The Turning of the Engines — Part 1

After the beginning of its golden age, Ceres evolved — but so did the human spirit. Little by little, the desire for freedom rebelled. Men and women, even the most obedient children, began organizing illegal races.

Mother Ceres realized it: human fury was turning against her. The message was clear.

The influences came from the continents, from smuggled pulp magazines, encrypted messages transmitted through amateur radio, and illegal broadcasts that traveled through the underground world. They used their own agricultural technology as a foundation, transforming tractors into super-machines, adapting them to satisfy the instinct to run like thunder.

In the fields, the roar of engines sounded like the call of nature — like the awakening of sleeping gods. Men and women dreamed of riding divine horses: beasts of steel, diesel, oil, and gasoline. Mother Ceres saw the fascination. She understood that even adults remained children — and that the only difference between them was the price of the toy.

With her ingenuity, she devised a proposal that would shake the entire continent. Her children were loyal, but the call of the impossible was stronger than the law. They did not regret what they did — and even in transgression, they never stopped loving their Mother.

Just as the ancient gods created man in their own image and likeness, Mother Ceres created racing machines. Vehicles capable of exceeding 450 km/h, enchanting the world through a fusion of astronomy, engineering, and mechanical fury. Her children, proud, united once again. Mother Ceres had tamed the human spirit once more.

Entertainment was also profit. Her engines were unique. Her drivers were legendary.

Mother Ceres is merciless: she educates us, feeds us — and devours us.

Mother Ceres said:

"The difference between adults and children is the price of their toys."

And she did not let it remain merely a phrase. She assembled her team of astronomers and engineers, and for ten years they worked on the creation of supercars and the training of drivers. Thus was born the Speed Academy — AVE INFINITY.

Twelve superdrivers competed for two spots to race on the continent's circuits. In the sixth year, one of them would become champion, elevating Ceres to the level of absolute excellence. Grand prizes and unimaginable challenges turned AVE INFINITY into a global reference, attracting foreign drivers to train with its team.

But not everything was glory: fierce rivalries marked every practice session, every race. No driver was friendly, not even among the most experienced. They hated one another, and hated even more anyone who dared interfere in their fights. Even under Mother Ceres' guidance, the flame of competition remained uncontrollable.

The smell of burning gasoline mingled with the drivers' sweat and the scent of earth thrown up by the tires. The competition at AVE INFINITY was no ordinary race — it was a silent war, where taunts, insults, and hatred for domination were worth as much as speed. Punches were forbidden; anyone who dared touch an opponent was immediately separated. But anger boiled through every corner, every overtaking maneuver, every engine roaring like thunder.

The cars, inspired by legendary supercar endurance prototypes, were monstrosities of engineering: perfect aerodynamics, engines capable of exceeding 450 km/h, fuels that burned like sacred fire, chassis built to withstand human fury. Each driver felt the machine as an extension of their own body, and the track was both arena and temple.

During practices and races, insults and profanity cut through the air as quickly as the wind against their helmets. A hostile glance, a verbal provocation, and the tension grew — electric, almost tangible. Every driver wanted to be the best — not merely to win the race, but to prove that their fury, courage, and skill were superior to everyone else's.

Mother Ceres watched from high above in her control tower, impassive and fascinated. She knew her children loved her, but that the human spirit, even under discipline and education, remained untamable. Every race was a dangerous dance between creation and rebellion, speed and hatred, light and smoke — and she savored every second of the spectacle.

The sun had barely risen over the AVE INFINITY circuits, bathing the asphalt in golden reflections. The smell of burning rubber and oil mingled with the dust kicked up by the engines, as if the earth itself were breathing tension.

Two superdrivers lined up their machines, cylinders ready to roar, each car a monster of steel and fire. No punch would be thrown, but that did not matter. The battle took place in their eyes: each driver studied the opponent, searching for fear, hesitation, any invisible weakness. A cynical smile, a furrowed brow, a silent provocation — every gesture was a weapon.

The numbers did not lie. Speed, cornering time, acceleration — everything was recorded and compared. Humiliating the other meant watching their numbers fall, their times disappear, their statistics surpassed. Every hundredth of a second gained was a victory; every mistake, a humiliation that burned hotter than any verbal insult.

The roar of the engines rose in unison, like sleeping thunder awakening. They launched forward. Wind sliced across their helmets, dust and sparks leapt from each tire, and the cars danced dangerously through the corners. Every overtaking maneuver was an act of defiance; every perfect braking maneuver, a calculated strike in the invisible battle.

Mother Ceres' eyes followed every movement from atop her tower. She saw the pleasure, the hatred, the restrained anger, the adrenaline, and the obsession with domination. She did not need to intervene; she merely watched, knowing that the human spirit reveals itself most truthfully when pushed to its own limits.

The circuit became an arena, a temple, and a battlefield. Each driver raced not merely for victory, but for the glory of humiliating the other, of proving that their calculation, courage, and instinct were superior. Every corner was poetry and aggression, every acceleration a silent decree: whoever controls the numbers controls everyone.

AVE INFINITY was not limited to tracks and circuits. It possessed virtual-reality simulators, but there was one single, feared G-force simulator: the GFG — G-Force Gimbal. A circular laboratory, black as ebony, thirty meters in diameter, with two concentric circles and a single purpose: to shape drivers beyond the human limit.

The first circle controlled direction, applying forces above 5G, enough to make anyone pass out. The second circle controlled speed, forming a circular path along which the cockpits of the cars hung from metal mounts. Every movement, every acceleration and corner simulated reality with deadly precision.

The GFG was as dangerous as any race car. But there were safety measures: outside the cockpit, technicians monitored heart rate, blood pressure, blood oxygenation, and every vital sign. Each driver was tested to the limit, challenging body and mind, while the machine absorbed the hatred, tension, and determination, transforming them into pure energy for AVE INFINITY.

The GFG was not merely training. It was a test of courage, endurance, and obsession. Whoever survived its spins, corners, and extreme accelerations was ready to face any circuit, any opponent, and any challenge imposed by Mother Ceres.

The driver entered the suspended GFG cockpit. The interior was narrow, metallic, cold. Absolute silence filled the black laboratory before the outer circle began to rotate. The floor trembled slightly, announcing the force that was coming.

The first simulated corner arrived with violence: forces greater than 5G pressed the body against the seat, tearing at every muscle, every fiber, every breath. The heart raced, nearly bursting from the chest. Blood seemed to boil through the veins, and the stomach threatened to rebel. A single moment of weakness, and any driver could pass out — but the cockpit forgave not a single inch.

The second circle began to rotate, controlling speed. Every acceleration made the cockpit tilt, twist, and turn as if caught inside a steel-and-adrenaline hurricane. Imaginary sparks leapt from the cockpit, the metallic smell of the environment seemed to seep into the skin. The sensation was that of being inside a living beast, a machine that breathed and responded to the hatred and courage of whoever dared confront it.

Outside the cockpit, technicians monitored every vital sign. Every heartbeat, every variation in blood pressure, every breath of oxygen in the blood was recorded, analyzed, transformed into data. The driver was measured, evaluated, tested — and the machine absorbed everything: tension, fear, determination, silent hatred.

Minutes passed like hours. Every corner conquered, every acceleration endured, was a silent victory. Every moment of weakness was humiliation, a reminder that there were no shortcuts or luck in the GFG. Only those who surrendered themselves body and mind could emerge ready to face AVE INFINITY, ready to tame the track and survive the silent war between machines and humans.

Silence returned to the black laboratory. But no one could relax. Every driver who entered the cockpit knew: the GFG did not merely teach you how to drive. It taught you who you truly were, and that the real race began within yourself.

The Circuit

The largest circuit in Ceres dominated the landscape, imposing and almost sacred. The track was a surface circuit, designed to display the grandeur of the world Mother Ceres had created. The first section, short and fast, ran across the top of the Flagball stadium before plunging into the heart of the city. From above, it looked like a river of steel cutting through concrete, smoke, and light, inviting drivers to challenge their limits.

The second section was monumental: almost endless 30-km straights cutting through fields of wheat, soybeans, and corn, displaying the abundance and power of the land. Every detail was transmitted by satellite from CERE IV across the entire continent, showcasing Mother Ceres' miracle, her engineering, and her absolute dominion over humans and machines. Every corner, every straight, every hill seemed carefully designed to remind everyone: here, the impossible was permitted — but under deadly rules.

And there was one legendary corner: “Mother Ceres' Kiss.” A treacherous corner where any excess speed meant certain death. No driver could exceed 250 km/h there, and yet the danger remained real. Legend said that even the most experienced drivers trembled before facing it, because it tested more than skill: it tested courage, calculation, instinct, and respect for the power Mother Ceres exerted over everything.

The circuit was more than a track; it was an altar, a spectacle, and an ordeal. Every inch displayed the strength, ambition, and intelligence of Ceres, and every broadcast reminded everyone that they stood before the absolute dominion of the Mother, who watched and shaped not only the machines, but also the hearts and minds of her children.

The largest circuit in Ceres was not merely a track; it was a stage, a monument to the grandeur of the city and the will of Mother Ceres. The first section, short, wound across the Flagball stadium and plunged into the heart of the city, reminding everyone that there, even in times of war in neighboring countries, Ceres' neutrality reigned supreme.

The second section stretched across almost endless 30-km straights, cutting through fields of wheat, soybeans, and corn, transmitting every detail to the continent via satellite from CERE IV. It was Ceres' ultimate propaganda: wealth, technology, and order. Giant panels displayed useless, extravagant products that nobody truly needed — but the money arrived even before the race was seen, bringing resources to feed Mother Ceres' plans.

Among all the corners and straights was the legendary “Mother Ceres' Kiss.” A deadly corner where exceeding 250 km/h was a sentence of destruction. Every driver trembled before it, not only because of the danger, but because of the almost religious respect for the Mother who watched every movement.

The circuit transformed the city into a spectacle, attracted eyes from across the continent, and served as a showcase of Ceres' economic and technological power. While the world faced wars and struggles for power, the city remained neutral, abundant, and full of life — and every race broadcast was proof that Mother Ceres' genius surpassed any rivalry.

The wind carried the smell of earth and the metallic gunpowder-like scent of the machines, while the dust raised by the cars mingled with the luminous panels, creating a dance of light and movement. Every corner, every acceleration, every braking maneuver was a liturgy of speed and spectacle, reminding everyone that in Ceres, even the useless could be transformed into power and wealth.

AVEX INFINITY — Speed Academy

At the heart of Ceres stood AVEX INFINITY, a technological center without equal, dedicated to developing the superdrivers who would shape the future of speed. Only the best arrived there: young drivers coming from junior categories, trained on dirt tracks in the outskirts of the city, selected with precision by scouts and by the numbers that proved their talent.

The academy stood facing the great professional circuit that wound its way toward the Flagball stadium, as if it were its natural extension. The complex housed dormitories, mechanical workshops, and engine-development laboratories, supported by top-level engineers and technicians. It was an almost self-sufficient ecosystem, funded by multimillion-dollar sponsorships from brands across the continent. Useless, inefficient products, but highly profitable: the perfect fuel for maintaining the political propaganda of Ceresianism, the doctrine that celebrated the Mother as creator, provider, and devourer.

At AVEX, all drivers began under the same conditions: medical and psychological care, specialized physical training, reflex exercises, and muscle-memory training. Over time, individual performance determined privileges and perks — private rooms, swimming pools, recreational areas. There, merit and sacrifice were the currency of exchange.

The center also housed the legendary GFG — G-Force Gimbal, a simulator that subjected drivers to forces exceeding 5G, testing not only physical endurance but also the mental capacity to withstand extreme speeds. In addition, there were wind tunnels for aerodynamic development, full-immersion virtual-reality simulators, and laboratories where physicists and astronomers played god, creating new materials such as carbon, titanium, and magnesium wheels, constantly pushing the limits of safety and life itself.

The AVEX cars were monsters: machines capable of reaching 0 to 100 km/h in just three seconds, demanding bodies trained to the absolute limit. It was a place where childhood and power became confused, where the Mother's toys became weapons of speed and symbols of domination.

The GFG

Ron adjusted the microphone, and his deep voice echoed through the radio:

— Michà, we're starting with the Oplon circuit. Slowly, until your body gets used to it. I'm watching your vital signs. You did this test last year, but we need to repeat it. I want to know if your body can still handle it.

One of the GFG instructors interrupted, reminding him of the protocol:

— She needs to confirm, Ron. Without a response, there is no procedure.

Inside the cockpit, Michà merely cast a cold glance at the monitor. Pure hatred reflected in her black eyes, as though having to prove again that she knew how to control the machine was humiliating. Arrogantly, she snapped her helmet visor shut. She said nothing — but everyone understood it as an “okay.”

Michà, 22 years old.

A natural talent. The previous year, she had been the second driver; now, she could become the first female full-time driver at AVEX Infinity. The road had been difficult — not only because of the corners on the track, but because of the invisible scars of competing in a male-dominated environment. Still, nothing deceived her: her beautiful face concealed the fury, but her dark eyes revealed hatred as dense as the smell of gasoline permeating the air.

Ron knew her like no one else. He was the fire; she was the spark ready to explode.

He knew Michà did not need to prove anything to anyone. But he was meticulous to the point of cruelty. He had already seen drivers die in the GFG — torn apart like meat in a processor. To him, there was no room for arrogance: either the body endured, or it was erased.

And now Michà's fate was trapped in the machine's rotation.

The Machine Awakens

The GFG began to rotate slowly. First, a deep hum filled the black laboratory, like the roar of distant thunder. With every second, the circle accelerated, and Michà's cockpit swayed, suspended from the metal structure.

On the panel, the numbers climbed.

— Force at 1.5G. Heart rate stable. — the instructor announced.

Michà kept her neck rigid, eyes fixed on the visor, jaw clenched. Her silence was more eloquent than any words.

— 2.8G. Oxygen saturation dropping slightly.

Ron did not look away from the screens. His regenerated arm tingled as if reminding him of the accident. That limb — pale, strange, incomplete — seemed to react along with the machine. He thought, almost without realizing it:

"This is what separates gods from mortals. Pain. Pressure."

— 4.1G. — the instructor's voice sounded more tense. — We need verbal protocol now.

Ron gripped the radio. His voice came out like a military order:

— Michà, confirm that you are conscious.

Inside, everyone waited for an answer. In the cockpit, however, she merely raised her thumb, slowly and firmly, as if in contempt of the protocol itself.

The instructor's eyes widened.

— That isn't enough! She has to speak!

Ron smiled coldly:

— It's enough. She already answered. Continue.

The GFG roared, climbing beyond 5G. The cockpit shook as if it might tear apart. Michà's body sank into the seat, bones crushed beneath invisible weight. Every breath was a struggle against collapse.

And yet, she did not blink.

Absolute Flow

Ron snapped into the radio, his voice hard as steel:

— Michà, 4G! Fast flying lap! I want milliseconds below last year's time — 1'25''905. Bring it down below 900. Respond, Michà!

Silence.

On the monitor, she remained silent. The silence irritated her, but the disobedience exhilarated her. Ron slammed his fist against the panel, making the instruments tremble.

— Answer me, damn it!

But Michà was not there.

Her body was inside the GFG, crushed by artificial gravity, but her mind had plunged somewhere else. She entered the state few ever reached: absolute flow. The track, once wild, now seemed predictable. Every corner became slow, simple, inevitable. The impossible became natural.

"Why do I race inside a machine that can kill me and still feel happiness?"

The thought echoed like an intimate whisper.

"Because here there is freedom. The present forbidden by Mother Ceres, but one she offers us disguised in steel, lead, and engines."

The roar of the machine vibrated like a primal memory. To Michà, it was not merely noise: it was the womb-like sound of creation. The hiss that rocked babies to sleep, the heart that beats like an engine, the blood that flows like fuel.

"I am a daughter again, enclosed within a steel womb. The cockpit suffocates me, but it also protects me. It is claustrophobic and liberating at the same time."

There, between speed and death, Michà felt more alive than ever.

"Death could silence my body, but never my spirit. As long as I breathe, I want more. Always more."

In the control center, Ron watched the graphs rise. The cold smile returned to his face.

— She's fine. She has entered absolute flow.

The instructor, incredulous at the numbers, murmured:

— It's as if... she's merged with the machine.

On the display, Michà's laps appeared one after another, each one faster than the last. The impossible became statistics. What would have been agony for anyone else was pure freedom to her.

Michà's Experience

The world became liquid. Every corner, every pressure against her body, was a whisper from the universe. The engine did not merely roar; it sang, pulsed like a heart that sustained and awakened her. The heat and weight of gravity were limits she felt with reverence, not fear.

Speed was not a competition; it was an intimate dialogue with the instant, with the very body that bent, stretched, and surrendered itself to the machine. Michà did not race to defeat another driver — she raced to feel the entire world compressed into milliseconds, to prove that her spirit could exist free even inside metal and danger.

The smell of fuel, the hiss of the brakes, the touch of the seat against her body — everything was language, music, and breath. Every corner enveloped her like the embrace of a metallic womb, dangerous and safe, suffocating and welcoming. And at the center of it all, death hovered, but it did not control her; death merely intensified life, and Michà became more alive than she had ever imagined.

In absolute flow, she no longer existed as Michà, separate from the machine. She was speed, she was engine, she was freedom encapsulated, and the world outside could only watch, unable to touch that sensation that belonged solely to those who surrendered themselves body and spirit.

Confrontation in the Office

Ron watched the fast-lap numbers and shook his head:

— Stop the tests.

Without hesitation, Michà replied:

— Set it to 5G.

Ron agreed, his gaze severe:

— You'll pass out soon. Nobody beats physics. Nobody.

The GFG increased the force. Michà passed out. Ron deliberately shut the machine down as punishment and entered the cockpit to wake her:

— Come on, follow me. We'll talk privately in my office afterward.

Michà quickly recovered herself, straightened her white racing suit with red details, and adjusted her stylized helmet. Ron, serious but visibly tense, said nothing. Michà knew: whatever was coming, it wasn't going to be good.

Silently, they both walked toward the elevator. Michà removed her helmet, letting her black hair fall down her back, held the helmet in one hand, and unzipped her suit. Ron walked ahead without looking back.

— Look at this corridor. — he said, gesturing toward the photographs and trophies. — Everyone who followed orders is part of AVEX INFINITY's history. And you? You made history... you won races, but you didn't defeat Annes, the traitor, your former teammate. Look at the space he left... empty. They beat us last year!

Michà swallowed her pride in silence.

They entered the room. Ron closed the door behind Michà, but she, distracted, slammed it shut. He exploded:

— Close the door gently! You don't do that in the cars! SIT DOWN!

Michà knew it was routine: champions were forged there, and being a woman earned you no special treatment.

Ron, furious, continued:

— Answer the monitor! Communication, Michà! Communication! I won't go easy on you. I could have blown that GFG apart with you inside! But I'll deal with you in private! Do you know why I push you? Because you can do better! I only yell at the best. Do you know why? Because you like this, because you race! But I want communication! Alignment! Discipline!

He took a deep breath and continued with intensity:

— None of this is a game! You achieved all of this for Mother Ceres. Communication between you and your future teammate... now, to hell with everything else! I want your souls!

— You bring good results, but communication... — he slammed his hand against the desk. — I need that. You make mistakes and miss details. When are you going to win? When are you going to get the details right? That's it! Hate me, but when are you going to use this strength with communication?

Michà swallowed hard, feeling every word from Ron penetrate like a spark falling onto gasoline. Her black eyes, still hot with anger and adrenaline, locked onto his.

— I understand. — she said, her voice firm but low. — I'll train my communication. I'll align every movement. I'll... control every detail.

Ron narrowed his eyes, evaluating her. She did not look frightened; she looked defiant, but at the same time aware of the gravity of the situation.

— “I'll train my communication” isn't enough. — he roared, standing and pacing from side to side. — I want action, Michà! Every word, every signal, every decision... I want it to be as automatic as breathing!

Michà took a deep breath, feeling the flow of adrenaline still pulsing through her veins. It was the same absolute flow of the GFG, but now transformed into discipline.

— All right. — she murmured firmly. — I'll do it. I'll do better. And I'll prove that I can.

Ron stopped, staring at her for a moment. The tension did not diminish, but something had changed: he realized that her arrogance was not an obstacle, but fuel.

— Very good. — he finally said, calmer but still strict. — Now get up. Let's review the training. I want you to apply everything you've learned. No excuses. No hesitation.

Michà stood, adjusting her helmet and racing suit, her heart still racing. She knew there was no room for error there, but she also knew something Ron would never need to teach her: she raced to exist, to feel freedom inside the machine, and no one would take that away from her.

The heavy atmosphere dissolved only through their shared purpose: refining talent into absolute excellence, where anger, discipline, and adrenaline met in the same instant.

Michà felt a pang in her stomach. The discomfort came quickly, suddenly, as if her body remembered that there were limits even absolute flow could not ignore. Before she could step back, she vomited onto the floor of Ron's office.

Ron remained motionless, arms crossed, his face stern. A short sigh of contained disappointment escaped him. It was not a surprise — this was not the first time it had happened.

— Again... — he murmured, his voice low and firm. — And still, you come back. That's what matters. But remember: talent is no excuse for weakness. Control your body, Michà. Control it.

Michà lowered her head, embarrassed, but already feeling the adrenaline return. The discomfort would pass. She knew that, despite Ron's harshness, this was where champions were forged, and she could not allow herself to fail.

Ron, without a gesture of indulgence, picked up a towel and cleaned the floor, silently reinforcing a lesson: respect for the body is discipline; discipline is freedom; freedom is victory.

Michà's Room

Michà rested in her private room, luxurious and silent. She had finally earned the position of first driver. The comfort surrounding her did not completely quiet her mind: Ron's words echoed in her thoughts, sharp as blades.

She remembered the intensity of the training, the merciless discipline, and... the repressed feelings that existed between her and Ron. Mother Ceres had noticed, but merely allowed it: she knew that Ron was the perfect chemistry for bringing out the best in the drivers. The only obstacle was their relationship. There was no other team principal or driver capable of replacing the dynamic they shared.

Michà's heart raced for him, even though Ron never eased up by an inch. He was demanding because she could withstand the pressure. Becoming better, winning in the GFG, earning her place — that was enough. Not even the luxury of the room could compensate for the absence of Ron's explicit approval; he did not need to praise her for respect to be felt.

Standing beside the window, she watched the circuit bathed in sunset. Beside it, the 1,500-meter tower cast its enormous shadow over the complex. Down below, the “sleeping gods” — the super-machines — waited. Their dark-gray paint gleamed in the golden light, the uniforms had changed, and sponsorships glittered across every detail.

Michà felt the pulse of freedom in speed. It was there, among engines, rules, and adrenaline, that she felt complete. But in her heart were two forces: Ron and Mother Ceres, constantly reminding her that obedience and ambition walked side by side, and that to reach the pinnacle, even passion had to be controlled.

Michà let herself sink into the soft bed, but there was no rest. Her body was exhausted, but her mind burned. Ron's gaze, his restrained fury, the orders shouted over the radio... everything returned to her memory as though she were still trapped inside the GFG.

“He never goes easy on me. Never.”

It was true. Ron pushed her harder than anyone else. And Michà knew why: because she could take it. Because she had talent, because she could bear the weight that would crush anyone else. Still, there was something beyond discipline.

The memory of the closed room, his explosion of anger, the tension between them. The silence in the elevator. The way he never looked at her as a woman — only as a driver. And yet, that was what bound her to him the most.

Ron was not merely a team principal. He was an abyss and a mirror: the lost arm, pain transformed into discipline, passion suffocated into orders. He was unbreakable... and that attracted her more than she could admit.

Mother Ceres knew. She always knew. But instead of forbidding it, she kept them side by side as if it were a punishment. A cruel punishment: being so close and never being allowed to give in.

Michà took a deep breath, unzipped her racing suit to her waist, and placed the helmet beside her on the bed. The reflection of the 1,500-meter tower entered the room through the window, casting its shadow over her. Down below, the cars gleamed like sleeping steel beasts.

“Speed is my freedom. But Ron...”

She closed her eyes, feeling her heart race.

“...Ron is the prison I want to be in.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEQI3EuzzMk

#motherceres #theturningoftheengines #avexinfinity #ceres #ceresianism #scifi #sciencefiction #dystopianfiction #dystopia #scifibooks #scifistory #racing #autoracing #motorsport #speed #freedom #micha #gforce #speculativefiction