As soon as it was break of day, Luca leaped out of bed. He had left home before sunrise, something he often did, so today was no different. Leaving his family behind, he pocketed a few dollar bills and hailed a cab to the Stadhaven Circuit on the edge of the city.
The Circuit was vast, a newly constructed venue in the town that Luca had hoped would bring healing to his family, just for Formula 1 to return to them once again.
Luca faced difficulties with security, only being allowed through after he showed them the pass message from the acceptance letter he had received. With that evidence, they reluctantly let him in, directing him to the Operations Manager's office.
"You say your last name is Rennick?" the secretary asked, her eyes scanning Luca as he stood before her, his hands trembling slightly.
"Yes," Luca replied firmly. "Is there another meaning to the name I should be aware of?"
"No, it's nothing," the secretary muttered, forcing a smile. "I just thought the name was familiar, that's all. Follow me, I'll take you to my boss; he'll brief you."
Luca followed the young woman, taking a good look around the empty track, neatly prepared for the afternoon's event. The bleachers were vacant as well, the morning dew emphasizing and highlighting their comfort.
"Is this the lad?" Mr. Mallow, assistant to the Operations Manager, inquired as the secretary approached. He was dressed casually in a navy blue sweater and joggers. "This isn't the place to look like you just walked off the street. Racing circuits are a business, and we can't afford to drag in the dirt. Don't want to sound harsh, son, but believe me, boss is even tougher."
Luca felt a flush of embarrassment but bit back his irritation. "Sorry, sir. It was a rushed morning."
"I believe you, son," Mallow said. "Clad in a marshal uniform, you'll look much better. Come, I'll help you find the right size."
"Let me see the boy first," a voice thundered from behind a glass door. The figure behind the door pushed it open, revealing his menacing presence. "Rennick, you say your name is? Why come by this time?! You are late!" The man boomed through the early morning air. He had a stubbly beard, glasses, and a severe frown.
"There's still plenty of time before noon, Mr. Vance. The Federation might not even know we've made a change to our staff," Mallow interjected, defending Luca, who felt diminutive despite being as tall as the other men.
Vance chuckled derisively, surveying Luca from head to toe. "Are you kidding me? Just one look at this lad, and it's obvious he's from the streets," he sneered. "Have him ready before 9. I'll show him what's what."
Luca stared hard at the man as he disappeared into the room he had emerged from, leaving him and Mallow on the high rails. "Alright kid, you've been hired as a track marshal. That means you'll be out on the circuit, keeping an eye on the track, flagging down issues, and making sure no one's cutting corners—that's just the majors. It's not glamorous, but it's important. You understand?" Mallow asked, flagging an arm around Luca's neck.
Luca forced the lump in his throat down, nodding softly. "I understand," he replied. Luca knew the role of a track marshal well. He was familiar with almost everything about racing and its lore, even though he wished he could forget it all one day.
Mallow directed Luca through the pristine facility to a locker room where he changed into a crisp white tracksuit, the standard uniform for track race staff. The clean, sterile environment of the locker room made the transition from casual to professional stark. Minutes later, he was led outside, where other track marshals were already repeating their drills, preparing the Circuit for the influx of spectators.
Mr. Vance was relentless in his instruction, emphasizing the minutiae of a track marshal's duties. Although Mr. Vance made it seem difficult, Luca could tell he had almost nothing to do but stay in the middle of two track ways, scanning for hazards, debris, or any irregularities, and attending to any racers who might crash. It seemed to Luca that the other marshals handled the more demanding tasks, making him feel as though he was merely a placeholder, here to complete their number.
A sense of relief washed over him as he realized he wouldn't have to meet anyone's high expectations. Just live this through, he told himself.
Two hours before the race, and the Stadhaven Circuit had become crowded with people, cheering and buzzing with excitement. The grandstands were packed to capacity, a sea of fans donning the colors of their favorite teams, waving flags, and holding up banners. Luca could hear the distant sound of the commentator, announcing the VIPs present in the circuit, the morning sun beaming over the landscape of tarred road.
As directed, the track marshals were to move out and take their respective positions. Luca felt his feet grow cold in his white sneakers as he walked across the first lane to take his wing. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted his face cap, pulling it down to shield his face. With his cap on and his marshal uniform blending into the orange wave of other marshals, he believed no one would be able to recognize him. However, just as he was settling into position at the middle of both lanes, his eyes caught a familiar sight in the grandstands—a group of teenagers, crowded together, snickering loudly.
Instantly, Luca recognized them, and unfortunately, they recognized him as well. The group erupted in laughter, their mocking voices cutting through the crowd noise like a sharp, unpleasant echo.
"What's freckle boy doing there?!"
"Another life hustle, I see!"
"Hey! Is that part of his community service?!"
Luca's stomach churned and his face burned with embarrassment, prompting him to pull his cap lower to shield his face. Determined to ignore them, he forced his gaze to the bustling Circuit, focusing on performing his job well and earning the promised $500. If I do well, they might even hire me permanently!
Though he wasn't interested, Luca knew a thing or two about the race to be held this afternoon. Seeing the number of men in suits positioned in the glass rooms above the pits, and the sleek, flashy race cars lined up below, Luca could tell this was somewhat an important game. It was one held between some of the most prestigious teams in the main division. He had heard Haddock Racing, Bueseno Velocità, and Squadra Corse from the commentator.
The race began an hour later, and Luca spent most of his time retrieving any dangerous debris thrown onto the track by the crowd. Once the race was underway, a senior marshal advised him not to step onto the track again unless responding to a Code 2 emergency of helping a racer.
Luca adhered to this advice, staying put and absorbing the roar of the crowd while his eyes were glued to the giant screen displaying the race. He couldn't believe that he was on a race track, getting a free A-class view of the race. This would have been a dream come true for him when he was younger, but now, not so much.
The whistling sound of speed danced in his ears, followed by the thunderous roar of machinery. Shifting his gaze from the giant screen to the horizon where the track met the edge, Luca saw the leading cars approaching the end of their first lap. They would soon zoom past him while doing so.
A shiver raced down Luca's spine as he bent his knee into the position typical of marshals. In seconds, two cars streaked by with such blistering speed that they seemed to slice through the air, the force of their passing sending a cold wind that pushed him back.
Before he could regain his composure, the next three cars hurtled past, intensifying his disorientation. "Fuck!" Luca cursed, his head down and his uniform billowing in the wind.
He had no idea racing felt so perilous up close. How in the world did these racers handle it? The speed was surreal, the force overwhelming—like standing precariously close to the edge of a cliff, one misstep away from being swept into the abyss. How could anyone endure this day after day? And not just survive but master it?
The fact that one wrong swerve might take someone's life churned butterflies into Luca's stomach. Remembering his father's cause of death, Luca confirmed that one wrong swerve did take someone's life.
Taking a deep breath, Luca felt a momentary relief as the cars had passed. He braced himself for the next time they would zoom through the same lane for another lap. Suddenly, another marshal from the team rushed up to him, waving a yellow flag. He handed it to Luca and started to walk away without explaining.
"Why this?" Luca shouted, his voice trembling slightly as he gripped the yellow flag tightly. His words were swallowed by the roar of the spectators, and he struggled to hear the response.
"Debris up ahead from a minor scrape!" the marshal yelled back quickly. He pointed toward a bend a few hundred meters away. "Signal caution for the next drivers coming through! Stay on the edge and don't step too far in!"
Luca nodded, watching the marshal sprint back to his post before the cars screamed past this section again. Seems I've got an upgrade, Luca told himself, examining the yellow flag. He was already knowledged on its importance in signaling caution to the racers.
Glancing around and taking a quick peek at the giant screen, Luca positioned himself closer to the outer edge of the track, doing his best to ignore the taunts of his mocking peers in the stands. He started waving the flag even before he could hear the approaching engines, believing it was better to be early than late.
He made sure his foot was firmly in the caution zone, his arms and hands holding the flag slightly out of the danger area, toward the edge of the wide racing track. As the sound of machinery filled his ears, Luca waved the flag more vigorously, bracing himself for the speeding cars that were swiftly navigating the bends.
The roar of the engines grew louder, and Luca struggled to keep a firm grip on the flag with his sweaty hands. The cars emerged with a fury and determination to complete their laps. Luca watched, eyes wide, as two cars—one red and one black—raced neck and neck, the black car slightly behind, attempting an overtaking maneuver. The track narrowed at the bend just meters from where he stood, making the move seem both risky and reckless.
Luca's eyes widened, his senses sharpening as he noticed the approaching danger. Without warning, the overtaking driver made a sharp move, trying to squeeze through the bend and claim first position before the end of the lap. Luca's heart leapt as the car veered dangerously close to the edge—toward him!
"And we've got an aggressive move from number 17, trying to overtake on the inside—oh, that's too tight! He's losing control! Watch out—"
Dropping the flag, Luca tried to run as the crowd's screams of fear filled the air. The car, now out of control, clipped the outer boundary and hurtled toward him with terrifying speed.
Before Luca could react, he felt an excruciating pain in his spine as the vehicle crashed into him with relentless force, sending his body flying through the air like a ragdoll.
The world around him instantly blurred and faded, his senses growing dull as he crashed hard onto the other lane. The distant wail of a siren and the pounding of hurried footsteps reached his ears, but they seemed muffled and distant.
Amidst the encroaching darkness that blurred his view of the afternoon sky, a new sound began to emerge, cutting through the chaos.
[Your fate and the fate of Formula 1 are intertwined. You have been chosen. The Formula 1 System is now bound to you]
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
[SYSTEM MERGING COMPLETE!]
[Congratulations, you have attained the Formula 1 System]