The man who had told them where to park had grabbed them by the arm. "I'm Jeff, I run things around here."

He pushed through the crowd, dragging Michael and Michelle with him. Michael got a better look at Jeff. He was tall, in his mid 30s and had short dark hair.

"Ok, do you have any money to bet on yourself with? It's an international class race, it's about 1000 credits to enter?"

Shit, Michael thought. He hadn't thought of that.

"No, but we have our rides." Michelle said bluntly. Michael immediately pulled her aside.

"Sis, what the hell are you thinking?!"

"I'm getting us in the race!"

"If we loose —"

Michelle interrupted him before he could continue doubting. "We won't. You saw the Miatas. Their lines were off. On corner exit NONE of them had proper throttle control. They were sliding all over the place! This'll be a piece of cake!"

"Yeah but these guys we're about to race may NOT suck! They'll know the roads, we have no idea what they'll be driving! We could be up against those GT-R's, for fucks sake!"

"GT-R's are in S-class," Michelle wiped his objection away.

"Look —"

"It doesn't matter what you say, nothing is going to change the fact that I am going to enter this race. WITH OR WITHOUT YOU!!!" Michelle's voice rose as she spoke, her hands now on her hips.

Michael sighed. She was so damn stubborn.

"Fine. Two drivers are better than one, we'll enter as a team. But if we loose..."

"We won't loose, DON'T say that."

They turned back to Jeff.

"Ok — so are you two a team?"

"Yes." Michael said quickly.

"Right... follow me."

They followed Jeff to a large satin black Terradyne Gurkha armored security van with the gold Racing Authority logo emblazoned on its side. Jeff opened the rear doors of the van, revealing several computer monitors, showing various views of the city streets, and a map of Kempton. Jeff climbed into the van, going to a rack of shiny black race helmets that they had seen some of the Miata drivers wearing. He handed Michael and Michelle one each.

"Ok, these are your RA official Augmented Reality Smart Exo Helmets. A.R.S.E Helmets for short."

Michelle snickered.

"Yeah, yeah, I know it's stupid, but that's what the RA headquarters marketing came up with. They work with your E.C.Us to help make sure you aren't cheating, and help you find your way around street racing circuits. You'll see... anyways I'll need your call sign, and your team name."

"Call sign?" Michael asks.

"Call sign. You know, like your gamer tag, or internet ID so you can be ranked. I don't advise using your real name here, cops love it when you do that. This place is like Fight Club. Who you are here isn't the same as who you are in the real world."

Michael thought for a few seconds. He remembered his aunt, who called him Ace as a child for a nickname.

"Call me... AceRacer."

Jeff typed something into one of the touch screen monitors in the vans.

"Taken, I'm putting a number after it. Welcome to Racing Authority AceRacer_2097. Now, for the lady."

"DriftQueen_99!" Michelle said excitedly. Michael rolled his eyes.

"Alright... team name."

"Uhhhhh... how about... Performance Dynamics Racing! P.D.R. for short! " Michelle blurted out.

"Sis what the hell! That sounds like a male enhancement drug!" Michael said.

"It's not like you had any better ideas. I think it sounds like an F1 team!"

She was right. But Michael decided not to admit he was wrong, so he said nothing.

"Alrighty then... put these helmets on, get in your cars, and for the love of god, follow the damn instructions."

Jeff typed something into the computer, closed the van's doors shut, and ran off. Michael shrugged and followed Michelle back to their cars.

Michael's head was spinning. This was all happening so fast. A whole new world hidden in the city that had been there the whole time, and he had been aware of it, but it had never felt real. Experiencing it here and now was nothing short of breathtaking, and now he was about to actually participate.

The most striking thing of all was that it seemed that everyone there was able to talk to anyone else there. Michael had never seen such a phenomenon in his life. At school there were clear cut groups of people, Gamers, Jocks e.t.c., but here, someone could go up to someone else and say... hey, nice Skyline, how did you build it? What's under the hood? And the owner would be happy to tell you all about it.

**********

Michael got in his car and put his helmet on. It fit snugly, and narrowed his cone of vision. He started the Mustang and it snarled to life. The second his car turned on, his watch buzzed with a notification from the Racing Authority app. "Sync to helmet". Michael selected it. Immediately his vision was enveloped with a blue light. The light formed into a holographic heads up display not unlike that of a fighter jet.

Welcome, Racer, It displayed in a futuristic font. Follow the racing line. A blue line appeared on the road in front of him, comprised of little arrows, designed to appear as if they had been painted on the ground. It was about a foot wide, and it led out of the parking lot.

"Hey can you hear me!" Michelle's voice blasted Michael's ears. Michael realized the helmet must have an integrated microphone and communications system.

"Yeah, turn your sensitivity down." Michael said.

Michael gingerly followed the line out of the lot, with Michelle following closely behind. They headed towards the road where the crowd had gathered. He could hear an announcer on a loudspeaker somewhere proclaiming the events to the crowd.

"...And starting from the rear of the pack, we have Performance Dynamics Racing, who have chosen to put their rides on the line for a spot in this race, which means that the winner of this race will walk away with 8000 credits and two exquisitely preserved tuner favorites!"

Why had they agreed to do this, Michael thought, as a mass of nervousness sank into the pit of his stomach. For the first time since he could remember, he felt genuinely scared. He'd only ever raced his sister. He didn't know if he was fast by anyone's standards. What if the Ferrari incident had just been a fluke?

Park your vehicle in the highlighted slot.

A blue arrow hovered over a spray painted grid slot. Michael parked his car carefully, while Michelle did the same next to him. The arrow promptly disappeared.

"Alright newbies, let me go through the rules." Jeff's voice said in Michael's helmet.

"Autocab traffic won't be on the track, because the race routes have been programmed into the DriveNet database, and they'll avoid the route until the race is finished. This race will be officially ranked, so no bumping, or takedowns like in video games these days, and all accidental vehicle to vehicle contact will be reviewed by an official Racing Authority marshal. Camera drones have been positioned at all checkpoint locations, so if you're cheating with short cuts, we'll know. Stay within the virtual walls! Oh and most of all, remember the Racing Authority slogan: You leave your personal issues at the door. Race, Religion, Sexuality, Political Views, we don't care about them, and more importantly, we don't want to hear about them. This is the Church of Speed, and Ladies and Gentlemen, we all pray the exact same way. Now, join us in the racer's anthem!"

"As I lay rubber down the street,

I pray for traction I can keep,

But if I skid and begin to slide,

Please dear god

Protect my sweet ride"

Michael didn't exactly know what he believed in, or if there was anything to believe in. But now he felt more than ever for the first time in his life that he was at least a part of something, whether it be good or bad.

The display on his helmet flashed. It now displayed valuable information. In the top left, a lap counter, set at 0/3. On the bottom right, an RPM gauge, with an integrated speedometer. The top right held a lap and race timer, with a time gap indicator, and a position indicator, set at 10/10. Finally, the bottom left corner held a track minimap.

Michael gazed ahead. The car directly in front of him was a fluorescent blue and purple Lexus RC-F. It made more power than Michael's Mustang, but it was far heavier. Michael could see it had an aftermarket performance exhaust system, which stood out against the car's curvaceous body. Next to it was a silver Mazda RX-8 that looked relatively stock. It had a special rotary engine, which meant that it had very little torque, so it would be slow off the line. Its body was lumpy looking, with lots of triangular design cues. It was too dark to see the drivers and the rest of the cars. At the front of the starting grid, there were two red flares, casting smoke and ash into the sky, like burning totem poles in some tribal ritual.

Michael remembered something his father had told him. Before you drive, clear your mind. Focus. What happened before the race doesn't matter. What happens after doesn't matter either. What matters is just you, your car and the environment. Michael took a deep breath. This was where he belonged. He was a driver. A racer. This was his home. A race track. He began to calm down. His heart rate settled. He began to feel confident .

He leaned back in his seat, put on the five point harnesses and cracked his knuckles. He put the car in neutral. He pumped the gas. The Mustang's 5 liter V8 sang, back firing, and spitting flames.

Michael put the car in first gear. He was ready. He stared at the road ahead.

The woman in the black dress strutted in front of the 10 racers. She raised her arms in the air. The other cars reved their engines. The shipping yard erupted into a chorus of combustion. The V8s are the baseline, 6 cylinders the mid range vocalist, and the high revving I-4s as the sopranos, all of it accented by the percussion of backfires, the instruments of whistling turbos and whining superchargers.

The race was about to begin.

**********