A chilly autumn night, September, 2065

Michael was alone, sitting comfortably in the driver's seat of his 1993 Foxbody Mustang, gazing into the darkness of the misty evening cliffs.

It had been another long day, hours of being trapped in the halls of school, being force fed propaganda and useless information, only to leave and work at a grueling job for a measly few hundred credits. But now, it was dark, and he could finally clear his head.

He reached into the pocket of his worn leather jacket, found a familiar black plastic key, and carefully placed it in the ignition.

With a harsh twist on the key, the engine snarled to life. 5 liters of fury, 8 pistons pushed up and down by the explosions of oxygen and high octane fuel force fed into the cylinders that housed them. The movement of the pistons turned a crankshaft, which turned a flywheel, clutch, transmission, driveshaft, differential, and finally the rubber tires connected to the road. The engine spoke a metallic, rumbling growl; an ancient sound from a bygone era.

Michael pictured the mountain road he was about to race down, an 8.4 mile ribbon of well-kept asphalt winding its way through a forested canyon. He knew this road by heart, as if it were a piece of music he had practiced a thousand times; he knew every turn, every bump, every shift, even the patches of road where the autumn leaves fell, which could affect how much traction the edges of the tarmac would allow his tires.

Michael counted silently in his mind.

3, 2, 1, GO!

He put the full weight of his right foot onto the accelerator pedal, causing the engine to snarl in anger, echoing a throaty bellow off the rocky walls of the mountain, the Mustang's rear tires squealing in pain as it barreled forward.

To most, the sounds would be an assault on the ears, harsh, wasteful, and loud, but to Michael, driving was a mechanical symphony - and he was the conductor.

The engine's note rose in volume and pitch, the evening scenery whipping into a blur through the Mustang's dust stained windows. As the engine reached its crescendo, Michael gracefully took his right foot off the throttle, applied firm yet careful pressure on the clutch with his left, and deftly slotted the shifter into second gear with his right hand, while keeping his left on the steering wheel. The Mustang shifted into second gear, the engine note falling in sync with the needle on the RPM gauge. Michael put his right foot all the way back down on the gas, accelerating the Foxbody past 60 miles per hour- well over double the speed limit this road once had.

He shifted into third gear when the first corner came into view, a sharp 90 degree right turn. Michael first inched the steering to the left, moving the Foxbody onto the outside line of the turn, then, after letting off the gas, gingerly applied pressure to the brake pedal with his left foot, slowing the car effectively while avoiding brake lockup. The engine note fell as Michael angled his right foot to blip the throttle with his heel while working the clutch with his toe. He downshifted carefully, delicately balancing the RPM of the engine between stalling and over revving with precise manipulation of the throttle. He then pulled the steering wheel hard right, negotiating through the corner on the edge of the tire's grip with effortless grace.

Second gear, third gear, fourth gear, now he was traveling more than a hundred miles per hour. He kept his right foot firmly planted on the throttle, the large oval headlights of the Foxbody providing a milky white glow that lit his way forward as he careened through a tunnel. The growl of the engine reverberated through the tunnel, singing a song of fire and steel, accented by the thundering rush of air flowing off of the car's body.

Michael's heart beat slowly, his breathing remaining steady despite his unyielding focus. After all, he had been practicing on this road almost every night since he had been as young as twelve, mastering a lost art one turn at a time.

Michael's Mustang was a drab dark grey in color, smeared with brown dust, and peppered with the occasional scratch or small dent. Its bodywork was blunt and boxy in shape, with a long hood, large windshield, short roof, and angled hatch rear windscreen, which led into a short trunk.

Underneath, however, the Foxbody was far from mundane. Beneath its hood, a fire breathing beast lurked, a 300 horsepower Ford Windsor 5.0 V8 engine, mated with a 5 speed manual transmission. The brakes were modern vented discs, replacing the worn solid discs it came fitted with standard from the factory. Its standard rims and tires were replaced with a custom set, rims forged from a lightweight alloy wrapped in high performance all weather tires.

The interior was sparse: It only contained basic amenities such as air conditioning, a headliner and rear seats. Even the radio had been removed, all dedicated to the sole purpose of improving the car's maneuverability and acceleration by reducing its weight to a bare minimum.

The original steering wheel was replaced with a lightweight aluminum racing wheel, which had no airbag, but was much lighter and more comfortable in hand.

The modifications turned the Foxbody from an ancient relic to a street racing machine, built to go as fast as it could on asphalt in all weather- on a very modest budget of course.

*******

Michael saw the glint of his headlights against the guardrail of the next corner, a tight left hairpin. He eased off the throttle, letting the car settle its weight on the front tires while simultaneously applying brake pressure. As soon as the nose of the Mustang entered the corner, he yanked hard right on the steering wheel, forcing the weight of the car to the right, then steering hard left into the turn.

All four tires broke traction and skidded. The car rotated into the corner in a graceful drift, whipping its rear bumper around the edge of the corner in a precise arc. For a short moment, the G-forces of the turn equalized, and Michael briefly felt weightless as the tires squealed in pain and bathed the road in smoke. Michael, unfazed, applied more throttle and countersteered in the direction of the slide, straightening the car out at the exit of the turn.

The snarl of the Mustang's engine echoed throughout the mountains, accented by tire squeals, the ringing of brakes, and the rush of the wind. Viewed from above, one could only see the wide beam from its headlights poking through the dense cover of tree branches that hung above the road.

If he drove fast enough, Michael could almost escape from it all, from the noise of the city, the claustrophobic halls at school, and the fears and responsibilities of his 16 years on the planet. The winding asphalt served as a form of guiding his thoughts and clearing his mind; it was here, on this road, that he was free.

This particular evening, he held an even greater focus, his mind entering a zen like state, operating off of instinct alone. He was one with his car, the natural surroundings, and the road.

A sharp, red line of light appeared ahead on a long, straight section of the road.

Michael slammed hard on the brakes, slowing the Mustang and breaking his concentration, just as the vehicle came into view.

It was large, painted a faded white, so wide that it took up both lanes of the road. It moved silently, precisely... and extremely slowly.

Michael groaned in disgust. A Callahan Industrial Model 101 AutoCab. A hulking self driving jalopy, driven by weak electric motors and piloted by a nearly blind artificial intelligence program. Behind it's foreboding tinted windows its passengers could be sleeping, drinking alcohol, or be engaging in any number of activities — anything but driving.

It was a grim reminder of the reality Michael lived in. The historical events that lead to it had been hammered into his mind by schools and media, proof that he was holding on to a dying art carried on one thing only: tradition.

Decades before Michael was born, there had been a terrible war. Cities were destroyed, a billion lives were lost, and treaties were signed. It led to a singular world government, the Global Coalition of Nations, with an official elected by the existing government of each country to represent them. This led to a long period of peace and technological advancement, at the cost of many personal freedoms citizens once held dear.

One of the great advancements brought on by the GCN was DriveNet, a satellite coordinated network of all-electric autonomous cars that used existing roads. Since the contract to construct these vehicles had been awarded to a single manufacturer, almost every single car company fell out of business. The driven cars of the past were relegated to scrapyards and museums, doomed to be mocked and forgotten.

********

Michael reached the unofficial finish line of the mountain road with the Mustang idling in fifth gear, practically glued to the rear bumper of the Autocab. He had briefly been at peace — and that giant metal monstrosity had to get in his way and ruin the whole thing.

He sighed and pulled over to the parking lot on the side of the road. He unhooked his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, slamming the driver's side door behind him in a petty fit of annoyance. Michael wore a worn black leather jacket his aunt had sent him as a birthday gift when he had turned 13, and since the weather was cold and he was finally tall enough to fit in it comfortably, he had put it on over his usual red T-shirt and black jeans.

A quiet giggle made Michael turn around. A familiar sight greeted him.

A girl stood next to another car. She was roughly Michael's height, with similarly sharp facial features, and the same piercing blue eyes. She had long, wavy, black hair, and an hourglass figure. She was pretty, and clearly knew it too, leaning confidently with her back against the door of her car, tossing her hair back as if she was a model in a shampoo commercial. She wore a white hoodie, and bright blue skinny jeans. Michelle, Michael's twin sister.

"AutoCab in your way again?" She remarked with a smug smile. Her voice was clear and sharp, with a bossy air to it.

"I was gonna break your record..." Michael sighed. His voice would have been deep and commanding, but Michael chose to keep a submissive, quiet tone most of the time.

Michelle wrinkled her nose as a response.  "Bullshit! Your big American V8 is never going to beat my SR20 turbo!" She taunted, pushing herself off the side of her car.

Michelle drove a dark blue Nissan 180SX S13, a small Japanese sports coupe with a fittingly small engine and lightweight construction. It was modified with a simple, yet gaudy body kit, lowered suspension and heavily cambered wheels with large, silver rims. Its paint was mostly scratch free, and its bodywork completely free of dents. It had pop up headlights that were purposely stuck halfway between being fully up and down, giving the whole car a sleepy look. Several stickers and decals littered its body, reminiscent of sponsors on a racing car. Michelle thought her car was stylish and beautiful. Michael thought it was overdone and tacky.

Michael sighed and leaned against the Mustang, silently staring at the ground. Michelle always had to take everything to an extreme. As if she had read his mind, she excitedly exclaimed:

"If you're so sure your car is faster, prove it!"

When Michael didn't react immediately, she pushed him a little further with a provocative grin curling the corners of her mouth. "That crowd-killing piece of garbage can't turn, and this is a mountain road!" She turned her nose up high and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Michael suppressed a grin about how mistakenly confident she was, resorting to a slight smirk.

"Racing is about a hell of a lot more than how fast your car is. Sure, that old Nissan could be quicker than my Mustang... but I know you wouldn't be able to keep up with me as a driver." Michael said, looking towards the sky thoughtfully.

Michelle raised her eyebrows.

"All I hear is talk talk talk," she complained impatiently. "If you don't race me, you have already proven that I'm a waaaaayyyy better driver than you are. Because you know I would definitely win." She eyed him carefully, waiting for the reaction to her words to settle in.

Michael sighed. Michelle couldn't resist a chance to one up him, she always had to be number one with each everything, often insisting to strangers that she was, in fact, 4 minutes older, by virtue of being first out of the womb when they were born.

"Alright, I'll race you downhill then," he finally gave in.

"You're on!" Michelle's eyes glowed in anticipation. "Last one to the starting line has to follow!"

She sprinted to the driver's side door of her 180SX, and gracefully hopped inside.

The raspy tone of her Nissan's 4 cylinder engine echoed through the night, accompanied by the high pitched whistle of its turbocharger. Michael smiled and jumped into the driver's seat of the Foxbody, turning the key and awakening the engine just as Michelle did a burnout out of the parking lot filling the air with tire smoke.

*************

The twin siblings took off up the mountain, Michael following the 4 round tail lights and the "You just got passed by a girl!" bumper sticker of Michelle's Nissan as they began their ascent up the road. Michelle showed off by purposely drifting as many corners as she could, deftly tossing her car sideways, tires squealing in pain, and blocking Michael's vision with tire smoke. Michael followed lazily behind, easing the Mustang through the corners entirely within the limits of its tires grip, and using its V8 engine's high torque to close the distance on the straights.

Both cars could make it up and down the mountain in roughly the same amount of time, but how they achieved that speed was completely different. Michael's Mustang was large and bulky, so it lacked overall agility compared to the S13, which was small and light, but its larger frame meant it was fitted with wider tires, which gave the Mustang better stability.

The Nissan's SR20 2 liter in-line 4 engine was small and lacked torque, but it made up the difference in power with a turbocharger: an air compressor driven by the engine's exhaust gasses which pressurizes the air going into the intake manifold, giving the car much more power — at the cost of making the engine much less responsive, since a turbo has to spool up before it actually provides more power.

The Mustang, on the other hand, had a large 5 liter V8, which had plenty of torque and power, but it was only naturally aspirated —  meaning it lacked a turbo or any kind of additional power add-on, but it was extremely responsive in comparison.

To summarize, the Foxbody was faster on the straights while being more responsive and stable, while the S13 was more agile and quicker in the corners.

******

They reached the top of the mountain, the road ending in an empty parking lot next to an abandoned observatory that overlooked the mountain like a great metal gargoyle.

Michael often found himself gazing up at the now run down tower that had once held the powerful telescope that looked up into space. Space was where all the good opportunities were these days, Michael often thought. You could sign over your life to some corporation for 5 years or so, and work 16 hour days in the silicone mines on Mars. If you survived, you would make enough money to come back to earth, buy property and start a family.

Michael had long known he wasn't the brightest, or the best at sports, and certainly not the richest. He certainly wouldn't make college, especially since the free public school he went to didn't even offer many of the classes most universities required to even be eligible to submit an application. He was heading nowhere but into the servitude of corporate profits in life, and deep down he despised it.

Which was why he spent his evenings up here, in the mountains, behind the wheel of his Mustang, burning the nights away along with any shred of his teen angst. Driving was the only thing he really had some kind of passion for, because the rest of his life didn't feel like it was worth living.

********

Michael and Michelle turned around in the parking lot, going down the road until they lined up next to each other on a flat section of road with a road sign that had long faded away to being illegible.

Michelle parked her Nissan in front of Michael's Foxbody.

Michael stopped right behind her, just as his wrist buzzed. His smart watch. He answered by opening his hand, which caused the watch to briefly glow light up with a shimmering blue holographic projection.

'Sis' is calling...

Answer?

Y     N

Michael pointed with his other hand at Y, and his sister's voice filled the car.

"I made it up first, so I'm leading on the way down. There's no way you're gonna pass me!" Michelle bragged.

"Did you see any more AutoCabs on the way up?" Michael asked calmly.

"Nope, I'm ready to race! Try not to hit any crowds on the way down!"

Michael sighed. If he had a credit for every time he had heard that joke about Mustang stereotypes, he wouldn't have to worry about extracting silicone in space for a living.

"Ready!" Michelle shouted, cutting through his bitter mood with her excitement.

She revved her car, its large 3 inch exhaust pipe spitting flames, its engine's raspy bleat filling the air.

Michael sighed and stomped on the throttle while keeping the Foxbody in neutral. The deep growl of its V8 drowned out the S13's turbo 4.

"Your engine ain't as big as your mouth." Michael said with a smile.

"Three!" Michelle shouted, indifferent to his remark.

Michael could've sworn he heard something. Another engine, a howling, raspy song.

"Two!"

The sound grew louder, and Michael instinctively glanced in the rear view mirror, which lit up with the bluish sheen of LED headlights. It was another car, another, REAL car!

"One!"

The other car swerved around where Michael and Michelle were parked, and Michael got a clear view of it.

Its body was sleek and wide, with a short hood and long rear deck. A bright red mid-engined super car, with two singular round taillights.

A Ferrari 458 Italia.

"Woah... is that... GO GO GO!" Michelle shouted.

************