Hate Is Our Energy — Part 2

In the Simulator Room

Ron had been in the simulator room since early morning, his eyes glued to the telemetry screens. The morning had gone well: Rix, Ara, Dio, Joa, Doca, Lans, Ray, and Pace had delivered impressive numbers. The room smelled of sweat and heated plastic; the eight simulators emitted the constant hum of virtual turbines.

When Dan entered the room, all the drivers looked up, still breathing heavily. She crossed her arms and got straight to the point:

— I dismissed the four who were left out. You guys are doing too well, maybe even too well for your own good. Twelve drivers in a single day of simulation is insane, Ron. But we don't have time, she said dryly.

Ron nodded without taking his eyes off the screens.

— Simulators are great, but they're nothing more than an appetizer. The GFG is the closest thing to actually driving the supercar. Of course... — he smiled, almost sadistically — the GFG is also much more brutal.

The mention of the GFG made the room go cold. Some drivers shifted uncomfortably in their seats. They knew its reputation — three in the world, two in Ceres, one in the Republic of Fiume. A brutal training ground.

Ron continued:

— And for anyone who throws up in there... 200 push-ups.

The silence became heavy. The adrenaline that had previously come from the virtual race now pounded against their chests like a hammer.

Dan approached the consoles, her eyes lighting up with an idea.

— Then let's make things harder here. If they're doing this well, it's time to “bring out the bags of evil.”

Ron simply nodded. Within seconds, the simulation difficulty was adjusted: less grip, heavier fuel, more treacherous corners. The room filled with metallic noise and muffled cries of frustration.

The following minutes became a dance of tension: bodies leaning forward, short breaths, sweat running down foreheads. Every mistake sounded loud, every lost second was a stab to the ego.

After almost forty minutes of intensified training, Ron finally gave the signal to stop. The silence that followed was almost religious — only the virtual engines slowing down to a stop.

When the simulators shut down, the silence was almost deafening. For a few seconds, no one moved. Each driver's body seemed glued to the seat, as if they were still traveling at 300 km/h. Sweat ran down their necks; some angrily pulled off their gloves, while others simply lowered their heads.

Ron walked to the center of the room, clipboard under his arm. His presence alone was enough to make everyone straighten up.

— Breathe. — He spoke firmly. — You survived.

Some laughed nervously. Others simply swallowed hard.

Dan took the controller, shut off the screens, and spoke:

— Now that's what I like. I saw mistakes, I saw discomfort, I saw you getting out of autopilot. That's what we want. If you don't make mistakes here, you'll make them out there, and out there mistakes are expensive.

Her eyes moved from one driver to the next, unhurried.

— Group feedback in ten minutes, in the auditorium. I want you clean, uniforms straight, and your minds prepared. What you just felt needs to be translated into words. If you don't know how to talk about it, learn.

Ron added:

— And remember: consistency is more important than heroism. I don't need a champion in the simulator. I need someone who won't wreck the car in real life.

He looked at his watch.

— Ten minutes. Dismissed.

The drivers left in silence, walking through the corridor illuminated by white LEDs. Their footsteps echoed like a procession. There was no conversation, only heavy breathing. They looked like soldiers returning from a short battle — alive, but changed.

Ron remained standing, arms crossed, watching the numbers rise and fall on the screens. Dan was seated, typing, her eyes fixed on the graphs. The room smelled of sweat and heated plastic, the simulators still humming in their aftermath.

— They can't control the car — Ron said, making no effort to hide the gravity in his voice. — It's as if they know where the alternatives are on the steering wheel, but they don't have the creativity to use them under pressure.

Dan nodded without taking her eyes off the screen.

— They lack the mental trigger, they lack reflexes. The beginning was good, it flowed... but life is the bag of evil. As the fatigue set in, they started spinning out.

Ron pointed to the pedal data.

— Forty kilos of pressure under each braking maneuver and they still miss their braking points. It's psychological. They're intimidated by the machine.

Dan took a deep breath.

— The car is too good on paper. But paper has no corners, no temperature, no fear. Reality makes you pay dearly.

Ron gave a sideways smile, a tired one.

— And the better the car, the wilder it becomes. It's unpredictable chess. You gain two or three seconds per lap... and lose a race if the driver doesn't know how to tame the beast.

Dan pulled up the performance report.

— Michà delivers 99%, sometimes 95% on bad days. These guys... none of them gets past 60%. It's mediocre.

Ron sighed and turned toward the window overlooking the empty corridor.

— And we all know this kid from Fiume is here only because of politics. A driver exchange. Obviously, he's not getting onto the team.

Dan closed the report and placed it forcefully on the table.

— Diplomatically, he's good, but technically... we don't have a driver.

Ron remained silent for a few seconds.

— Then we'll have to create them. From scratch.

Dan closed the report, took a deep breath, and looked at Ron.

— We have no choice. These drivers need a reality check... and only Michà can give it to them. She's the only one who can shake these people up and make them have an insight.

Ron frowned, knowing where this was going.

— You want to bring Michà in as an instructor?

— Yes. — Dan answered firmly. — I know she hates this kind of thing. She hates showing off without necessity, hates doing anything that doesn't involve actual performance on the track. But we need her.

Ron was silent for a moment, considering it. Then he nodded.

— Agreed. Tomorrow morning, after warm-ups and the gym, I want her there. But you'll talk to her today. Prepare her mentally for what's coming.

Dan let out a quiet sigh.

— It'll be difficult to convince her.

Ron gave a sideways smile, almost ironic.

— She'll have a surprise tomorrow. And believe me, deep down... she'll like it.

Dan left the simulator room after hours of testing. Her body ached, sweat clung to her skin, but her mind was more exhausted than her muscles.

In the auditorium, the other drivers waited for the verdict. She stood before them and announced:

— You can go to the cafeteria or the common areas. The day is over.

No one objected. The group dispersed in silence, like shadows.

Dan took another route. She followed the main corridor to Michà's private quarters. She didn't need to knock — the door opened when it recognized her.

Her room was a living contrast to the rest of the complex: spacious, glass walls, an indoor pool reflecting the soft light, a sauna in the back. A kind of almost austere luxury — the sort of luxury only a place without money could provide. In Ceres, privileges were not purchased; they were granted. And Michà was a privileged reflection of Mother.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hair loose, a tablet in her hand. She didn't look at Dan when she entered.

— The drivers are mediocre — she said, as if concluding a report to herself.

Dan took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the conversation that was coming.

— I need your help.

She raised her intimidating black eyes, almost too beautiful for such a cold place. There was something in them that made Dan hesitate — a coldness that came more from sincerity than cruelty. Michà could be arrogant, but she was never dishonest.

— Help with what? — she asked, crossing her arms.

Dan approached. There was no formality between them, only a growing tension, something pulling them toward the same point.

— Because of Ron. You know he won't be able to handle it alone.

Silence spread through the room. For the first time, she looked away, showing something beyond indifference.

— You think that's why I'm here? — she whispered.

Dan nodded. And for the first time since arriving in Ceres, she began to understand. Everything in that place — the privileges, the tests, the surveillance — existed to shape them, to direct their strength, so there would be no room for anything beyond the work.

And yet, there was something there that escaped Mother's control.

The attraction between the two was almost palpable.

Michà rose slowly from the bed, as if measuring every movement. She walked toward the pool, running her hand across the surface of the water.

— Dan, do you know what it means to be chosen by Mother?

— It means you're the best — he replied bluntly.

— No. It means you have no choice.

She turned, her black eyes shining in the half-light.

— I didn't choose to be here. I was shaped for this. — She paused, her expression hard. — And now you're asking me to help Ron, to save a system that has given me nothing but obligations.

Dan took a deep breath. It was always like this with her — a clash, a struggle not to lose himself in her gaze.

— You've received more than any of us — he countered, gesturing toward the luxurious room. — Look around you.

Michà gave a half-smile without humor.

— Luxury isn't freedom, Dan.

He stepped closer. Now they were only a few steps apart.

— Ron needs us. And you know that if he falls, Mother will find someone else to replace him. But none of them will be like him.

The silence that followed seemed as dense as the warm air coming from the sauna. Michà took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, something in her had changed.

— You're impossible.

— No, I'm just persistent.

She moved closer until they were almost face-to-face. There was no barrier between them anymore, only the tension holding them on the same axis.

— I'll help — she finally said, lowering her voice. — But not for you. Not for Mother. It's for Ron.

Dan felt his body relax, a relief he didn't dare show.

— That's all I needed.

Michà looked away but didn't retreat.

— Just don't fool yourself, Dan. Mother put us here to work. And the closer you get to me, the more dangerous this will be for both of us.

He smiled, a tired smile.

— I know. But I think I'm finally understanding why she did this.

For a moment, there were no simulations, no reports, no Ceres — only the two of them, reflections of the same destiny.

The Cafeteria

The cafeteria was filled with a silence that wasn't really silence. It was a battlefield. Each driver sat alone, chewing as if the food were part of a ritual of war. Ayr and Adual sat together, attracting sideways glances. Lidi, suspicious, chose a table directly behind them, her eyes fixed on them like blades, monitoring every word.

Adual commented almost in a whisper:

— This place is hostile... even to breathe.

Ayr laughed from the corner of his mouth.

— Get used to it. You only get peace here when you're asleep. And even then, you dream you're fighting.

— That keeps us alert — he added, moving his food around without appetite. — It's as if danger comes from every direction.

Adual looked around, fascinated.

— Maybe it's in your blood... there's something mystical about it. Intriguing. Exciting.

He let out a short laugh.

— I bet the moment I let my guard down, that one over there — he nodded toward Lidi — will stick a fork in my back.

Ayr burst out laughing without mercy.

— Wouldn't surprise me.

Lidi heard him, her face becoming even harder, her fingernails digging into the metal tray. She couldn't react. Not there. Mother Ceres wanted her to learn tolerance, wanted her to swallow every insult as if it were a lesson in diplomacy. That was the doctrine: endure hatred until it becomes strength.

The hours passed slowly, the simulators waiting for them like impatient judges. The other drivers, scattered around the tables, maintained their arrogant air, but everyone knew the truth: the simulator had drained their strength, emptied their egos. For some, it was merely a rehearsal for the GFG. For others, a humiliation.

And this was only the first morning of training.

The morning drivers left the cafeteria dissatisfied, looking like dazed flies. Failure was written across eight faces, each expression showing the disappointment of losing to a simulator. No one knew the exact results, but Ron had silently and absolutely destroyed their morale.

Later, Dan called Adual, Ayr, Lidi, and Ickx to the simulators. They entered the same wide, white corridor of the complex, each step echoing across the polished floor. The LEDs on the walls began to pulse, and images of Michà appeared on a massive scale, the “Iron Maiden,” her imposing face and black eyes intimidating even the most experienced. Metallic Blue — House of Lords — filled the space, a deep beat vibrating as though the corridor itself were breathing to the rhythm of the music.

Each driver felt the weight of her presence even from a distance. It wasn't just the image, nor merely videos of her epic races: it was the aura surrounding Michà, the silent strength of someone who dominates without submitting, someone who loses by inches but makes everyone feel as though they lost with her. That corridor was a cathedral, every LED and sound a stained-glass window and organ, and they were mere visitors standing before a living myth.

Ayr swallowed hard. Adual, despite coming from the Republic of Fiume, realized how much Michà's symbolic power transcended any nationality. Lidi crossed her arms, suspicious, trying to maintain the hardened posture of a driver, but her eyes couldn't stop following every detail of the face, every movement on the giant screen. Ickx leaned slightly forward, aware that he was witnessing something beyond speed and technique — something almost spiritual.

They walked a little farther, the simulated engines and electronic sounds of the complex intensifying the atmosphere. Every step increased the tension, every LED reinforced the anticipation: you didn't enter this place merely to drive; you entered to witness, absorb, and measure yourself against the legend itself. The energy was almost physical, a tingling sensation on the skin, a silent call for each person to give more than they had, because here, no one was merely a driver.

And even without being present, Michà dominated everything: the space, the minds, and the hearts of everyone. She was the test no manual could teach, the invisible opponent they had to face before even touching the steering wheel. The corridor ended, and they knew: everything that came afterward in the simulator would be smaller than the pressure they were already feeling.

The four drivers arrived at the simulators. Each cockpit was like a small real racing cockpit, but the sound and vibration were amplified, almost painful, as if anticipating the reality of the track. Dan quickly adjusted the parameters of each car, without wasting time on formalities.

She said:

— Remember, it's not just about speed. Obeying your reflexes, understanding the car, feeling every detail of the steering wheel... that's what separates those who survive from those who fail.

Ayr sat down first, placing his hands on the steering wheel with almost reverent care. His heart was pounding, but he maintained his composure. Adual, despite his strong accent, took a deep breath and followed. Lidi watched suspiciously, her gaze alternating between the simulator and the image of Michà still visible on the LEDs in the corridor — even absent, she seemed to be guiding them. Ickx entered last, withdrawn and focused.

Dan activated the simulators. The sound of the virtual engine exploded through the drivers' headphones, reverberating through their chests. Metallic Blue still echoed softly, setting the rhythm, a constant reminder that this wasn't just technique; it was ritual.

Ayr took the first corner. The car responded, but he immediately realized that pressing the accelerator wasn't enough — he had to feel the balance, anticipate every movement. He spun, corrected, breathed deeply. Adual did the same; every lap was a lesson, every correction an insight. Lidi tried to keep up, but the tension revealed her first mistakes. Ickx remained steady, but sweat ran down his face, the mental pressure intense.

Dan watched, making quick notes.

— You all have technique, but you still don't have a “driver's mindset.” That's feeling the car, living inside it, letting it dictate the limits without losing control.

The corridor behind them continued to pulse with LEDs, and Michà's shadow seemed to float over the four of them. Her presence was almost physical: each driver felt that she was watching, that every mistake was noticed, every success measured. None of them dared speak; the silence was heavy.

Ayr managed a clean lap but realized something was still missing. He took a deep breath and murmured to himself:

— If Michà were here... she'd do it differently.

Adual smiled slightly, feeling that he had understood part of what the Iron Maiden represented — not merely skill, but absolute control of the mind and body under pressure.

Dan concluded the warm-up session:

— Tomorrow, you'll have the GFG. This is only the beginning. Remember: speed doesn't forgive. There is no merit in ego, only in results.

The corridor slowly emptied. Metallic Blue faded, but the echo of the music still vibrated through the drivers' bodies and minds. Each one left the simulator knowing that the real race wasn't against the clock or the car, but against what Michà represented. A legend, living proof that limits exist only to be felt, challenged, and overcome.

Nearly 5 p.m., the simulator room was boiling with activity. Ron ordered Dan to lead the “bag of evil.” The last four drivers, chosen last and underestimated by everyone, were now showing efficiency numbers above 90%. Proud, Ron gave Dan a small punch on the shoulder, silent approval; they both laughed.

Dan pressed the controls, adding more difficulties to the simulators. The car reacted like a contained beast: faster corners, sharper braking, pit stops timed at under two seconds. Each driver felt the steering wheel vibrating as if it were their own body at high speed. Adual shot forward with precision, Ayr slid along the limit at 96%, the rest around 94%. Every corner was a test of reflexes, every pedal a life-or-death decision.

The roar of the virtual engine was deafening, but clear and controlled. Lights simulating the sunset over Ceres passed through the windows, reflecting off the drivers' helmets. Dan watched, adjusted, and added more challenges: blind corners, low-grip sections, simulated wind and heat. Sweat ran down their bodies, hands strained against the 40kg pedals, every movement demanding absolute precision.

Ron watched in silence, like the conductor of a steel orchestra, aware that Michà would make this look easy, but here, each driver was facing their own limits. The simulator didn't lie: every mistake was measured, every success recorded. Adrenaline rose, faces contorted with concentration and anger, but no one gave up.

Dan smiled, realizing the maximum level was being reached. The car was perfect on paper, but now the drivers were being shaped by the beast, learning to tame it. Every turn of the steering wheel, every braking maneuver, every acceleration was another step toward the reality of the GFG.

The clock approached 6 p.m. Lights flashed, numbers climbed, pressure reached its peak. Ayr looked at the dashboard: 96.1%. Adual 95.8%. Ron smiled: tomorrow, with Michà beside them, nothing would be impossible.

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