My Formula 1 System

Luca was still in his nightwear as he prepared to temporarily leave the house in order to go get the paper. The inside of the house was cozy, silent, rayless, and somber as if there was no electricity, but the quiet growls of running appliances were a gentle reminder that power still coursed through.

Luca traversed through the hallways and rooms, carrying out his sanitary morning duties before concluding that the newspaper boy or girl must have already done their job by now.

He carefully replaced his cleaning tools before wiping his hands and grabbing a banana. The silent house simply watched him move about with a purpose that was respectable.

Very soon, within five years' time, this very house could get to see a full family occupying within. From the first set of little feet to probably one or two more, depending on how far Luca and Isabella wanted to express their infatuation.

Both of them had never verbally vented this, but it was a silently communicated topic that had long since been entertained by both parties, who—ahem—had never been using protection.

Isabella was on a simple 2-year course in order to get her Associate Degree, HND, and Technical Certificate, all qualifications recognized in most countries. When she'd be done, she would be around 20—21 years old, which many termed as the ripest age of fertilization.

By then, Mrs. Rennick with cancer, no matter how small, and Mr. Schafer who once survived a partial stroke, would be eager to have their union's results as quickly as possible since they were both aging.

Luca closed the main door behind him. He gently unpeeled the banana before beginning his walk toward the post in the distance. He was quite sure the newspaper brigader had no idea it was Luca Rennick who owned that massive property nestled deep within the foggy stretch when seen from the post.

As Luca walked, he stopped in the middle of a bite in his banana when he saw a familiar figure approaching him. The newspaper he intended to collect was already in the figure's possession.

Luca didn't know why, but he felt like Mallow had somehow just thoroughly ruined his morning with his presence, dressed in a dark cloak as usual like some brooding antagonist.

"Where's your car?"

Luca asked once they converged. The man looked like he hadn't slept much, and dressed more like the leader of a group of hoodlums than the official manager of a Formula One driver.

"Where's your slippers?"

Mallow shot back without skipping a beat. Luca looked down at his bare feet and chuckled. He attempted to take the newspaper from him, but Mallow moved it out of immediate reach and instead suggested they head back into the house.

The two walked shoulder to shoulder into the property. Luca flicked on a few lights while Mallow moved into the kitchen, beginning to make some coffee.

Once Luca joined him in the kitchen, Mallow plopped the newspaper down on the center table with zero ceremony.

Fwap!

"Read up, my boy."

Mallow's words filtered into Luca's ears, but he could swear he didn't actually hear anything except the thud of the newspaper hitting the table.

All of a sudden, the very object he had planned to casually read that morning now felt disturbingly heavy to even touch, given the way Mallow had just presented it.

Luca slid it over to himself, picked it up, and straightened it to begin reading. He didn't even need to flip to any particular page or search for anything that concerned him because right there on the cover page, broad and undeniable, was his race-winning photo, with faint fireworks scintillating in the late afternoon sky behind him.

>IS HE HUMAN?

->Luca Rennick stuns world with Bahrain win after nearly crashing out twice.

Looking around the photo and headline, Luca couldn't help but wonder if the press, news, or any media outlet in the world had anything else to talk about besides F1.

>ONE MAN STAYED STANDING

->Luca Rennick survives grave crash, still wins. DiMarco hospitalized.

->After surviving two brutal collisions, Luca Rennick emerges champion of F1 season opener.

The only few non-F1 headlines were situated in narrow sidebars and bottom columns, like some mention of Eurozone inflation, a solar flare event currently ongoing, and a few other brief segments. But it was obviously clear what this news company had chosen to prioritize.

Mallow pointed toward a particular column, and Luca navigated to the designated page.

There, Luca saw a photo of a fellow Formula 1 driver in a situation every sportsman did their utmost to avoid.

Hospitalized. In recovery.

Davide DiMarco was captured lying on a hospital bed, partially upright. A medical brace curved gently around his lower torso, supporting his waist and abdomen. His chest was bandaged lightly, and his arm rested beside him with faint IV tubes attached

His hair was unkempt, and his face even despite the clear exhaustion, still bore that natural pride he was notoriously known for. Luca knitted his brows at the sight of the photo, his mind piecing together a puzzle that was already obvious to the rest of the world.

->Davide DiMarco remains under close observation following the violent Bahrain collision. Recovery expected to take several months, says Velocità.

->from the left; Murad isa Khel (D.O.F), Uberto Spagnola (Velocità Pres.), Eduardo DiMarco (brother), Davide DiMarco, Nicolao Finazzi (T.P), Iida Yoshiya (Head doc.), Aido Martino (Agent)

->No Fast Recovery: Velocità's Star Driver Begins Long Road Back from Sakhir Horror

Luca looked up at Mallow and asked him what the injury was.

"What exactly did he suffer?"

"Two fractured ribs, minor spinal contusion, and a deep internal bruising in the lower abdomen. No internal bleeding, but the trauma was severe. They say six months, minimum. He won't be allowed near a simulator till at least four."

Luca turned his eyes back to the paper with a neutral expression though it leaned toward pity at how things had turned out.

"I was only defending myself and that's why we collided."

Mallow almost spat out his coffee. His eyes were wide with exaggerated incredulity, and he stamped his fist on the table.

"You're telling me… you're feeling bad? Sad? A pang of regret?!"

Luca shrugged with a small new smile on his face as he leaned back on the chair he was seated in. He didn't see a reason not to feel a momentary pity for a rival who was going to miss several races... and possibly lose his shot at the championship... because of an injury.

Mallow took this with outrage.

"Do you know what you've done? You've just eliminated one of the final contenders for the world title, Luca! One less! You've reduced the championship equation—trimmed it down with your bare hands! The road to glory just narrowed and you're still sitting there feeling some pity for the enemy?!"

"That's six months of a titan erased from the grid! One of the Supers—gone. It's down to Antonio, Ailbeart... and you!"

"Now tell me again—you feel pity?"

Luca began to chuckle at Mallow's antics. The man was flaring in his face with the most animated and hilarious expressions

He shrugged again as he spoke.

"It's just what everyone will make of this now. They'll all be saying I plan to retire my rivals, that I'm targeting the Italian Motorsport Community, and all the usual foul talk that's always followed me, no matter if I do good or bad. I'm sure you've heard them?"

Mallow sighed and took a deep breath. He looked at Luca and how the boy had grown in all aspects. He saw him as a son, and conversations like this between them were more than normal. Regular's a better word.

He told Luca to stand, and when he did, Mallow placed both hands firmly on his shoulders.

"Tell me—does the lion care about the opinion of the sheep?"

Luca answered, "No."

"Good. Now—does the lion also care about the opinion of his predatory opponent?"

Again, Luca's reply was a calm, confident no. Mallow nodded.

"If that's the case, then why give a fuck about the opinion of people who've never even entered a goddamn F1 car? And also the opinion of other rivals who want your blood spilled?"

"Take a look at Robert Jakobsen, Promising star for Squadra Corse. Rookie of the Year contender. Fast hands. Clean lines. Half the grid thought he'd be champion within three seasons. But you know who ended that story before it could even hit its peak?"

"Davide. Fucking. DiMarco. Singapore Grand Prix. Three years ago. Jakobsen shattered both wrists. His spine needed correction. He never came back."

Mallow's voice cracked just once before steadying again.

"Did anyone burn DiMarco's name? No. They called it a racing incident. They said he was ruthless. They called it the spirit of competition and an unfortunate outcome."

"The world is full of hypocrites, Luca. And it's your job to win, again and again, until they choke on your name."