An Adabian tries to make it in the racing world
Chapter 8: Rest
WGP2 Season 5
Grand Prix 2 of the Licentian Isles (Race 2)
Hessington Island Grand Prix Course, Buckhaven
Sunday
An 18th-place finish was what Shalmaneser Kalhu expected after the disastrous qualifying, but not what he hoped for. Still, he could find consolation in the fact that he completed the race. Four drivers had to retire. Donny Fitzpatrick finished a lap down at 22nd, the last to reach the finish line. Overall it was not a very good week for UrGa. And though he put on a brave face as usual, Sal Kalhu was frustrated.
There were still more races for him to produce a good result in, but back in his room that night at the end of a chastening weekend, all those races seemed so far away. Mustafa was surprisingly calmer than he had been after qualifying; maybe Aida had gotten through to him. But in his solitude, Sal wanted to do nothing but rest and put all that behind.
And that’s when he saw a message pop up on his phone from someone he did not expect. He and Ilya Tsunopin had exchanged numbers as a matter of courtesy, but otherwise the two had not had that much interaction during their time on the grid. Sal had not given much thought to the Bitten Heroes driver, at least not until he suddenly catapulted to sixth in this race, and from what little Sal knew about Tsunopin’s personality he did not expect Tsunopin to invite him to a night out at the club. Which was precisely what he was doing right now.
That was nice of Ilya, and for a fleeting moment he nearly accepted the invitation. Then he remembered he was 16, he didn’t know if Licentian nightclubs would even allow him in, he had never particularly enjoyed nightclubs, and in any case he was too worn out and disappointed over the result. All he wanted now was to go to Diarcesia and prove himself in the next race.
Odrioyan Desert Circuit Masters GP2 (Race 3)
Elbej Historic Site Circuit, Almur, Diarcesia
Sunday
Eighth place. Maybe it could have been better, but qualifying eighth was still a nine-place improvement from the previous race. Would the Licentian debacle give way to Diarcesian sunshine? Only the race results would tell, but for now, as the drivers lined up in the starting grid, Sal Kalhu was a much happier boy. With the right strategy, he thought he could do pretty well here.
“Hey, Illarion,” Sal radioed in, “how’s the desert sun treating you so far? Do you get this much sun back in Pridnestrovia? I got some lotion in my bag in the garage if the sun’s burning your skin.”
“The sun’s been good to me,” Illarion dryly replied. “Alright, Sal, we got this. Just keep calm and bring the car home. As long as we do things right I know you can rise up a few positions.”
“Thanks man. Make sure you and Mr. Gatutin don’t melt away like Arctic sea ice, alright? I don’t want to be out of the team this early in the season,” Sal tittered. “Oh, and tell Donny I said good luck to him, okay? I forgot to tell him in the garage. I know he can do it.”
“Will do.”
“You’re the best, man,” Sal said, his bright tone on the verge of breaking into song. “I feel good about this one. This is the golden age of something good and right and real, to quote the great philosopher Taylor-“
“Yeah, I feel good about this one too,” Illarion cut him off. “Let’s do it.”