April 23.
Day One of the Grand Prix de Monaco Historique.
The city had changed overnight.
What had been quiet anticipation the day before… was now alive.
Closed roads.
Sealed barriers.
Track marshals at every post.
The Circuit de Monaco was no longer just a road.
It was a circuit again.
And it was awake.
Free Practice had begun.
The early sessions—Classes A, B, and C—had already come and gone, their older machines echoing through the tight streets with raw, mechanical notes from another era.
Now—
Class D was in full swing.
Engines screamed through the harbor section, the sound bouncing off buildings, compressing inside the tunnel, and exploding back into the open air.
And waiting next—
Class E.
The pit lane was alive.
Not chaotic.
But precise.
Focused.
Mechanics moved with intent between garages, tools clinking, air guns whining, engines coughing to life and settling into uneven idle rhythms.
Inside the garages—
A timeline of Formula One history.
Machines from 1973 to 1976 sat in rows, each one distinct yet bound by a common heart.
The legendary Ford-Cosworth DFV.
Three liters.
Naturally aspirated.
V8.
The backbone of an era.
A blue Tyrrell 007 sat further down the lane, its sharp nose angled slightly outward as mechanics worked around its suspension.
Nearby, black and gold caught the eye—
The unmistakable livery of the John Player Special Lotus 72E.
Low.
Elegant.
Historic.
And further ahead—
Two cars stood at the front of their garages.
Like centerpieces.
One in red—
The Ferrari 312T2.
Wide.
Flat.
Purposeful.
And beside it—
White.
Red.
Iconic.
The McLaren M23D.
Suzuka's car.
The championship-winning machine once driven by James Hunt.
Now—
Waiting.
For her.
The upper bodywork of the McLaren rested carefully on the ground beside it, leaned against padded supports. Without it, the car looked raw—mechanical, exposed.
The Ford-Cosworth DFV sat fully visible.
Compact.
Tightly integrated.
Every pipe, every line, every connection laid bare.
The cockpit—
Tiny.
Unforgiving.
Barely more than a molded shell.
Standing beside it—
Silence Suzuka.
Already suited.
Her race suit was period-correct—faithfully styled after 1976 designs. Clean lines. Minimal padding. Sponsor patches placed exactly where they belonged.
Her name—
Stitched across it.
In her own handwriting.
A quiet signature.
She had left the hotel early.
Before the others.
For the driver and safety briefing.
For preparation.
For focus.
Now—
She stood still.
Hands tucked into her pockets.
Eyes forward.
No unnecessary movement.
No wasted thought.
Then—
She stepped forward.
Past the nose of the car.
Out of the garage.
Into the pit box.
And crouched.
Low.
Balanced.
Still.
Her eyes traced the side profile of the McLaren.
From the narrow nose—
To the exposed suspension arms—
To the cockpit opening—
To the rear.
She studied it like a blueprint.
Not admiring it.
Understanding it.
Her gaze lingered on the front.
The width.
The tire profile.
The angle of attack.
Then shifted toward the rear.
The mass.
The balance.
The weight distribution.
She visualized it.
Not as a machine at rest.
But at speed.
Through Sainte Dévote—
Up Beau Rivage—
Across Massenet—
Into Casino—
Down toward Mirabeau—
Through the Hairpin—
And into the tunnel.
Every input.
Every correction.
Every moment where the car could break loose—
Or respond.
Her fingers tightened slightly inside her pockets.
Not from tension.
From calculation.
Because this wasn't just a drive.
This wasn't even just a practice session.
This was a machine from another era.
Unforgiving.
Unstable.
Alive in ways modern cars no longer were.
And she intended—
To master it.
Behind her—
The mechanics continued working.
Tools moved.
Voices called out.
Adjustments made.
But Suzuka—
Didn't move.
She stayed crouched.
Locked onto the car.
Learning it—
Before even turning the wheel.
Suzuka rose from her crouch.
Slowly.
Measured.
Her eyes lingered on the car for just a second longer—
Then—
A voice cut through the pit lane noise.
"Suzuka-san!!"
She turned.
And immediately—her expression softened.
A small chuckle.
"Hey, everyone… hope you're all well."
The group approached from the paddock entrance, weaving through mechanics and equipment with careful steps.
Maruzensky adjusted the hem of her G1 race outfit, glancing briefly at the open pit lane before exhaling.
"Quite breezy today, isn't it?"
A gust of wind passed through just then—light, but noticeable—carrying with it the scent of fuel and the distant echo of engines out on track.
King Halo nodded, one hand lifting to adjust the hairpiece on her right ear.
"Yeah… kind of odd."
She glanced upward slightly.
"Yesterday, there was barely any wind at all."
Forever Young let out a small laugh, hands resting casually at her sides.
"That's what happens near the sea."
She tilted her head, watching the flags flutter above the garages.
"Winds shift a lot more than you'd expect."
Special Week blinked, surprised.
"And you've been to Monaco before, Yanko-san?"
Forever Young shook her head, still smiling.
"Not even once."
A small shrug.
"This is my first time."
Meanwhile—
Rudolf had already stepped away from the group.
Drawn—naturally—toward the car.
She approached the McLaren M23D from the right side, her steps slowing as she reached the exposed cockpit.
Then she leaned slightly.
Peering inside.
Her eyes scanned the interior.
Three analog Smiths gauges sat directly ahead—simple, circular, mechanical.
No screens.
No telemetry displays.
No layered systems.
Just information.
Raw.
Immediate.
Below them—
A row of five switches.
Plain.
Labeled with small adhesive tags.
Rev Limit.
Light.
Start.
Fuel.
Ignition.
Rudolf's eyebrows lowered slightly.
"…So basic."
A pause.
"…So… analog."
Suzuka stepped around from the opposite side, resting one hand lightly on the bodywork.
A faint smile.
"There's not much to it."
She glanced into the cockpit.
"Just the essentials. Nothing more."
Rudolf's eyes shifted to one particular switch.
"Start."
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
"…And a Formula One car has a starter?"
Suzuka shook her head.
"Not in the way you're thinking."
She stepped closer, resting her hand along the edge of the cockpit.
"It uses a compressed-air starter."
Rudolf tilted her head.
"A… compressed-air starter?"
Suzuka nodded.
"It works by releasing stored high-pressure air into a small motor."
She gestured lightly with her hand.
"That motor spins rapidly… which turns the engine's flywheel."
A pause.
"And that's what brings the engine to life."
Maruzensky smirked, clearly entertained.
"A car with no real tech…"
She crossed her arms, grinning.
"Now that's something I absolutely love."
King Halo shook her head, smiling faintly.
"And yet you drove Chiyono-chan's Aventador like it was nothing."
Maruzensky raised her shoulders slightly, hands lifting in a casual shrug.
"Well…"
A small grin.
"Chiyono-chan wanted my input."
She tilted her head.
"Whether a turbocharger setup would work on her Aventador."
Then she shook her head.
"But in the end—she stayed naturally aspirated."
Special Week stepped closer to Suzuka, curiosity pulling her in.
She leaned slightly, peeking into the cockpit of the McLaren.
Her ears twitched.
"…It's really tight in here, isn't it?"
Suzuka gave a small shrug.
"Not much space, no."
Then a faint smile.
"But it's just enough to fit me."
Special Week turned her head.
"You've already sat in it, Suzuka-san?"
Suzuka nodded.
"I just had my seat fitting a few minutes ago."
She tapped lightly against the cockpit edge.
"So far—it fits perfectly."
Special Week looked back at the seat.
Then at the narrow opening.
Then back again.
"Huh…"
She tapped her chin thoughtfully.
"I wonder if I could fit in it…"
Rudolf straightened, stepping back slightly.
"I think…"
A calm glance toward Special Week.
"…that's a question for another time."
A light laugh passed through the group.
But even as they joked—
The car remained.
Silent.
Waiting.
"Sure she can!"
A voice came from the other side of the garage.
The mechanic who had been crouched near the rear assembly stood up, wiping his hands before walking over toward them.
"We've still got plenty of time before Class E," he added with a friendly shrug. "So… why not?"
Rudolf glanced at him, composed as always.
"Are you not working on something, sir?"
The mechanic shook his head lightly.
"Nothing critical at the moment. We're just doing final checks at the rear—making sure everything's in order."
He gestured back toward the exposed engine.
"The car runs, systems are good. Right now, it's about making sure it stays that way through the entire race weekend."
Then he leaned into the cockpit, gently pulling aside the blue Willans shoulder harness straps.
He tapped the seat lightly.
"Alright, Miss Spe—step in and slide down into the cockpit."
Special Week hesitated for just a second.
Then—
She placed her right hand on the roll hoop.
Careful.
Deliberate.
Her left foot stepped in first—finding space between the narrow chassis walls.
Then the other.
She turned forward, one hand instinctively holding her skirt in place as she lowered herself down—
Sliding—
Until—
Her body dropped into position.
Her legs extended forward into the pedal box.
Her eyes widened instantly.
"Whoa… I'm sunk in!"
Suzuka chuckled softly, watching from the side.
"That's pretty much how it is."
She crossed her arms loosely.
"Formula One seating."
A small pause.
"You're not fully laid down like in the McLaren MP4/6 I drove last month…"
A faint smile.
"But the vision is similar."
She gestured lightly toward the seat.
"And it's not really a 'seat' either."
A tap against the cockpit edge.
"You're sitting on a thin foam pad."
Then, pointing behind—
"Back cushions for support."
A shrug.
"That's about it."
Special Week shifted slightly inside, adjusting her shoulders.
Then she pointed toward the dashboard.
"And the gauges…"
Her ears twitched.
"There are so few. Is that normal?"
Suzuka nodded.
"Yep."
She leaned in slightly, pointing them out one by one.
"The top left—oil pressure."
Her finger moved lower.
"Below that—oil temperature."
Then she pointed to the center gauge.
"This one's your chronometric tachometer."
Her tone sharpened slightly.
"The red mark shows the highest RPM reached."
Special Week raised her hand slightly.
"Is that the redline?"
Suzuka shook her head.
Before she could answer—
The mechanic stepped in.
"Cars like these… don't really have a redline."
Special Week tilted her head.
"No redline?"
The mechanic nodded.
"Engines like this—"
He gestured toward the exposed Ford-Cosworth DFV behind them.
"—they rev until they run out of breath."
A pause.
"Meaning they can't pull in enough air or expel exhaust gases efficiently anymore."
Special Week nodded slowly, processing.
"So… Suzuka-san can just rev the engine as high as it can go?"
Suzuka scratched her cheek with a small chuckle.
The mechanic shrugged.
"Well… we prefer she keeps it within reasonable limits."
A slight grin.
"But in a battle?"
A pause.
"Yeah. You can push it past that point."
Then—
"Just not for long."
"Ah… I see!"
Special Week nodded, understanding now.
Suzuka stepped back, crossing her arms again, watching.
Forever Young crouched beside her, resting her arms on her knees as she looked at Special Week in the cockpit.
"Well?"
A grin.
"What do you think, Spe-chan?"
Special Week looked at Suzuka.
Suzuka smiled back.
Then she turned toward Forever Young.
A firm nod.
"I think Suzuka-san has a great chance."
A small pause.
"Even with how… barebones this car is."
Then—
Her eyes shifted.
Toward the sides of the cockpit.
The structure around her.
"Speaking of which…"
She frowned slightly.
"Where are the fuel tanks?"
Suzuka smiled.
"You're looking at them."
Special Week blinked.
"…Huh?"
Suzuka chuckled.
"The sidepods."
She tapped the outer body lightly.
"They're fuel tanks."
Then she pointed behind the seat.
"And there's another tank behind you."
Special Week froze.
Her eyes widened.
"…So I'm sitting between a fire hazard?!"
The entire group burst into laughter.
The mechanic nodded casually.
"Pretty much!"
Suzuka nodded as well.
"Cars back then were incredibly compact."
A small shrug.
"Everything had to fit somewhere."
Special Week nodded quickly.
"Yeah… I can tell!"
She glanced around again, suddenly much more aware of her surroundings.
Suzuka crouched down again beside her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.
"Relax, Spe-chan."
Her tone softened.
"We're going to be alright."
Special Week looked up at her.
Concern still there.
"P-Please don't take any risks…"
Suzuka shook her head slightly.
"I can't promise that."
A pause.
"A race itself… is a risk."
She stood back up.
But her expression remained calm.
"However…"
A small nod.
"I'll do everything I can to bring the car back intact by the end of the weekend."
Special Week slowly nodded.
She then turned toward the mechanic.
He nodded confidently.
"We trust Suzuka."
A glance toward the McLaren.
"Especially with a car like this."
A small smile.
"She'll do just fine, Spe."
Rudolf stepped forward slightly.
"We're here as well."
Her voice steady.
"If anything happens… we'll handle it."
A brief pause.
"And we won't let anything bad happen."
King Halo nodded beside her.
Then looked at Special Week.
"We're here."
Simple.
Certain.
"For each other."
Special Week looked up at Rudolf.
Then at Halo.
Then at Suzuka.
And smiled.
A slow—
But genuine nod.
Just then—
Footsteps passed by the garage.
Casual.
Unhurried.
Voices followed.
"Monaco is really beautiful! I really should try traveling more when I can!"
King Halo's ears perked instantly.
"Eh?"
Rudolf blinked, noticing the sudden reaction.
She glanced at Halo.
"Something wrong, King?"
Halo shrugged lightly—but her expression said otherwise.
She exhaled.
"…I thought I just heard Urara-chan's voice."
Then—
Again.
Clearer this time.
"Seriously though! This place is amazing! Beautiful views, fancy cars… and now classic race cars!"
And another voice followed.
Calm.
Familiar.
"Mhm… I'm just glad we managed to find a flight in time. Let alone tickets to this race."
Halo's eyes narrowed.
Her thoughts sharpened.
That voice…
She turned.
And froze.
"Eh?!"
Standing just outside the garage—
Were two familiar figures.
Sirius Symboli.
And—
Haru Urara.
Urara turned toward the garage.
Her eyes lit up instantly.
"Halo-san!!!"
Without hesitation—
She jogged forward.
Halo crouched slightly as Urara approached, still processing what she was seeing.
"Urara-chan?! Wh—what are you doing here?!"
Urara beamed, practically glowing with excitement.
"Sirius-san found a flight here!"
She clasped her hands together.
"And tickets were on sale! I don't have any races for the next couple weeks, so she brought me along!"
Forever Young chuckled, clearly amused by the sudden reunion.
"Nice to see you two here."
She scratched her cheek, then glanced at Sirius with a teasing smirk.
"So… did you fly commercial?"
A pause.
"Or did you take your Bonanza all the way across Asia and Europe with a crap ton of stops on the way?"
Sirius closed her eyes.
Smiling.
Her eyebrow twitched.
Then she looked at Forever Young—
And casually flipped her off.
Still smiling.
"And you can go screw yourself."
Forever Young burst out laughing.
Sirius chuckled, shaking her head.
"But seriously…"
She crossed her arms lightly.
"Like Urara said—ANA had a special deal."
A shrug.
"Good price. Good timing."
She glanced sideways at Urara.
"And since she had nothing better to do back on campus…"
A faint smirk.
"I brought her along."
Meanwhile—
Inside the cockpit—
Special Week had been watching the entire exchange unfold.
She blinked.
Then carefully pushed herself up, bracing against the cockpit edge.
One leg out.
Then the other.
With a bit of effort, she stepped back onto solid ground.
Behind her, the mechanic had already returned to the rear of the McLaren M23D, resuming work—tools clinking softly as adjustments continued.
Special Week dusted herself off slightly, then turned toward the newcomers.
Her face lit up.
"Urara-chan! Sirius-san!"
The group had grown.
Unexpectedly.
But naturally.
Because even here—
Halfway across the world—
They still found each other.
And just beyond the garage—
The sound of engines continued to rise.
Just then—
A sound tore through the air.
CRASH.
Loud.
Violent.
Unmistakable.
Everyone flinched.
Instinct kicked in.
Heads turned toward the track.
Special Week's ears snapped upright.
"What was that?!"
Rudolf blinked, already shifting her stance toward the pit exit.
"I don't know…"
A beat.
"…but someone's crashed."
They moved immediately.
No hesitation.
Footsteps quickened as the group headed toward the nearest TV display near the back of the pit lane, weaving past crews and equipment as tension spread through the paddock.
Above them—
The trackside speakers crackled to life.
The commentators' voices cut through the air.
"And Jean Alesi has spun—and crashed into the barriers at the Nouvelle Chicane!"
They reached the large screen just as the replay began.
The footage rolled.
A red car—
Low.
Classic.
The Ferrari 312.
It charged down toward the Nouvelle Chicane.
Fast.
Committed.
Then—
The rear stepped out.
Sudden.
Unforgiving.
The car snapped left.
No time to recover—
The front slammed into the guardrail.
Hard.
The impact shattered the nose.
Fragments scattered.
The car spun violently across the track—
And came to a halt.
Coolant spilled out, streaking across the asphalt.
The replay cut.
Switched angles.
Now—
The driver.
Jean Alesi.
Climbing out.
Slowly.
But under his own power.
A collective breath.
Suzuka exhaled quietly.
"I'm glad Jean's okay…"
Rudolf shook her head, her expression tightening slightly.
"Still… it's hard to watch."
Suzuka nodded.
"It is."
A brief pause.
"But it's a risk we all knowingly take."
Special Week looked at her, concern still lingering.
"Y-You think it was driver error?"
Suzuka tilted her head slightly.
"Could be anything."
She glanced back at the screen.
"Cold tires."
"Brake balance."
"Surface conditions."
Then—
Her eyes sharpened just a bit.
"And like I said before…"
"These cars are loose."
A beat.
"Even under braking."
On the track—
Yellow flags waved.
Marshals moved quickly.
The damaged Ferrari was carefully cleared away, lifted and rolled off as cleanup crews worked the corner.
The tension eased—but only slightly.
Because the reminder remained.
This was Monaco.
Eventually—
Time ticked down.
Engines returned to the pit lane.
One by one.
Then—
Silence.
Free Practice for Class D came to an end.
The final times flashed across the screens.
At the top—
Michael Lyons.
Driving the Surtees TS9.
Fastest of the session.
But for Suzuka—
The leaderboard didn't matter.
Not yet.
Her eyes lingered on the now-empty track.
Then shifted.
Toward the chicane.
Where the crash had happened.
Not fear.
Not hesitation.
Just understanding.
Minutes passed.
Engines cooled.
Then—
They came back to life.
One by one, the Class E cars rolled out of their garages.
Mechanics pushed them carefully into the pit lane, hands on bodywork, eyes sharp, movements precise.
The air changed again.
From observation—
To anticipation.
At the front of the queue—
A flash of red.
The Ferrari 312T2.
Once driven by Niki Lauda.
Sitting silently..
Waiting.
And directly behind it—
White and red.
Low.
Compact.
Alive.
The McLaren M23D.
Once piloted by James Hunt.
Now—
Suzuka's.
Inside the cockpit—
Silence Suzuka sat still.
Her balaclava rested loosely atop her head, not yet fully pulled down.
Her hands rested quietly on her lap.
No fidgeting.
No wasted motion.
Her eyes were forward—
But not seeing the pit lane.
She was already on track.
Through Sainte Dévote.
Up Beau Rivage.
Across Casino.
Down toward Mirabeau.
Into the hairpin.
Through the tunnel.
Braking into the chicane.
Balancing the car.
Catching the rear.
Over.
And over again.
Flat out.
A shadow moved beside her.
Her crew chief approached from the right sidepod and crouched down.
Suzuka leaned slightly toward him.
Without looking away—
She spoke.
"Seems like the Hunt–Lauda rivalry continues…"
A faint smirk.
"…even with the cars."
The crew chief nodded.
"Yeah."
A glance ahead at the Ferrari.
"It does."
He crossed his arms briefly.
"That one's being driven by Chris Macallister."
A pause.
"American."
Suzuka nodded once.
Calm.
Acknowledged.
The crew chief returned the nod and stepped away, leaving her to her focus.
Another presence approached.
Forever Young.
She crouched beside Suzuka, resting one hand lightly on her knee.
"Hey…"
A softer tone.
"How are you feeling?"
Suzuka nodded.
"Doing alright."
A small breath.
"Confident."
Forever Young glanced forward—
At the Ferrari ahead.
Then back at Suzuka.
"Got anything on that guy?"
A slight tilt of her head.
"Looks like he's your rival today."
Suzuka nodded.
"Macallister. Chris."
Then she glanced sideways.
"He's American, Yanko-kun."
Forever Young's ears twitched.
Her expression changed.
Subtle.
But sharp.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Then—
She leaned closer.
Lowering her voice.
"…Go beat this American son of a bitch for me."
A pause.
"For my Dubai Cup loss."
Suzuka looked at her.
And smirked.
A quiet confidence.
She nodded once.
"Will do."
Forever Young smirked back.
Satisfied.
She gave Suzuka's shoulder a firm pat—
Then stood and walked off toward the barriers.
Moments later—
Special Week stepped in.
She crouched slightly, her usual warmth returning.
"Suzuka-san?"
Suzuka blinked.
"Hm?"
Special Week smiled brightly.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
She raised a thumbs-up.
"Go get them, Ace."
Suzuka's expression softened.
She nodded—
And returned the gesture.
Special Week stood and stepped back, joining the others behind the barrier.
Then—
A sharp clap cut through the air.
The mechanic.
Loud.
Clear.
"It's time, Suzuka!"
A grin.
"Time to fire her up!"
Suzuka nodded.
No words.
Just action.
She pulled her balaclava down fully over her head.
Her engineer stepped in from the left, already holding her helmet.
Suzuka took it.
Lifted it.
Placed it down over her head in one smooth motion.
The world narrowed.
She secured the chin strap.
Tight.
Precise.
The engineer leaned in, connecting the HANS device tethers to the helmet.
A firm click on each side.
Locked.
He stepped back slightly.
Crouched.
And gave a thumbs-up.
Suzuka looked at him.
Then—
Returned it.
The car sat ready.
Engine silent.
For now.
But not for long.
Because in moments—
That silence—
Would be replaced.
By the sound of history—
Coming back to life.
A cameraman stepped into position near the right side of the pit lane.
Phone mounted.
Stabilizer steady.
Streaming live.
The lens focused—
Directly on Suzuka.
Behind the barriers, Sirius Symboli watched the broadcast on her phone, one eyebrow slightly raised as the stream picked up traction.
Around the circuit, the commentators' voices echoed through the speakers.
"And for the first time in the Grand Prix de Monaco Historique, we have a female driver competing in this category."
A brief pause.
"And also—the first… Uma… Uma… Musume?"
The second commentator chuckled lightly.
"Umamusume."
"Right—Umamusume. She's Silence Suzuka."
A shift in tone—more serious now.
"A legendary front-runner from the Umamusume Racing Association."
"Career record—ten wins, best finish outside of that being fifteenth."
"And in her fourth season," the second commentator added, "she went undefeated."
"Set new records in the Kokura Daishoten and Kinko Sho."
"So she's quite popular back in Japan then?"
"That's putting it lightly."
A slight emphasis.
"She's also had prior experience with McLaren machinery."
"She drove the McLaren MP4/4 at Goodwood last year…"
"And just last month—she handled Ayrton Senna's McLaren MP4/6 ahead of the Japanese Grand Prix."
"And you mentioned earlier—her driving style?"
"Very similar to Senna's."
A pause.
"Precise. Aggressive. And fearless."
Back in the cockpit—
Suzuka didn't react.
Didn't move.
Didn't acknowledge any of it.
Her world had already narrowed.
Her race engineer leaned slightly into view.
One finger raised.
A circular motion.
Engine start.
Suzuka moved.
Her hand reached to the switches beneath the gauges.
Ignition—up.
Fuel—on.
Then—
The master.
Her right hand hovered over the large red starter button.
Before that—
She grabbed the gear lever.
Wooden knob.
She moved it left.
Right.
Checked.
Neutral.
Left foot pressed the clutch.
Firm.
Right hand—
Pressed.
The compressed-air starter engaged.
A sharp, mechanical whirr cut through the pit lane.
The engine cranked—
Suzuka feathered the throttle—
Then—
Ignition.
The Ford-Cosworth DFV V8 roared to life.
Violent.
Immediate.
RPM surged—
7,500.
Climbing—
Before dropping back down, settling into a raw, uneven idle.
Around her—
Other engines followed.
One by one—
The pit lane filled with the sound of DFV V8s screaming awake.
Then—
A different note.
Deeper.
Smoother.
From the car ahead—
The Ferrari 312T2.
Its flat-12 engine came alive.
Suzuka gave a small throttle blip.
6,000 RPM.
The engine barked in response.
Sharp.
Responsive.
Her earpiece crackled.
"Radio check, Suzuka. Radio check?"
She reached down, pressing the push-to-talk button clipped near her chest.
"Loud and clear."
Her engineer responded instantly.
"Alright. Remember—this isn't the MP4/6."
"No onboard timing. We'll feed lap times from the pit board."
A pause.
"And please—keep it under eleven thousand RPM."
A faint chuckle over the radio.
"Your mechanics will cry if you blow it."
Suzuka laughed lightly.
"I'll try not to."
She shook her head slightly.
Then—
Waited.
Ahead—
The pit exit light.
Red.
Then—
Green.
The Ferrari ahead rolled forward.
Suzuka pressed the clutch.
Gear lever—
Left.
Up.
First gear.
She brought the revs up.
Steady.
Controlled.
Then—
Released the clutch.
The McLaren moved.
Smooth.
Deliberate.
Alive.
Behind the barriers—
Her group stood together.
King Halo.
Maruzensky.
Rudolf.
Haru Urara.
Sirius Symboli.
Forever Young.
Special Week.
All watching.
Phones raised.
Recording.
One by one—
The rest of the field followed.
Twenty cars.
Rolling out.
The 25-minute session—
Had begun.
Out on track—
The cars moved as one.
First lap.
Measured pace.
Building heat into tires.
Into brakes.
Into engines.
Marshals waved green flags.
Spectators leaned forward.
Eyes locked onto the circuit.
Through the Grand Hotel Hairpin—
The Ferrari ahead began to increase pace.
Suzuka followed—
But held back slightly.
Maintaining space.
Avoiding pressure from behind.
Her radio crackled again.
"Suzuka—forgot to mention."
A quick breath.
"Use only five gears."
"The ratios are short enough—sixth won't be needed."
A beat.
"Be advised."
Suzuka pressed her mic.
"Copy."
And continued.
Through the tunnel—
The engine echoing violently off the walls.
Into the Nouvelle Chicane—
Careful.
Precise.
Through Tabac—
Fast.
Committed.
Louis Chiron.
Piscine.
Rascasse.
Each corner—
A test.
Each input—
Measured.
And with every meter—
She learned.
Adapted.
Understood.
Because this wasn't just practice.
This was Suzuka—
Becoming one with the car.
On the most unforgiving street circuit in the world.
Out of Antony Noghès—
The road opened.
For the first time that lap—
Space.
The Ferrari ahead had already cleared through.
A gap.
A clean window.
Suzuka lowered her visor.
A soft click.
Her world narrowed—
To the road ahead.
Her eyes sharpened.
Right foot—
Flat.
The rear wheels broke loose instantly.
Spinning—
Fighting for grip—
Before biting.
She worked the gearbox.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
The McLaren M23D surged forward, the Ford-Cosworth DFV screaming behind her.
230 km/h.
The revs climbed—
11,200 RPM.
That raw, strained note—
The unmistakable sound of a DFV pushing past its comfort zone.
Starving.
Choking.
Still pulling.
Braking markers flashed past.
100—
50—
She slammed the brakes.
The front tires chirped.
The rear danced.
Downshift.
Third.
Second.
Perfect heel-and-toe.
No hesitation.
Turn in—
Hard right.
Her eyes locked on the apex.
A quick throttle blip—
The rear stepped out.
Controlled.
Balanced.
Minimal countersteer.
A four-wheel drift.
Clean.
Precise.
On exit—
Full throttle.
The car slid outward—
Close.
Too close—
The barrier rushed toward her—
Missed.
By inches.
Back through the gears.
Third.
Fourth.
Climbing toward Massenet—
Speed rising again.
215 km/h.
Brakes—
Hard.
Downshift.
Third.
Second.
Turn in—
Tight.
Throttle blip—
Rear loose again.
The car rotated—
Then straightened.
Back on power.
The rear tires spun violently—
The engine surged—
Lift.
Into Casino.
The road dipped.
The weight shifted.
The rear snapped—
Hard.
Suzuka's hands reacted instantly—
Countersteer.
Catch.
Hold.
The engine screamed past redline—
Beyond it—
Then—
Grip.
The car straightened.
Third gear.
Brakes again—
Heavy.
Heel-and-toe—
Down to first.
Into Mirabeau Haute.
Tight.
Slow.
Controlled.
Back on throttle—
Holding first.
The engine overrevved—
11,400 RPM—
Then—
Brakes again.
Into the Grand Hotel Hairpin.
Full lock.
Arms crossed over the wheel.
Throttle blip—
Rear loosens—
Rotate.
Exit.
Full throttle.
The rear wheels spun—
Fighting—
Scrabbling for grip.
Lift.
Into Mirabeau Bas.
Apex—
Throttle—
Exit.
Back on power—
The rear fishtailed—
Caught.
Quick.
Precise.
Lift again—
Into Portier.
Turn in—
Clip the apex—
Straighten—
Then—
Flat out.
Into the tunnel.
The rear spun briefly—
Then hooked.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
Fifth.
The sound—
Exploded.
Echoing violently within the tunnel walls.
238 km/h.
The revs climbed again—
Overrevving.
100 marker—
Brake.
Hard.
The rear twitched—
Light—
Unstable.
Turn in—
Early—
For the Nouvelle Chicane.
Aim for the barrier.
Clip—
Inner apex.
Transition—
Outer apex—
The right-side wheels ran deep—
Past the curb—
Left side—
Still within.
Legal.
Barely.
Back on throttle.
Second.
Third.
Into Tabac—
Fast.
Committed.
The engine screamed—
Overrevving again.
In—
Out—
Into Louis Chiron chicane.
Close—
Too close—
The barriers flashed by.
Tires scrubbed—
But held.
Then—
Piscine.
Faster.
Tighter.
Less forgiving.
Hard right—
Into the first apex—
Rear nearly clipped the barrier—
Transition—
Second apex—
Clear.
Throttle—
Hard.
The rear stepped out again—
Sliding—
Threatening—
Caught.
Held in second—
Engine screaming past limits again.
Brake.
Into La Rascasse.
Slow.
Tight.
Technical.
Apex—
Patience—
Throttle—
Rear spin—
Lift.
Final corner—
Antony Noghès.
Apex in—
Apex out—
Then—
Flat.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
Fifth.
The car surged down the straight.
She passed her pit box—
A board came out.
Clear.
Bold.
SUZ – 1:31.715 — P1
Below—
MAC: +16.548
LYO: +2.570
Suzuka didn't react.
Didn't celebrate.
She crossed the line—
And kept going.
Another lap.
Seven minutes into the session—
And she remained—
At the top.
Unchallenged.
Behind her—
Michael Lyons sat in P2.
Still—
2.5 seconds down.
And Suzuka—
Was only just getting started.
Back in the pit lane—
The McLaren garage had gone quiet.
No chatter.
No movement beyond the essentials.
Just eyes—
Locked onto the screen.
The group stood together, watching the live feed as Suzuka's lap replay cycled through different camera angles.
The commentators continued, voices layered over the sound of screaming engines.
King Halo blinked slowly, arms crossed.
"…Suzuka was right."
A small exhale.
"These cars are loose like crazy."
Haru Urara clenched her fist, eyes shining.
"But Suzuka-san is handling them like a champ!"
Maruzensky smirked, lowering her head slightly as another onboard clip played.
"Man…"
A soft chuckle.
"I really miss when Formula One sounded this pure."
Forever Young's eyebrows dropped halfway.
She slowly turned her head toward Maruzensky.
A deadpan look.
"…What are you, fifty?"
Maruzensky's eyes widened instantly.
She snapped toward her.
"I'm not old!"
Sirius Symboli raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained.
"Oh yeah?"
She crossed her arms.
"Then how old are you?"
Maruzensky placed a hand dramatically on her chest.
"I'm in my early thirties, thank you very much!"
A quiet chuckle came from beside them.
Suzuka's crew chief.
"You Umas really are something…"
He shook his head, smiling faintly.
"You practically stop aging in your twenties or thirties, right?"
A small sigh.
"Meanwhile, us humans…"
He gestured to himself.
"We don't get that luxury."
Before anyone could respond—
The screen changed.
Yellow flags.
Then—
Full Course Yellow.
The commentators' tone shifted immediately.
"And we've got another incident—this time at the Grand Hotel Hairpin."
The feed cut to the corner.
Tight.
Iconic.
Unforgiving.
There—
A white car sat at an awkward angle against the barriers.
The Lola T370.
Number 27.
Driven by Saif Hassan.
The group stiffened.
Ears upright.
Eyes wide.
"Oh!"
"Dear—!"
Maruzensky immediately covered her eyes.
"I can't watch!"
The replay began.
The Lola approached the hairpin.
Slow—
But something was wrong.
No rotation.
No proper turn-in.
Then—
Impact.
The front slammed into the barriers.
Hard enough to jolt the chassis.
The suspension gave way instantly.
The car stopped—
Dead.
The replay cut.
Back to live.
Marshals were already on scene.
Efficient.
Quick.
They guided the car carefully, pushing it toward an opening in the barriers.
Out of the racing line.
Out of danger.
The driver was out.
Safe.
The tension eased.
Slightly.
Moments later—
Green flags waved.
The session resumed.
But the message was clear.
Again.
Monaco—
Didn't forgive mistakes.
And out on track—
Suzuka was still pushing.
Still learning.
Still dancing—
Right on that edge.
Back at full pace—
Only for a brief window.
The circuit had barely settled from the last caution when it happened again.
Up the hill between Sainte Dévote and Beau Rivage—
A flash of color.
Then—
A halt.
The Tyrrell 007—car number 4—
Had stopped.
Smoke.
Or rather—
The absence of motion said everything.
A mechanical issue.
No crash.
No drama.
Just failure.
Marshals moved quickly.
The Tyrrell was guided away from the racing line through a gap in the barriers, pushed carefully into safety.
Another historic machine removed from the fight.
And then—
Green flags again.
Twelve minutes left.
The practice session resumed.
Suzuka—
Still P1.
Michael Lyons—
Still chasing.
Still P2.
Five minutes remaining.
And nothing had changed at the top.
In the pit lane—
King Halo walked toward the timing table near the race engineer's station.
The screens flickered with live sector data, lap deltas, and evolving gaps.
The race engineer glanced at her as she approached.
She gave a small nod.
"How are Suzuka's times?"
A faint smirk crossed the engineer's face.
"Have a look yourself, Halo-san."
He stepped aside slightly.
King Halo leaned in.
Her eyes scanned the board.
Then—
She froze.
The numbers weren't just fast.
They were controlled.
Lap after lap—
Consistency.
Machine-like precision.
Ignoring the laps interrupted by Full Course Yellow—
Her pace barely moved.
Most laps:
1:31.500 – 1:32.000
Average:
1:31.783
King Halo blinked.
Once.
Then again.
"…Huh."
Behind her, the rest of the group gathered in.
One by one.
Reading.
Processing.
Haru Urara stood quietly at the back.
Just smiling.
Soft.
Proud.
Rudolf's expression changed first.
Subtle.
Then sharper.
Her mouth opened slightly—
But no words came out.
Finally—
She spoke.
"…Whoa."
Forever Young scratched lightly at her eye, almost in disbelief.
"She…"
A pause.
"…is she really that good?"
Her gaze shifted toward Sirius Symboli.
Sirius shook her head slowly.
"Don't look at me."
A faint exhale.
"I'm just as surprised as you are."
She crossed her arms.
"This is my first time seeing Suzuka in a race like this—up close."
A pause.
"Monaco… in a vintage F1 car…"
Forever Young turned her head toward Rudolf.
"Rudolf-san?"
Rudolf nodded once.
No hesitation.
No doubt.
"Yeah."
A quiet breath.
"She's that good."
On the timing screen—
The numbers kept updating.
Unchanging at the top.
Unshaken under pressure.
Out on track—
With minutes left—
Suzuka wasn't just holding position.
She was controlling the entire practice session.
Then—
Another interruption.
Another yellow flag.
Full Course Yellow.
This time—
Up at Casino Corner.
A dark silhouette had come to a stop.
The Shadow DN5.
Numbered car of Bennett.
Stationary.
Angle wrong.
Silent.
The group in the pit lane turned sharply toward the live feed.
The replay immediately cut in.
The Shadow had been climbing Casino.
Slow.
Careful.
A hand briefly raised from the cockpit—
A warning.
Something was wrong.
And then—
A blur.
The McLaren M23D—
Suzuka—
passed at full speed.
Then—
Braking.
Hard.
Into Casino.
The Shadow coasted further before fully stopping.
Another mechanical failure.
No impact.
Just collapse.
Marshals arrived quickly.
Guiding it away.
Pushing it through a gap in the barriers.
Clearing the circuit.
The practice session is neutralized again.
Then—
Restarted.
Green flags returned.
And stayed.
Now—
The final minutes.
Suzuka—
Final lap.
The timing screen flickered.
Purple sectors.
Sector 1.
Sector 2.
Faster than anyone else.
Again.
The commentators rose in intensity.
"And Suzuka is absolutely flying through the final lap!"
"She's slightly locked up into Rascasse—but still quicker in sector three!"
The feed locked onto her car.
Antony Noghès approached.
Final corner.
She exited.
Early throttle.
Aggressive.
Committed.
The rear stepped out—
Wide.
Almost brushing the barrier.
Gas stayed down.
No hesitation.
No correction delay.
Just control.
The commentators erupted.
"Oh! Look at that—she's sideways!"
"She nearly kissed the barriers there!"
"Full commitment on exit—this is incredible!"
"That might cost her time—but she's not lifting!"
She crossed the line.
And the screen froze the result.
1:29.973
Under the 1:30 barrier.
A new benchmark.
Inside the pit lane—
Her engineer erupted.
"YES!!"
He clenched his fist, nearly shouting into the radio.
"Nicely done, Suzuka! Nicely done!"
Suzuka pressed her radio button.
Calm.
Breathing steady.
"What's my fastest?"
She rolled forward slightly on the cooldown lap as the session wound down.
Her engineer replied instantly.
"ONE TWENTY NINE POINT NINE SEVEN THREE!"
Suzuka leaned back slightly in her seat.
Visor lifted just a bit.
A small smile.
"…Nice."
A pause.
"Very nice."
Behind her—
Fifteen remaining cars continued circulating.
Careful.
Slower.
Heading toward the pit entry as the session ended.
But the headline had already been written.
Suzuka hadn't just topped the session.
She had rewritten the pace of Monaco's historic grid.
Suzuka slowly guided the McLaren M23D back into the pit box.
The front wheels crossed the painted lines first.
Then the rears.
Perfectly centered.
The session was over.
The car came to a stop.
Immediately—
Mechanics moved in.
Wheel chocks slid into place at the front and rear tires.
Hands worked quickly but carefully, securing the machine as it settled from its final run.
Inside the cockpit—
Suzuka reached forward.
Flicked the ignition switch.
The Ford-Cosworth DFV fell silent.
No more vibration.
No more roar.
Just heat—
and the faint ticking of cooling metal.
She unbuckled her helmet strap.
One motion.
Clean.
Then lifted her helmet off.
The Hans device came free from her neck as she leaned slightly forward.
Carefully—
She placed the helmet on the right sidepod.
Balaclava followed.
Damp.
Clinging slightly from sweat.
Her hair, slightly disheveled, fell forward in loose strands across her face.
A session fully lived.
A body fully engaged.
She exhaled slowly.
And turned her head left.
Her crew chief was crouched beside the car.
Smiling.
"That was a great drive out there, Suzuka."
He glanced over the front suspension briefly before looking back at her.
"How's the setup?"
Suzuka nodded once.
A soft smile forming.
"It's perfect."
The crew chief gave a satisfied nod.
"Looked like you were enjoying yourself too."
Suzuka didn't hesitate.
"Definitely did."
He chuckled, standing up and patting the side of the car lightly before heading back into the garage.
Suzuka reached down.
Unbuckled the harness.
One strap at a time.
She relaxed back into the seat.
Letting her shoulders sink slightly.
Eyes closing for a moment.
The weight of the session easing out of her body.
Then—
Footsteps.
Quick.
Light.
Familiar.
Her eyes opened.
Turned left again.
Haru Urara rushed into view.
Waving both hands.
"Suzuka-san! Suzuka-san!! You were amazing out there!!"
Suzuka chuckled softly.
"Thank you, Urara-chan."
A smirk followed from nearby.
Forever Young leaned casually against the pit wall, one hand on her hip.
"I saw you beat the American."
A grin.
"Nice work."
Suzuka shook her head lightly.
"That's not official until Sunday."
Forever Young waved her hand dismissively.
"Yeah, yeah."
But she was smiling.
"You still topped the board today."
Suzuka let out a quiet laugh.
"No surprise there."
King Halo blinked, still looking toward the car.
"…Seriously though."
Her gaze traced the M23D's low stance.
"You were sliding that thing like it was nothing."
A pause.
"After everything you said about cars from this era… you make it look easy."
Suzuka chuckled.
"It really isn't."
A small shake of her head.
"It's just instinct. Correct the slide. Keep the car straight. Don't panic."
Symboli Rudolf crossed her arms.
"But in the end…"
A calm nod.
"You were the fastest."
A beat.
"And you brought it back in one piece."
Then—
A small burst of energy.
Special Week stepped forward and crouched slightly in front of the cockpit.
She clenched her fist.
"You looked so cool out there, Suzuka-san!!"
Suzuka's expression softened.
A genuine smile.
"Thank you, Spe-chan."
The pit lane noise slowly faded into the background again.
Engines cooling.
Crowds dispersing.
Sunlight shifting over Monte Carlo.
But in that moment—
Around Suzuka—
It wasn't about lap times anymore.
Not about sectors.
Not about records.
It was about a machine brought back from another era.
A driver who understood it.
And the people who watched her do it—
In absolute disbelief.
And as Monaco's historic opening day came to a close—
One thing was already clear.
Suzuka hadn't just adapted to the past.
She had owned it.