Chapter 3

Denver, Colorado

Dillon parked behind his parent’s restaurant and turned off the engine with a sigh. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, letting his hands drop into his lap.

Another blown interview. Another chance to get myself out there, shot to hell. Why can’t I talk like a normal person during these things?

He would have sat there a lot longer, however the back door opened, and his father stepped out, carrying two bags of garbage. Pausing when he saw Dillon, he only nodded and continued toward the dumpster. The young man sighed again and got out to help him.

Allen Hodges waited for his son to open the dumpster lid, and then tossed the two heavy bags, one at a time. A slender man, he’d run track and cross country in school, long legs eating up the miles. Dillon inherited the same build, although he preferred to rack up the miles behind the wheel.

Neither one spoke, and Dillon could tell from his father’s body language that he'd heard about today’s event. The restaurant mounted several television screens in the bar area, so it was a good bet everyone had already seen the recap and arena highlights.

Stepping inside the back door, the smells of the kitchen and the sound of dishes and utensils clattering hit him like a warm memory. When he wasn’t working on his car or in school, the Home Sweet Diner was his second home. Whether he was cleaning dishes, working the grill, or delivering take out, most of his childhood revolved around his family’s restaurant.

Still quiet, Allen went to wash his hands before heading back to the prep station. Dillon followed suit, uneasy in the absence of words and dreading the end of it. Even though their head cook, Maurice nodded silently at Dillon, none of the other kitchen staff acknowledged his presence. He knew where their loyalties lay.

His mother would be up front, taking care of the customers. Danica, the oldest and heir to the Hodges restaurant legacy, was managing one of their other restaurants tonight. At least one of his other two sisters would also be helping, he supposed. Of the four Hodges kids, he was the only one whose ambitions went beyond the family business.

His father frowned and started to say something, stopping when Dillon took his place at the prep station. Instead, without saying a word, he turned and left, heading out to the front. Sighing, the young man checked the waiting tickets and waited for the inevitable lecture on the dangers of autoduelling and his responsibility to the family business.

Maurice nodded at the door. "They just worried about you, man. It's hard watching your kid putting his life at risk. Especially when they know he has other choices."

Dillon started putting together the first order, hands moving automatically among the ingredient bins. He could prep food orders as easily as he slid through a gap between two cars and take the lead position.

"I know. I just wish they'd listen to my side. I won tonight, just like I've done any number of other times. I'm good at what I do."

The bald cook laughed, his belly shaking. "Boy, you can win but you can't talk. They didn't even bother to show any of them talking to you after it was done. Guess they've learned their lesson that you ain't good for the ratings."

The young man paused, resting his hands on the prep table, cheeks coloring. "What's wrong with me, Maurice? Why can't I just talk like a normal person when the camera is on me?"

The cook expertly plated the meal he'd just finished and passed it over to Dillon for the final touches. "Some people got the knack. Some people don't. Even if you don't, you can learn. Just gotta find someone to teach you is all. Can't do it all on your own, Dillon."

***

The evening passed with his father saying nothing more to him than was required to serve food and clean up after. His mother watched him with her patented worried look, the same look she wore after every arena fight. That was something he was used to. Allen's silence was something new, and Dillon couldn't tell if that was because he'd run out of things to say, or he was just biding his time.

Finally, while they were stacking chairs and the robot vacuum was whirring over the carpet, Allen spoke. "Dillon. We need to talk about your future."

So, it was both. I've heard this line before. "We've been over this, Dad. I'm not giving up the arena."

His mother came to stand next to him, one hand on his arm. "It's just not worth it. They don't appreciate what you do in there."

"Mom, I win when I'm in there. That alone brings people in. The sponsors, they know who draws the crowds."

Allen threw a cleaning cloth down on the table. "That's just it, Dillon. They know who they want, and it's not you." He turned and pointed at the dark television screen. "Do you know they didn't even mention your name out loud? Not even when they were talking about the winners. The program just skipped right over you to the second-place finisher."

A hollow feeling opened in Dillon's stomach, and he felt a wave of vertigo. "I just… the interview didn't go so well, but I never thought…"

His father slapped his hand on the table. "You never think! About what it takes, about what it costs. Do you think that just because we don't approve of these events that we don't know how they work? Your mother and I spend money every month on an advertising company for the restaurants. If we want to stay in business, we have to keep our name out there, and that means getting in front of the public and talking to them."

The hollow feeling expanded rapidly, and he felt the floor drop out from under him. "But… you never said… you…," Words failed him, the familiar verbal paralysis stealing over his tongue and brain. It was just like being in front of a camera, only now it was his parents. He couldn’t think of anything to say, and his mind raced like an engine in neutral.

"Dillon, dear, it's not just that we don't want to see you hurt. We've taught you kids that whatever you put your hands to, you do everything you can to make it a success. You need to take your win and turn it into more. You're not doing that."

"It's time to face facts, Dillon. Even though you may be a good driver, and you can win races, you don't have what it takes to be a big success. The sooner you admit that the quicker you'll be able to be happier in something else." He held up a hand. "I'm not saying you have to come work in the family business. The fact is, Danica has that under control. You just need to find something you can do where being in the public eye isn't essential to being successful."

Stung and hurt, Dillon dropped the cleaning cloth on the table and walked out of the building to his car. Standing at the door, he looked up at the night sky and clenched his fists. How come no one wants me to do what I want to do?

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

***

ATSS Building, Denver, Colorado

"What have you got for me, Eric?" Nico leaned back in his chair, smiling slightly at the man's triumphant look on the video call screen.

"I found you a driver. Not just any driver, mind you but one who drives like he's racing. He's not there to trade blows and shoot things up. He's there to win."

"Okay, so show me. Who are we talking about here?"

A still photo replaced Eric's view, showing a young man dressed in a driving jumpsuit and sitting inside a car. His face was intent on something in the distance.

"This is Dillon Hodges. Amateur autoduellist and currently unsponsored. Lives here in Denver."

"An autoduellist? I thought you said you found a racer."

"That's the thing. I watched a lot of this kid's footage. He drives like a demon is on his tail. When you look at his stats, they don't tell you the whole story about him. The vehicle kill count per contest is almost zero, damage output is low, and his audience rating is in the basement. But he wins, Nico. Wins on points and is usually in first place in any event that measures distance or laps." The picture was replaced by arena footage, and Eric continued.

"I'll send you the footage I watched, and I know you'll see the same thing I saw. When he drives, he drives. Doesn't care about lining up perfect shots or going for the kill. I bet his gunner is really frustrated, because the kid is constantly jockeying for position to move ahead rather than doing damage to his opponents. His style means we should mount most of his weapons in the back, because he's got them eating his dust a lot of the time."

"Speaking of the gunner, what about him?"

Eric shrugged. "They’re a team. If one goes, the other should go. The driver is going to be key to this thing, though."

"Alright. I'll take a look. Who else have you found?"

"For now, it's an open field. Lots of prospects, although none unique like the kid. The hype for this thing isn't happening like the AADA planned, at least for now. Teams are turning down sponsorships because this is a short-term deal. They think this might even hurt their arena careers. If the brains behind this don't pump some serious money into marketing, they may not get a lot of takers. That's a good thing for us, because it gives us an edge. Several, in fact. No one is going to expect you to sponsor a team, and this kid competes in Division 3 or lower. Watch the footage and then let's go recruit this kid. If you want to win, that is."

Basher snorted and terminated the call. He switched over to his file storage and started pulling up the clips Eric uploaded. Running through them at twice normal speed, his trained eye saw almost immediately what his director of operations was talking about. Dillon drove fast and with purpose. He dodged shots, and his dodges usually left him in a better position than he had been in before.

Still, he made himself look at the footage like the autoduellist he’d been. Tactics hadn't changed much since he'd been out, and he began to take notes while he watched. After several run-throughs, he sat back and steepled his fingers in front of his face.

Okay, Eric's right. I think he's the driver we need. This rally isn't going to be won in the first twenty minutes. They'll be three days on the road for each leg. We need someone who can put us in a winning position and Dillon Hodges may be the one who can give us that with the way he drives. Nobody gets a good shot at him because they expect him to be lining up for a shot, not trying to increase his positioning. The only question is, what about his gunner? I can't tell very much about him from this footage. We need to get him onboard too.

He sent a confirmation message to Eric; Let's get him. The gunner too. Set up a meeting.

***

Dillon came into work at the restaurant the next day, expecting more of what happened last night. His parents were all business, however. Nothing more said about his career choices. When his phone chimed with a message, he glanced at the notification and almost deleted it. The sender wasn't anyone he knew, which usually meant junk or political messages. The lunch rush was nearly over, so he stepped out back and checked his phone.

The message lacked the usual flashy graphics trying to sell him something. The logo was the acronym 'ATSS' superimposed over a crosshair, and it was short.

> Dillon, we'd like to meet with you and Samuel to discuss sponsorship in an upcoming autoduelling contest. Please let us know if you're interested.

The young driver nearly dropped the phone in surprise. His mind raced while he tried to think of what upcoming events someone might sponsor him in. And who was this ATSS, anyway? With trembling fingers, he punched the acronym into the search bar.

The first result was for 'Advanced Tactical Software Solutions', a company here in Denver. The webpage was the usual corporate nonsense, all about their mission statement and what they were committed to. He did find it interesting that they primarily talked about their government contracts and support to the defense industry. The pictures behind the words were all military ground and air vehicles, and he began to wonder if this was the right page. The logo in the corner matched the logo on his message, so he figured he'd better check further.

Clicking on the 'About Us' brought him to a page with more corporate-speak, and after that was the list of company officers. And when he saw the picture of the CEO, nothing else on the page mattered.

Basher Battaglia wants to sponsor me! How does he even know who I am? Has he been to any of my events?

"Dillon! Where are you? We need to restock from the freezer."

Distractedly, he said over his shoulder, "Just a minute, Dad. I gotta take this."

With trembling fingers, he typed his affirmative reply. He didn't even think of talking to Sammy first. This was too big to wait on. His pulse pounded in his ears while he waited for the response.

> Yes. We're interested. When can we meet?

He sighed in relief, a wave of dizziness rushing over him. This was something they'd talked about for a long time. They'd debated the various companies and what kind of sponsorships would be offered. Now, this was finally their chance at the big league.

The reply came back before he could put the phone away. He held his breath, the half-second it took the phone to display the response seeming like an eternity.

> Tomorrow, 2pm at our headquarters. The address is on our webpage. Bring driving gear for a simulation run.

For the next few hours at work, everyone had a hard time getting Dillon's attention. And he smiled often, for no apparent reason.

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