A chilly autumn night, September, 2065

Michael was alone, sitting comfortably in the driver's seat of his 1993 Foxbody Mustang, gazing into the darkness of the misty evening cliffs.

It had been another long day, hours of being trapped in the halls of school, being force fed propaganda and useless information, only to leave and work at a grueling job for a measly few hundred credits. But now, it was dark, and he could finally clear his head.

He reached into the pocket of his worn leather jacket, found a familiar black plastic key, and carefully placed it in the ignition.

With a harsh twist on the key, the engine snarled to life. 5 liters of fury, 8 pistons pushed up and down by the explosions of oxygen and high octane fuel force fed into the cylinders that housed them. The movement of the pistons turned a crankshaft, which turned a flywheel, clutch, transmission, driveshaft, differential, and finally the rubber tires connected to the road. The engine spoke a metallic, rumbling growl; an ancient sound from a bygone era.

Michael pictured the mountain road he was about to race down, an 8.4 mile ribbon of well-kept asphalt winding its way through a forested canyon. He knew this road by heart, as if it were a piece of music he had practiced a thousand times; he knew every turn, every bump, every shift, even the patches of road where the autumn leaves fell, which could affect how much traction the edges of the tarmac would allow his tires.

Michael counted silently in his mind.

3, 2, 1, GO!

He put the full weight of his right foot onto the accelerator pedal, causing the engine to snarl in anger, echoing a throaty bellow off the rocky walls of the mountain, the Mustang's rear tires squealing in pain as it barreled forward.

To most, the sounds would be an assault on the ears, harsh, wasteful, and loud, but to Michael, driving was a mechanical symphony - and he was the conductor.

The engine's note rose in volume and pitch, the evening scenery whipping into a blur through the Mustang's dust stained windows. As the engine reached its crescendo, Michael gracefully took his right foot off the throttle, applied firm yet careful pressure on the clutch with his left, and deftly slotted the shifter into second gear with his right hand, while keeping his left on the steering wheel. The Mustang shifted into second gear, the engine note falling in sync with the needle on the RPM gauge. Michael put his right foot all the way back down on the gas, accelerating the Foxbody past 60 miles per hour- well over double the speed limit this road once had.

He shifted into third gear when the first corner came into view, a sharp 90 degree right turn. Michael first inched the steering to the left, moving the Foxbody onto the outside line of the turn, then, after letting off the gas, gingerly applied pressure to the brake pedal with his left foot, slowing the car effectively while avoiding brake lockup. The engine note fell as Michael angled his right foot to blip the throttle with his heel while working the clutch with his toe. He downshifted carefully, delicately balancing the RPM of the engine between stalling and over revving with precise manipulation of the throttle. He then pulled the steering wheel hard right, negotiating through the corner on the edge of the tire's grip with effortless grace.

Second gear, third gear, fourth gear, now he was traveling more than a hundred miles per hour. He kept his right foot firmly planted on the throttle, the large oval headlights of the Foxbody providing a milky white glow that lit his way forward as he careened through a tunnel. The growl of the engine reverberated through the tunnel, singing a song of fire and steel, accented by the thundering rush of air flowing off of the car's body.

Michael's heart beat slowly, his breathing remaining steady despite his unyielding focus. After all, he had been practicing on this road almost every night since he had been as young as twelve, mastering a lost art one turn at a time.

Michael's Mustang was a drab dark grey in color, smeared with brown dust, and peppered with the occasional scratch or small dent. Its bodywork was blunt and boxy in shape, with a long hood, large windshield, short roof, and angled hatch rear windscreen, which led into a short trunk.

Underneath, however, the Foxbody was far from mundane. Beneath its hood, a fire breathing beast lurked, a 300 horsepower Ford 5.0 V8 engine, mated with a 5 speed manual transmission. The brakes were modern vented discs, replacing the drums that came standard from the factory. Its standard rims and tires were replaced with a custom set, rims forged from a lightweight alloy wrapped in high performance all weather tires.

The interior was sparse: It only contained basic amenities such as air conditioning, a headliner and rear seats. Even the radio had been removed, all dedicated to the sole purpose of improving the car's maneuverability and acceleration by reducing its weight to a bare minimum.

The original steering wheel was replaced with a lightweight aluminum racing wheel, which had no airbag, but was much lighter and more comfortable in hand.

The modifications turned the Foxbody from an ancient relic to a street racing machine, built to go as fast as it could on asphalt in all weather- on a very modest budget of course.

*******

Michael saw the glint of his headlights against the guardrail of the next corner, a tight left hairpin. He eased off the throttle, letting the car settle its weight on the front tires while simultaneously applying brake pressure. As soon as the nose of the Mustang entered the corner, he yanked hard right on the steering wheel, forcing the weight of the car to the right, then steering hard left into the turn.

All four tires broke traction and skidded. The car rotated into the corner in a graceful drift, whipping its rear bumper around the edge of the corner in a precise arc. For a short moment, the G-forces of the turn equalized, and Michael briefly felt weightless as the tires squealed in pain and bathed the road in smoke. Michael, unfazed, applied more throttle and countersteered in the direction of the slide, straightening the car out at the exit of the turn.

The snarl of the Mustang's engine echoed throughout the mountains, accented by tire squeals, the ringing of brakes, and the rush of the wind. Viewed from above, one could only see the wide beam from its headlights poking through the dense cover of tree branches that hung above the road.

If he drove fast enough, Michael could almost escape from it all, from the noise of the city, the claustrophobic halls at school, and the fears and responsibilities of his 16 years on the planet. The winding asphalt served as a form of guiding his thoughts and clearing his mind; it was here, on this road, that he was free.

This particular evening, he held an even greater focus, his mind entering a zen like state, operating off of instinct alone. He was one with his car, the natural surroundings, and the road.

A sharp, red line of light appeared ahead on a long, straight section of the road.

Michael slammed hard on the brakes, slowing the Mustang and breaking his concentration, just as the vehicle came into view.

It was large, painted a faded white, so wide that it took up both lanes of the road. It moved silently, precisely... and extremely slowly.

Michael groaned in disgust. A Callahan Industrial Model 101 AutoCab. A hulking self driving jalopy, driven by weak electric motors and piloted by a nearly blind artificial intelligence program. Behind it's foreboding tinted windows its passengers could be sleeping, drinking alcohol, or be engaging in any number of activities — anything but driving.

It was a grim reminder of the reality Michael lived in. The historical events had been hammered into his mind by schools and media, proof that he was holding on to a dying art carried on one thing only: tradition.

Decades before Michael was born, there had been a terrible war. Cities were destroyed, a billion lives were lost, and treaties were signed. It led to a singular world government, the Global Coalition of Nations, with an official elected by the existing government of each country to represent them. This led to a long period of peace and technological advancement, at the cost of many personal freedoms citizens once held dear.

One of the great advancements brought on by the GCN was DriveNet, a satellite coordinated network of all-electric autonomous cars that used existing roads. Since the contract to construct these vehicles had been awarded to a single manufacturer, almost every single car company fell out of business. The driven cars of the past were relegated to scrapyards and museums, doomed to be mocked and forgotten.

********