A red sports car was driving around an empty race track at a race arena that was also empty. "Shit!", a voice cursed. It came from the driver of the sports car. They were wearing a red helmet with opaque glass in the front, which shielded the driver's track. A red and black leather jacket, racing gloves, denim jeans, and leather boots.
The sports car was speeding with no sign of stopping. The race track was shaped in a rectangle with its edges made into curves. The sports car was close to one of those edges, with no sign of slowing down.
It got closer and closer, then it tried drifting away. It wasn't successful. The back of the car slammed into the race track edge.
After the crash, the car sped ahead. Inside the car, the speedometer quickly reached from 0 kilometers per hour to 100 kilometers per hour in the span of ten seconds.
The sports car was headed for another edge of the race track, the distance for this one being far shorter than the previous edge. The driver pulled on the hand brakes and turned the steering wheel, trying desperately not to crash into it.
The car screeched loudly as it did. "Come on! Come on!" The sports car turned to the side but was moving closer and closer to the edge. Miraculously, the car hadn't crashed at the edge of the race track. It was just a few inches from hitting the edge of the arena.
"Yes!", the driver exclaimed. It was a small victory for them, but after many trials and errors of not crashing into an edge while moving with great speed, they would take any win they could get.
The sports car moved again, following the same procedure as it did earlier. It sped ahead at a speed of a hundred kilometers per hour, and the driver pulled the hand brakes and tried to prevent a crash, but unfortunately, it was a failure. The sports car crashed at the edge of the arena. The driver seemed to be fine—physically, at least—but he had to be smashing his fists into the steering wheel.
"Damn it! Damn it! DAMN IT!" The driver let out a loud scream and began breathing heavily. They grabbed the steering wheel tightly and rested their face on it.
"I've lost track of how many times I've been doing this. Dozens of times? Maybe more than a hundred. And I'm still no better at drifting than when I first started."
The driver rested his head on the seat, and that's when a digital blue screen appeared in front of him with a message:
Reminder: Race will begin in thirty minutes. Would you like to back out? Yes. No.
There was a timer that pinged every time the number decreased. The driver waved his hand and the screen disappeared. "Thirty minutes, huh? I'd say that's enough time, but I'd just be lying to myself. Give me a whole year and I still wouldn't be able to improve."
"Damn it all! I knew this would be hard but not this hard. What am I going to do?" The driver groaned and placed his hands on his helmet. He let out a deep sigh. "The only thing I can do is keep racing."
The driver did just that. They stomped his foot on the pedal and the sports car accelerated. The driver tried the best he could to improve his driving but to no avail. He crashed into the edges again and again and again.
They just couldn't drift perfectly when going past a hundred kilometers per hour. The blue screen showed in front of him again:
Reminder: Race will begin in thirty minutes. Would you like to back out? Yes. No.
It seemed like he was almost out of time. He could keep racing, but what would be the point? The driver leaned back on his seat and waited for the timer to reach zero. Minutes passed, and now looking at the timer in front of him, it was at two minutes remaining.
The driver closed their eyes. "There's no backing out for me. Not with what I have on the line."
5… 4… 3… 2… 1… 0. The timer had finally reached zero. The car and the driver dispersed into lines of vertical blue light. The red sports car was no longer on the track.
The sports car and the driver appeared—on the same track. No, it wasn't the same; it just looked like it was. The driver had been teleported to the selection racing track. More drivers would soon join them.
Moments later, just like how the driver had appeared, more cars that looked similar to the red sports car appeared in the same blue light beside him.
There were nine cars and drivers apart from the driver in the red sports car, which made a total of ten sports cars and drivers. The models of the cars were the same. The only thing that differentiated them were the colors, numbers, and letters painted on each car.
They all started their cars. Loud purrs were heard coming from each of them, and they all looked ahead. The driver in the red sports car did the same and also did something else—something they hadn't done in years—but desperate times call for desperate measures. They prayed.
"Please. Please, God, by some miracle of yours, let me win. I know we haven't spoken in a while. That's on me, but right now I need you to help me win. I don't care how. Maybe sabotage the rest of the players. Make their systems crash. I don't know and I don't care. I spent a lot of time in Sunday school, and the teachers always said you helped people in their worst times. Well… here I am. Please… I can't lose for the third time. You know what's going to happen to me if I lose."
The number 10 appeared in front of the racers and started to decrease. The cars started to purr louder as the drivers prepared for the number to turn zero. Only five more seconds remaining.
Five! A driver in a blue sports car tightened their hand on the wheel.Four! A driver in a green sports car switched gears.Three! A driver in a pink sports car tightened their seat belt.Two! A driver in a yellow sports car's hands started to fidget.One! The driver in the red sports car let out a deep sigh. "Let's do this!"
Zero! An orange line appeared on the ground in front of all the cars. They all sped ahead, passing the orange light, and a bling was heard as each of them did.