Year: 2231
Location: Dubai
“And there goes racer number 2!!! Yes, from the Mantis club we have number 12 in the lead…going in for the last lap, huh, and he’s almost near the finish line—wait no—380kmph—400—no that’s even faster—it’s a red car—AND OUR PREVIOUS CHAMPION NO.12 FROM MANTIS IS OVERTAKENN!!!!” the commentator said in a loud voice, but not as loud as the cheering.
“And that red car seems to be number…10! Yes, folks!! That is no.10—AND SHE REACHES THE FINISH LINE!!! THERE WE HAVE IT! THE ROOKIE FROM JORDAN HERSELF, MS. NADIR TAKES ROYALE TO THE SAUDI CUP SEMI FINALS!!!”
****
The Saudi Cup was one of the biggest championships, hosted by a large Arab company.
The no#1 club had been Mantis, for decades.
Royale was always to be 3rd. Not 2nd, not 1st at all. 3rd.
It was made sure that none of the best engineers and designers ever ended up working for Royale.
So a Royale car going any faster—that wasn’t meant to happen either, right?
****
“I know you’re tired after the match…but shouldn’t you be celebrating?”
That was what Royale’s President asked, seeing his two racers.
The two racers in question, were sprawled over the couch of their watch-room like lifeless dolls.
“There’s no need for celebration until we get the trophy,” said racer no#9.
“And why is that, Ms. Alexander?”
Lauraleith Maria Alexander only sighed in reply. A British rookie, and certainly a good racer.
“You know why, sir,” the racer who interrupted was, in question, the current cause of worldwide media confusion.
Zeifar Nadir, Jordanian Dubai-raised racer and as it seemed, another rookie—a newbie who’d only been seen in the previous World Cup qualifiers for Dubai, and due to certain “change of plans”, eliminated.
“You never know if our designs get leaked again,” her racing partner laughed. Racer#11, Zachary Zhao. He’d placed 2nd in his match, and was still disappointed.
Their President only sighed, “And I thought the rookies would be more optimistic.”
“At least we aren’t thirsty for cheap money.”
The President only nodded and left the room. After all, he had nothing to respond with.
Indeed, his last racers had all switched clubs for money, leaked designs worth millions, all just for money.
“I don’t see why he seemed so hurt over that,” Zeifar muttered, “It wasn’t wrong.”
“That’s not it, Zeifar,” Lauraleith sighed, “He just isn’t over the betrayal.”
Zeifar gave a look, “It’s just pure common sense, I mean—I bet you could make a man walk directly into a fire with enough money. So it’s pretty expected.”
The others could not disagree. She was not wrong.
****
Zac was still overcome with post-race effects. He could barely move, but his mind still kept flashing through scenes of his match which he could not really explain with logic.
His match had been before Zeifar’s, one of his other teammates, Adrian, talking to him on the com.
It was fairly vivid in his mind, how in a tiny glance he’d seen Luxeour racer Alan’s eyes meet another racer’s, and how that other car had suddenly slowed down from 382kmph to a measly 200kmph. It made absolutely no sense.
Then he could remember Alan Zou’s burning rage after the match. The Luxeour player throwing an absolute tantrum at his team.
The media reporters trying to climb through the barricades to ask Zac, “How’d you do it?!”
It all felt a little unreal.
“Do you want some’n to drink?”
“Wha—when’d you get here?” Zac asked, moving his head to look at Adrian.
Adrian only shrugged,
“The lift is fast,” he said, turning on the TV.
The hologram-screen which appeared on the blank wall had only one thing on its news: Royale.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Almost every news channel discussing sports had the same thing—Was Mantis falling?
Adrian’s eyes darkened as he lowered the sound of the TV and gave Zac a glass of lemonade.
Every person who knew about racing knew ‘star-racer’ Adrian Delevane’s name, and they all knew the way he had to leave Mantis last season, which had been his first season.
Nobody ever spoke about it.
****
Ever since car-racing started costing less, it became more and more like every other sport—maybe a little too complicated.
Racers rarely got humiliated, but when they did…it was a level where talking about it felt wrong.
At one point, racing costed so much and was so experimental that at the end the credits of winning all went to the designers and company.
But it became a sport, clubs and racers who designed their cars, and the honor of winning now went to the entire team—especially the racer on the track.
That may have been where Adrian’s life went wrong.
Let’s go back one season, actually, let’s go back to the previous WC.
It was a surprising sight, a newbie competing as the main racer for Spain. He didn’t manage to get the trophy, but hell did the boy race well, it felt like watching butter on a pan.
So when this international star-boy joined Mantis, nobody was surprised.
And he was quite visibly one of the best racers anyone had seen in while. Almost to the point where he was equal to the world’s no#1, Jack Dalton—no actually, he was probably better.
The people’s “he might be better” was like the tip of the iceberg.
Every match scheduled for him cancelled, when he checked for his name in line-ups for the finals it was nowhere to be found. His name just wasn’t there.
Adrian was told to sit the season out.
A blank response from the higher-ups.
It made no sense, but for the sake of his career he agreed—he had no other choice did he?
The season ended, Mantis won the Euro Cup as usual. So as the season had ended, he had decided to talk with their President, Marcus Reynold, and ask what all of this was about.
As Adrian himself could remember, he got called to the President’s office before he could go by himself.
He could remember walking into the office, seeing Jack Dalton, his senior, someone he looked up to—and then Marcus slamming documents on the table, “I didn’t expect you of all people to do this, Adrian,” yet his eyes seemed almost amused rather than betrayed. And Jack Dalton’s smug face.
Mockery, disappointment, confusion all over the news because Mantis’ management would not say why their star was so suddenly leaving, and eventually it all ended with Adrian leaving with a terminated contract with Mantis.
****
Zeifar found Adrian in the hotel’s lobby, watching the match highlights.
“Nice hotel, isn’t it?” she commented, startling him a little.
“Oh yeah,” he replied, looking back at the screen.
Zeifar shook her head, “You want to go on the track, don’t you?”
Adrian’s eyes became a bit distant, “I guess I do.”
“…you know there’s a place here with a racing track…” she said, casually.
“I know it’s at your Academy, what about it?”
She grinned.
****
“This isn’t the actual track, butttt,” Zeifar said, “You need to practice, and what better way to practice than with the next no#1 racer?”
Adrian only shook his head, “Who said it’ll be you? It could very much be me.”
But the other racer was already in her car, with the engine on, “Then prove it, come on.”
Dubai, being one of the most advanced places in the world, was also home to some of the most skilled racers.
The Academy/ college Zeifar had studied at was definitely for the rich, but it was one hell of a place.
Even the practice cars which could be rented were fast, well, fast enough for a 50m race-track, especially considering they were cars from at least 20-30 years ago.
The sound of the engines buzzed through the overly hot summer evening.
One of the cars overtook the other, then got overtaken again.
The car at the lead swerved the rounded end of the track and stopped.
“Told you I’m the best.”
Zeifar rolled her eyes, “I left Jack Dalton in the dirt, okay?”
“And I left you in the dirt,” Adrian added.
“Get out of the car, Delevane.”
“Why?”
“I only rented it for an hour.”
Reluctantly, Adrian got out of the car and took out his phone.
His expression turned annoyed.
“What is it?” Zeifar asked.
“People are…well, not people exactly, Dalton’s fans…” there was a sort of disgust in his eyes that Zeifar herself could not really explain in words.
“What is it—let me see,” Zeifar said, taking his phone in her hand and opening the screen, a tiny hologram floating between them with comments upon comments.
Zeifar looked amused as she scrolled down the comments.
“Sabotage, huh? I’ll show them sabotage,” she muttered.
Adrian took the phone from her hand, “You’re going on tomorrow too?”
“If not me then who? No one else wants to race against that creepy chick from Luxeour—what was her name?”
“Rayla?”
“Yeah, her.”
Adrian looked confused, “Is she that good?”
“Not good, demonic apparently.”
“Better than Kazerin?”
Zeifar smirked. Everyone knew the answer to that.
Kazerin Ivanovna Kotrov was the only reason Royale had managed to even stay in 3rd place. Nicknamed as Russia’s “demon” racer. No one was scarier than Kazerin.
“She’s in Moscow for an emergency…of sorts,” Zeifar answered.
“Ah.”
Another reason for Kazerin’s demonic-ness was probably the Kotrov family itself, which was one of the top families in Europe…and one of the biggest organizations. Kazerin was the youngest of the family, so, not the heir, but she still had duties. Duties which her teammates knew but did not speak of, for legal reasons.
“So you’re our beloved demon’s replacement?”
“Sort of.”
Walking back to the hotel, Adrian checked the next matches.
Royale’s next matches were…with Alver, Luxeour and Tokyo-sono. Odd. Why with Luxeour again? It was weird, but Adrian shrugged it off. No matter the line-up, each club would get two matches against each other.
Basically, a hell lotta matches.
“Rayla’s on track 1 tomorrow. They gave you track 1?”
“Hmm,” Zeifar replied.
“Who’s on track 2?”
“Ethan.”
“The pretty-boy’s going against Xavier McRae?” he asked, confused.
Xavier McRae was supposedly Luxeour’s “best”, an American rookie and genius who started two seasons ago. (Most people don’t join clubs right after debuting, but he did.)
“That pretty-boy of yours did Korean military service, don’t underestimate him,” she sighed.
Ethan Kang-Il was indeed a terrifying pretty-boy. Not exactly a person who fit his looks—from just looks, he was unrealistically good looking. From personality? Not quite the same.
The media folk liked to call him the race world’s “Aphrodite” for some reason.
“Hey Zeif,” Adrian muttered.
“Hmm?”
“Can you ask Ethan if I can be on the com tomorrow?”
Zeifar raised an eyebrow at him, as they walked into the hotel, “…sure.”
At the beginning of the season, Ethan and Adrian (who both barely knew each other) had somehow gotten into some sort of disagreement.
They had not spoken to each other since.
The most they’d do was nod at each other from time to time.
It was like watching two animals communicate. But Zeifar never questioned it, she was the only one who didn’t seem to care much about her teammates’ odd behaviors. So she didn’t ask anything and walked ahead to find Ethan.
****
“Eh? Adrian?” Ethan asked, clearly confused.
“Yep,” Zeifar replied, “He wants to be on the com.”
Ethan made a face, though with his looks even that was somewhat attractive.
“I see,” he muttered, lost in thought.
Zeifar gave him a look back, “I thought you hated the guy???”
“Eh? No—we just don’t talk much.”
The Jordanian shook her head and checked her phone, “Goodness.”
“What is it?” Ethan asked, confused by the distasteful look on her face.
“The fangirls…saw my pictures from today,” she mumbled, “They’re asking where my hotel is…”
Ethan’s face darkened, “I’m glad this isn’t Korea right now.”
The stories of stalker-fans in Korea had always terrified him, even when he’d gotten into the racing college, he’d wanted to quit at some points all because of his fear of stalkers.
“Anyways, see you tomorrow,” Zeifar said, leaving.
“Bye.”
“Don’t lose.”
“I know.”
And with that, she was gone.