The garage feels suddenly smaller with only you and Dom occupying it. Afternoon light filters through dusty windows, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. A decision crystallizes in your mind—the calculated risk assessment complete before Dom even finishes his question.
"Who are you really?" he repeats, arms crossed over his massive chest. "And what happens after we pull this off?"
Your interface analyzes multiple response strategies:
[DECEPTION: 37% POSITIVE OUTCOME]
[PARTIAL TRUTH: 65% POSITIVE OUTCOME]
[STRATEGIC DISCLOSURE: 83% POSITIVE OUTCOME]
You move to the workbench, methodically wiping grease from your hands with a shop rag—buying seconds to formulate your approach. Dom waits, patience born from confidence. He knows he controls this space, this moment.
"I'm not from here," you begin, meeting his eyes directly. "Not just Los Angeles. Not even this... reality."
Dom's expression remains impassive, but your interface detects micro-changes:
[DOM TORETTO: SKEPTICISM RISING]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: MINIMAL]
[TRUST THRESHOLD: UNSTABLE]
"That supposed to mean something to me?" he asks, voice deliberately neutral.
You set the rag down, centering yourself. "Three weeks ago, I was in another world. Similar to this one, but different. There, you, Brian, this whole crew—you were characters in entertainment. Stories about family, cars, impossible heists."
Dom's eyes narrow slightly. "You expect me to believe that?"
"No," you admit. "I wouldn't in your position." You gesture to the BMW visible through the garage door. "That car shouldn't exist here either. Where I'm from, it's from a video game called Need for Speed."
"So you're what—some kind of ghost? Alien?" The skepticism in Dom's voice carries an edge of warning.
"Neither. I'm human. Just... displaced." You take a deliberate breath. "Lightning strike. Quantum physics. I don't fully understand it myself. But when I arrived here, I had gifts. Abilities that don't make sense in this world."
Dom's stance shifts subtly—not retreat, but reassessment. "The fancy tech. The inside knowledge about Brian. That's part of these... abilities?"
You nod once. "Five specific capabilities. One of them is perfect knowledge of automotive and racing skills. Another is access to resources, equipment, funds that I can summon almost instantly."
Dom processes this, expression unreadable. "Prove it."
Without breaking eye contact, you activate your interface. From Dom's perspective, your eyes unfocus slightly as you navigate menus only you can see. You select a specific function:
[COMMAND: LOCAL ENVIRONMENT MANIPULATION]
[PARAMETER: GARAGE ELECTRICAL SYSTEMS]
[EXECUTION: SEQUENTIAL PATTERN]
One by one, the lights in the garage cycle on and off in a deliberate pattern—impossible to attribute to coincidence or electrical malfunction. The radio on the workbench changes stations three times without being touched. The computer in the office boots up despite being powered down.
Dom's expression remains controlled, but surprise registers in his elevated heart rate detected by your interface.
"That's a nice trick," he says, voice deliberately steady. "Could be remote controls, wireless hacking."
"Check your phone," you suggest.
He pulls it from his pocket, finding a text message sent seconds ago from his own number: "Trust must be earned, not demanded. -Dom Toretto, The Fate of the Furious."
"I've never seen that movie," he says quietly, looking up from the screen. "Never said those words."
"In my world, you will. Seven films from now."
The silence stretches between you, filled with the implications of what you've revealed. Dom moves to the mini-fridge, pulls out two Coronas, and offers you one. A peace offering. A thinking pause.
"Why tell me this?" he finally asks. "Why not keep it to yourself?"
This is the critical moment—the fulcrum upon which your relationship with the crew balances. Your interface calculates probabilities, but you find yourself setting aside its recommendations, trusting instinct over algorithms.
"Because whatever I was before, this is my reality now," you say, meeting his eyes. "There's no going back. No other home waiting for me. And in this world, I need allies. People I can trust."
Dom takes a long pull from his Corona. "And the Union Depository? That's what—your way of financing your new life?"
"Partly," you admit. "But it's more than that. Where I'm from, I knew what it meant to be part of something. To have a purpose. Your crew, your family—that's the real treasure worth stealing."
A small smile tugs at the corner of Dom's mouth. "Pretty words. Could still be bullshit."
You raise your beer in acknowledgment of his caution. "Fair. So let me offer something concrete. After the job, my cut gets divided among the crew. I keep nothing but the BMW and enough to maintain my operations."
Dom's eyebrow raises, genuine surprise breaking through his stoic facade. "That's a lot of trust to place in people you barely know."
"I know more than you think," you counter. "I've seen versions of your stories. The loyalty you inspire. How far you'll go for family."
The interface signals a subtle shift in Dom's biometrics:
[DOM TORETTO: DEFENSIVE POSTURE RELAXING]
[CREDIBILITY ASSESSMENT: INCREASING]
[ALLIANCE POTENTIAL: SIGNIFICANT]
"These abilities," Dom says, setting his empty bottle down. "They give you an advantage none of us have. How do we know you won't use them against us if things go sideways?"
You consider his question carefully. "You don't. That's the nature of trust—it can't be proven in advance, only demonstrated over time." You meet his gaze directly. "But I'll offer this: I could have taken the Depository alone with what I can do. Instead, I sought you out. Your crew. Your family."
Dom nods slowly, something resolving in his expression. "One more question. These stories from your world—how do they end? For us?"
The weight of foreknowledge settles on your shoulders. You could tell him about future betrayals, losses, resurrections. About government work and supernatural enemies. About the path that leads from street racing to saving the world.
"They don't," you say instead. "That's the thing about family, Dom. The story keeps going as long as there's loyalty, as long as there's love."
Something shifts in Dom's eyes—recognition of a truth that transcends the impossible elements of your story. He extends his hand, the gesture carrying weight beyond simple agreement.
"After this job," he says as you shake, "we talk about Braga. About what he's done, what he's planning."
Your interface flags this connection:
[BRAGA OPERATION: PERSONAL SIGNIFICANCE TO DOM CONFIRMED]
[STRATEGIC OPPORTUNITY: EXPANDING]
[MISSION PARAMETERS: UPDATING]
"Absolutely," you agree. "Gisele has information that will help with that too."
Dom's phone buzzes—a text from Letty asking when everyone should reconvene. The outside world intrudes on your moment of truth.
"Tomorrow morning," Dom decides, typing a response. "Full crew, 8 AM. We start serious planning." He looks up at you. "Whatever world you're from, whatever you can do—from now on, it serves the family. Clear?"
"Crystal," you reply, understanding the subtle shift in your position. Not quite family yet, but no longer entirely outsider. A test to be passed. A trust to be earned.
As Dom leaves to meet Letty, your interface presents an assessment:
[STRATEGIC DISCLOSURE: SUCCESSFUL]
[DOM TORETTO: ALLIANCE ESTABLISHED]
[CREW INTEGRATION: 43% COMPLETE]
[MISSION PROBABILITY: INCREASED 22%]
Outside, the sun sets over Los Angeles, painting the sky in colors that look both familiar and alien to your transplanted eyes. Tomorrow, the real work begins.