Chapter 17

The Walk Away

Friday : October 4th 1997

“Ladies and gentlemen, Welcome to the first day of practice for the AMP Bathurst 1000. New for this year are the vehicles, 2.0L Super Touring Cars from around the world.” 

The sun was still rising into the sky as a Stella Star laid on the hood of her Ford Mondeo, staring up at the sky. For all intents and purposes she should not exist right now. She hadn't been born yet, she wouldn't be until 2006. Yet through her own stupid decisions thirty years ago now, a middle aged woman driving race cars with the very entity she was once tasked with killing. 

“See anything interesting up there?” McClaire asked, also glancing up to the sky as she stepped beside her. 

“Not really, planes, clouds…” her voice trailed off. It was strange, knowing with certainty that on a specific day, on a specific time, she would die, only to get reborn to prevent a paradox within the universe. Not as something cool like a lion, but as herself. The same unwanted orphan who would once again kill her mother in childbirth. The same child who fell into the clutches of Assassin’s Legion. The Girl trained in the art of killing without remorse or mercy. The same girl who would go on to kill people for money and fame. The “In your face Assassin” Stella Star. 

But at the same time, it would be different. Because before stupidly going back in time, tasked with killing the so-called “Immortal race car driver” Stephanie McClaire, it would be McClaire herself who would stop her, somehow. They hadn't worked that out yet. 

Even stranger, the boy she once used as a wedge of misdirection, a meaningless nobody from Ohio who she once called “Stray”, had become her best friend. He too would die in a mere 3 years, and be reborn into his life. Star would have to watch it happen, knowing it would happen to her as well, and she was dreading it. He would have a happy home life as a child, go through college trying to become a journalist, survive an epidemic in 2020, and end up at Daytona International Speedway in 2024, just where Star had originally found him. 

His name was Max Grayson, a once nerdy looking kid who wore glasses and carried around a journal with him everywhere he went had become a man of great stature and authority. He had a deep bellowing voice of reason that made people listen, and he was smart. Smart enough he avoided several attempts in his life by Star and otherwise. He too had a role in this reincarnation thing. His journal, titled Road Racer, had become of utmost importance to both himself and Star. 

When they got reborn their “selves” they currently inhabited within history would disappear and be replaced with the versions of themselves in the present as if they had never left it. Their memories, their adventures, their very souls could vanish into the infinite ethos of the universe. This book then, this journal documenting not only McClaire's life, but their own. It would be the only morsel left over to remind them of who they once were, and the past lives they had once lived. It was the only chance they had of correcting their mistakes and preventing the destruction of the entire universe or at least, so McClaire says.

“You know, we always seem to end up back in Australia for some reason.” Star mentions to McClaire, still gazing up at the clouds. 

“The Australian Motorsports Confederation chose not to uphold the FIA’s ban, so I can still race here.” McClaire said matter of factly.

“I know, but… I don't know. I think you just like baking us all in the sun.”

“No kidding McClaire, it's fucking hot.” Max chimed in, looking up from his journal. McClaire shrugged, and laughed to herself.

“What do you want me to do, ask God to turn it down?”

“That's not even funny McClaire.” Max hissed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know… It's not every day you fuck up so badly you get to talk to God...”

“And live to never endlessly brag about it.” Star added on, to which Max laughed.

“Shut up Star, go get suited up. You're first out for practice!” Star groaned as she sat up, not nearly as limber as she once was, or awkwardly enough, will be in the future. She headed off to the RV across the paddock to go get changed into her racing suit. 

Walking along the then dirt roads that made up the paddock area around the Bathurst pit lane, she couldn't help but take in the atmosphere. Professional racing was just years away from shifting away from the path of constant improvement, and into a path of constant cost savings at least in regards to the cars. These super touring cars, from BMW, Renault, Ford, Honda, they would be renowned and celebrated as one of the greatest touring car classes to ever hit the track. Expensive yes, but they're incredible pace and sound and presence would be unmatched by the TCR regulations that would eventually follow.

It was while walking through this paddock, she overheard an argument. A team with a Renault Laguna was arguing amongst themselves. 

“Look, I'm telling you, these cars weren't built for this sort of track! The speeds we are going to hit going down the Conrod straight is far higher than they've ever seen in Europe. Over 270 kph!” This was a common concern up and down the paddock. Due to a controversial split between the race organizers and the organizers of the V8 supercar championship, Australia's biggest race, The Bathurst 1000, would be using European spec super touring cars. Many drivers were apprehensive from moving from the domestic full size V8 powered sedans to these small turbocharged compact cars. 

“A car is a car Collins! If there's any problems we'll find it in practice!”

“It's not the car, it's the track. The speeds are too high, and they've never wrecked one as hard as we're going to wreck one this weekend!” Collins protested. He had a point, very little practice had been done around this track with these cars, especially in an endurance race setting. The stress of running for a thousand kilometers could put stress in the roll cage or chassis in ways that have never been seen before. Parts could fail in new and potentially dangerous ways. McClaire had spent hours on her private test track, nailing down these likely failure points and fixing them in their car. Other teams had no such luxury.

“Then why are you here you fucking coward, get out of here.” His team however, didn't see things his way. It wasn't a problem with the car, it was a problem with him.

“Fine, fuck you! You stupid bunch of pricks!” And with that, Richard Collins walked into the pages of history, as the man who walked out on his team. Ironically he was correct in his assessment. By the end of the day, his former team’s car was totaled, and one of his former teammates was injured with a broken leg from the crash in practice. They never even would have made the starting grid.