World Grand Prix Championship 12 - everything thread

[Mytannion]

Andreas Schroeder accepts the offer to be Aer Ancharine's second driver.

[Flevans]

BrennickSport will confirm Malachy Byrne as the team's test driver.

[Audioslavia]

McPahan Racing confirms that Roger Bunn will be the team's second driver for the new season, with Victor Hall as the team's test driver.

RP to come

[Darmen]

Juan Kermit accepts the offer to be Aer Ancharine's test driver.
RP to come.

[Liventia]

All race seats have now been filled. The WGPC Works teams will not be employing test drivers this season, with Johannes Fagerholm elevated to a race seat. There is no requirement to have a test driver – teams without test drivers will merely have only two practice drivers instead of three (and hence, ICly at least, have less data). Five teams are yet to sign a test driver – but my recommendation (as overall organiser) is to not sign anyone who hasn't RPed consistently – you will not be penalised for not having a test driver.

[Polar Islandstates]

OOC: If anyone wants a small and barely RPed role, there is a test seat still up for grabs at O-F. Lemme know by TG if you're interested.

[Vilita]

Toralmintii rejects Test Seat, returns to Works Team

Turorian driver iBen Toralmintii put in a fine showing at the Vilitan Mountain Challenge Course trial session, posting the fast time in the Qualifying session and running consistent lap times in the middle of the pack. In fact, the blistering pace that Toralmintii set on the Qualifying Lap was enough to turn some heads at Vilita & Turori Motorosports, the team that Toralmintii helped create before being flicked out the door due to lack of big-name sponsorship support.

Vilita & Turori Motorsports reportedly reached out to Toralmintii following the trial day at the Vilitan Mountain Challenge Course, offering the Turorian driver the chance to be the teams test driver.

Much as the team had done to him prior to WGPC 11, Toralmintii spurned the offer and decided to return to one of the Driver's seat in a WGPC Works Team.

Toralmintii will be the only WGPC 11 Works team driver returning to the Works team fold for Season 12. During WGPC 11, Toralmintii kept the car out of trouble, retiring only once after completing all but the final laps in Pacitalia. Toralmintii placed in the points twice in Liventia and the Babbage Islands to finish 18th in the final driver standings.

[Nekoni]

Akialden Ducal Autodrome, Lermendia, Astograth
3, April 2013 / 13:30

"Right, Alex. You arrive here OK? Great. Listen, that's enough of the pleasantries. I know you can race for 24 hours, but this is a different ball game. It's shorter, but everyone's on the ball right up to the final straight. You ease off for one second and they'll be on your tail and you'll be eating their exhaust fumes next turn, and Yogutz Lantzia don't employ drivers who like eating dust. Same if you spin off. We don't like gravel-eaters either." Alex wasn't told this, but she took a wild guess that the guy in the white jacket giving her the dressing-down was probably the team principal.

"Anyway, you've used a championship-quality car before, so you should be at home with this," Katzuso said, placing his hand on the Lantzia 650. Last year this took us to 4th in the constructors. If you've got what it takes, it'll be top three. We don't succeed with that, you might not be round for Season 13...if you're going to even MAKE 12. There's a fair few drivers on this list, and we need to choose two." This was the test session they had specified in the email the day before. "You get in there, we'll give you a couple laps to get used to it. Then we get out the stopwatch. You get five laps. Our lap record is 1'29.17. You aren't going to beat that, but you beat 1'33.2 and we'll be happy. Any higher, we'll drop you like a ton of bricks. Same if you crash. You have ten minutes to track. Get ready."

One change of clothes later, and Alex was in the Lantzia. This was a test and a half for her, but she needed to perform. This was what the sleepless nights were for. Eight laps to get on the pace. Within one lap, she instantly knew this was a track she would perform well in. There were twisty sections she could plan through, a really tough hairpin at turn 7, and the final two turns, which were pivotal in good times. The lead-in was a fast sweeping right, then a tight couple of corners before the pit straight. Bugger up that, and that'll be two laps you'd ruin.

Practice laps done, and the clock started. The Lantzia seemed different from her open-wheel, it had a bit more give in the engine, something which made her a little more cautious in the first timed lap, a 1'36"67. If she wanted a seat she'd have to dig a whole lot deeper. Lap by lap, she learnt that she was braking too early at some turns. An extra ten feet or so on the track's major turns did the trick a little, and over the next two laps her time dropped to 1'34 flat. Not good enough.

Exiting turn 15 in third gear, lap 4 beckoned. The tight chicane required her to pick the ideal braking point. Somewhere between the 100 and 150 yard markers, she slammed on the brakes hard and dropped to second gear. It took her a while to get back up to speed again, but unlike first gear, it's a whole lot easier to get the car round the track the right way. After all, what's the point of doing a great lap if the car's in a gravel trap and on fire?

Turn 6 came. Its bark looks a lot worse than its bite, and with the right line, Alex attacked the next straight full on. Now for the hard part. How to get through the hairpin leaving her the best chance of acceleration. First gear, drop the speed to 40mph, ease it round, then pile it on. Over half the lap down, just eight turns to go. Five right-angles next. She dropped speed for the first one, then gradually increased the power with each successive one, allowing her to drive at decent pelt around turn 13. Turn 14, next and..."DAMN IT!" In the heat of the moment, she had accidentally geared up instead of down. Rapidly mashing the down paddle, her entry was all wrong, and her exit out of 15 looked decidedly sluggish. She was noticeably annoyed, and after crossing over the line, her final lap just wasn't good enough to make it. But was lap four? Had she blown it at the last moment?

She drove the car back into the paddock, and her face instantly lit up when she saw the telemetry. 'LAP 4: 1'32.978". Success, and Alex felt overjoyed. "I don't know why you're smiling like that, Alex. I mean, it's not the fastest I've seen today. And there's only two spots, so you're not exactly guaranteed a seat here. You'll hear from us if you've got a seat. If not, well, thanks for trying."

Canera Lounge, NIC Platinum Hotel, Marina Point, Nekoni
3, April 2013 / 23:00

Alexandra lay back for a rest in her chair, fingers fidgeting. She bought herself a glass of wine to keep herself calm, but it's clear it wasn't working. She wanted the call. It was lunch over there, right? Surely they had decided by now. Suddenly, she heard the first few bars of an all too familiar song. Her ringtone. The number was unknown, looked international. She picked it up.

"Hello, it's Errando, the Yogutz Lantzia team principal. You were second fastest in the test session, .4 off the lead."

"Is that...good news?"

"Depends. You didn't make the lead, so we can't give you the main driver role, but we can gladly offer you the test driver seat."

Alex was in two minds. It wasn't a real racing seat, but what choice did she have? Hold out for the WGPC seats? They would be snapped up quickly, by people who beat her in the Vilita tests. At least she has a CHANCE of making the races here, even if it meant possibly missing out on a season.

"Ahem, I'm...kinda waiting for a response, Alex!"

"Oh, sorry. Just got taken back there. I...that'll...yes, I'll accept it!"

"Fantastic! Welcome to the team. I'll send you a contract right now."

And with that, Alex walked up to the bar, and attracted the attention of the bartender.

"What'll it be, Alex?"

"Bottle of Luda Valley, 1996."

"Certainly, how many glasses this time?"

"None. I'll just take the bottle."

And that was all she could remember of the night...

[Eastfield Lodge]

Victoria Gardner will be taken on as MSA-Sinval's test driver.

[Nova Cambria et PBI]

A great number of things had gone wrong for Shayna Barstowe the last time she drove Circuit Alexandre Bruneau whilst racing in Coupe Villeneuve. Brake problems forced her to retire from the race after the sixth lap, and she finished dead last. The questions and the rude rumours got louder- although nobody asked her directly to her face, countless Nova Cambrian columnists would write crass articles suggesting she was only with a team in Coupe Villeneuve because of the money behind her and her good looks. The Cotdelapomais writers mostly wrote in French, so she could easily ignore them, although the occasional article in English she'd encounter was mostly positive. Cotdelapomais society was both more hyper-sexualised (and thus the main reason why her looks were brought to the forefront in the first place) and also better for gender equality (any negative articles had to do with her actual driving, the same as they would be about some of the poorer male drivers.) Cotdelapomais motorsport writing had more to do with the teams than the drivers themselves, and driving for fancied Phoenix Motorsport put her under a lot of pressure.

It also, however, represented a turning point. Barstowe had slipped to 16th in the drivers standings after Saint-Urbain, and Phoenix were starting to be unhappy with her performance. The Nova Cambrian papers were calling her a "pay driver unfit for the prestigious seat". Barstowe decided that from that point forward she would not speak to her home nation's reporters and simply accept the crass suggestions she was moody and instead let her driving do the talking. It was a cliche, but it seemed to work- Barstowe won her very first race a few weeks later in notoriously difficult Charlevoix, and finished 2nd in the prestigious race in PBI, which was culturally entertaining for a myriad of reasons. By the end of the year she was in a very respectable position in the drivers' standings and Phoenix offered her a contract for next season. After pondering it for weeks, she rejected them- much to the shock of the Cotdelapomais racing world.

"I am very thankful for everything Phoenix has done for myself and my career, but would like to respectfully decline their offer as I attempt to move my career to the WGPC" was all that she said publicly. Clearly the millions of krona behind her from Nova Cambria Credit Union, Bridgeport Bitter and now major Cotdelapomais fast-food giant Fritidien! had inspired her to try her hand at the world's #1 racing series.

At first, it seemed like a good idea. She had driven some of these circuits before as a test driver for Loto-Marianne in the Rushmore Grand Prix series, and she felt like she could handle the challenge. After phoning and testing for a series of teams, she was offered a race driving job for MSA-SinVal Racing, the Eastfield Lodge team. Ecstatic to have won a driving job on merit, Barstowe did what you do when you succeed in racing- she sprayed a bottle of champagne around the hotel room in Vilita where she was staying as she trialed for other teams. The hotel staff, not amused, billed her for it at the end of her stay, but she paid it gleefully, knowing that she had done something nobody thought she could do.

Not long after touching down in Cotdelapoms to head to Saint-Urbain to prepare for the first GP of the season, she received another call from her new bosses. "Lukas Forbes has accepted our offer, you are released."

Well, shit.

There have been a lot of brutal words sent her way during her racing career thusfar, but Shayna Barstowe was most upset by those ones. Once again, she reacted to news by taking it out on the room she was in- unfortunately rather than a hotel, she received this news whilst in her apartment in Montréal. "Oh well, tangible things can be replaced. Apparently I can too." she thought. She went to sleep it off, hoping in the morning things would go better.

As in a film, her phone rang at 3 in the morning- it was a job offer with the WGPC Works team- to be teammates to talented Polarian Johannes Fagerholm.

"You mean that I get an actual racing seat? And I get to have a Polarian teammate who will take attention away from me in Cotdelapoms? And you are hiring me for my driving and not for my sponsorships?"

She'd never been happier.

[Bearded Moose]

It’s strange how quick you can adapt to things. The soothing sound of the Vilitian machine calmed my first set of nerves before the light would turn green. The amount of horsepower underneath the hood reminded me of my last race car in Bearded Moose. I had named her Ella, as I give all my race cars a female name. There still was only one red light lit, indicating that there still was plenty of time. Nonetheless, all the young men and women on the grid were eager for the start. My mind wandered back to this morning…

…

“That’s the stuff, mate, come here!”

Otar’s voice hardly went above the sound of the engines, but our manly hug was warm and well-meant. The first session hadn’t been much of a blast, but I couldn’t hide the feeling that most racers had used it as some sort of warm-up. Only Schroeder seemed quickly accustomed. His babyface made him an interesting target for the press, but the kid surely knew how to race. My second stint had been of a higher quality. With its typical wide bends, the Mountain Challenge circuit wasn’t directly my cup of tea and was designed for the quick guys. Nonetheless, I managed to find my pace and Otar was more than happy when he announced my third spot over-all.

“This was nothing yet, Otar, don’t get too wound up.”
“You’ve got the hang of the track and the track, then the practice session will be a hoot!”

My time had even caused some attention among the press, with some of them even attempting to put me up against Johannes Fagerholm. I tried not to get along with that, although Otar had told me to try and become ‘high profile’. Whatever that could mean. Instead of trying to sell myself to the media, I rather looked forward to the open forum at noon.
Luckily, I had found a seat in between Bunn and Fagerholm. Both were not completely satisfied with their morning session, so the atmosphere was from time to time a bit blue. Either way, by the time we were offered the dessert, we already were discussing the set-up from the brakes, concluding that we would show the world what we could do when they were adjusted. In all fair honesty, it was Bunn who did most of the talking. A bit rash from time to time and quick with the mouth, he seemed to be the kind of guy you would love to back up in a pub brawl. Fagerholm on the other hand, mostly nodded in approval and never raised his voice. From the outside, he seemed detached, cold, even a bit unfriendly. But his soft eyes were warm and they absorbed the information around him at an unusual rate. I couldn’t imagine him to be nervous behind the wheel.

The time trial was awaiting me and I had grasped enough confidence to set my target at the top five. Knowing that some good riders had failed to set a competitive time, the pole was still open. Blinded by the desire to show the best of myself, it turned out for the worst. During the first lap, I completely blacked out during the three and hardly managed to keep it on the tarmac. Panic overwhelmed me and I screwed up the next round as well. With the horn indicating that I had only 3.14 miles to go anymore, I attempted to focus on a steady pace, taking no risk.

“Well,” Otar couldn’t hide his disappointment, “you did leave five guys behind you.”

I couldn’t but sigh and accept. By the time I had parked, no scout wasn’t anymore to be found around my booth.

“That’s how it goes,” Otar explained. “They’ll be back, bunches of them, if you perform well. Don’t worry yet.”

…

If. If you perform well. Otherwise, this small surge in interest might have been over before it even started. So when the second and third red light went on, I grabbed hold of my steering wheel a bit firmer and focused on the starting grid. When it turned green, I accelerated and tried to find a gap in the defence from Narein Sugumaran. As his focus was on Shayne Barstowe on his right-hand side, I managed to squeeze my car between the curbstones and Sugumarans car. Up in seventh place without a drop of sweat, marvellous.
Despite its seemingly easy curves, the circuit demanded the most of every rider. One by one, small mistakes were made. I wasn’t free of them, but luckily startled during the moments where it was possible, when no one was sticking to my rear. Halfway through the session, I surprised Malachy Byrne with an inside-outside manoeuvre between turns 11 and 12. With this move, I took fourth position, but a dot became bigger in my mirror.
That dot went by the name of Allian Marquis. Whether it was pure talent or a pile of anger caused by his moderate training session, he moved over the track as if he was solid gold. He seemed to know no fear as he almost drifted through the corners. I managed to cover his first attack but realised soon that this would be an endless battle with only one possible loser: Einur Birkirsun. As it was more important to actually make it to the finish line, I moved the car to the right a little too much on the straight line.
The race wasn’t run yet. iBen Toralmintii was up next and he clearly had shot his best arrows during the training session. The only target left was Schroeder, realising that Marquis was too swift and that I couldn’t compete yet with the experience from a Lee Rogers. The Mytannian mr. Nice Guy was competing at the highest level once more. Solid, taking the turns without any sign of hesitation or doubt, I knew this would be a difficult task. As Otar kept on shouting lap times through my headphone, I decided to pull the sound cord out of the plug. ‘Technical error, so sorry.’ Andreas Schroeder was a gentleman-driver, a honest man disguised as a kid in an overall. Only equipped with years of fighting dirty wars in the Bearded Moose Championship, this kind of numbed me. He wasn’t the kind of guy you could crash into, apart from the bad publicity it would make. And besides, I couldn’t afford that. Luck was on my side when he missed turn 5 during one of the last laps and I came in third. Third amongst these guys…

…

Nonetheless, that didn’t mean my contract was already signed. Only Obeveklig seemed genuinely interested, so this day would determine everything. As promised to Aaltonen, I went back to the Polar Islandstates right after the Vilita Trials. I already had joined him in Eysturoy when the news about Marquis’ sign-up reached me. Good for him, I thought, but this only limited the amount of spots left if this would go wrong.

Standing next to Aaltonen, I ogled the laps that Johannes Fagerholm was presenting. Without taking any risk, he meticulously moved his car around the track. The computer printed nothing but solid times. Nothing that couldn’t be beaten, but it did set the bar in a way.
Aaltonen wasn’t talking a lot. He seemed displeased by the lack of medial interest in his friend Fagerholm and in his racing team all over. Therefore, I kept my mouth shut when nothing was asked and tried to keep a calm, respectful tone when someone asked me a question. As long as I couldn’t find out what was bothering him, it seemed better to leave him some space. For safety reasons, I had send Otar back to Franz Josef Stadt, asking him to get in touch with potential sponsors.
As the head engineer called my name, the adrenaline filled my limps. My steps were heavy and my arms refused to remain still. With the helmet on my head, I felt how my heart was pounding in my ears.

“And that’s how it works, all the other things are as you’re used to.”
“O… Ok. Thanks,” I uttered.

I had missed all the things the engineer had mentioned and focused solely on the slap of cement in front of me.

…

Last Norreheim went smooth, now the final Hairpin… I aced it. I speeded to the finishing line, setting my best time. The first few laps had been an utter nightmare, but later on, the car grew on me. It had clearly been built with an eye on Aaltonen. The acceleration was simply nauseating and it was hard to deal with the G-forces whilst taking a turn. This car would fit him like a glove. Nonetheless, I felt that we could match as well. It was balanced and well-build, so going out of bounds wasn’t very likely.
Taking off my helmet, I couldn’t hide a smile to Aaltonen, who was covered in sweat as well. Both of us were sort of uncomfortable.

“How did it go?”, he asked.
“The start was ehm… moderate. But it’s a great car, so it moved up afterwards.” I responded.
“I see.”

Sometimes, it’s not needed that a lot of words would be said. The twinkle in his eye kept a certain promise within. The promise of a seat.

“In that case, I’ve got something for you.”

Never before, I had looked at a pile of papers with more emotion. Enthusiasm, bliss, relief, delight, it all rushed through me.

“Where do I sign?”

…

“Please fasten your seatbelts, as we will land on the Aéroport Saint-Urbain general Joliat in five minutes. I hope you have enjoyed your flight.”

Whilst buckling up, I went through the last pages of the paper I had bought on the airport of Montréal. I was mainly skipping through the pages, as the local football results weren’t really my cup of tea, but my eye dropped on a column in the side. ‘Aaltonen makes clear statement in his pamphlet: why he didn’t want Sotil Morua anyway.’
Skimming through the article, I noticed the harsh tone from the author against Aaltonen. The writer had larded his article with quotes from what appeared to be an open letter by Vitaliy. The conclusion in the paper was clear: ‘Aaltonen is a diva who hasn’t proved enough for that status. He repulses the fans with his behaviour and will cause the downfall of Obeveklig-Farautoo.’ I wanted to wake Otar, but he still was drunk from his little adventure in the tax-free shop. God knew how I had managed to get him on board. The article, quite badly written to be frank, picked Aaltonen to pieces. That wasn’t how I had met him so far. Maybe he wasn’t always that in touch with the surrounding world as should be, he came across honest and even humble.
My name was only noted once during the column. ‘With Birkirsun, Aaltonen has contracted a rookie who he will surely be able to keep under control. A clever move by the Polarian of course, who wants to be in the spotlight despite his poor results last season. It seems as if the Moosian will have to bow his head a lot, as he hasn’t shown the glimpses of talent that Lukas Forbes used last year to crawl underneath Aaltonen’s yoke.’
Ah, the papers… They would invent anything just to sell, right?

…

Being landed in Saint-Urbain, I still had one difficult task to fulfil. After asking directions thrice –still not sure what kind of dialect that old guy was speaking-, I finally found a phone booth in a corner of the airport. I searched for a nickel in my pockets and dialled a number.

“Hello, Kalliope Stefanapoula speaking?”
“Hi.”
“Is that you, Einur? The connection is terrible!”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“How are you doing? How is your trip with Otar going? Done a lot of fishing already, I guess.”
“Not exactly, no.”
“Can you repeat? The line is really awful, it’s like you are abroad.”
“I am abroad, Kalliope.”
“You didn’t cross the border with the nation of Critically, did you? You know how dangerous that is!”
“No, I didn’t cross the border with Critically.”
“Then… Where are you? Are you in Beldia?”
“I’m not in our region anymore, honey.”
“… What?”
“I’m in Cotdelapoms at the moment.”
“Cotdelawhat? What are you doing there? You’re thousands of miles away and you couldn’t even be bothered to take me with you? Or at least warn me, Einur, goddamned, when are you going to grow up?”
“I am growing up, Kalliope. I finally made it.”
“You made what? Einur, stop beating around the bush, what is going on!”

She yelled now, her voice was going everywhere. I took one deep breath and explained it all in a few short sentences.

“… So, as official and paid driver in a professional team, my first race in the WGPC is in Cotdelapoms. I’m a real racer now, Kalliope. This is the top level and I am part of it.”
“…”
“Kalliope?”
“You didn’t tell me nothing.”
“I couldn’t, honey, I…”
“Don’t honey me, Einur, it’s too late for that. I have no need for that. Always racing, it’s everything you think about.”
“But it’s my lifelong dream that’s becoming truth!”
“That’s not the kind of behaviour from a grown man.”
“But…”
“And certainly not the kind of behaviour from a grown man who will become a father.”
“What? Kalliope?”

Shit. The tone, indicating that the conversation was over was still buzzing in my ear when Otar swung by.

“I’ve found out where you can take a bus to the Gare du Palais. What’s the matter, Einur, you look like you’re having some lady-problems?”

[Cotdelapoms]

ABOUT THE CIRCUIT

To learn about the city of Saint-Urbain and what to expect for the race, click here.

Circuit Alexandre Bruneau is a street circuit that is 4.197 km/2.6 miles long. The streets are in the city's Sainte-Marguerite neighbourhood, which is among the city's most posh and touristy areas. The course was "designed" in as much as a street course can be designed by the famed Waaldish racetrack architect Fredrik Jooest. The circuit is narrow and the barriers are very imposing, leaving little room for error as many drivers have learned over the years.

The first practices will be slippery, as the oil and dust from everyday road traffic will decrease the amount of grip the tires will be able to get. Although this debris is cleared out repeatedly through the week, it's still impossible to keep a populous city's streets as clean as a dedicated racing surface. As the weekend moves on, the rubber from tires will give the cars more grip and should hopefully lead to faster times all the way through to race day.

This is not an easy circuit to overtake on- cars will lose a lot by leaving the racing line and the best place on the track to attempt an overtake will be at the very end of the lap right before the pit straight. Much of the race will be won on pit lane. Pit lane features a unique exit allowing for the exiting cars to be closer to speed when they exit and to be in a position on the inside line for the turn.

There are a lot of slow, sharp corners that pose a hazard to the drivers, and so this is certainly a circuit that rewards skill. Don't expect to win at Saint-Urbain just by having the best car.

[Flevans]

Vilitan Mountain Challenge Grand Prix Course, Vilita
Lee Rogers was ready and raring to go. He'd arrived a day early for the big test, for the sole purpose of walking around the track and figuring out how best to get the car he drove in Eelandii around the 3.14 mile circuit. This was it, there was no room for mistakes, and room for holding back as he did in Eelandii. Unfortunately, it would seem as though already he'd be on the back foot. Rogers' strength was in twisty, difficult corners, the type which only really existed in the brief infield segment. The rest of the track was straights and flat-out - or near-enough to it - corners. Still, this was what he had to work with, no sense in feeling sorry for himself. Time to get on with it.

The morning sessions were more of an acclimatisation period, but if Lee was to prove himself he needed to be on the pace all through the day. Consistency won championships, after all, and there was no point in being the fastest driver ever if you crashed out half the time. He thus started off his day by trying to enhance the one part of the track that played to his strength - the infield section. And it did work - to a point. Carrying more downforce enabled the veteran driver to pick up more speed, be more aggressive in his cornering through the infield. However, it also left him a sitting duck everywhere else. Though he was up to 1.5 seconds faster than everyone else in the infield, he lost another 2, 2.5 seconds on the rest of the track. Although Rogers ended the first morning session second on the charts, the five-lap-average of Andreas Schroeder was a full three-quarters of a second quicker. He'd have to change his approach.

The second session went quite a bit better. Running less downforce enabled Rogers to lessen his losses whilst flat-out, but thanks to some more aggressive driving in the infield, still maintain the majority of his advantage there. With the track rubbered in, he was a fair chunk quicker than Schroeder's session 1 average, and enjoyed topping the charts for most of the session. Until Allian Marquis came along with a storming series of laps which saw the Falcanian leap into the top spot. Rogers immediately went back out in the dying minutes of the session and tried to respond. After 4 laps he was looking good, on target to at least match Marquis' 5-lap average, but carried just a bit too much speed through turn 6 on the infield, ran on to the run-off, compromising his lap just enough so that he would not reclaim first.

After lunch was the time trial. 3 qualifying laps. Only the best would be counted, and of course, why ruin your tyres when you still have fuel on board that will cost you time anyway? Lee practiced the exit to turn 7 on his first lap, making sure to get it absolutely right. Every thousandth of a second could prove critical. On lap 2 he nailed it and tore around the circuit, setting his fastest single lap of the day - it wasn't the fastest, but Lee was pleased enough with it. Especially when he saw the fastest time belonged to iBen Toralmintii, who had been, in all honesty, fairly average until that point.

At last, there was the final session. A 3 hour shootout - not an official race, the team officials stressed, but nobody took note of that. For all intents and purposes, it was one. And it was time to show that Lee Rogers was anything but race rusty. Starting from the front row came with its advantages, of course. He'd only have to pass one car to take the lead, and from there he could just put in consistently quick times, as he had been doing all day, and watch the other drivers drop into the distance. He hadn't been the quickest driver over one lap, no. Nor the quickest over 5. But the drivers who were, were unable to keep this level of performance up throughout the day. Lee could. And that's why he nailed the start and cruised away from the field. Letting the time tick away, comfortably in the lead. No need to push. Not even in the closing laps, when Allian Marquis was bearing down on him like a cruise missile. He'd lost too much time in the earlier stages, only a catastrophic error on Lee's part would hand him victory now. Lee did not have to push.

---

Lee had to push. There was no time to waste. Portland was streaking off into the distance. If he didn't reassert his championship position ahead of Portland, he'd have to back his teammate, and screw doing that 2 years in a row. That meant moving forward now, rain be damned. He had a wet setup, it was time to use it. He bore down on the BRT of Mingus Shouten heading into turn 10, fully committed to passing the BRT despite the fact that it was impossible to see through all the spray. Then, there was a sudden flash of blue and BANG! No more front-right anything for Lee, go directly to the gravel trap, do not continue, do not finish the Pacitalian Grand Prix.

---

What the---? Where did that car come from? Why was Lee not on the racing line? What had happened to his lead?

No time to worry about any of that, he still had to finish this race, and he had to bloody win it as well. The exit to turn 7 was compromised for Lee as a result of running wide, but he immediately merged right back behind the other car and hoped the slipstream would be enough.

It wasn't. Lee would have to settle for 2nd.

---

Alice Rogers was one of the few people even bothering to stick around Lee's garage; most everyone flocked to Allian Marquis' after his 'stunning' drive from 11th and nowhere to win.
"What went on out there Lee? You had that race under control."
Lee hesitated, looked around sheepishly, scratched his head, trying in vain to come up with a plausible answer. That didn't really happen, did it? He didn't seriously have some sort of flashback?
"Uuhh, I carried too much speed, ran wide. Just a mistake, I guess," he mumbled eventually, ineffectually.
"No time to worry about that now. We need to get to the announcement, they'll be making it any second."
"Right, right."

The Rogers' rushed to the announcement, eagerly anticipating it. They had to pick Lee, surely... right? He'd been easily the most consistent driver. Very experienced, a proven race winner. Marquis was fast, but he lacked the maturity, the consistency that made a champion. The team bosses had to have sussed all that out, right?

They hadn't. Lee left the track immediately, left the country shortly after. He was far from happy.

----------------------------------------------------------
Rogers' household, Republic of Flevans
"Back to square one, then," Lee huffed as he tossed his luggage off to the side, clearly frustrated by the decision by Vilita & Turori F1. He was clearly the fastest and most consistent driver over the whole day of testing, and they hire some Falcanian kid!? Stupid decision, stupid stupid decision. It was a wonder they'd been so good in WGPC 11, with that kind of decision-making....

"Not necessarily," Alice eventually replied, after checking the mail.
"What do you mean?"
"Read this."

Alice handed him a letter, from Yogutz Lantzia. Offering him the drive he so desperately wanted, had worked so hard to be ready for. There was only one possible response to that.

[Audioslavia]

~bzzt~ Telemetry tells us you might have a problem with your left-front. Abort lap. Pit pit pit. We'll look at it." ~bzzt~

Alec thought about the events of the last half-hour.

"Ground Effect. That's what it was called. Back in my day, going back forty years or so now, car designers were doing things with WGPC cars that kids today couldn't even imagine. We're talking things like six-wheelers, wings suspended five feet above the car on stilts, levers in the cockpit that allowed the driver to loosen or stiffen suspension, but the biggest one was Ground Effect, that was the most important, most iconic too. Old man McPahan's idea, that one, and we got it before any of the other teams knew about it. It was so simple, it was almost surprising that no-one had thought of it before. A little bit of skirting, synethetic rubber, around the base of the car that just brushed against the tarmac. Some of the techies said it would increase drag, cause unneccesary friction, but they were shushed just long enough for old man McPahan to get the car out on the test track, same Silverspasecasarthe circuit you're about to do a test run on. Back then, it was me that was the test-driver, twenty-three years old, race wins at every level underneath the big league, young dumb and full of adrenaline. I'd been given the old car for a few runs, few weeks previous, and that had been quick, but this car, with the Ground Effect system... jesus. It went like shit off a shovel, like a Legalite to a pub. Fork lightening in car form. What happens is, you see, that skirting around the bottom of the car creates a pocket of ultra low pressure beneath the car. A vacuum of sorts, literally sucking the car down onto the track. All of a sudden, a sixty mile-an-hour corner became a seventy,you realised you weren't being constrained by just the grip in your tyres any more, and then that seventy mile-an-hour corner would become eighty, ninety, hundred, you became braver and braver, more and more comfortable with the car. Drive smoothly and you were breaking lap records. Smashing them. Even with the old engines, old cars, less efficient, more fuel, thinner brakes, you could keep pace with a modern WGPC car any day of the week, if you knew what you were doing. It was brilliant. It was almost too good to be true. Turns out it was"

Johansen rapped his knuckle against his prosthetic leg, a thin, expensive looking titanium rod that attached the stump of his knee to a life-like foot that he could remove at will. Johansen was said to have a tradition of drinking champagne from his prosthetic foot when McPahan won a championship. Now that the team were racing in the WGPC, he might not get the opportunity to enjoy swig of shoe-champers ever again, but the story, along with the one he was telling to Roger Bunn and Alec Lund - McPahan's drivers for the new season - was a good indicator of Johansen's personality. Everyone liked Johansen. He was warm and friendly and had more stories to tell than most people have blood cells. When Alec had first joined the team, a few months ago, he'd wondered at Johansen, what the man even *did*. He didn't seem to have a particular purpose, seeming to be somewhere between a trusted advisor and a janitor. His jobs were the odd-jobs around the garage, but also to make key strategy decisions for the races, and advise on the set-up of the car's cockpit. Alec had found out Johansen's posiion during a long, six-hour pub-and-food conversation he'd had with the man after a pre-season team meeting.

His train of thought was interrupted by Johansen continuing his story.

"I was promoted from test-driver to race-driver after the third grand prix of the season. The number-two driver, guy called Owen Kerrigan - good guy, quick, bit fond of his champagne, bit of a ladykiller but dedicated all the same - he got injured in a shunt in qualifying at the old Ariddian grand prix. Car spun out going round a fast right-hander, seemingly for no reason, though we thought at the time that he'd simply over-cooked it. The car bounced across the gravel, back end hit the tyre-wall and catapulted him back out, spun 720 degrees before the wheels touched down again. Broke a couple of ribs, gave him whiplash something chronic, so he was out for a few weeks and I was in, new number two driver, got to make my debut. They fixed up the car and got it on the grid for the race. I was last on the grid but, hey, I was making my debut, I was made up. The team already had two podiums in the first two races and we knew for a fact that we were quicker than anyone else, if only we could get a driver behind the wheel who knew what he was doing. Race day. Flag waves. Go go go. I start off twenty-sixth, I'm twenty-fourth by the first corner, I take that nice and easy and then we've got a fast chicane and, jesus christ could I take that chicane at a lick. I went into the chicane in twenty-third and came out of it, onto the straight, with a huge sling-shot that got me into twentieth place. Six places in just three corners. Not bad eh? By lap ten I was ninth, I actually needed the help of the pit-board to find out what position I was in, I was losing count of the cars I was passing. I knew the tyres had another ten, fifteen laps in them, knew I could keep pushing, knew my folks would be watching back home, cheering every time they saw I'd moved up the order. It was all... well.. too good to be true. I was the guy who tested the new GE cars, I was the guy who'd find their major downfall. That vacuum beneath the car could be disturbed, at any moment, and by anything. Bump in the road, marbles from other cars, maybe it just develops a fault, and McPahan cars have a habit of doing that. As soon as that vacuum gets broken, the effect goes. Completely. That sixty mile-an-hour corner you were taking at a hundred? Well its gone back to being a sixty-mile an hour corner, son, hard luck. Half-way round the corner already when the system goes balls-up? Tough luck kit, tough luck. Goes without saying I don't remember the accident. Don't remember hitting the wall. Woke up in hospital with an itchy foot, but no way to scratch it unless I wanted to go into that trackside forest and find it."

Johansen smiled. He'd told the story plenty of times in the past, but appreciated that, after finishing up, there was always going to be a silence from his audience. Roger was the first one to speak up.
"So it got banned, right?" he asked.
"Eventually"
"Eventually?"
"Different time, son, different time. There were deaths every year in the old formula one, before it started being called the WGPC. One guy losing his leg was hardly news. Other teams developed their own versions of Ground Effect. That year we had six more injuries and another death.
"It got banned after the death?" asked Alec. Johansen grimaced.
"..Technically, yeah"
"How long after?"
"End of the season. Think they were gonna scrap it anyway. Tyre companies were complaining. Everyone was praising the vacuum for the grip, not the tyres. Tyre companies are worth more money in sponsorship than under-car-suction-skirting manufacturers, largely because the latter doesn't exist. In any case, there were no more injuries at McPahan Racing that year. Old man McPahan saw to that."
"Linco McPahan? Doesn't sound like him. I've heard is record with keeping drivers safe isn't exactly.." Roger stopped what he was saying when he saw Alec and Johansen shake their heads.
"No, not Linco. Linco's dad. Charlie McPahan. That's the McPahan in 'McPahan Racing', if you will."
"Charlie was the brains behind the team" said Alec, "Linco's just a rich, spoiled son who inherited a franchise"
"Now now" said Johansen, "that's not entirely true. Linco McPahan cut his teeth as an engineer, was as much a part of the team as his dad, he just never got to mould the team around his f***ed up beliefs, his beliefs that safety precautions could be done away with if it meant lowering the car's weight by a couple of grams. Charlie McPahan , McPahan senior, he was a good guy, a racer, not a mechanic. He's the reason I'm still with the team even now. Hang on..."
Johansen was interrupted by a figure opening the door and notifying the two young drivers that the cars were ready. Johansen nodded. Alec got up and follwed the guy out of the room. Roger made to follow.
"Look after yourself out there, Roger" said Johansen. "Remember, you're on contract now, so you've nothing to prove. You've got to grow into the car. Take no notice of Linco McPahan, he doesn't have your best interests at heart. Trust yourself. Above all, of course, have fun. Never forget that you've got your dream job."

Roger and Alec men walked out onto the pitlane. A mechanic was unplugging his laptop from the side of the front car, a small number '16' and the name 'LUND' above the flags of Audioslavia and Atlantian Oceania. There, behind the car, was Linco McPahan himself, talking to his race director. McPahan glanced over, saw the two drivers, and continued his conversation without so much as an ackowledging nod.

The race director tossed Alec his helmet, which he caught, and held it under his arm as he slipped his balaclava on over his head, before placing the helmet on the top of his head and pulling it down as much as he could. He leaned forward and gestured for Roger's assistance. Roger complied with a hearty *bonk* of his fist on the top of the helmet, setting it down into position. Alec sighed in annoyance as he grasped for the straps at the bottom of his helmet, being unable to find them while wearing his gloves. Roger grinned.
"Give it here." he said, taking tugging the helmet into position and going about fixing the straps together. "Johansen is right. McPahan isn't going to help us, is he?"
Alec shook his head.
"So we have to look out for each other. No-one else is going to do it for us. I've got your back, you've got mine"
Alec nodded. Him and Bunn had met only last week, but had already bonded over a shared love of motor-oil and expensive wine, though not in the same glass.
"Lets keep each other posted on what each of our crews are trying to do to our cars. Make sure neither of us are getting screwed." said Bunn. He frowned, and tugged on the straps that were attatched to the shoulders of Alec's overalls.
"What?" said Alec, muffled through his helmet, checking from side to side in an attempt to look at his shoulders, a feat his headgear rendered pretty much impossible.
"Those straps. They're supposed to be strong enough to pick up about twenty stone. Meant for marshalls to be able to drag you out of a burning car. These ones look flimsy.
"I'll just have to not set myself on fire then" said Alec. Roger could tell from the faint outline of his eyes through his visor that he was smiling. Gallows humour. "How do I look?"
"Like Stang Crax himself"
"Oh god, don't say that. Anyway, wish me luck"
"Break a leg" said Roger, as Alec turned towards his car.

---

"HOLY JESUS THIS IS FAST" thought Alec to himself as he hurtled through the 75r corner. He'd heard that McPahan cars were quick, agile, nippy, at least back in the lower levels of open-wheel competition, but nothing could have prepared him for this. He'd seen the speed-o-meter tip speeds that last season's WGPC cars hadn't managed, and the cornering.... he had to hand it to Linco McPahan. The guy was an evil, sadistic arsehole but he couldn't half design a car. Alec kept his nerve has he fed the car through the road as it curved to the right, and the famous Aquaroja climb-and-curve loomed over the horizon like a big, loomy thing. With an ease of his foot from the accelerator and a smooth left-right motion on the steering wheel, Alec was through and onto the long straight before the dreaded 'Tirabujon', a corkscrew of a corner that drivers of cars as quick as these had to brake for *before* they even saw it, thanks to a ridge on the lead-in. Alec played it nice and safe, braking early and leading the car through, stamping back on the accelerator and coasting through an arcing right before embarking on what *was* the home straight before two tight, ugly artificial chicanes had been built. This was, without a shadow of a doubt, the greatest vehicle Alec had ever driven. He slowed down to a crawl before the first chicane, fed the car through and stamped back on the accelerator. It was hard to believe that all that power and energy could be harnessed by such a simple action as lowering his right foot. The only similar input-to-output energy ratio would be found in the act of dropping a cat into a bath. It was brilliant. It was almost too good to be true.

A vibration. That's all it felt like. An alien sensation at odds with the resonance of the car's engine and the rumble of its tyres on tarmac. Alec felt it through his steering wheel first, and a glance at his left-front wheel was all he needed for a diagnosis. A shard of carbon fibre, one that was supposed to be fastened down by 'expensive and heavy bolts' as Linco McPahan had called them, was working its way loose from the front wing, towards the tyre on the front-left of the cBANG

The gap between Alec recognising the problem and deciding to slow his speed just wasn't short enough, and the tyre blew out violently at near enough a hundred and fifty miles per hour. The car lurched to the right, then back to the left as Alec frantically overcompensated. He slammed the brakes, which only served to tilt the car's centre of gravity to the front, onto the now uneven front surface, which caused the vehicle to dig into the tarmac and start spinning to the left. Alec eased off the brake and turned the wheel back to the right, steadying the car again before pumping the brakes one more time. He felt the back wheels lock up. He eased off the brakes again, then pumped them a further time, feeling that this time he'd got them working again.

He did a quick bout of mathematics and realised he was going to be too late. The chicane was approaching, he had no way of turning but for the leftwards spin caused by the lack of a fully inflated wheel. The car began to bank on that side, lifting the right-side tyre from the ground and, at that moment, whizzing straight through the chicane and towards a tyre-wall, Alec remembered that crash victims had more chance of surviving a wreckage if they relaxed before the impact, rather than if they tensed their body. The last thing to go through his mind was the events of the previous half-hour.

~bzzt~ Telemetry tells us you might have a problem with your left-front. Abort lap. Pit pit pit. We'll look at it." ~bzzt~

~bzzt~ "Telemetry says there's no power from the engine. Can you confirm?" ~bzzt~

~bzzt~ "Navigation says you've stopped. Please respond." ~bzzt~

~bzzt~ "Alec?" ~bzzt~

[Falcania]

"So, tell me about this place, Sant Urban."

"It's pronounced Saint-Urbain, Mr. Crax."

"Come on, kid, don't call me that, I'm not much older than you are."

"Will you then stop calling me 'kid?'"

"Sure." Stang smiled. Julian was far too busy to keep much of a personal eye on him lately, so he'd put this young intern on him as his minder. "It would involve me actually finding out your name. It was on your file, wasn't it?"

The young intern twinkled at him. "Give it a try."

"Jessic?" He said hopefully. She smiled. "Jessic. Final answer." She nodded. He grinned back. "Don't expect a surname. My memory's not that perfect."

The pristine streets of Saint-Urbain were tantalisingly there the windows of the limousine. Stang tapped the windowsill anxiously. It wasn't just the traffic. Before his racing career, the only time he'd ever been in the back seat of a car was when Morningstar were taking him, cuffed, back to the station. To this day, he never sat easily in any seat of a car that didn't have a wheel directly in front of it.

"First time outside the Old Country?" He asked. She nodded. "You get addicted to it. Low Folk everywhere. They look at you like you're something their mother told you about... you know, it's like, eat your vegetables, or the big scary High Folk will come to your country, peck your eyes out. I met a bartender once who'd actually been told that as a kid. Imagine it. Eating vegetables." He laughed. "You're a jet-setter now. They say that once upon a time, Falcanians would fly all over the world, alighting wherever there were evildoers, and killing them with swords. High Folk were the angels of death of myth. Kind of makes you feel proud, doesn't it, to see us now? In cars and suits and everything. I don't even have a sword."

Jessic was not sure what to say.

"Right. Fie on this nonsense. I'm going for a walk."

"Mr. Crax, we can't do that-"

"Hey, Jessic, you're going to watch me do it. Or come with me." He smiled and opened the door, strolling into the street. A few passersby stopped in the street to look at the man, lean, muscular and feathered, folding himself out of the car, stretching out his arms and wings. Jessic sighed, rolled her eyes, and stepped out of the car too.

"Mr. Crax, where are we going?"

"I don't rightfully know. Practice isn't until tomorrow morning. I hear they have a thing called sidder that's meant to be amazing. And I'm told this is a big seafood town. So right now, I want to see how much I can eat without embarrassing myself at weigh-in."

He strode off in the direction of the nearest bar. Or at least, where he hoped the nearest bar would be. Jessic followed, frantically bringing up the Maps application on her phone as she struggled to keep up.

[Liventia]

Grand Prix du Cotdelapoms

Free Practice session
Drivers had 90 minutes to set as many laps as they wished up to a limit of 30 laps. In free practice sessions, only lap times are recorded and not combined times.

Pos	Car	Driver			Team/Constructor		Best Lap	Invl	To best
1	17	Roger Bunn		McPahan Racing Team		1:24.962		
2	3	Jai Kardaeri		Carvenlo Motor Racing		1:24.974	+0.012	+0.012
3	4	Sotil Morua		Carvenlo Motor Racing		1:25.048	+0.074	+0.086
4	28	Victor Hall		McPahan Racing Team		1:25.472	+0.424	+0.510
5	21	James Davies		BrennickSport			1:25.510	+0.038	+0.548
6	1	Stang Crax		Goldmund-Teller			1:25.529	+0.019	+0.567
7	2	Xeb Kallasdun		Goldmund-Teller			1:25.552	+0.023	+0.590
8	26	Ekain Okendo		Carvenlo Motor Racing		1:25.556	+0.004	+0.594
9	16	Alexander Lund		McPahan Racing Team		1:25.646	+0.090	+0.684
10	8	Lee Rogers		Yogutz Lantzia			1:26.049	+0.403	+1.087
11	25	Andreas Schroeder	Aer Ancharine Motorsport Racing	1:26.235	+0.186	+1.273
12	20	Johnny Boudermann	BrennickSport			1:26.269	+0.034	+1.307
13	22	Louis Krindle		MSA-SinVal Racing		1:26.271	+0.002	+1.309
14	24	Donal O'Connell		Aer Ancharine Motorsport Racing	1:26.412	+0.141	+1.450
15	29	Malachy Byrne		BrennickSport			1:26.415	+0.003	+1.453
16	30	Juan Kermit		Aer Ancharine Motorsport Racing	1:26.455	+0.040	+1.493
17	7	Enaut Londoso		Yogutz Lantzia			1:26.608	+0.153	+1.646
18	5	R.L. Cruisin		Vilita & Turori Motorsports	1:26.693	+0.085	+1.731
19	9	Vitaliy Aaltonen	Obeveklig-Farautoo		1:26.710	+0.017	+1.748
20	14	Matt Hingis		WGPC Motorsport Two		1:26.802	+0.092	+1.840
21	6	Allian Marquis		Vilita & Turori Motorsports	1:26.805	+0.003	+1.843
22	15	iBen Toralmintii	WGPC Motorsport Two		1:26.863	+0.058	+1.901
23	18	Bartosz Macdonald	WM Barton Race Team		1:26.912	+0.049	+1.950
24	19	Matthew Portland	WM Barton Race Team		1:27.163	+0.251	+2.201
25	27	Alexandra Mayari	Yogutz Lantzia			1:27.375	+0.212	+2.413
26	10	Einur Birkirsun		Obeveklig-Farautoo		1:27.424	+0.049	+2.462
27	11	Johannes Fagerholm	WGPC Motorsport One		1:27.466	+0.042	+2.504
28	12	Shayna Barstowe		WGPC Motorsport One		1:27.655	+0.189	+2.693
29	31	Victoria Gardner	MSA-SinVal Racing		1:27.905	+0.250	+2.943
30	23	Lukas Forbes		MSA-SinVal Racing		1:28.673	+0.768	+3.711

[Mytannion]

Andreas smiled to himself. His slightly different tactic had worked well, even if it had shocked the media that had witnessed it – with various articles in Mytannion commenting on how out of character this was for him.

He didn’t really mind though, it had got him the spot he had wanted and had got him a whole lot of publicity – more than he could have hoped for really – with many news outlets enjoying the outburst as it showed the personality he actually had, rather than what he had been told and trained to portray. Sure, his agent hadn’t been best pleased with his antics and a couple of his sponsors had expressed concern in his actions. Johansen Paper Company had said that they would withdraw sponsorship if anything on this scale occurred again.

Schroeder himself didn’t really care, they were a minor sponsor and the group that brought him the majority of his sponsorship money – Geisler Corporation – hadn’t even commented on the matter, they literally did not even bat an eyelid, with nothing being said about the matter at all.

In fact, the automobile parts giant had seen sales actually increase by a small percentage in the week after the event, his overalls had been emblazoned with the Geisler logo and that had evidently garnered a bit of interest from the Mytanar public – or possibly their vehicles just had a few more prangs that week, but Andreas liked to play to his ego and say it was because of his endorsement of the brand.

Looking back, Andreas knew he probably shouldn’t have punched the guy with the Frog’s name, but it actually was a good publicity stunt to pull which was slightly surprising. At first, Schroeder had just approached him and asked him why when they were coming into pit at the end of the test session had Kermit been approaching him closely and at speed when they had both been told to come in to pit, there was no need to try and overtake given neither were setting lap times or actively racing one another or anything – it had finished, yet Kermit had still continued.

When the Darmeni driver had no answer and had replied with something that appeared to be a derogatory comment in his native language Schroeder had pushed him in the chest, hard. The Darmeni had stumbled backwards, anger creeping across his face.

Then stepped up and jabbed Schroeder hard in the chest, jabbering away in his language and Schroeder had simply swung for him, his fist connecting with Kermit’s jaw and making quite a loud sound as engineers, agents and other assorted staff ran in between the two to separate them.

Schroeder had simply smirked and laughed about it, the team staff were not too impressed with the temperament this could apparently be showing off to the world, but his driving had been the key – he had simply outclassed Kermit on the track, even at his young age he could post quicker lap times than far more experienced drivers. Posting fast laps didn’t win races or get points though, a good car and some good talent on race day was more the key – Schroeder had always believed.

Although you had to qualify fairly well, too. But so long as you could overtake the guy in front of you, you had a great opportunity to do very well. As it was, Schroeder didn't really know where he stood in the big scheme of things. The car wasn’t the best, it had to be said, it was distinctly average among the competition in the WGPC. But Schroeder had confidence in his own ability to be able to overtake the opposition and also to post some pretty decent lap times in the qualifying sessions.

The first race of the season was fast approaching though, with the first practice session in Saint-Urbain done and dusted. Schroeder had been pretty pleased with his performance, finishing 11th out of the 30 drivers to set times on the circuit that would be used for the Grand Prix du Cotdelapoms which would occur over the next few days.

Race weekend. Somewhere Schroeder had been so many times before in various different series – but never at this level. He had often dominated these sessions but now he was against the cream of the competition from around the world, he had finished behind all the McPahan Racing boys, the Carvenlo lot, the Goldmund-Teller drivers and then one each from BrennickSport and Yogutz Lantzia.

Obviously this was nothing like how the actual race would be, there were too many drivers for a start and they weren’t really in direct competition with one another (other than in the sense they were all trying to set good lap times, as little propaganda victories if nothing else), because they were mostly trying to learn a bit about the circuit, its unique nuances and differences from most other tracks. It was practice after all.

But Schroeder felt a little confidence in the fact he set the 11th fastest lap of the lot, in a car he wasn’t exactly used to and a circuit he had never raced on before. If that was any indicator of how the actual qualifying and race sessions would go it was surely a fairly positive one, with the drivers ahead of him often being more experienced and more skilled too. Schroeder still had many things he would need to hone if he wanted to be a top driver.

The place in which they were racing was fairly familiar to Schroeder, he had visited Saint-Urbain before, it was a city he actually quite liked and had a football team he was a bit of a fan of too. Given their connection with Mytanar footballing legend Imre Ulsson, it was inevitable that many back home enjoyed the city and its culture. It had a very Mytanar neighbourhood too, right in the centre and that was where Schroeder found himself tonight, in a local boozer.

He knocked back another Croix Bleue cider and sighed to himself, Mytanars were great in that they partied hard and accepted everyone into their group, but at the moment he felt a bit lonely – with only a bartender who had no interest in him and a couple of men who were discussing daily events in Cotdelapomais, the younger generation of Mytanar-Cotdelapomais had acclimatised to the situation they were in and had learnt the local language. They didn’t seem to know who Schroeder was, which was something a little different to the usual experience he had.

Maybe he had just chosen the wrong bar.

At the moment, he was thinking more on his qualifying session tomorrow. It was going to be bright, with some strong winds and little chance of rain. Less wind would be helpful, but it was fairly good otherwise.

The streets were narrow and there were a couple of twisty sections which could cause drivers problems, the debris from everyday driving was always an issue as well but they had got some rubber down on the track and they would be able to get more down during qualifying which could at least make the track grippy enough when it came to race day.

Andreas began to think to himself about what his next publicity tactic could possibly be. He thought about the different drivers around the WGPC and who could possibly be a target for a derogatory comment in the media or some sort of action in person. He tried to take different things into account, Shayna Barstowe being a fairly attractive female for example. A late night spent together in Cotdelapoms could be an interesting publicity stunt and one which would completely deviate from the media darling image he had once presented. The rock and roll lifestyle was calling Andreas and attractive women formed a big part of that. As did booze, which he currently had plenty of as he called for another bottle of cider.

He was sure he could find some drugs in Saint-Urbain too, but only after the race, he didn’t want to be too drugged-up when driving the car.

[Paradystopia]

The last few weeks had been chaotic and stressful for Xeb, but an experience he wouldn't have changed for all the money in the world. After his existential crisis of discovering he wasn't who or what he thought he was, to being whisked away to Falcania, plunged into the cockpit of the orange Goldmund-Teller car and told by Julian Marquis to 'show them what he can do.' With a squeal and a suppressed grimace from Julian, Xeb took off.

His training laps in Falcania had been nothing special, Xeb put this down to getting used to the car. However, after a few slight adjustments to the wings and a few other technical tweaks, his times began to improve. Secretly though, Xeb knew he'd not be happy until he was beating Stang's times and currently, the reigning champion was just out of his reach.

These were all just statistics though. Cotdelapoms would be his first true test and he had arrived several days early in the Rushmori nation to get a feel for the enviroment he would soon be racing in. So many drinking establishments! Xeb had never been one to enjoy alcohol, there was a hint of curiosity having spent most his life in a dry country. Luckily the Musée du cidre catered to his needs, allowing him to sate his inquisitive mind whilst politely declining the various samples offered to him instead simply accepting an apple to tuck into as the other patrons cast odd glances. After a nice dinner of mussels and scallops in a quiet restaurant near Marché du Vieux-Port, he retired to the hotel. He had a race course to memorise.

Number 2 ... Xeb looked over his car. There was something irritating about the number 2 to him, second best. The first loser.

#2 X.Kallasdun 

He gently ran his fingers over his name on the side of his cockpit, stopping before he reached the Paradystopi flag. For the sake of argument, he was Paradystopi ... in his heart, he knew he'd always be a Communadi. He had been born ... well, made there. It was a fact he couldn't ignore.

As soon as the 90 minutes begun, Xeb was in the car ready to go. He wanted to be the time to beat and knew the confidence it would give him to see, if just for a split-second, his name atop the practice session leaderboard. He tore out of the pits onto the Circuit Alexandre Bruneau, completed a wayward flying lap and began his first timed one.

He was hopelessly wide on the first corner, struggling to maintain grip on the recently cleared roads. Loudly he cursed as he straightened the car out.
"Easy Xeb, let's keep the car in one piece for the ninety minutes, okay?"
Whatever, I'll be fine ... he wrenched the Goldmund-Teller car through the second corner. Better, but not perfect.
"Watch the revs. Don't overheat the engine."
Yeah, yeah ... he knew what he was doing. The sooner Julian Marquis accepted that, the better. Xeb had learnt what this car was capable of and as far as he saw it, he himself was the only limitation. He had to push and show the racing world what he was made of.

The sixth corner and the back end slipped out, he held it.
"It's only a practice Xeb. Cool it! Save the bravado for the race."
Xeb mentally moved his theoretical breaking point back a few metres in his head.
"... and ease off the revs."

He flew down the finishing straight. It had been scrappy, but he just needed a time. Something to improve upon.
"1.29 dead. 1st of 1 currently. Six cars now on the track. Tighten up the corners Xeb and ease off on the damn revs!"
First. Yes! He narrowed his eyes and hit the first corner again. This time with a much cleaner line.

With each lap, he made a little improvement. Sometimes, a faster lap time. Sometimes, a faster sector. Other times, merely finding the perfect breaking point and line through a corner. After 12 laps, he entered the pits and the computer confirmed what he wanted to see.

1. X.Kallasdun - Goldmund-Teller - 1:26.294
2 ...

He didn't look at the other competitors times. It didn't matter to him that the Carvenlo drivers had only recently taken to the track, obviously allowing other drivers to warm up the tarmac and help the grip or that Roger Bunn was only a few tenth of a second behind him after his first timed lap.

"I wanna get back out there."

The pit crew looked to Julian. He hadn't been that impressed with the reckless approach of Xeb, the way the car's engine was on the cusp of over-heating or his blatent disregard of the orders issued via the radio. On the other hand, he could he that Xeb was on a roll. He nodded and the crew prepared the car to rejoin the practice session.

The 90 minutes finished with Xeb in 7th, just behind Stang whom he now viewed as a friendly rival, as well as a mentor. 7th in the race would mean a points finish. A points finish in his first ever Grand Prix ... He was suddenly overwhelmed and had scarely got his helmet off before he was phoning his mum to tell her about the 20 or so minutes when he was the fastest driver on the circuit.

[The Inevitable Syndicate]

Now, if there was one thing that had to be known about McPahan Cars, it's that they were fast. So fast, in fact, that Bunn's car started to roll away in the garage. Whether that was due to dodgy brakes or a Phantom was yet to be seen. But, this opportunity to check out the car before the practice was nice. #17. It's a prime number. That makes me divisible by nobody except my self and #1. Which in this case, is Stang Crax. How fitting. It's also the atomic number for Chlorine. That's a good bleach. Maybe I can clean out the competition? It's also the number of syllables in a haiku. Which is nice and cultured. So, overall, 17 is a good number! The car was also looking rather good, in it's ice and dark blue fractal design, that was reminiscent of some football shirts. Of course, what with it being McPahan, the whole car was plastered in advertisements of popular Audioslavian companies, including some that were world-renowned, such as Kirola Sportswear and ChocoMilk. Bunn wondered for a moment if Kirola did custom helmets, before strapping himself in and taking to the track. But not before eyeing the scoreboard, which had the Paryadysopi bloke, Xeb Kallasdun, sitting on the top of it with a rather impressive time of 1:26.294.

Roger set off on the track, taking the first corner as aggressively as a bear wrestling a snake, but the second corner required a bit more finesse.
"What are you going, man? That's not speed!"
Roger didn't really need to be told that, but the feedback did sink in, and he pushed the car a little harder, and finished his first lap.
"1:26.445. Not good enough, man!"
Oh, he knew it wasn't good enough. But being a few tenths of a second behind the leader on his first lap wasn't too bad. Still, as with everything, there's always room for improvement. So he improved. Shaving tenths of a second off in critical points around the track. Like that damn second corner, or what could only be described as "The Kicker", that odd part of the circuit about halfway through that looked like a boot. After 17 laps, which was an oddly fitting number, Bunn felt that he couldn't do any more. He'd pushed the car to within a hair's-breadth of exploding. Or, at least it felt like it.

It was at that point Bunn noticed the scoreboard.

Pos	Car	Driver			Team/Constructor		Best Lap	Invl	To best
1	17	Roger Bunn		McPahan Racing Team		1:24.962

Bunn was quite pleased with that. Just quicker than 1:25, that was going to be a tricky time to beat. Then he noticed Stang Crax's latest time ping in.

Pos	Car	Driver			Team/Constructor		Best Lap	Invl	To best
6	1	Stang Crax		Goldmund-Teller			1:25.529	+0.019	+0.567

Half a second behind? Oh my. Either the car is just superb or... Now now, don't get too cocky. You'll probably explode on the first lap of qualifying, if the mountain challenge was anything to go by!

And then Allian Marquis's time clicked in.

And Roger laughed all the way to the canteen.

[Licentiapacisterra]

Bartosz Macdonald was shaking a little. He had just climbed into the car. His car. Number 18. Same as the day he was born, the eighteenth of May. If you added the two digits together, they gave nine, his lucky number. He stopped himself. He wasn’t superstitious. What was he on about ?? He pulled himself back together, and tried to remember the tips that Portland had given him in the garage just moments before. Then Stuart Miller walked over. Shit, Macdonald thought. This wasn’t going to be good. But Miller surprised him with the few words that came next.

“Good luck kid. Welcome to the big time.”

---

Lukas Forbes powered through the straight on what he thought was his tenth lap. He’d heard this next corner being called “the kicker” by a few around the pit lane, when he’d made his superstitious walk from garage to garage, listening to music, calming himself. Not particularly watching the garages, though if he saw anything interesting, he would note it, for sure. He walked from one end, where Stang Crax, a second year driver like him, waited with his Goldmund Teller car, to the far end at the Aer Ancharine garage. Then, he made his way around the back to the MSA SinVal garage, ready to go.

He pulled into the corner, and saw a car just a little while ahead of him. Number 18. Macdonald. He gunned the throttle. He wasn’t going to let this little prick stay ahead of him. Both men pushed forward, and Macdonald didn’t see Forbes his car until his foot was over the brake at the corner.

Forbes back-ended him. The MSA SinVal car appeared to lose something off its front, metal flying into the fence, while Macdonald’s car spun straight into the fence. Macdonald jumped out, throwing his helmet into the fence in anger. He was seething. Forbes could only limp to the pit lane. Neither man would be racing again today.

---

It was the end of the session. All attention seemed to be focused on the Aer Ancharine garage at the far end of the track, for reasons completely unknown to Bartosz. He had a chance to talk to Forbes now. He made his way down to the MSA SinVal garage.

“What the fuck was that Lukas ??” Bartosz made the anger in his voice obvious. Lukas came out from the back of the garage.

“What ??” Forbes had a smirk on his face.

“You know what, you prick. You back-ended me !!”

“I think that you braked into the front of my car, actually,” Forbes said calmly, but patronisingly.

“Oh fuck off Lukas.” Macdonald began to walk away, having had enough of the conversation. Forbes took exception to Bartosz’s comment, and took a swing at him.

That was when the shit hit the proverbial fan.

The two men were separated by the various engineers, drivers and others that were at work in the surrounding garages, but not before a good few punches were landed by each man. There were a few choice curses as the Licentians were dragged away from each other.

Two brawls between teammates in the space of as many minutes. Impressive.

[Flevans]

BrennickSport pit, Circuit Alexandre Bruneau, Cotdelapoms
"Everybody shut up and pay attention."
The entire garage immediately began stopped talking, stopped what they were doing, and turned to face David Brennick, whose wheelchair was next to a track map of the Circuit Alexandre Bruneau.
"Excellent. Now, this is our plan for the coming weekend. As I'm sure you all know, we will be competing on a street circuit. A quick one, to boot. That gives us the advantage. We will have some trouble in the first sector, as there are few corners, but we can make that up through the rest of the lap easily enough. As such I expect us to be bothering the top runners. Jimmy, your job is to determine our qualifying setup."
"10-4, boss!"
"Johnny, Malachy, you'll be finding our race setup, and finding out how exactly our car stacks up on long runs. Is everyone clear? Good, now let's make our mark."

James Davies wasted little time, calling for his car to go on the track immediately. He was the first driver to take to the track in an official WGPC 13 session, and after a quick shakedown lap he immediately began pushing on the first flying lap of the season.

Turning at the very last moment for turn 1, Davies barely lifted at all, and quickly aligned himself with the wall on the left-hand side. He then began braking in between the 50 and 100 meter boards, and made a token effort to make the first apex of 2 at the hairpin. The second, he did not ignore, suddenly pulling the car viciously to the right hard and early, straightening himself out as soon as possible for the run down to turn 3. A simple 90-degree right-hander, Davies again cut across the kerb, sliding the rear out before eliminating that with some counter-steering.

The track opened up from here, probably the fastest part of the track. Davies remained fully committed through turn 4, didn't even consider lifting, not until the chicane. Approaching at about 170, 175 mph, he waited until about 50 meters before the chicane to start braking, immediately shaving 50 mph off his speed and briskly cutting across both kerbs. Back on the power towards turn 7, where the track started tightening up and Davies didn't have to compensate as much for his Schneider engine's relative lack of power. Didn't have to, but that didn't mean Davies would stop doing that.

It was fairly elementary through the next few corners. A simple 90-degree left, dealt with, then two 90-degree rights - those could be taken as one corner. Davies ran out wide between them, intending to straighten out turn 9 as much as possible. He passed by the apex of 9, and floored the throttle - too soon, as the rear started coming around again. Davies lifted, straightened the car, and stamped on it again. This time, the rear stayed in place, hauling him down to turn 10. Another simple 90-right, no room for anything fancy. Same for 11, only in the other direction. 12 was a little tighter, but that just meant turning for a little bit longer - no point trying to turn harder, by default he was turning as hard as he could. On the throttle now - and around came that rear again. Lift, straighten, and back on the power, and sailing towards turn 13.

Davies didn't bother with the apex here, moving only to the center in the flat-out kink, before bolting back towards the outside wall, staying there until the last possible moment, before turning in hard for turn 14. Charging towards 15, nothing special here, another 90 degree corner - more or less, moving back towards the right-hand side, staying more or less glued to the wall around the small kink on the way to turn 16. Davies then moved back across the track through the corner, completely flat-out, now aligned with the wall on the left until he came to turn 17, where he wandered back to the center of the track, before moving back to the wall, getting ready for the turn 18. Braking at 150 meters, Davies dragged the car to the apex at the last possible moment, clambered over the kerb, and before you knew it, he was gone again. Now into the fastest section of the track, time to pay attention to the speed, see where he tops out before jumping on the brakes for the final chicane. The only wrinkle was the turn 19 kink, which could possibly be taken flat-out if he got the entry right... OH WHAT. WHAT!? WHAT AN IDIOT!

Davies immediately backed off, applied the brakes, and drew level with this moron. Completely ruined his lap! Who cares if it was only a practice lap, it's the principle of the bloody thing, dammit! ... after some wild gesticulations, Davies promptly put the idiot with the car he couldn't be bothered to identify out of his mind, set himself up to launch out of the final chicane. Let's try this again.

---

The red and gold car of Davies flashed past the pits - it was only a sighter lap on hard tyres, but he lost a lot of time in the final sector. Then another car thundered past. That would be why. Still, in Davies' hands, the B28-W was positively flying. A 1:31 flat wasn't too bad considering he'd been held up, had several slides, and was on hard tyres.

"He's gonna stuff that thing in the wall. Mark my words," droned Johnny Boudermann, thoroughly unimpressed by his teammate's display.
"That's none of your concern," replied Brennick.
"It is when that jackass is setting my qualifying setup."
"Not. Your. Concern."
"So why am I still here?"
"Because you'll probably want to hear what Jimmy makes of the track."
"Oh, well in that case, I can save us some time. He's making a mess of it."
"Shut it."
Brennick finally stopped watching the telemetry, and spun his wheelchair to face Johnny, rolling up to face him.
"If you're itching for something to do, why don't you help Malachy settle in?"
"Mmmm. I thought you didn't hire drivers that needed help."
"I hired Jimmy, didn't I?"
Johnny's dour expression finally lifted.
"Ha ha ha, yeah, I suppose that's true! Alright, I'll go talk to him. Help him settle in."
"You do that."

---

The session had finally ended. James Davies, on minimal fuel and brand new soft tyres, posted the 5th-fastest time, only half a second off the top time. That the top time was set by a fellow rookie didn't faze Davies, who celebrated his lap, while the rest of the garage tried to ignore.

"WOOOO! YEAH! Ha ha! This race is gonna be mine for the taking!"

Johnny Boudermann, whose best time placed him some 8 tenths slower than Davies. This was largely down to the fact that he hadn't bothered with a low fuel run. He knew he'd be quick enough when the time came for qualifying - instead he had focused on being fully attuned to the car, finding overtaking spots, and, as Brennick had suggested, aiding Malachy Byrne in acclimatising to the BrennickSport atmosphere. Still regardless of this, Johnny was not able to ignore him.

"Yeah, well, except for the part where you're behind Bunn and the Carvenlos. And Crax is right behind you. And that this is only practice."
"Bunn? Pah! That car might as well be made of cardboard! That crap isn't gonna last 3 laps! And the Carvenlos? Well, I'm glad you asked me, Johnny-boy, 'cause I think I got this revolutionary new idea that I think might just work, and I wanted your opinion on it."
"Let me guess, not driving like an idiot?"
"Naaah, I already pioneered that one last year. You need to keep up with the times, Johnny-boy. No, it's this thing, where you're behind another car, and you're faster than them, and then you move so you can go ahead of the car you were behind. I'm thinking of calling it overtaking. Whaddya think?"
Johnny facepalmed.
"Ha ha ha ha ha! Aw, don't be like that, Johnny-boy! I think it's got real potential!"
"You still haven't said how you're gonna deal with Stang Crax."
"Stang Crax is yesterday's news. He ain't got a patch on me."
"If you say so."
"Yeah, I do. Now, if you'll excuse me, I got some work to do."

James then picked up a couple of disks that were left for him. One containing all the telemetry and data the team had from practice, the other containing a copy of the practice broadcast, and made for his hotel room. That was his Friday night set. Going out? Partying?? There was no point in that. If it didn't make James Davies a faster driver, it wasn't worth doing.

Meanwhile, Johnny would be having a quiet evening out with his wife. Because, unlike James, he accepted that there was more to life than just racing.

----------------------------------------------------------
Yogutz Lantzia pit, Circuit Alexandre Bruneau, Cotdelapoms
Lee Rogers was feeling good. Maybe not as good as he could be - he was only 10th in practice, but the team had made significant progress with the setup, and he felt he had a real chance of doing well in qualifying. The Lantzia 654 was not as suited to the Circuit Alexandre Bruneau as some other cars, but Lee was getting used to making up for the weak points in his car. He was enjoying the track. It flowed well, had enough quick corners for him to really shine. Of course, the car still needed quite a bit of coercing to put in a really quick time, but things were looking up.

Especially when Lee got a hold of the time sheets. Vilita & Turori were nowhere, Allian Marquis was a full 8 tenths off his own fastest time. He could barely suppress his laughter when he saw that.

It was going to be difficult to get a solid finish, regardless. There were already 9 cars faster than him in practice. The McPahans were incredibly quick. Especially with Bunn behind the wheel. If they finished, it was almost certainly going to be on the podium. The Carvenlos looked as strong as ever - continuity was a good thing, and it was hard to look past Jai Kardaeri as the title favourite, though already it seemed Sotil Morua was on the pace, and he could well upset his vastly more experienced teammate. Though, given that they had dropped arguably the best driver who has ever lived to give him that 'second' seat, maybe that was what they were going for.

The Goldmund-Tellers were widely tipped to be Carvenlo's biggest threat, and they had delivered on that. They were about half a second off, but they had the current World Champion on their books, and a ton of cash. Still, it took time to build up a championship winning team, and Lee felt safe in assuming that they would do so before the season was out. It was just a question of how much ground they'd lose before getting on par. So those were the fastest 3 teams, 8 cars between them. Which left James Davies in the BrennickSport as something of an anomaly. There was a significant gap in speed between McPahan, Carvenlo, and Goldmund-Teller, and the rest of the field, so seeing Davies pop his car right in amongst them was something of a shock to the system. He was also visibly overdriving his car throughout the entire session, so it could be reasonably assumed that he'd not last the distance, much like the McPahan's.

So, where did all of that leave Lee Rogers? Well, he was in something of a no-mans-land. Faster than the rest of the midfield, but not on the pace of the leading cars. He had 6 tenths on his teammate, Enaut Londoso, and was nearly 1.5 seconds faster than the test driver, Alexandra Mayari. So he was certainly getting the most out of the car, but it still needed more to really challenge the front-runners. After all, that was always the goal. There was no point in Lee coming back if he couldn't do that. Removing the test drivers, whose weekend's driving was already at an end - well, on the track, at least - Lee was a solid 8th. 5th if the McPahans and Davies all went south. As good as could be reasonably expected, Lee mused, but he wasn't here to meet expectations. He needed to figure out a way to outfox Carvenlo and Goldmund-Teller if he was gonna be a contender. But how was he going to do that...?

[Falcania]

Great Cabin, the Coin and Word, moored over Saint-Urbain

Julian Marquis was a traditionalist, and, as such, spent more and more time these days standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his hands clasped behind his back. Image was important.

As a sign of faith in his endeavour, Goldmund and Teller had turned over their private airship, the Coin and Word, to him and his team. The pressure was weighing on him. He looked down on the city from his vantage point. Everyone seemed like mice from up here.

This is what it should be like to be High Folk, he mused. You look down upon everybody else, you see them truly for the vermin they are. You can eat them up like dinner.

But get used that feeling... of having nothing solid underneath your feet. You are a god... until it all comes crashing down.

"Sir?"

The high voice stirred him from his reverie. He turned. "Ah, Ms. Garon. Jessic Garon, isn't it?"

He took another moment to analyse her. This young woman showed promise... a ruthless clamber over four dozen other applicants for the role of an intern in his division. He'd picked up on that. Short, scrawny, no great wingspan to speak of. Dirty black plumage. But that fire in the eyes... the determined look of a fighter.

She preened at her tail self-consciously but never broke his gaze. "You asked to see me, sir."

"Ah yes, I wanted your report on Stang."

"Mr. Crax had a good enough practice. He kept the pace on Mr. Kallasdun."

"Kept the pace," Julian scoffed. "The man's a world champion! And he managed to beat our jumped-up test-driver by two hundredths of a second. I should break out the bubbly now, should I?"

"No, sir. You didn't ask me to monitor his race performance, sir, just his personal affairs."

"Right. And how are his personal affairs? I hear the two of you had a lovely, romantic walk."

She took a step closer to him. "Sir, if you have some sort of objection to the way I have carried out your orders, you need only say," she spat out. He smiled infuriatingly.

"Not at all, Ms. Garon. You recall your brief. Stang Crax needs mollifying. He's a talented driver and a national hero but he's an exceptionally weak soul, and your job is to cushion that weakness. At the moment it's drinking, parties... the baser things. If he wants someone to drink with, you crack open a six-pack. If he wants to find a party, you hand him a backstage pass. If he wants to take you to nest..."

"I can handle my job, sir, not that it should come to that. I was a babysitter for three years before I got this internship." She turned on her heel.

"Before you go, Ms. Garon... please deliver that envelope on the table to Mr. Kallusdun."

She snatched it mid-storm.

[World Grand Prix Championship]

MEDIA STATEMENT
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Forbes, Macdonald charged

Saint-Urbain, COTDELAPOMS— The World Grand Prix Championship Organisation (WGPCO) Disciplinary Committee (DC) has taken the decision to charge MSA-Sinval Racing driver Lukas Forbes (car number 23) and WM Barton Race Team driver Bartosz Macdonald (car number 18) with misconduct following today's incident in the pits.

The DC has also charged Mr Forbes with bringing the sport into disrepute.

In addition, race stewards at the Grand Prix du Cotdelapoms have taken a decision to impose a further charge on Mr Forbes for intentionally causing a collision. Race stewards determined that an on-track incident involving cars number 18 and 23 was caused through negligence or malice on part or whole of car number 23.

The charges Mr Forbes faces are as follows:
Intentionally causing a collision
Breaching the WGPC Personnel Regulations –
Rule 15(b). Race drivers are expected to conduct themselves in a manner expected of a World Grand Prix Championship driver;
Rule 19. No person associated with the World Grand Prix Championship, its teams, its partners, or its sponsors, may bring the sport into disrepute with his actions, behaviour, or comments.

Mr Macdonald faces a single charge of breaching Rule 15(b) of the WGPC Personnel Regulations.

Both drivers will be summoned to a DC hearing following qualifying for the Grand Prix where their pleas will be heard.
For intentionally causing a collision, Mr Forbes may be fined and/or penalised grid positions.
For bringing the sport into disrepute, Mr Forbes may be formally reprimanded and/or fined.
For misconduct by breach of the Personnel Regulations, each driver may be formally reprimanded and/or fined and/or suspended.

After consideration, the DC decided against bringing charges against MSA-SinVal Racing or WM Barton Race Team for failing to ensure the proper conduct of its drivers, but reminds all teams of their duty to do so.

[Eastfield Lodge]

Well, that was quick, thought Matthew. The first qualifying session hadn't even started and the team had already come under investigation. What was Lukas thinking, what on earth compelled him to drive into the back of that guy from WM Barton, what was his name, MacDonald?

All in all, it had been a pretty pathetic testing session for the whole team, except perhaps Louis, who happened to be out on track for his first lap at the time of the fight. Victoria, who was new to being under this sort of pressure, hadn't fared well. messing up pretty much every corner on pretty much every lap, although she complained that there was something wrong with her front wing, and it turned out to be correct (and it transpired that the problem was deeper than the wing; the car had a structural fracture running from the wing to the cockpit). To have the two slowest times posted in a practice session, slower than all of the Works teams' times, that hurt Matthew, it went right to his core. Sure, the car wasn't the fastest, and this was a circuit that required speed over downforce, but it seemed that they had created a car that would consistently be just too slow.

Granted, Forbes only managed one run before he backended Macdonald and ruined the car beyond immediate repair, and Matthew wouldn't let him drive on of the others because he needed Victoria to get that vital setup information ahead of qualifying, the real reason she was brought into the team; her calculating nature would help pinpoint whatever tweaks were necessary to gain that extra tenth, hundredth or even thousandth of a second. But it wasn't enough. Missing a car, Louis only managed to get himself around the circuit 1.3 seconds off the pace of the leaders, but just 0.3 seconds off 10th place, which is where the points were at. The setup had just been completed, luckily, but Louis only had the one lap left of his 30 to set a flying lap. The fuel load wasn't light either, which didn't help, and neither did the lack of grip off the racing line, after he locked up on the last hairpin.

Still, that didn't compare to the trouble the team were in now, potentially facing a grid penalty in qualifying for Forbes and maybe even suspension for the actual race and beyond. And the added bonus of having to stay up for several nights and having to repair Forbes' and Victoria's cars. Oh joy.

[Falcania]

Paramount Suite, Hotel Charybdis, Saint-Urbain

Blurs of colour racing past. The fixed clarity of the line ahead. The engine. The vibrations, forces on his body. The smell of fuel, rubber, his own sweat in his helmet. The adoring crowds. The war-screech for the hero.

Stang Crax: Hero of the Free Kingdom. This is what he lived for.

He staggered into the shower, hit the temperature control, and slumped into the floor, hoping the water would wash the dread away, and leave the euphoria.

That was how Jessic found him, naked as the day he hatched, sobbing in the cubicle, an empty bottle of vodka in his hand.

She dragged him out, dried him, and helped him into bed.

"Jessic?" he slurred. "That you?"

"It's me, Mr. Crax."

"Stang. Did anybody see?"

"No, Stang. No... what happened?"

"Got drunk. Pissed in shower. Usual."

"Sky above," she muttered, laying out some clothes for him. "You need a doctor or someone?"

"No. Nobody can see. It's a secret. That I'm a drunk. And a loon."

"You're not a loon, Stang," she perched on the bed next to him, stroking his feathers.

"I hear him, Jessic. He talks to me when I don't drink. I can't drive when he talks... but I can't drive when I'm drunk. So I'm fogged."

"Sssh..." Jessic was not normally a caring person. But something about this drunk, broken hero on the hotel bed... "Just rest. You did well today."

"I didn't win. I'm the hero. What happens if I don't win?"

"Sssh..." she said again. Partly because she didn't know the answer herself.