Engines killed, the riders dismounted. One of them, tall with a braided black beard, turned to the line of motorists holding up their phones. His voice, though calm, carried the weight of a command:
“Put the cameras down. Now.”
The air changed instantly. Screens slipped back into pockets, mutters silenced.
Then, instead of storming toward Tobias, the bearded rider lowered himself slowly onto the tarmac. He lay flat on his back, leaving several feet of space, and spoke in a low, almost conversational tone.
“You know what’s special about my bike?” he said to no one in particular. “It runs like a heartbeat. Two cylinders, always the same rhythm. You can count on it, no matter what.”
Tobias’s rocking slowed a fraction. His eyes flicked toward the man.
Another rider, a woman with auburn hair streaked white, eased herself down cross-legged a short distance away. “Mine’s different,” she said gently. “The pistons fire in another pattern. You’d probably hear it if we started them side by side.”
Patterns. That was Tobias’s language. His world often spun out of control, but repeating sequences, predictable structures—those calmed him.