More Than Hope; a Promise - Part 2

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQNYCkj_yUU

We return to the present.

The corridor was silent.

Ayr had already disappeared into the infirmary.

Lidi blinked, trying to dispel the memory.

Only Dan noticed how tense she was — her shoulders rigid, her hand clenched into a fist.

It was only the beginning, and Lidi knew it: this season was going to bring everything back.

Ron called her name over the radio.

— Lidi, your turn.

She did not answer immediately.

She simply stood up slowly, with the calm of someone who had been ready for hours.

There was something about her presence — an aura of calculated ice.

Lidi put on the dark-gray racing suit without hurry, the fabric fitting her body like a second skin.

She picked up her gloves and tucked them inside her helmet, a mechanical, almost military gesture.

Ron and Dan exchanged glances.

It was difficult to believe that the woman standing before them was only twenty years old.

The instructors cleared the way, revealing the illuminated corridor.

The ceiling was high, the walls white and smooth, without windows. The clinical cleanliness made the place look more like a chemistry laboratory than a testing facility.

Everything carried a ceremonial weight, as if every step were a rite of passage.

Farther ahead, Lidi entered the spherical concrete chamber.

It was almost a white cathedral, with the GFG at its center.

The other GFG was sealed off — Ayr had used it hours earlier, and the safety protocols were still being carried out.

Lidi remembered what the engineers had told them: only three GFGs existed in the world.

Two here in Ceres.

One in Fiúme.

She was about to use the main unit, the most advanced of them all.

There was no room for mistakes.

The technicians guided her toward the cockpit.

The smell of metal and new plastic mixed with the faint scent of disinfectant, making the air feel even colder.

She climbed in without hesitation, sat down, and positioned her body for driving.

The five-point harness was fastened with surgical precision, one lock at a time.

One of the technicians leaned in and, almost in a whisper, wished her good luck.

Lidi did not answer.

She simply fixed her eyes on the projection ahead.

The cockpit closed with a heavy, muffled sound.

The world outside ceased to exist.

Over the radio, Ron’s voice came through, firm but carrying a hint of anticipation.

— Lidi, you already know the procedure. We’ll start with slow laps, then gradually increase the difficulty. Confirm when you’re ready.

Lidi took one deep breath.

Only one.

— Ready.

Ron looked at Dan through the glass of the control room.

Dan nodded.

There was no denying it: that girl was ice-cold, and at the same time, moments away from exploding.

Dan activated the GFG systems.

The machine’s electronic rumble filled the room, echoing like an artificial heart about to synchronize with Lidi’s body.

Ron watched the main screen, every graph, every vital line rising with almost mathematical precision.

Lidi entered the first lap as though memorizing a manual — precise, cold, without unnecessary movement.

She was not fast.

She was perfect.

Ron and Dan looked at each other.

It was as though she were at home.

— Looks like all she needed was a steering wheel — Dan murmured.

— And a reason to win — Ron added.

The sensors showed absolute stability.

Controlled heartbeat.

Deep breathing.

Lidi was not merely driving.

She was solving an equation in real time.

Ron ordered them to increase the difficulty.

His famous “bag of cruelty” came into action: slippery tires, a more nervous simulator, a slightly uneven virtual track.

Lidi reacted as though she had predicted every detail.

— Levels above ninety percent — Dan reported, surprised.

— That’s not all — Ron replied. — She’s saving the tires. She’s thinking about the entire race.

They raised it to 95%.

Even then, she seemed untouched by the weight of the car.

Her eyes, fixed on the virtual horizon, were two blocks of ice.

— We want to see how far you can go, Lidi — Ron said over the radio. — We’re giving you soft tires and changing the front wing. Time to show us what you can do.

Lidi did not answer.

She simply tightened her grip on the wheel and began warming up the tires.

Lap after lap, her precision transformed into speed.

The panel showed peaks of 96... 97%.

Ron smiled.

— If we have an Iron Maiden — he said quietly — I think we’ve just found the Ice Warrior.

Dan laughed, but his eyes remained glued to the screen.

— And Ayr? What would you call him?

Ron hesitated.

— I don’t know yet. He drives on instinct. It’s as if the machine speaks to him.

On the final lap, Lidi did something unexpected.

She tilted her head slightly, almost as if she were enjoying herself.

When she crossed the finish line, she released a small breath, and an almost imperceptible smile touched her lips.

Ron noticed.

— She liked it — he said, crossing his arms.

Dan nodded.

— And if she liked it, everyone had better get ready.

The cockpit opened.

Lidi removed her helmet slowly, without hurry, and looked directly at Ron.

— Ready to give me something harder? — she asked, her voice dry, but with a spark of challenge in her eyes.

Ron simply smiled.

— Always.

Lidi dropped to her knees.

Her entire body trembled.

She vomited onto the metallic floor.

The sound echoed through the heavy silence of the GFG.

The bitter, metallic taste remained caught in her throat, mixed with blood.

Two medics lifted her by the arms and dragged her through the bay toward the infirmary.

Lidi was half-conscious, her vision blurred, the sounds around her dissolving into a low hum.

Along the way, memories came in flashes.

Raika screaming.

The sharp sound of a punch.

The smell of iron in the air.

The two of them in detention, each locked in a separate cell.

Even punished, the hatred continued to burn.

Mother Ceres hated seeing her daughters fight, but she would never tolerate them killing each other.

The hatred, however, was kept alive.

Nurtured like a necessary flame.

“Cry. Bleed. Grow.”

“The daughters of Ceres do not break. They push themselves until they bend the world.”

The phrase echoed as though coming from an invisible loudspeaker.

Or perhaps it was simply Lidi’s own mind repeating what she had heard during training.

In the infirmary, lying down, her body heavy, she thought of Raika again.

She thought about the day Raika would arrive at AVEX INFINITY TEAM.

She thought about Ayr — the rookie — who already seemed better than her.

And she thought about Michà.

The Iron Maiden.

Lidi’s jaw tightened.

The taste of blood and bile running from her mouth was not merely disgust.

It was a promise.

— Iron Maiden? — she murmured, spitting onto the floor. — Even steel bends.

The infirmary was silent except for the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Lidi, still pale, opened her eyes and saw Ayr on the stretcher across from her, lying with an IV in his arm.

He noticed her staring and smiled.

Not a provocative smile.

It was confident, as if nothing could bring him down.

The smile of someone who had just tamed the GFG.

— Good training — Ayr said, his voice calm, almost ironic.

Lidi frowned, anger burning in her chest.

— Fuck you — she spat, still lying down.

Ayr laughed, unoffended.

— We’re on the same team, Lidi. Whether you like it or not, we’re going to have to learn how to race together.

She took a deep breath and tried to sit up, her body still heavy, the IV pulling at her arm.

— I don’t need friends — she replied coldly. — Want a friend? Buy a dog.

— Or learn to work as a team — Ayr replied calmly — or you’ll spend the race staring at my rear wing.

Lidi suddenly stood, her fragile body trembling, and tore the IV line from her arm.

She grabbed the tube as though it were a whip.

— If I catch you sleeping, I’ll strangle you with this — she growled, her eyes blazing with anger.

Ayr did not retreat.

He kept smiling.

He knew about her history with Raika.

He had seen the fight.

He had seen the blood.

— You’re not slow — Ayr said quietly. — But you’re just as stupid as she is.

The silence that followed was broken when the infirmary door opened.

The chief physician entered, his footsteps echoing across the floor.

— Enough — he said firmly. — If you want to kill each other, do it outside. In here, you’re professionals.

Both of them froze, breathing heavily.

— One more scene like this and you’re disqualified — the doctor continued. — Every word, every gesture, is being recorded. Everything since the academy is in your reports.

— Tomorrow you will sit in front of Ron and explain whether you’re mature enough to drive or not.

Lidi dropped the IV tube onto the floor.

Ayr turned his face toward the ceiling, suppressing a laugh.

Neither said anything else.

But the air had become heavy as lead.

They were silent.

But silently hating each other.

Ickx was waiting on a metal bench, his eyes fixed on the floor.

The sound of the stretcher wheels still echoed through the white corridor.

Lidi had passed him, pale, the IV bag swinging beside her.

The scene was hardly encouraging.

Ron appeared moments later, clipboard in hand.

His expression, always firm, was not one of disapproval, but of someone measuring even the smallest gesture.

— Come on, Ickx. Your turn.

The driver took a deep breath and stood.

His body was tense, but his expression remained calm.

Ron noticed and smiled slightly.

— The GFG isn’t an ordinary race — he explained as they walked down the corridor. — It’s more intense than any supercar.

— It’s not about winning laps. It’s a stress test.

— The machine was built to exaggerate every sensation, every fear, every instinct. That’s where we see who you really are.

Ickx nodded silently.

Deep down, he already knew he was about to cross something no track training could prepare him for.

Ron raised his clipboard.

— Your file is the most curious of all.

— No trauma. No ego explosions. No hint of rivalry.

— A normal pilot. Exemplary behavior.

— Calm. Serene. Calculating.

— But consistently strong performances in the lower categories.

— Methodical. Efficient.

Ickx raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

— Is that good or bad? — he asked.

Ron smiled but did not answer immediately.

— Depends. Normality can be your greatest strength... or your greatest weakness.

— On a grid full of inflated egos, a man who doesn’t lose his composure can be feared.

— But he can also be used.

Ickx understood the implication.

This was not merely about driving.

It was about information.

Psychology.

Resisting manipulation.

A driver who talked too much could become ammunition against the others.

A driver who said too little could be discarded.

He also noticed something.

There were no other candidates moving through the complex.

Maybe he was the last one.

Maybe he was only a reserve.

Or maybe Ron was feeding him false information simply to test him.

There was no way to know.

Ickx kept the same calm expression.

Better not to react.

Better to listen.

Better to absorb.

Before they entered the GFG chamber, Ron stopped in front of Ickx.

The white corridor reflected the cold light, and for a moment, the silence seemed heavier than the sound of the machines in the distance.

— You were Raika’s teammate, weren’t you? — he asked suddenly.

Ickx took half a second before answering.

The name brought back memories he did not like revisiting.

— Yes — he finally said, keeping his voice neutral.

Ron stared at him, as though measuring more than words.

— I heard about her scalp reconstruction...

— She almost lost everything in that accident with Lidi.

Ickx nodded slowly.

— She was left with a scar running between her eyebrow and forehead.

— It was reconstructed well. It doesn’t look bad.

— Raika... she carries it as a reminder.

Ron crossed his arms, firm.

— Raika was supposed to be in your place today.

— But because of the warnings, I couldn’t take the risk.

— I already have enough problems to deal with.

— I need someone centered.

The words fell like an invisible weight.

Ickx said nothing, but understood.

He was not there merely because of his talent.

He represented the balance the team needed.

Ron then opened the door to the GFG chamber.

— Come on. — His voice now sounded almost paternal. — I need someone with an adult mindset.

— The tests are four intense hours.

— Only communication and discipline keep a car on the track for that long.

Ickx took a deep breath and followed him inside.

His heart was already beating faster.

He knew he would not be competing only against the machine, but against the ghosts that ran beside him.

Ron placed the clipboard on the glass table inside the control booth.

In front of him, the open files — Raika and Lidi — seemed to take on lives of their own, competing for his attention like flames licking at the paper.

Raika’s scar, an oblique line running between her eyebrow and forehead, gave her the fierce appearance of a warrior who had turned pain into a mark of pride.

She could have erased the scar with surgery.

Instead, she chose to wear it as an insignia.

Beside it, Lidi displayed an almost tangible coldness, stamped even into the photograph.

Fixed gaze.

Rigid posture.

The aura of someone who neither asked for forgiveness nor offered excuses.

Ron felt the weight of the papers in his hands, as though each burning page were trying to transmit a history that could not be erased — rivalries and secrets still vibrating between them.

— Damn... — he murmured, unable to hide it. — You two still fight even in the silence of paper.

He leaned over the table, absorbing every detail, every shadow and crease in the files, as though he could decipher their character before ever hearing their voices.

The cockpit, with the instructors around it and the muted sound of the engines, seemed to disappear, leaving only the heat of stories about to collide.

Inside the GFG, Ickx adjusted the cockpit with absolute concentration.

Ron, standing beside him, decided to begin the test.

— The first laps are for you to understand the car and the GFG itself. After that, you can really push — he explained.

— All right — Ickx replied firmly.

Dan, standing beside them, nodded.

— Good luck, Ickx.

The laps began, precise and consistent.

Ickx kept his performance between 90 and 92%, without wavering.

In the control room, Ron leaned toward the monitors, watching the assistants, and commented to Dan:

— He seems to be the most normal driver, you know? No visible trauma.

— FMAX reduced the race from five hours to four, you saw that? — Ron continued. — The drivers’ association thinks it’s too risky because of fatigue.

— You’re old-school, aren’t you? — Dan said with a slight smile. — You love adrenaline. But you liked torture inside the car. One hundred and eighty-degree heat, no luxury, no comfort, technology or not.

— Sadomasochist — Ron shot back, a glint in his eyes. — A lot of drivers died. Almost no safety. But it was the golden age.

— The fear of dying was real... but the desire to win was greater.

Meanwhile, Ickx completed lap after lap, steady and calculated.

— He keeps it like this because most drivers aren’t like that — Ron remarked, almost to himself.

— You’re not old-school — Dan said, smiling ironically. — FMAX isn’t a slot-car race.

— Here, the race is for people who want to die... without actually wanting to die.

— A rusted amusement park.

— The fun is in the fear, in the challenge of controlling it, knowing you’ll walk away alive.

Ron nodded, looking at the driver.

Ickx, oblivious to FMAX’s historical drama, seemed simply focused on defeating himself and the car.

But to Ron, there, inside the heat of the cockpit and the tension of the race, was the essence of what he called true adrenaline.

Ron shook his head, admiring Ickx’s precision.

— Exactly. That’s real racing.

— Everything else is just a toy.

Ron began his bag of cruelty over the following laps.

No easing off.

Pushing the car to its limit with already-worn tires.

Ickx immediately noticed.

— I’m losing downforce... the rear is shaking! And the tires are graining!

— Three laps before the pit — Ron replied with a restrained smile. — We’re putting on the medium compound.

— I want hards — Ickx insisted.

— Mediums. Trust me.

Ickx entered the GFG’s virtual pit lane, changed tires, and returned for another fifteen laps at most.

Already back on track, he began complaining again.

— These tires are deforming. I need the hards!

— Three laps. Just three laps — Ron replied firmly.

In the control room, Ron commented to Dan:

— He knows how to save tires. It’s not just speed, it’s efficiency.

— In fact, he should have retired from the session... but he didn’t.

Dan raised an eyebrow.

— He almost looks like he read your mind.

Ron smiled sideways, satisfied with his plan.

The medium tires he had given Ickx were, in fact, disguised hard compounds, designed for long life and consistency.

Ickx, being so young and perceptive, realized what was happening and adapted — showing that, although young, he already possessed the mind of a veteran.

Ron called Ickx into the virtual pit and switched him to the hard tires.

As soon as he returned to the track, Ickx began balancing the car with almost surgical precision.

It was not a matter of pure speed.

It was consistency without mistakes.

Every corner.

Every acceleration.

Every braking point.

All calculated.

His efficiency climbed to 96%.

Twenty-five laps later, all consistent, Ron ordered:

— I’m giving you new setups.

— Even if this never happens during an actual race, I want you to go faster.

— More intense.

— That’s what the GFG is for: pushing the driver to the limit.

Ickx nodded, knowing the true race was not merely about lap time.

It was about keeping his mind and the car under control, facing every change as though the track itself were testing his endurance.

Ickx maintained 95% efficiency, but with astonishing consistency.

The car obeyed every command, calm, almost predictable.

Ron called him into the virtual pit.

Ickx came in, switched to soft tires, and received new setups.

Seconds later, he was back on track.

Like a clock, Ickx operated with absolute precision.

Before long, he reached 96%, maintaining his consistency.

Fifteen fast, safe laps.

Not a single mistake.

The telemetry showed something almost hypnotic.

The steering inputs were nearly identical to those of the previous thirteen laps.

Tiny nuances — almost imperceptible — appeared on every corner, adjusting the car with delicacy and precision.

Every movement seemed calculated.

Meticulous.

As though time and space themselves were bending to the driver’s discipline.

Ron watched the graphs and could not help but smile.

It was not merely skill.

It was absolute control.

And Ickx seemed to know it better than any veteran.

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