they had not brought their own transport. Thankfully, the tunnels were mostly deserted for the time being, as the racers were required to get there first; the route was illuminated with a liberal use of phosphor gel; too liberal, in Erica's opinion. Did no one give two shits about being subtle anymore? Well, it was the final, so theatrics could take literally any form, however impractical or risky. Erica shook her head to focus herself, drawing back her mind from the tangent it had wandered off to to deal with the nerves twisting and knotting in her stomach. No time for nervousness, it made you timid - and timid racers get knocked out easily.

Finally, the tunnels opened out into what used to be an old square within the abandoned city; the crumbling buildings looked ominous and then some, but it was a relief to get out of that cramped, damp route with the water roaring overhead. Erica sat back for a moment and scanned the large group of her fellow racers parked nearby, looking for that telltale pink and black bike, her nerves settling down in the place of cool determination. If it was there, she did not see it; instead she sped over to the group and braked sharply at the last moment, every inch the cocky rookie.