"...well, it's race day in the feeder series, and you're absolutely right, Jon. The competition is stacked, and it looks like several teams have made significant adjustments coming into this season. We've got some fresh talent behind the wheel, and with that, we can expect new strategies and some unpredictable moves. This is shaping up to be one of the most competitive F2 seasons we've seen in a while. Thirty cars—yes, thirty—will be taking on the Bergwaldring Circuit today, and honestly, Jon, this could easily captivate the fans even more than yesterday's F1 race. The energy here is off the charts...!"
Luca sat on a bench after sliding on his balaclava, the snug head sock wrapping around his neck and face. A pair of new headphones rested over his ears, pumping out a booming blend of sporadic music that echoed faintly in the cocoon of his muffled world. His phone sat comfortably in his hand, Bluetooth linked to the headphones, and a fresh message from Mallow popped up on the screen: I'll be up in the high stands—driver agents' section.
Luca leaned back slightly, letting his mind buzz in sync with the music as he sat there in the lively pit garage, surrounded by the pulse of Trampos Racing. Mechanics zipped around him with sharp precision, tools clattering, wheels thudding into place, and the aroma of burnt rubber and engine fuel thick in the air. Some of the crew gave him passing taps on the shoulder as a sign of encouragement.
He cast a glance at the four single-seaters resting beneath the bright fluorescent lights. Two had already been out on the track, their glossy sheen dulled by streaks of tire wear, while the remaining two stood sleek and untouched, waiting their turn to roar to life.
Luca's gaze wandered toward the sunlight spilling through the open garage door. Beyond it, he caught a glimpse of the narrow racing lane and part of the spectator stands, already brimming with cheering fans. Though the crowd's roar was lost behind the music and noise-canceling padding, the electric charge in the air was unmistakable—it thrummed all around him, clawing at his nerves if he'd be honest.
Luca used this quiet moment as a chance to mentally map out the Bergwaldring Circuit, envisioning every turn and straight, memorizing the strategies Mr. Grant had drilled into him. With only a few minutes remaining before the Featured Race kicked off, he ran through the tactics again—anticipating how he'd react to overtakes, defend his position, and manage pit windows. Today, Luca was appointed to race alongside Ansel, who had already shown his capability in the morning's Sprint Race.
In that race, Ansel had teamed up with Haas for Trampos Racing, both securing solid finishes—second and sixth respectively.
"So much for 'I deserve to be on the team,'" Luca thought with a smirk, recalling Haas's earlier arrogance. Sprint Races, in Luca's eyes, were straightforward—fewer laps, no mandatory pit stops, and all about pure speed. He believed that if he'd been given the chance, the podium would've been his.
But the Featured Race was a different beast: longer, requiring endurance, clever pit strategies, and tire management. It wasn't just about speed but knowing when to push and when to hold back—reading the flow of the race like a seasoned driver. Luca understood that mastering this balance would separate a decent racer from a great one. And today, he intended to be great.
He shut his eyes, lowering his phone beside him, and rubbed his palms together as he exhaled slowly. Just a month ago, he'd been running himself ragged, working endless hours to support his family at such a young age. Now, somehow, he stood here—a professional motorsport racer. And not just any racer, but the son of Rennick, the forgotten legend. That name was a weight Luca carried with pride, determined to restore the honor it once held.
A small grin crept onto his face as he glanced down at the number on his suit—21. A perfect inverse of his father's number, 12. It felt symbolic, as if destiny had aligned itself in a subtle way. I'll make this count.
His thoughts were interrupted as he saw Ansel descending the stairs into the garage. Ansel bent low to avoid hitting his head on the frame, his full Trampos Racing suit clinging to his lean, athletic frame. The dark material, accented with sharp red and white lines, gave him a sleek and purposeful appearance. The team's logo stood proudly on his chest and sleeves, making him look every bit the professional racer.
Ansel stood at the foot of the stairs and met gazes with Luca beneath their head socks. Luca could still sense that calm, quiet intensity in Ansel's eyes. Trampos's star indeed, Luca thought, lowering his gaze to the logos for "Fijee" and "Catapult," two of the team's prominent sponsors, adorning his suit and helmet.
Ansel shifted his gaze around the garage, unintentionally blocking three staff behind from passing as he stood at the foot of the stairs. With a calm step, he moved toward Luca, his helmet swinging subtly at his side. The helmet's red and white design mirrored his suit, with his number—43—etched boldly across the top.
Luca, noticing Ansel's approach, quickly removed his headphones and rose to his feet. They stood eye to eye for a brief moment, sizing each other up before breaking into a casual dab handshake.
"Are you dialed in?" Ansel asked, his words slightly muffled because of the head sock.
Luca nodded. "All set," he replied.
Mr. Grant and Mr. Moritz walked over, a few staff trailing behind them. Mr. Grant folded his arms and said, "Alright, gentlemen, stay sharp out there. Trust your instincts, and remember—every lap counts. Do you understand?!"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Moritz chimed in, adjusting his glasses, "Focus on your lines and tire management; it's going to be a long race. Let's bring home some points from the first race, alright?!"
Luca and Ansel gave firm nods as the staff moved in to conduct final checks. Pit crew members inspected Luca's helmet, gloves, and suit with precision, making sure everything met safety standards.
Meanwhile, the sleek, black single-seaters—mirroring the racers' suits—underwent a last-minute examination. Wrenches clanked, gauges were verified, and every detail was double-checked
Luca could tell his car was race-ready. His system had run through every component, and everything checked out perfectly. All that was left now was to hit the track and make it count.
[Vehicle Specifications:
Brand: Dallara
Model: F2 04
Engine Type: Mercedes-AMG M239 Hybrid Power Unit (A.K.A: SomberCore)
Weight: 740 kg ]
[Performance Metrics:
Top Speed: 300 km/h (0 km/h)
Acceleration: 3.5 sec
Max Power: 620 HP
Aerodynamic Efficiency: 1.5 ]
[Operational Status:
Fuel Level: 80%
Tire Condition: New
Telemetry Status: Active
DRS Availability: Not Engaged ]
Luca appreciated that every F2 racer competed with the same car model and engine, ensuring victory relied purely on skill. Ansel had the exact same setup.
He adjusted his No. 21 helmet as they approached the cars. Both racers slipped smoothly into their cockpits, where the mechanics secured them—attaching the HANS devices, tightening seatbelts, and adjusting the steering wheels to perfection.
In the dim interior, Luca's peripheral vision flickered as his System interface awakened, shimmering like frost before taking shape.
[SYSTEM ONLINE...]
[SYNCHRONIZING HOST....]
[SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE]
[Host is now synced with Dallara (F2 04)]
Luca took a deep breath as he felt the car rise above the floor of the garage, gently rolled out into the sunlight. The roar of the crowd erupted wildly, an explosion of excitement that filled the air and sent adrenaline coursing through his veins.
The stands were packed at the Bergwaldring, a vibrant sea of colors from flags and team merchandise waving in unison. Fans jumped to their feet, their cheers resonating through the circuit, echoing off the grandstands. Chants for their favorite drivers mixed with the palpable tension of race day, creating an electrifying atmosphere that surrounded the track.
"...and Jon, what do you make of Trampos' new star? Think he's up to the task? From Grey-Husson's top lot—sounds promising, right? But how good can he really be on the track? A reliable teammate or... another rival for Hahn? Number 21, Rennick, makes his debut for Trampos Racing today..."
"...promising, sure—but talent alone won't cut it. We have a lot of it here. Let's see if he can keep it clean or get in his own way, otherwise Trampos Racing could kiss most of their sponsors goodbye this season..."
"...indeed, Jon. The teams are lining up on the grid, and, my, we've really got 30 engines about to roar to life here in Germany. Marvellous....!"
At the grid, Luca found himself placed into his starting position—P6, on the outside of row 3—thanks to his teammate Haas securing sixth in the Sprint Race. Just ahead, Ansel sat confidently in P2, on the outside of row 1, his car gleaming under the track lights.
Luca took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of his helmet and the cramped cockpit. Unlike the single-seaters at Grey-Husson's, these F2 cars lacked a full canopy, letting sunlight filter into the cockpit. But Luca liked it—it gave the car character. With a press of the ENGAGE button, his machine rumbled to life beneath him.
Twenty-nine other cars were locked into their positions, engines humming in anticipation. Luca scanned the grid, searching for the black-and-golden livery of the Squadra Corse junior team—the future home of Miles Bellingham, the Grey-Husson's golden boy.
Black and golden, black and golden, Luca muttered inwardly, glancing around. But the cars were too many behind him and there were no black-and-goldens before him he could spot.
He sighed, shifting his focus to the gantry. The red lights above the leading cars—P1, Max Addams and Ansel—stood glaring and unblinking. Around him, engines rumbled like wild animals ready to pounce, hands gripped wheels tight, and feet hovered just above throttles, waiting for release.
Luca still couldn't believe it—his first official Grand Prix race, driving a Dallara, in a foreign country. He couldn't help but think about his mother back home, wondering how she must be fairing. Knowing her very well, she was probably glued to the Motorsport channel, her usual Sunday routine now amplified by the fact her son was on that very screen.
The red lights blinked, one after the other, counting down to the start.
I have to win a podium spot at least. Can't have my contract cancelled, and I won't leave this track a failure. Mother, you watch your son win today.
Luca drummed his index fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel, his gaze locked on the gantry ahead. Time seemed to stretch infinitely in those final seconds, the roaring crowd fading into distant noise, as if submerged beneath the surface of a deep ocean.
**Are we ready?**
**We are**
"We are."
The red lights overhead began their five-light countdown, flickering one by one. This immediately hushed the crowd in anticipation.
No gunshot. No buzzer. Just the ritual of those red lights disappearing, until—
"...and it's lights out here in Germany..."
The sudden silence gave to the roar of engines, as Luca and all the racers exploded into life.
[Host is participating in an Official Race]
[ANALYZING AND COLLECTING TRACKING DATA...]
[DATA COLLECTED]
[DATA DISPLAYED IN REAL TIME:
-Car Speed: 80 km/h
-Heart Rate: 110 bpm
-Operational Status: 85% (Good)
-Breathing: Calm & Steady
-Distance covered: 90m
-Time: 5 sec ]