Michael had never seen his sister drive this well before. But he had never been this fast, either. They had already passed half the opposition on the first lap alone. If they continued at this rate, they could win. He noticed Michelle breaking extra late in the next corner, passing him easily up the inside in a tight drift, but he caught her on the next straight. They headed into the spiral overpass drifting in tandem, doors inches away from each other. Michael could picture his sister smiling, as it had been ages since they had raced each other like this before. Once more, he watched her duck the S13 in his slipstream. As they flew down the highway section, he even believed he heard the sound of her turbo stool, but that was probably the adrenaline rushing through his veins playing a trick on him.

*******

Michael noticed a cloud of smoke at the highway exit. Was that what had happened to the WRX?

An animation of a yellow flag waving appeared in the center of Michael's hud, but instead of a tow truck or a wreck... there was a bright red Honda S2000 with a giant aftermarket carbon rear spoiler, parked at the highway exit with its hood open, steam billowing out from under it, with its driver, a man in a custom printed Vtech sweater, looking at it shaking his head.

Michael felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't thought of mechanical failure. It didn't matter if they were the best drivers there, if the car decided it wasn't going to make it... well... you loose. Michael and Michelle didn't usually push their cars this hard for this long. Michael panicked and glanced at his oil pressure and temperature gauge. Everything seemed normal. He relaxed. The car felt the same as it always had. Tires were a little worn, and the clutch wasn't happy like his dad had said, but the car was fine. In fact the car had never broken down on him, and neither had Michelle's 180SX.

They had to pass three more opponents to win and then stay ahead to win the race.

Next few corners. They caught up to a green Nissan 350Z with a Rocket Bunny wide body kit and a gaudy spoiler.

"This one's mine! " Michelle said, passing Michael as they dashed through the construction site. Michelle kept lunging for the inside line on each turn.

*******

Michael relied entirely on Michelle's unspoken knowledge of what to do here. They were evenly matched in terms of speed, and their cars handled similarly, but he recalled her using this trick on him several times when they had practiced in the canyons. He was faster and more refined, and also unmatched when it came to overtaking, but he had to admit she surpassed him when it came to reading his opponents mentally. She would have to figure out how to scare this guy instead of outright passing him, and he knew she would. Just by being there, she was making it more and more likely the driver of the 350Z would make a mistake.

Pressure. No driver is immune to this. Once you acknowledge your opponent is there behind you, your brain immediately has its attention split. Ideally, you'd want to continue driving as fast as possible, so you can simply go faster and leave your opponent in the dust. But once you mentally acknowledge he or she is there, a part of you wants to start driving defensively.

It's made worse when your opponent is trying to pass you, lunging at openings in your lines. In your mind, you're breaking down. He or she is going faster then YOU... YOU and your car aren't as good as them and their car. Now you have to bring them down to your speed. You start to defend, but you KNOW you can go faster. You're pushing to pull away but trying to defend at the same time. All the while your opponent hasn't changed. They're simply driving consistently, trying the same move, the same way on each turn, and as you divide your attention, and try to drive two ways at once, something has to give. In this case, the this driver lost his sense of throttle control, and he nailed it too quickly out of a turn. The rear of his car snapped out wide, and both Michelle and Michael passed him up the inside after the next few turns.

They only had one car to pass now.

They drove the rest of the lap like they were possessed. The crowd cheered when they passed through the docks this time, the flares marking the finish now burnt out, sparking piles of ash.

*******

Michael's heart was racing. They could win it. They could keep their cars, and make 8000 credits. Almost enough to pay this month's rent.

The next car was boxy. Large, square taillights. It was bright orange, with black stripe decals. The '69 Camaro, part of the race crew they'd seen earlier.

They gained a ton of time drifting through the spiral overpass, and soon, they were right behind it... and then the Camaro floored it. It shot off like a rocket, spitting flames from its side pipe exhausts every time it changed gear.

"Shit." Michael heard his sister whisper into his headset. Michael started quietly in awe.

They headed off the highway, and gained time through the next few turns and the construction site. The Camaro was fast on the straights, but slower in the turns. Michael passed Michelle in a ninety degree turn. He wanted a crack at this guy. This Camaro was worth hundreds of thousands of credits. If they lost this race it would be because of their cars, not their driving.

Michael pushed these thoughts from his mind, he stayed glued right on its bumper right through the next few turns.

"Ok. Sis, go for the attack, at the hairpin." It had been long enough to learn the track, it was time for the the 180 onto the second stretch of highway before the final section. Michael braked as late as possible, and pulled the handbrake. The Camaro braked early and took a wide line. Michael drifted his Mustang in tandem with Michelle's 180SX, staying inches from each other, narrowly passing the Camaro on the exit of the turn as they got back on the highway.

Michael knew the road was only two lanes wide, and if Michael and Michelle out their cars side by side, the Camaro wouldn't fit if it tried to pass... and sure enough, it would catch up, and then have to hit brakes. They stayed locked side by side, knowing that they could only win if they worked together.

They headed off the highway. Michael and his sister gave it everything, blocking the inside line, they both swerved and blocked the Camaro on the straights, but Michael could feel his tires wearing down.

The next few turns took only a few seconds, but they felt like hours. Michael was sweating. They were going to loose their cars if they made just one small mistake.

Soon, there were only two corners left. They could still pull it off.

Michael lead, while Michelle focused on keeping the Camaro at bay.

*******

As Michelle swerved to block the Camaro, Michael suddenly heard it's engine roar louder, and a dull thud echoed through the air. Then it all happened in an instant.

The Nissan suddenly broke traction and spun in a circle and veered off the road. From the corner of his eye, Michael watched Michelle panic steer and manage to halt the S13 just before it crashed into an abandoned apartment building.

Michael was on his own now, and he couldn't do it without her help. The Camaro had hit the S13, and Michelle had spun out.

Michael didn't have time to comprehend what just happened to his sister. But it was over now. The Camaro's 396 cubic inch demonic nascar roar drowned out the Mustang's piddly 5 liter grumble as it accelerated alongside it. Michael wasn't used to driving this defensively. It was all over, they had come so close.

But Michael had one final trick. Something so reckless and stupid that Michelle had made him swear never to try it again.

Into the final corner, Michael steered violently and tapped the brake, then floored the gas, then threw every ounce of his physical strength into counter steering. The Foxbody drifted perfectly sideways, blocking the road. The Camaro driver slammed on the brakes. He thought Michael was going to spin. The Mustang narrowly avoided hitting the crowd, which scattered, then it straightened out. Michael kept his foot on the throttle. The Camaro had recovered and pulled alongside him.

They crossed the finish line.

Michael slammed on the brakes. The Mustang snarled to a halt and idled angrily.

A few agonizing seconds passed.

Michael had no idea if he had been ahead across the line or not.

Then a message flashed on his HUD.

Congratulations, YOU WIN!!

Michael sat in the car catching his breath. Had he just won an official Racing Authority street race?

The mob of race fans ran towards where his car sat. He turned off the car, pulled off his helmet, and undid his seatbelt. He opened the door, and stepped outside.

*********