The man who had told them where to park had just grabbed them both by the arm. "I'm Jeff, I run things around here."

He pushed through the crowd, dragging Michael and Michelle with him. Michael could now get a better look at Jeff. He's tall, and has long dark hair.

"Ok do you have any money to bet with? It's 1000 credits to enter?."

Shit, Michael thinks. He didn't think of that.

"No, but we have our rides." Michelle says bluntly. Michael immediately pulled her aside.

"Sis what the hell are you thinking?!"

"I'm getting us in the race!"

"If we loose-"

"We won't. You saw the Spec Miatas. Their lines were off. On corner exit NONE of them had proper throttle control. They were sliding all over the place! This'll be a piece of cake!"

"Yeah but these guys may not suck! They'll know these streets. We have no idea what they'll be driving! We could be up against those GT-R's for fucks sake!"

"GT-R's are in S-class"

"Look-"

"It doesn't matter what you say, nothing is going to change the fact that I am going to enter this race. WITH OUR WITHOUT YOU!!!"

"Fine. Two drivers are better than one. But if we loose..."

"We won't. "

Michael hated the fact his sister could decide to be so stubborn at the worst possible times. They turned back to Jeff.

"K-so are you two a team?"

"Yes. " Michael said quickly.

"Right... follow me."

They followed Jeff to a large satin black Terradyne Gurkha (if you know what this vehicle is and what movie it's from, you get a cookie) armored security van with the gold Racing Authority logo emblazoned on its side. Jeff opens the rear doors of the van, revealing several computer monitors, showing several views of the city streets, and a map of Kempton. Jeff climbs into the van, going to a rack of shiny black race helmets that they had seen the spec Miata drivers wearing, and comes back handing them two identical helmets.
"Ok, these are your RA official Augmented Reality Smart Exo Helmets. A.R.S.E Helmets for short."
Michelle snickered.

"Yeah, yeah, I know it's stupid, but that's what marketing came up with. They work with your RA E.C.Us to help make sure you aren't cheating, and help you find your way around street racing circuits. You'll see... anyway I'll need your call sign, and your team name."
"Call sign?" Michael asks.

"You know, like your gamer tag, or internet ID so you can be ranked. I don't advise using your real name. Like Fight Club. Who you are here isn't the same as who you are in the real world."
Michael thought for a few seconds. He remembered a figure from a story he'd been told as a kid, but he couldn't remember the details.

"Call me... TheAsphaltKnight."

"Nice. And the young lady?"

"DriftPrincessRB26!" Michelle says excitedly. Michael rolled his eyes. Her Nintendo Switch gamer tag.

"Alright... team name."

"Uhhhhh... how about... Performance Dynamics Racing! P.D.R. for short! " Michelle blurts out.
"Sis what the hell! That sounds like an early 2010's Viagra commercial!" Michael says.
"It's not like you had any better ideas."

She was right. But Michael decided not to admit he was wrong, so he said nothing.

"Alrighty then... put these helmets on, get in your cars, and for the love of god, follow the fucking instructions."

Jeff types something into the computer, shuts the van, and runs off. Michael shrugged and followed Michelle back to their cars.

Michelle found a sticky note in the windshield of the BRZ. "Call this number if she's for sale." Why does no one like American Muscle, Michael thinks. No one wanted his Mustang. The only actual Muscle cars he'd seen was that crew that supposedly "ruled" this area. What did rule even mean? Michael began to think of the little things he'd noticed, but hadn't given much thought to. For example, he hadn't seen too many women... he'd only the seen bored looking wives of the economy class banger racers and scantily clad girlfriends clearly only dating rich Porsche Cabriolet toting street racers to piss off their dads. But he had seen the very attractive woman in the black dress who'd confidently handed the winner of the Spec Miata race. She probably was important in some way. But the main thing he noted was that it seemed that everyone there was able to talk to anyone else there. Michael had never seen such a phenomenon in his life. At school there were clear cut groups of people. Gamers, Jocks e.t.c. But here, someone could go up to someone else and say... hey, nice Skyline, how did you build it? What's under the hood? And the owner would be happy to tell you all about it.
**********
Michael got in is car and put his helmet on. It narrows his cone of vision. He starts the car and it snarls to life. He opens the Racing Authority app on his watch. A notification is flashing on it, "Sync to helmet". Michael selects it. Immediately his vision envelopes with blue light. The light forms into a holographic heads up display, like a video game.

Welcome, Racer, It displays in a futuristic font. Follow the racing line. A blue line appears on the road in front of him, comprised of little arrows, designed to appear as if it had been painted on the ground. It was about a foot wide, and it lead out of the parking lot.

"Hey can you hear me!" Michelle's voice blasted Michael's ears. Of course, these helmets had a full microphone and speaker set up.

"Yeah, turn your sensitivity down. "

Michael gingerly followed the line out of the lot, with Michelle following closely behind. They headed towards the of the meet where the crowd had gathered. The crowd hastily parts. He could here an announcer on a loud speaker somewhere proclaiming the events to the crowd.
"And starting from the rear of the pack, we have Performance Dynamics Racing, who have chosen to put their rides on the line for a spot in this race, which means that the winner of this race will walk away with 8000 credits and two exquisitely preserved tuner favorites!"
Why had they agreed to do this, Michael thought, as a mass of nervousness sank into the pit of his stomach. For the first time in he could remember, he felt genuinely scared. He'd only ever raced his sister. He didn't know if he was fast by anyone's standards. What if the Lamborghini incident had just been a fluke?

Park your vehicle in the highlighted slot.

A blue arrow hovers over a spray painted grid slot. Michael parks his car carefully. Michelle parks next to him. The arrow disappears.

"Alright racers, let me go through the rules." Jeff's voice says in Michael's helmet.

"Autocab traffic won't be on the track, because the race routes have been programmed into the DriveNet database, and they'll avoid the route until the race is finished. This race will be officially ranked, so no bumping, or takedowns like in video games these days, and all accidental contact will be reviewed by an official marshall. RA drones have been positioned at all checkpoint locations, so if you're taking any non sanctioned short cuts, we'll know. Stay within the virtual walls! Oh and most of all, remember the Racing Authority slogan: You leave your personal issues at the door. Race, Religion, Sexuality, Political Views, we don't care, and we don't want to hear about it. This is the Church of Speed. And Ladies and Gentlemen, we all pray the exact same way. Please join us in the driver's anthem"

Everyone in the crowd surrounding the start line put there right hand over there heart. And in unison, spoke a poem:

"As I lay rubber down the street,
I pray for traction I can keep,
But if I skid and begin to slide,
Please dear god
Protect my sweet ride"

Michael noticed that added their own individual unique line at the end. For example "By my deeds, I honor him, V8". Michael didn't know what he believed in, or if there was anything to believe in. But now he felt more than ever for the first time in his life, that he was a part of something. That he had a voice. That he wasn't alone. The display on his helmet flashed. It now displayed valuable information. In the top left, lap counter, set at 0/3. On the bottom right, RPM gauge, with an integrated speedometer. The top right held a lap and race timer, with a time gap indicator, and a position indicator, set at 10/10. Finally, the bottom left corner held a track minimap.

Michael gazed ahead. The car directly in front of him was a fluorescent blue and purple Lexus RC-F. More power than the Mustang, but far heavier. Had a nice aftermarket performance exhaust system, which stood out against the cars curvaceous body. Next to it was a silver Mazda RX-8, that looked stock. It's got a rotary engine meaning no low RPM torque, it'll be slow of the line. It's body is lumpy looking, with lots of triangular design cues. It was too dark to see the drivers and the rest of the cars. At the front of starting grid, there were two red flares, casting smoke and ash into the sky, like burning totem poles in some tribal ritual.

Michael remembered something his father had told him. Before you drive, clear your mind. Focus. Nothing matters what happened before, what happened after. It's just you, your car and the environment. Michael took a deep breath. This is where he belonged. He was a driver. A racer. This is his home. A race track. He calmed down. His heart rate settled.
He leaned back in his seat, put on the five point harnesses and cracked his knuckles. He put the car in neutral. He pumped the gas. The Mustang's 5 liter V8 sings, back firing, and spitting flames.

Michael puts the car in first gear. He was ready. He stared at the road ahead. There she was. The woman in the black dress. She was standing in front of the 10 racers. She raises her arms in the air. The other cars rev their engines. The shipping yard erupts in a chorus of combustion. The V8s are the baseline, 6 cylinders the mid range vocalist, and the high reving I-4s as the sopranos, with the rotary Mazda serving as a giant hyperactive bumblebee that flew in front of the microphone.(If you've ever heard a straight piped or muffler-less rotary two or three engine, you know what I mean. ).

Bold text appears on Michael's HUD. He puts the car in gear. 3, 2, 1- Michael revs, the car, holding it at about 4 thousand RPM, dumps the clutch... GO!!! The woman in the dress throws her arms down. The cars set off. Engines roar. The mass of metal moves forward.

The Mustang's rear tires chirp on launch from a slight loss of traction. Michael swerves around the Lexus, which was slow off the line. He was doing it. Racing. He had just passed someone like it was nothing. This was what he was meant to do. He took a deep breath. Drive like you always have, he thought.

Full throttle to redline, lift, clutch, into second. Steer into the slipstream of the silver RX-8. The Mustang's V8 roar drowns out the rotary buzz. Michael glances in the rear view, Michelle is following close behind. Through third and fourth gear. The blue racing line is still projected on the ground in front of him. They approach a turn, a ninety degree left, onto the next street. Left-90, the HUD flashes, showing an arrow icon pointing left. It reminded Michael of a co-driver for rally racing. The racing line sweeps towards the outside line of the coming turn. It fades from blue to yellow to red. Michael had seen enough video games to know what that meant.

3/4 pressure on the brakes, to avoid lock up, be smooth, outside line, towards the inside. Michael cleanly dives up the inside line left open by the RX-8. Michelle drifts around the outside of the RX-8 pulling alongside him as they exit the corner and pull onto the next straight. Michael saw that the helmet projected a holographic wall, to show you weren't supposed to go the other direction, again similar to a video game.

******
Michelle noticed that Michael's Mustang had become even harder to keep up with. It definitely had more power now. The BRZ was pretty much on the limit of power for its stock engine. She swerved the car into the slipstream of the Foxbody. She was nervous, but she wasn't going to admit it. Full throttle, from second gear, short shift into third, to drop right into the high point of the torque curve, when the turbo would be operating at maximum efficiency. She loved the sound the turbo's blow of valve made, the STUTUTUTUTU, it often made her want to giggle. Next turn: a spiral clockwise overpass entrance, on to a concrete highway. Lift of the gas, steer right, flick left. The Scandinavian flick. Tap the brakes. Now floor it hold the slide. Counter steer to straighten the car, use the throttle to increase its angle. Be steady. Michael has to brake several times to kill understeer , he isn't drifting. She slides the car up the inside past him. Hold it steady. The road straightens out, and she gently lifts off the gas and straightens the car, then nails the throttle, accelerating onto the next straight, falling in line behind a black 2004 Subaru WRX STi. It's clearly been tuned, has a lot of power, all wheel drive. It has a bubbly looking body shape, four doors, gigantic rally spoiler affixed to the trunk lid.

Up into fourth gear, then fifth. The BRZ is starting to struggle a bit on the acceleration front. Michael is catching up to her. The WRX is pulling away from both of them as they blast down the highway at around a hundred and twenty miles an hour.
********
Michael carefully steers around Michelle, and she pulls into his slipstream. The highway starts to curve left slightly. The WRX lifts off the throttle, and brakes slightly, its circular taillights flashing, and hugs the inside line. But Michael's Foxbody is lighter, and as soon as the highway straightens out again, he's along side it, Michelle's BRZ practically glued to his bumper.

Right-20, Into Exit

The racing line points toward an exit off the highway, and turns bright red. Michael slams on the brakes, the Mustang's tires locking up. Off the gas, downshift to second gear, ease up off the brakes slightly, to maintain control. The WRX swerves in front of him, but it slides a little. It's driver over corrects, and now it's weight transfers in the other direction.
Michael knew what was probably going to happen now.

The WRX spins, crunching it's rear bumper on the wall of the highway exit . It bounces towards the other wall, crushing its front bumper, and then it's over, it bounces into the air in a roll, raining bits of bodywork and shards of glass.

Time seemed to slow down. That would be almost impossible to avoid. He was maybe a couple feet away from the wreck now. The WRX was still in the air. Michael felt a sudden calm. He hit the gas. The Mustang sails beneath the flying wreck. He hits the brakes for the next turn (left-90) before he even realized what happened.

"Sis, you ok ?! " He shouts into his helmet, sliding through the next turn.

"Yeah yeah yeah I'm fine. HOLY SHIT DO YOU FUCKING SEE THAT!!!? YOU GOT SO LUCKY OMG!!"

"Never mind that, we've got to finish this race."

Michael pushed the memory of the lucky accident into the back of his mind. He could already see his next target off in the distance. It's a white car, with a curvy fastback roofline and oval taillights. The track takes them through a tight alleyway, and on to an open wide street. Michael could've sworn he passed the pizza place from Monday.
*********
Michelle was genuinely shocked at what had just happened. But her brother was right, they had to finish. She slipstreamed him down the wide open street. The street ended, the track's route sending them into a muddy construction site. Both she and Michael were caught out by the change in surface, both skidding out wide. She nearly crashed into him. The white car up ahead however, appeared to have lost even more time. Michelle could now pick out what it was, a 2012 Porsche Cayman R, that had been lightly modified. She could tell, because it was slightly lower to the ground, and had a set of cool forged rims.
******
Michael had pretty poor traction in the mud, the Mustang still had solid axel rear suspension, and although he had modified and tuned it as much as he could, it still caused the car to skid whenever he went over a large bump at speed. Michelle quickly passed him. Mercifully, the racing line pointed them back on to the road. They headed out off a busy alleyway, turned down a short street, then through a short tunnel, steadily gaining ground on the Cayman.

As soon as he was back on the asphalt, Michael floored it pulling alongside his sister. Right-180, on to highway. That meant they had to pull a u-turn, and get on the highway. Michelle puts the BRZ into a hard slide with a pull of the handbrake. Michael follows suit. The thing was there was still mud on his tires from the construction site, and the car let go way quicker than he expected.
The Mustang slid out wide, Michael panic steering in the direction of the slide. But it was too late, and the rear of the car went out too far. But he could still save it. He steered the other direction and hit the gas and the car spun in a full circle, and as soon as he was in the correct direction he counter steered again and the car held the slide around the turn, the G-force crushing him. Michelle drifted in tandem with him as soon as he pulled out of the spin. They got on the highway right on the bumper of the Cayman.

They headed on to the highway, Michael easily accelerates past the Cayman... but then the Cayman pulled into his slipstream. It was keeping pace with him down the highway, while Michelle gradually fell behind. At this rate, they were surely going to loose. It was all going, as they say in Europe, pear shaped. (What's wrong with pears? They're delicious!). The Cayman pulled along side him from the draft, and Michael was forced brake early when the helmet told them they had to head off the highway in order to let the Porsche pass and avoid a collision. This guy was good, Michael thought, but he also had a better car.
*****
Time for a technical explanation. (note:I will often explain certain events using facts and technical explanations after they occur , this is intended for non car enthusiasts, so be patient) The Porsche Cayman R is a factory lightened, track prepped, lightly tuned version of, well, the Porsche Cayman. The Porsche Cayman is essentially the poor man's 911, a smaller, less powerful car with a similar shape... however, it's mid engined instead of rear engined, and much lighter. Many enthusiasts who have had the luxury of having driven both cars (myself included, but only in Forza Motorsport 4) have declared the Cayman to be the superior car in terms of drivability and balance.

Now, the reason Michael was able to pass the Cayman on the straight was because it is slightly heavier, (2,800 pounds to about 2,700) and only about 330 horsepower stock, to the Mustang's 375. The thing, is at high speeds, the Cayman can keep up with the Mustang, due to its superior aerodynamics. Combine that with the slipstream effect, and you've got a faster car in a straight line. So that is why the Cayman was able to pass. The Cayman also possesses more downforce, wider tires, and better suspension and weight balance than the Mustang. Pay attention to how it affects the race...

******
A more turns, and Michael deliberately held back, studying the driver of the Cayman, while Michelle caught up with him. The Porsche lacked straight line speed on corner exit, due to a lack of power but it was able to carry more speed through, because it was mid engined.

Since a majority of its mass was towards the center of the car, the cars center of mass would shift right onto the rear wheels during acceleration, allowing the driver to keep the throttle nailed throughout the turn. It could also work the opposite way, of you were off the gas or braking, the center of mass would be over the front wheels, the car would have better turn in and less understeer.

But that also meant, of course! Michael thought.

"Sis, go around me!" Michael shouted into his headset.

"Alright! Why?"

"I need you to go for his inside line on the next few corners, and dive suddenly, like your trying to surprise him. I'll do the same for the outside line. "

In the next turn, Michelle passed Michael, drifting cleanly up the inside line. Michael got into position, carefully judging his distance from the wide BRZ. They headed down a short straight, and as soon as they entered the next ninety degree corner on to the next street they split up, Michelle lunging the BRZ up the Cayman's inside line, and Michael going for its outside.

This is the flaw with a mid engine layout. The Cayman initially swerved to block Michelle, then realizing Michael was the one who actually had enough space, swerved in his direction. But that was just a little too much for the Cayman's immense grip, so it skids slightly, so the driver does what you do in a normal car, let off the gas... but that causes all the weight to shift to the front wheels, leaving no grip for the rear, and the car's skid turns into a spin. Lift off oversteer. The siblings swerve to avoid the spinning Porsche, and head down the next street.

"Hah! So much for German engineering" Michelle remarks into her headset.

Michael stayed quiet. That guy had been good. They headed through the next few corners pushing to gain time on the next few opponents. The turns took them towards the docks. The racing line from the helmet guided them on a detour into the docks, right past the crowd, and in between the red flares from the start, which were now burning low. They had just entered Lap 2.
Michael's mind emptied. He began to concentrate. Brake as late as possible. Downshift carefully, don't over rev. Turn, hit the apex, accelerate, shift smoothly. Repeat. Stay on the road. Stay. On. The. Road.
******
Michelle had never seen her brother this fast before. But she had never driven as well as she was now either. They had already taken out half the opposition on the first lap alone. Of they continued at this rate, they could win. She brakes extra late in the next corner, in a tight drift, easily passing Michael up the inside, but he catches her on the next straight. They head into the spiral overpass entrance drifting in tandem, doors inches from each other. She felt herself smiling, it had been ages since they had raced each other like this before. She ducked the BRZ into his slipstream, listening to the turbo spool as they flew down the highway section.
*******
Michael noticed a cloud of smoke at the highway exit. Was that what happened to the WRX?
An animation of a yellow flag waving appears in the center of Michael's hud, but instead of a tow truck or a wreck... there was a bright red Honda S2000 with a giant aftermarket carbon rear spoiler, parked at the highway exit with its hood open, steam billowing out from under it, with its driver, a man in a custom printed Vtech sweater looking at it shaking his head. Well, that's another opponent out of the way.

Michael felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't thought of mechanical failure. It didn't matter if they were the best drivers there, if the car decided it wasn't going to make it... well... you loose. They didn't usually push their cars this hard for this long. Michael's Mustang wasn't running its original engine. It was some Ford crate engine his dad put in the car before he was even born, the 302-X (Look it up, its real). What if the cooling system couldn't take a different engine? Then there was Michelle, with that rusty turbo kit, and damn near racing modified stock engine. That couldn't be good either. Michael panicked and glanced at his oil pressure and temperature gauge. Everything seemed normal. He relaxed. The car felt the same as it always had. Tires were a little worn, and the clutch wasn't happy like his dad said, but the car was fine. In fact the car had never broken down on him, and neither had Michelle's BRZ.

They had to pass three more opponents to win. No time to waste, because the lead three had the opportunity to pull away while Michael and Michelle had battled with the other cars.
Next few corners. They caught up to a green E36 BMW M3, with a Rocket Bunny wide body kit, like Michelle's BRZ.

"This one's mine" Michelle says passing Michael as they dashed through the construction site. Michelle kept lunging for the inside line on each turn.
*******
Michelle knew what to do here. They were evenly matched in terms of speed, and their cars handled similarly. She'd used this trick on Michael several times when they practiced in the canyons. Michael may be faster and more refined, and he may be unmatched when it came to overtaking, but he was bad at reading his opponents mentally. Michelle simply had to scare this guy, not get passed him out right. Just by being there, she was making it more and more likely the M3's driver would make a mistake.

Pressure. No driver is immune to this. Once you acknowledge your opponent is there behind you, your brain immediately has its attention split. Ideally, you'd want to continue driving as fast as possible, so you can simply go faster and leave your opponent in the dust. But once you mentally acknowledge he or she is there, part of you wants to start driving defensively. It's made worse when your opponent is trying to pass you, lunging at openings in your lines. In your mind, you're breaking down. He or she is going faster then YOU... YOU and your car aren't as good as them and their car. Now you have to bring them down to your speed. You start to defend, but you KNOW you can go faster. Your pushing to pull away but trying to defend at the same time. All the while your opponent hasn't changed. They're simply driving consistently, trying the same move, the same way on each turn. And as you divide your attention, try hard to drive two ways at once, something has to give. In this case, the BMW driver lost his sense of throttle control, and he nails it too quickly out of a turn. The rear of his car snaps out wide, and both Michelle, then Michael, passed him up the inside after the next few turns.

They only had one car to pass now.

They drove the rest of the lap like they were possessed. The crowd cheered when they passed through the docks this time, the flares marking the finish now burnt out, sparking piles off ash.
*******
Michael's heart was racing. They could win it. They could keep their cars, and make 8000 credits. Enough to pay this month's rent, and have cash left over. What the hell would they spend it on?
The next car was boxy. Large, square taillights. It was bright orange, with black tribal decals. The Restomod '69 Camaro, part of the 21st street crew they'd seen earlier. They were gaining on it. They gained a ton of time drifting through the spiral over pass, they were right behind it... and then the Camaro floors it. It shoots off like a rocket, spitting flames from its side pipe exhaust every time it changed gear.

"Shit." Michael hears his sister whisper into his headset. That was a fast car. Michael was out of range for slipstreaming.

They headed off the highway, and gained time through the next few turns and the construction site. The Camaro was fast on the straights, but slower in the turns. Michael passed Michelle in a ninety degree turn. He wanted a crack at this guy. This Camaro was worth hundreds of thousands of credits. If they lost this race it would be because of their cars, not their driving. The Camaro had a ton of grip too, if it wasn't bad enough. How the hell was that thing still in B class?
Nevertheless, he was right on its tail race right through the next few turns.

"Ok. Sis, go for the attack, at the hairpin" It had been long enough to learn the track, it was time for the the 180 onto the second stretch of highway before the final section. Michael braked as late as possible, and pulled the handbrake. The Camaro braked early and took a wide line. Michael drifted his Mustang in tandem with Michelle's BRZ, inches from each other and then got out of the turn ahead of the Camaro. But it wouldn't matter. It was so much faster, it would eat them for lunch down the 3 mile plus length of highway.

But here's the thing. The road is only two lanes wide. The Camaro wouldn't fit if he tried to pass... and sure enough, it would catch up, and then have to hit the brakes. All Michael and Michelle had to do was drive perfectly next to each other. But it wasn't going to be enough. They headed off the highway. Michael and his sister gave it everything, blocking the inside line, but it was hopeless, they both swerved and blocked the Camaro on the straights, but Michael could feel his tires wearing down, Michelle, (although she hadn't noticed) the AR ratio was fluctuating on her aftermarket gauges, and her oil and turbo were starting to overheat. The next few turns took only a few seconds, but they felt like hours. Michael was sweating. They were going to loose their cars.
*******
Two corners left. They could still pull it off Michelle thought as she exited the first one. As she swerved to block the Camaro, she felt a sick feeling in her heart, like she'd just heard a loved one had just died. Then it all happens in an instant. There was a loud metallic crack, and oil sprayed all over the windshield, she felt a blast of heat, and a heard a sharp hiss. The engine was still running, but with a metallic clicking to go with it. She slammed on the brakes and pulled over, and shut off the car. Steam and black smoke poured out of the hood vents. She knew it had something to do with her remapping the ECU the previous weekend, where she'd asked for an extra 2 Psi of boost the engine might not have been able to handle. The engine block and pistons were still stock. She'd just killed her BRZ, her baby.
Michael was on his own now, and he couldn't do it without her help. It was her fault for dragging them into this.

She leaned against the BRZ's vintage Momo drift steering wheel, an object she had remembered holding since as long as she could remember, slid off her helmet, and cried.
*****
Michael didn't have time to comprehend what just happened to his sister. But it was over now. The Camaro's demonic stock car circuit roar drowned out the Mustang's piddly 5 liter crate engine as it accelerated alongside it. Michael wasn't used to driving defensively. But he had one trick. Into the final corner, he steered violently and tapped the brake, then floored the gas, them threw every ounce of his physical strength into counter steering. The Foxbody drifts, blocking the road. The Mustang was traveling almost perfectly sideways. The Camaro driver slammed on the brakes. He thought Michael was going to spin. The Mustang narrowly avoids hitting the crowd, which scatters, then it straightened out. Michael kept his foot on the throttle. The Camaro has recovered and pulled alongside him. They cross the finish.

Michael slammed on the brakes. The Mustang snarls to a halt and idles angrily.

Then the message flashes on his HUD.

"Congratulations, YOU WIN!!"
Michael sat in the car catching his breath. Had he just won an official, Racing Authority street race? The mob of race fans run towards where his car sat. He turned off the car, pulled off his helmet, and undid his seatbelt. He opened the door, and stepped outside.
*********
RIP Rocket Bunny BRZ... Well, maybe it will be reborn... with a 2Jz swap. Also, Cops are a thing, so stay tuned for the next chapter.