That is All I Ask For: Chapter 21: The Quiet Before the Thunder
The garage had never felt so
quiet.
No clanking tools. No mechanic
laughter. No Daniel whistling off-key as he reviewed telemetry files. Just the
faint hum of fluorescent lights, the low buzz of the central generator, and the
cooling tick-tick-tick of a racecar that had been pushed to its limit.
Micah stood alone, wiping grease
from his hands with an old rag. The aftermath of the semifinals still
lingered—on the car, on his skin, in his bones. Rai's bandaged fingers had left
smudges on the dashboard. Meredith had scribbled updated sensor codes on a
notepad and left it by the console. And someone—probably Juno—had set a thermos
of untouched coffee near the monitor.
The machine in front of him
looked perfect. Sleek. Shining. Victorious.
But Micah knew better. Things
could look whole and still be holding themselves together with invisible
cracks.
Like people.
Like teams.
He didn't notice the door creak
open until a familiar voice cut through the silence.
"Micah."
He stiffened but didn't turn.
"Micah." Dante said
again, softer this time, almost unsure.
Micah slowly set the rag down.
The third time Dante said his
name, Micah finally turned.
His eyes met Dante's across the
room—steady, unreadable, but not cold.
Dante took a step forward.
"Can we talk?"
Micah's gaze didn't waver.
Then, quietly—"Do you trust
me now?"
Dante nodded once, but Micah
didn't look satisfied.
"No." Micah said.
"Say it."
Dante's voice cracked. "I
trust you."
Micah crossed his arms—not in
defiance, but like he was holding something in. "I've done everything I
could to hold this team together. Even when people thought I didn't care. Even
when it almost broke me."
"I know."
"No, you don't." Micah
said softly, not accusing, just tired. "You think I walk away because I'm
cold, but I walk away because I'm scared. I walk away so no one sees the parts
of me that are still bleeding. So no one has to carry my wreckage."
"I never wanted you to carry
it alone." Dante said.
"You didn't want to see
it." Micah replied, voice even lower now. "That's why you listened to
Vex. That's why it was easier to believe I was the threat."
Dante took a deep breath. "I
was angry. Confused. You shut me out, and I panicked. I thought if I kept
things stable, if I held everything together, I could protect the team."
"And what about me? Who will
protect me, Dante?" Micah asked.
There was no edge in his
tone—just a hollow weight that settled in Dante's chest.
Dante took another step closer.
"You asked who protects you." He said. "I should have. I
should've fought harder for you. For us. I'm sorry I didn't."
Micah's eyes shimmered just
faintly under the flickering light.
"You know what the worst
part was?" He murmured. "It wasn't when you doubted me. It was when I
looked at you, and you looked like you didn't know me at all."
Dante's throat tightened.
"You're right. I lost sight of who you are. I let fear decide for me, and
that's not the kind of leader I want to be."
Micah let the words sit in the
air.
Then, to Dante's surprise, he
said, "You're trying. That's more than most."
A silence stretched between
them—thick with old wounds, but also the first threads of healing.
"I don't need you to be
perfect, Dante." Micah added. "I just need to know you're not going
to leave when it gets hard."
"I won't." Dante said.
His voice shook, but he meant it.
Another moment passed, and this
time, it was Micah who stepped forward—just a little. Close enough that the
distance between them no longer felt like a canyon.
"I'm not easy to
trust." He said.
"No." Dante agreed.
"But you're worth it."
Micah almost smiled.
And maybe—for the first time in a
long time—he believed it.
The following morning, Zero
Eclipse HQ stirred slowly to life. Mechanics filtered in with half-finished
coffees, muttering about air pressure and gear ratios. But Dante was already
there, standing alone in the lower garage, watching the team's car glint beneath
soft lights.
It was strange. Just days ago,
he'd doubted whether they'd even make it past semifinals. And now—now, they
stood at the edge of the final showdown.
He was still lost in thought when
he heard the slow, deliberate click of dress shoes behind him.
A voice followed. Familiar.
Poisonous.
"Such a touching scene last
night."
Dante turned sharply.
Adam Shade. Standing near the
wall like he belonged there, perfectly tailored, arms folded. His expression
dripped with amusement.
"How'd it feel?" Adam
asked. "Apologizing to your prodigy? Groveling for his trust?"
Dante's face hardened. "You
don't belong here."
"I go where the headlines
go. And this place?" Adam looked around, sneering. "This place has
been loud lately. Media's watching. Sponsors are itching. And you—" He
gestured toward Dante— "you're about to ruin everything you built. All for
some broken little wildcard."
Dante didn't blink. "Get
out."
Adam chuckled. "I almost
admire your loyalty. Tragic, but admirable."
Then his tone darkened. "You
think Micah's changed? He's just learned to hide it better. That rage, that
instability—when it explodes again, and it will, it'll take your whole team
with him. Rai. Meredith. Daniel. All of them."
Something in Dante cracked.
He stepped forward and shoved
Adam back against the wall—not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to remind
him that Zero Eclipse was no longer his playground.
"You don't get to talk about
them." Dante said, voice low and shaking. "You don't get to come in
here and pretend you didn't try to destroy him. That you didn't almost break
this entire team."
Adam smiled, even as he
straightened his collar. "You think you're the hero here?"
"No." Dante's stare
burned now. "I'm someone who's not afraid to stand between you and what I
care about."
For the first time, Adam's smirk
faltered.
"You're done here."
Dante added. "And next time you come near any of them—especially Micah—I
won't just ask you to leave."
Adam stared at him for a long,
dangerous second. But then he laughed—quietly, bitterly.
"I wonder." He said,
"how long you'll last before you become exactly what I said you
would."
And with that, he walked
out—heels echoing against the floor, leaving behind a silence Dante hadn't
realized he needed.
Micah's office was dark again.
Dante knocked once, then pushed
the door open. The desk lamp was off. The walls were lined with notes,
sketches, racing data—but the man himself was nowhere in sight.
The rooftop door was cracked open
just like last time.
Dante stepped out into the night
air.
Micah stood at the edge of the
rooftop, hands braced on the railing, head tilted up to the sky. The stars
tonight were faint, but persistent. City lights bled into the atmosphere, but a
few constellations still peeked through—tiny points of resilience in a
washed-out canvas.
Dante didn't speak right away. He
just walked slowly until he was beside him.
"You always look at the
stars like you're trying to remember something." He murmured.
Micah didn't respond. His eyes
stayed fixed above.
"Adam showed up this
morning."
Now Micah turned, just slightly.
"What did he want?"
Dante exhaled. "To remind me
of what I already knew. That he never saw you as anything more than a tool to
control. He said you'd implode eventually. Said you'd take us all down with
you."
Micah's jaw clenched—but Dante
reached into his pocket before anything more could settle.
"I didn't tell him
this." He said softly, "But I know he's wrong."
He pulled out a small object and
held it out—a black wristband, sleek and simple, with a silver-stitched Zero
Eclipse logo. Familiar. Meaningful.
Micah looked at it, puzzled.
"We made these when it was
just the four of us." Dante explained. "Daniel, Juno, Silas, and me.
It was dumb, really—just something to remind us that we were building something
real. That even if no one else believed in us, we did."
Micah took it carefully, his
thumb brushing over the stitched emblem. Then he noticed the faint silver
writing on the inside of the band.
It was small, almost invisible
unless you looked closely.
"We rebuild. We rise. I
trust you. —D"
Micah stared at it for a long
moment.
"I wanted to give this to
you a long time ago." Dante said. "But I didn't know how. I thought
you'd just... throw it back in my face. Or worse—wear it out of
obligation."
Micah's voice was soft. "Why
now?"
"Because this is the
final." Dante said. "Because everyone else is wearing theirs. Because
I finally realized that you're as much a part of this team as any of us—maybe
more."
Micah glanced at him.
"I gave one to Rai
too." Dante added. "Told him he belongs with us."
Micah smiled—barely. "Good.
He needed that."
Then, wordlessly, he slid the
wristband onto his arm.
It fit perfectly.
He looked down at it for a moment
longer, his thumb tracing over the inked message like it meant more than he was
ready to say.
"You're still a terrible
leader." He murmured.
Dante raised an eyebrow.
"You keep saying that."
"But," Micah continued,
voice quieter now, "you're getting better."
And before Dante could say
anything else, Micah leaned gently into him—shoulder to shoulder, then closer
still, until his head rested against Dante's.
They stood like that beneath the
stars—silent, still, together.
No fireworks. No speeches.
Just two souls who had finally
begun to understand each other again.
The next morning dawned gray and
restless. Clouds hung low, casting a soft shadow across the track. It wasn't
storming—not yet—but something in the air buzzed like a warning.
Inside Zero Eclipse HQ, the
energy had shifted.
This wasn't just race prep
anymore. This was the calm before the war.
Meredith stood at the center of
the meeting room, laser-focused, marker in hand, as track schematics rotated on
the projector.
"The final course is a
hybrid loop—high-speed straights, tight city hairpins, and an elevated mountain
descent section."
Daniel whistled. "They're
trying to kill us."
"They're trying to make it
look like skill when all they're really testing is control under
pressure." She said.
"Good thing we've got
both." Rai said from the back, arms folded, calm and composed.
Dante sat near the front,
wristband visible now, nodding along. His demeanor had shifted—calmer, more
grounded.
Micah stood near the window, arms
crossed, watching the entire team—not the screen.
He wasn't waiting for
instructions. He was making sure they were ready.
Juno pulled up the social media
feeds on the wall monitor. "Fanbase is exploding." He muttered.
"We've got people painting banners, new stickers, someone even made a
Micah Blade plushie."
Daniel smirked. "Tell me
it's not holding a wrench."
"It is."
Rai chuckled. Meredith rolled her
eyes, but even she cracked a smile.
Then her expression faded as a
new post flashed across the screen:
@TalonVortexRacing:
Let's see if Zero Eclipse still shines after we block out their light.
(#FinalCountdown #HopeYou'reReady)
No picture. Just black and red
static.
Micah stepped closer, eyes
narrowing.
"They're playing
psychological warfare." Dante said. "Trying to get in our
heads."
Micah turned away. "Let them
try."
The team had divided into small
units.
Meredith and Daniel were
finalizing the brake response ratios.
Rai ran diagnostics on internal
pressure curves and tire flexibility.
Juno monitored telemetry feedback
and power surges.
Dante knelt beside the car,
brushing a hand along the side panel. The new paint job gleamed under the
lights—sleek matte black with silver streamlines, low-profile spoilers,
reinforced undercarriage.
Micah approached slowly, holding
a marker in one hand.
"I need a favor." He
said.
Dante looked up.
"Anything."
Micah crouched beside the car,
unscrewed the steering wheel gently, and turned it over.
With careful, clean strokes, he
wrote:
"What we rebuild, they can't
burn."
Below it, he added just two
initials:
—M. B.
He looked up at Dante. "Will
you add yours?"
Dante didn't speak. He took the
marker and wrote just below it:
"Let them try."
—D. S.
They stared at it for a moment in
silence.
Each member stood facing the car
one last time before it would hit the track.
Meredith tightened her gloves.
Daniel cracked his neck. Juno tucked his tablet into its holster. Rai stood
straight, one hand resting over his new wristband.
Micah's band rested snugly on his
wrist, catching the light. His thumb drifted over the message written inside.
He looked up.
Everyone was staring at him.
Waiting.
Dante stepped forward and
spoke—voice low, but strong.
"We've been torn apart.
Shaken. Lied to. Burned."
He paused.
"But we're still standing.
Because this—" He gestured around—"isn't just a team. It's a rebuild.
Every scar, every fight, every damn race. We made it count."
Micah stepped beside him.
"And now," He added,
"we finish what we started."
The garage had cleared out.
Telemetry files were backed up.
Tools had been stowed. Rai and the others had gone to rest, Meredith forcing
Daniel to eat something before he got another stress headache. Even Juno had
stepped away from her screens, saying she needed five minutes to "not look
at pixels."
Micah stayed behind.
He stood by the car, staring at
it—not inspecting, not adjusting—just... staring. The machine gleamed,
battle-worn but ready. His wristband hugged his arm tightly now, its message
like a quiet pulse against his skin.
Dante walked up slowly.
"You didn't leave." He
said.
Micah didn't look at him.
"Didn't feel like running tonight."
Dante smiled faintly. Then his
expression softened.
"You good?"
Micah let out a breath. "I
don't know. I should be. We've done everything right. The car's solid. Rai's
ready. Meredith triple-checked the brake calibration."
"And you?" Dante asked.
Micah finally looked at him.
"I'm scared." He
admitted. "Not of racing. I've raced through worse. But this... This feels
bigger. Like it's not just about winning."
Dante nodded. "Because it
isn't."
He walked to Micah's side, leaned
against the car too. The overhead lights cast long shadows, but neither of them
moved away.
"I know I've said it
before," Dante began, "but I mean it now more than ever—I trust you.
No matter what happens out there. Whether you're flying or spinning out. I
believe in you."
Micah didn't respond right away.
Then he glanced sideways.
"You ever think we're doing
all this just to prove we're not broken?"
"Every day." Dante said
without hesitation. "But maybe... maybe proving it to ourselves matters
more than proving it to anyone else."
Micah stared down at his
wristband again. He rubbed the silver ink with his thumb. "You still think
I'm worth the risk?"
Dante's voice was steady.
"You're not a risk. You're the reason we got this far."
Micah blinked fast, then looked
at Dante fully.
"You know," He said,
voice soft, "I used to hate pre-race pep talks."
Dante raised an eyebrow.
"Used to?"
Micah smirked. "I still do.
But... this one? Wasn't so bad."
A beat of silence.
Then Micah extended his fist.
Dante bumped it without
hesitation.
"Let's tear the sky
open." Micah said.
Dante smiled. "Let's remind
them who we are."
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