That is All I Ask For: Chapter 15: Flat Out
It started with Daniel.
“Can we please just race for
fun?” He groaned, tossing his data tablet onto the table like it had personally
betrayed him. “No simulations, no telemetry feedback, no pressure. Just us, the
cars, and bragging rights.”
They were gathered in the Zero
Eclipse lounge after a long debrief. The walls still held the scent of fresh
paint from the recent remodel, the result of their chaotic fallout with Adam
Shade. A new coffee machine hummed quietly in the background, and Meredith had
one foot up on the table, sipping a lukewarm energy drink with the label peeled
halfway off.
Meredith rolled her eyes. “You
just want to beat Dante at something that doesn’t involve real stakes.”
Dante, lounging across from her
with his arms behind his head, raised a brow. “Please. You couldn’t beat me
even if I drove backwards.”
Daniel smirked, propping his foot
up next to Meredith’s. “Is that a challenge?”
There was a spark in the air—not
tension, but something looser. Lighter. The kind of banter that had been
missing from the team for too long.
Micah was in the corner, head
down, organizing the day’s simulation notes with quiet focus. His fingers
paused when Daniel called out, “Micah, what about you? You in?”
Micah looked up, blinking. “For
what?”
“A mock race.” Dante said,
grinning. “No tuning. No holding back. Just you, me, and Daniel on the track.”
Micah’s first instinct was to say
no. His hands curled slightly over the folder. He hadn’t truly raced—not like
that—since Vex. Not without pressure or purpose. Not for fun.
But then something stirred.
A whisper from the past. The
memory of speed, of fire beneath the tires, of flying without fear. The part of
him that missed the roar of engines, the weightlessness of velocity, the
clarity found only in the blur of speed.
He exhaled slowly, then set the
file down. “Alright.”
Daniel’s whoop echoed off the
ceiling. “Yes! You’re going down, both of you.”
“Keep dreaming.” Dante stood and
stretched. “Micah, just don’t crash trying to keep up.”
Micah raised an eyebrow. “Don’t
blink.”
The sun was bright over the Zero
Eclipse private track, painting everything in warm gold. The asphalt shimmered,
the edges of the world blurring slightly under the summer heat. A soft wind
rippled through the flags on the perimeter fence, carrying with it the clean
scent of rubber and engine oil.
Meredith stood on the pit wall,
stopwatch in one hand, sunglasses shielding her eyes. She looked more like a
race official than a strategist today, and she was thriving in it.
“You all set?” She called.
Daniel jogged in place
dramatically. “Been born ready.”
Dante was calm, checking his
gloves and visor with the practiced rhythm of a man who had been doing this
since he could walk. “You sure about this, Micah?” He asked as he rolled up
beside him.
Micah was already seated in his
car, fingers resting lightly on the wheel. The matte-black body gleamed under
the sun, its interior practically untouched since their last true race. Yet he
sat in it like it had been waiting for him the whole time.
“You worried?” Micah asked,
glancing over.
Daniel pulled up on the other
side. “He’s worried.” He sing-songed.
“I’m curious.” Dante retorted.
“There’s a difference.”
Micah smiled faintly. “You’ll
find out soon.”
The engines came alive, growling
in unison. The sound wrapped around them like thunderclouds forming.
Meredith raised the flag.
“Alright, boys. Three laps. Winner gets—”
“Bragging rights and first pick
of post-race snacks!” Daniel yelled over the comms.
Meredith laughed. “Go!”
The flag dropped.
Tires screamed.
And they were gone.
Micah had always held back.
In every simulation, every
practice lap, even on their most public circuits—he’d never given it
everything. Always calculated. Always restrained. Like someone with a secret he
wasn’t ready to share.
But today was different.
Today, there was no pressure.
No legacy to defend.
No ghosts in his shadow.
He let go.
The first turn came up fast.
Micah took it faster.
Not recklessly. With intention.
Precision. Like his hands and the car were part of the same machine. While
Daniel eased in and Dante calculated traction, Micah had already slid through
the apex like he was made of air.
Within seconds, he was ahead.
Daniel’s voice crackled through
the comms. “Did he just disappear?!”
Dante gritted his teeth and
pushed harder. But the gap didn’t close—it grew. Every corner Micah touched, he
shaved milliseconds off. His lines were too clean. Too fast. Too perfect.
He wasn’t just racing.
He was flying.
Micah’s car responded to him like
a partner in a well-rehearsed dance. The tires gripped the road, the engine
sang. And in that moment, he remembered why he had fallen in love with it all.
Not for the crowds. Not for the fame.
For this.
The clarity. The silence between
every rev. The world shrinking to a tunnel of motion and purpose.
Meredith's jaw dropped as he
crossed the first lap line nearly four seconds ahead of the others.
“He’s not driving like Micah.”
She murmured.
Daniel’s breath hitched. “He’s
driving like—”
“The Blade.” Dante finished,
barely audible.
Lap two was worse for them. Or
better, depending on how you looked at it.
Dante and Daniel pushed
themselves to their limits. Daniel took turns sharper than usual. Dante’s form
tightened. But no matter how much they pushed, Micah remained unreachable. He
carved his way through the circuit like it belonged to him.
And maybe, it did.
The final lap came and went in a
blur. And as Micah crossed the finish line, Dante and Daniel were still
rounding the last turn.
He parked, cut the engine, and
pulled off his helmet. His chest rose and fell with sharp, clean breaths. The
air was thick with heat, but he barely noticed.
For the first time in what felt
like forever, he was grinning. Really grinning. Like a teenager again. Like a
storm had cleared inside him.
Daniel stumbled out of his car
first, mock-dramatic. “What in the physics textbook was that, Micah?!”
Dante followed, slower, more
stunned than anything. “You’ve been sandbagging us this whole time.”
Micah shrugged. “I used to do
this before Eclipse. A lot.”
“You think?” Daniel flailed an
arm. “You made me look like a rookie!”
“You are a rookie.” Meredith
called from the pit wall. “You don’t get a medal for drama.”
Micah slid off his helmet, his
hair damp with sweat. His smile was quieter now, but still present. Daniel was
pacing, muttering about physics and illegal driving angles. Dante sat down on
the grass, arms resting on his knees, eyes still fixed on the track.
“Why now?” He asked softly.
Micah looked at him, then tilted
his head to the sky. The clouds were starting to stretch thin, drifting like
slow breaths.
“Because for once... it felt like
I could.”
Dante nodded, but there was
something in his eyes. A recognition. A flicker of guilt—and gratitude.
Later, they sat around a portable
cooler on the pit lane, still in racing suits, hair windblown, sipping from
bottles of water and tearing into packed sandwiches.
The golden hour light bathed the
track in molten hues. The sky had turned to fire, the wind now cooler, kinder.
Meredith had taken off her shoes and was sitting cross-legged on a crate,
watching the boys like they were kids at a playground.
“I still think I should’ve gotten
second place.” Daniel grumbled.
“You spun out on turn four.”
Meredith replied dryly. “You don’t get a medal for drama.”
“That turn was slippery!”
“It was not.”
“Bias. This is bias.”
Dante, half-listening, nudged
Micah with his shoulder. “Seriously though. That was the first time I saw
you... happy. While racing.”
Micah looked down at his bottle,
fingers idly twisting the cap.
“It’s the first time I wasn’t
trying to prove anything.” He said. “Not to myself. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
Dante leaned back, resting
against the tire barrier behind them. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.
Not anymore.”
Micah met his gaze. There was no
sharpness in it. No defenses.
Just understanding.
He nodded.
Silence fell—but it was the kind
of silence that felt full, not empty. Shared. Comforting. Healing.
Then Daniel tossed a towel at
him. “You’re still a jerk.”
Micah caught it with one hand.
“Fast jerk, though.”
Everyone laughed.
As the sun dipped below the
horizon, the team stayed there—still sweaty, still out of breath, but lighter
than they had been in months. Laughter replaced exhaustion. Familiar teasing
chased away old wounds.
For once, it wasn’t about
winning.
It was about remembering who they
were.
Together.
And for Micah, it was about
remembering who he’d always been—before the fear, before the expectations,
before the scars.
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