Michael followed the four rounded taillights of his sister's S13 as they made the long drive home. They left the canyon roads, and headed along long, flat highway, its unkept asphalt riddled with cracks and bumps, rattling their cars and forcing them to keep a slow and steady pace.

Michael was vaguely aware of the red pinpricks of light from the power lines flanking the highway. He knew he was mostly surrounded by empty desert, a great big nothing that marked the areas in between cities in what remained of the United States of America.

Far along the horizon, Michael could see a blinding diamond of pulsing neon light; Velo City, one of America's first Megacities. Shortly before the war broke out, a large coalition of corporations purchased a few hundred square miles of empty land in Colorado. The land had been terraformed, and massive amounts of homes and businesses were constructed to serve the wealthy. However, during the war, the city was captured by government forces, and after the fighting ended, the city was opened to the general public, causing it to expand rapidly, becoming a massive center of trade and culture — while also having the highest crime rate in the country.

Michael and Michelle couldn't afford to live in the city. In fact, they lived several miles away from it on a privately owned spot of land on the outskirts of an abandoned village.

************

After several miles of quiet driving, the two cars reached a massive concrete structure, a great stadium, lit minimally by nearby street lights, flanked by empty dirt parking lots.

An ancient super-speedway, an abandoned coliseum of motorsports, which once held stock car races from all over the US before DriveNet went online.

They entered through a short asphalt road that went underneath the stadium part of the race track, which dipped under ground, through a short tunnel, and exited in the infield of the massive stadium.

Sunset Speedway. Home.

The infield had once held a pit-lane and road course, but it had long since been re-purposed, the grass that once slowed out of control race cars that spun off the track had been torn up and replaced with rows and rows of HyperWheat fields, a genetically engineered crop that could resist any pest and grow in any climate. It fed most of the planet, although it wasn't very nutritious. It was a profitable crop, too; few farmers would touch it, as it was highly flammable.

A dirt path between the fields led to a medium sized, wooden single story house, which sat next to a faded red barn. Michael and Michelle slowly guided their cars from the asphalt outside and on to the dirt road leading to the house, parking side by side beneath a large oak tree that stood between the barn and the house.

Michael cautiously closed the drivers door of the Mustang as he stepped out, trying to be as quiet as possible as he tiptoed up the porch, with his sister following close behind. Michael cautiously pushed open the door with his toe, tiptoeing into the living room.

Suddenly, the room lit up with the dim glow of the lightbulb that tiredly dangled from the ceiling.

"Alright, where the hell were you two! I had to calibrate the AutoHarvester by myself..." a rough voice growled.

An aging man sat in a large sofa chair, surrounded by empty bottles of bourbon. He was dressed in a bright pink bathrobe, with socks and sandals on his feet. His hair was graying, his eyes stuck in a perpetual squint so you could barely see them, his skin tanned and ravaged by a decade and a half of hard labor beneath an unforgiving sun. Michael and Michelle's father, Ryan.

Ryan leaned forward in his chair, sniffing the air.

"Burnt rubber... you two have been out racing, haven't you..." he sighed, sleepily, "What canyon was it? West? North?"

"East..." Michael muttered.

"Ah, those off camber hairpins can be a real bitch... you're holding your arm, the power steering pump is going on your Mustang, isn't it. Really takes some effort to muscle a car like that around the turns, don't it... and Michelle, the clutch is going on the S13. You're avoiding putting weight on your right knee, heel toe shifting is hard when the 3rd pedal has a spongy feel..." Ryan said, his tired appearance seemingly evaporating from him entirely, his skinny frame springing from the chair easily as he stood.

"That look on your faces... did you two race anybody up there?" Ryan asked, eyebrows raised.

"No!" Michelle immediately lied, defensively.

"2009 Ferrari 458 Italia..." Michael said quietly.

"Ah, lovely car, last of the naturally aspirated Ferraris... rare... didn't think any were still around... did you win?"

"We passed him up the inside at the last 5 hairpins..." Michael replied.

"Well, I was gonna ground you for not staying and helping with the farm like you were supposed to, but I'll let it slide for now. A 458 is a fast car, it proves you two are actually learning something... up... there." Ryan yawned, and fell back into his chair sleepily.

Michelle breathed a sigh of relief, Michael shrugged indifferently. They headed to their rooms, past the large case of trophies from their father's stint in Formula E and GTLM professional racing, which he had found moderate success in before they were born. It was during this time period that Ryan had fallen in love with their mother, who died before Michael and Michelle were even entering kindergarten — too young to remember much about her. All Michael knew was that she was mild mannered and loved to tell stories, which he couldn't remember much of either. There was only one story he could recall.

"There was once a race car driver, who was so good, that no one could beat him. So instead of racing, he chose to travel around the world using his skills to help people. He wore shining armor with a racing helmet, and drove a magical car that was fast as lightning and never ran out of gas. He carried a sword that he used only to defend others from harm, and never to kill."

The legend of the Asphalt Knight.

Michael had once interpreted it as how she saw his father, but after bone marrow cancer swept her away, Michael witnessed firsthand how he clearly wasn't the man in the story; the large fortune amassed from sponsor deals and race wins evaporated quickly as it was spent on medical bills and booze.

Michael sighed and entered his room, which featured little of anything, a simple wardrobe, a bed, a desk and blackout curtains. No posters or game systems like Michelle had in her room as Michael didn't really know what he liked.

The night's toll finally fell upon Michael's body, and he undressed, changing into grey sweat pants before laying on the bed shirtless. He gradually drifted off to sleep.

***********

The harsh beeping of his watch's alarm pounded against his brain like a blacksmith's hammer, and he awoke like an old diesel pickup truck trying to start on a snowy morning: slowly and with great difficulty.

Michael took a quick shower, dressed in a red shirt and jeans, and ate a simple bowl of cereal for breakfast, then donned his leather jacket and ventured outside just as the sun crested the horizon, bathing the farm and speedway with a warm orange glow.

Michael's eyes followed the smooth banked asphalt oval that rimmed his home like a castle wall. He wondered what it must've been like to race here, back before DriveNet. It wasn't safe to take a car around the oval at speed anymore, years of disrepair had long since riddled it with pot holes and litter, but the thought had often crossed Michael's mind. At the very least, it would give him something new to do.

"We're running late!" Michelle shouted, buttoning up her blue blouse and dusting bread crumbs off her white jeans, hurriedly jogging to her 180SX, while Michael calmly walked to the Foxbody, unlocked the door, and hopped in the driver's seat.

***********