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The Great Automation Run | Chapter 16 and final results!


After an excruciatingly long flight, Cindy calls for a taxi to take her to the docks. A few hours later, she pulls her bright red Thunderbolt out of its container. It roars to life, it’s rumble echoing of the inside of the container, and throughout the shipyard, drawing tons of stares. She quickly sprints off after that.

She immediately takes to the back roads just to see what her new machine can do. It still corners masterfully, and the post-apex acceleration is gutwrenching. And when she eventually forces herself onto the highway, she makes sure to go through all the gears, doing a few pulls in the process. She almost gets the attention of some local cops, but she pulls far away before they can read her plates.

sigh “That was close.” She decides to short shift until the start to not attract needless attention. Fortunately, as she thought many others would do, she purchased a police scanner, and just as she set it up, heard a call about a red sports car fleeing from officers. She decides to take back roads until she crosses the border into Spain.

She then decides to disconnect 4 of her cylinders until the start to reduce the noise slightly. Somehow, this and a ham fisted excuse of a leaky manifold gets her past cops, who don’t suspect it of being that fast. That and her moderately broken Spanish may have confused them. “Either way, I’m glad they bought it, but they really, the fact they didn’t even question my Virginia plates just shows incompetence.”

Upon arrival at the start, she scanned the competition and got the start time and location. “I was expecting more like the XR3 over there. And I certainly didn’t expect a massive pickup with a makeshift hot tub in the back. But I can’t let my guard down. Especially since the cops seem to be onto us.”

Speaking of, the scanner lights up with more chatter about race related activities in her area, so she flees before they get the chance to spot her and heads off to the nearest hotel.


A roadster glides through the dark streets of Malaga. Only the rough sound of a high-strung V6 can be heard. The noise attracts a bit of attention from the local youths so Teuvo decides to give them a small show by accelerating quickly to the distance. Jorma isn’t too happy by this.

Jorma: Could you calm down a bit? We still don’t know where we are and where to go next.

Teuvo: You have the map, you’ll need to instruct me where to go.

Jorma: Well, ok… Go left at the next intersection. I think.

Teuvo: Mm… Hey, this seems like the right place! There’s a lot of cars and… Are those two Lenin and Marx squatting on the side of the road there?

Jorma: Must be some kind of weird cosplayers or something. Let’s leave them be.

Teuvo parks between two normal cars and they decide to go scope out the competition for a bit. Teuvo tries to eye out his opponents while Jorma concentrates on the cars. Returning back to their car, Jorma says: “This is going to be tough. Some of those cars have monstrous amounts of power.” “What, those ricers? You sure? Like, the only car there that’s going to be even a challenge is that Assoluto,” Teuvo said, actually meaning it. “Looks can deceive. It’s like they’ve done it on purpose. But don’t worry too much, our car is one of the lightest cars around and it has decent amounts of power. We won’t be dead last,” Jorma assures.

Back in the car, Teuvo asks: “What now? The race won’t start yet, we’ll have to wait for a few hours.” “I’m going to make sure everything is alright with the car, then we’ll go for a test drive. While I tinker with it, you can entertain yourself with this,” Jorma says and tosses a portable cassette player onto Teuvo’s lap. It has an old Ramones cassette in it. “Well, I guess I can work with this,” he says and hits the play button.


Just a few hours before the start, Walter had taken a look at some of the other entries’ cars and their drivers. He knew that his Guardsman would be up against a very diverse field, which included one huge truck and quite a few actual supercars. But he wasn’t here to win the race; he wanted to see if a few minor modifications could make a big difference on the Guardsman’s performance. He then checked his car and prepared to start the race before remarking to himself, “It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it - and that person will be me.”

And with that, he set off towards the starting line in Malaga to embark on what would either be the trip of a lifetime… or an utter nightmare.


Toughtower would soon take the wheel from McCrackwick for the last six hours or so before they arrive in Malaga to rest up before the start of the race. They’ve both been at a bit of a loss as to who the agents might be - they didn’t suppose they would be running in one of the muscle cars entered. Too obvious. That somewhat beaten looking police interceptor might be something to take a closer look at.

As for the rest, much of the field seemed just too creative for someone from Carr to come up with. Just the other day, when they where cruising down the highway at a reasonably easy 150 mph they were quite astounded at having been passed by a historical exhibition piece.

“Was that a Peregrine just now?” McCrackwick asked with a slightly puzzled look at the speedo.
“Sure looked like one” Toughtower replied, “Damn, I had a poster of one of these in my bedroom when I was young, that was even before…”
“Before the Chicxulub Meteor struck the planet?” McCrackwick cut the Lawyer short.
“Just shut up, will you? You know you’re under my care - you go out of line, I can have you rot in a cell so deep underground you wouldn’t even notice if another one went down.”

Just as they were getting up to temperature for yet another one of their little wordfights, a pink something thundered past them at a speed so ludicrous the indistinct shape of the car shimmering through the heat haze from the exhaust almost seemed to leave an oddly patterned trail behind.

“What the hell was that?” McCrackwick wondered, upon which Toughtower replied in disbelief: “They’ve gone to plaid…”


Considering the fact that this will soon go into 1000 replies territory, I’d recommend creating a separate thread for @Mr.Computah to post the official story, and the racers to keep posting here. That would make it easier to navigate the events of the race


The following is the first part of, uh, what seems to be turning out to be a full blown novel which I don’t have time to write. Most likely I will not be writing nearly as much for the rest of the challenge. Also be warned, some parts are a bit overwritten because I haven’t had a chance to edit and very large chunks of what follows is drama, as opposed to what I tend to write, which is action and thriller.

For the TL;DR, here is the vital information:

Driver: Annabel Herrington
Age: 23
Background: Anna is the granddaughter of the founder of Armada Motors, Arthur Herrington. A fiesty, impetuous engineer who isn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty, she laments the crumbling legacy of her late grandfather in a manufacturer that is now more concerned with building practical ecoboxes that sell instead of pure sports cars. Marginalised by her poor relationship with the executive board of the company, she wishes to revive the brand by crafting a legend so great that the company will have no choice but to see the wisdom in staying true to the original brand vision. As for how her participation in the race transpires… you’ll have to read on.
Car: 1984 Armada Motors Group B EVO RC


With 719bhp of engine-swapped boosted AWD, the modified car retains much of its rally roots, but also features arch flares housing much wider wheels and a drivetrain lifted from a modern supercar. Emphasis placed on reliability and drivability despite that amount of power, given the rigors of the journey ahead.

Woman on a Mission

A brief foreword, if I may: this tale takes place in a world of men, and sometimes, men and their women, for behind every great man is a woman. The woman in the title, however, is determined to stay behind no man. Yet, thanks to the nature of this world, it will take many lines of many men to explain the circumstances of her ascension, and the legend of her mission. Yet for this, her spirit will prevail, and her deeds will most certainly extend far beyond the reaches of this episode, etched indelibly into the history of an entire motoring marque.

This is the story of the women of the founding family of Armada Motors.

Chapter 1

Of Suits and Sportscars

We begin in Hethel, a small country village just southwest of Norwich, on the Eastern head of that grand country known as Britain. Home to the formerly-warehouses factory of Armada Motors, founded by one Arthur “Ableman” Herrington. Arthur was a mechanical engineer, graduating one day, drafted the next to the Navy for the duration of the Second Great War. What he did during the war was a lot of wrenching and never mind the rest. After the war, he knew two things: one, that he never wanted anything to do with war ever again, and two, that cars were the future and the Brits would love their sport. And there were no shortage of like-minded men, emerging from tanks and jeeps and planes, who wished to partake in this vision, for want of honest work, and for building things once more instead of knocking them down or blowing them up, so it was that several dozen of them joined forces and, under the makeshift spotlights in the abandoned sheds of a healing nation, they set about creating the joy of four-wheeled power.

Time, and a generation passed. Arthur wed his university sweetheart, Maisy, and they had a daughter, Christine. Armada Motors thrived in the heady fumes of gasoline, racing and placing and just sometimes, even winning. The faithful bought their cars for their thrill and their risk. The afficionados bought them for their uncommonness under the hood. These were not the machines to multiply by their hundreds of thousands, but like all other great things British, gradually to be collected and become revered for the tales of their exploits. This was how the hundreds of Armada Motors flocked to the local legend, with names such as Sprite, Trident, Talon, yes, how could anybody forget the Talon, and of course, the most bonkers of them all, the Evo RC.

But sometimes, legend alone is not enough to preserve the legacy of survival, propogation and persistence. Which was why, like all great things British, they kept running out of money. Other companies had ther factories closed down, their ownership transferred offshore with each ebb of the economic tide. As for Armada, just as their misadventures rivalled their own rivals, so too did the regular rounds of near-crippling deficits and dead-end projects that left gaping black holes in their ledgers, and all through the eighties, theirs was the plentiful company of debt collectors, the boys in blue and the Crown knocking at their doors. To top it all off, Arthur’s dream was to enter the Evo RC into Group B rally, thus cementing its place among the legends of legends, but on the cusp of their preparation, Group B crashed and burned, along with the fiery remains of its cars and drivers, and the dream ended before it began.

In 1987, Arthur, at the ripe old age of 69, dispensed with the drudgery of a possible retirement plan in the confines of a gaol cell, and skipped straight to shuffling off his mortal coil by virtue of a coronary. At this time, he, finally admitting his acumen was for engineering and not business, had just assigned the task of reviving the dream of Armada, through whatever means necessary, to the sharp-looking bespectacled finance-looking type, one Graham Streeton. Graham’s gift lay not just with numbers, however, but also with observation, all the world’s information filtering through the prisms of his lenses into a picture for his mind’s eye. And his mind’s eye was always spotting the trends just as they were engendered. In the case of the 80s and motoring, it was the rise of the hot hatch. Armada may have done much with small cars, light cars, fun cars, but never quite such a thing as the front-engined hot hatch, but Graham made a compelling case. Armada rose to the occasion and made a not-so-compelling hot hatch. It did little to impact upon their fortunes, and so Arthur died under the impression the company was to die with him, scattered along with his ashes, the memories of what they achieved to follow him through the Pearly Gates.

But Maisy and Christine survived Arthur, Christine herself already married and with a daughter, Annabel. And as three generations of Armada Motors women, they witnessed Graham’s labor starting to bear fruit. The first Fore may have been fussy and confused, but the second generation, starting in 1991, came to critical acclaim and the promise of a new generation of followers. Seeing this, Graham knew what it was that needed to happen. And that is where we stand today: with him having just emerged from an executive board meeting having reached a consensus to squash any notion of a follow-up to the legendary Evo RC and its tipo 308 from across the Channel, on the grounds that its relevance had long been buried along with Arthur’s ashes.

“Graaaaaaaham! What is the meaning of this!”

There it was, the British lilt of rising indignation, come to assail him. Sure enough, in all her twenty-three years of frizzy brunette and freckled complexion pocket rocket, was Annabel Herrington, Arthur’s granddaughter, Armada’s crown princess. In her, Graham saw Arthur’s hopes, dreams and passions. And complete lack of business sense. For her part, Annabel saw in Graham a fusty suit with a receding hairline and old mothballs for testicles. As it were, she was marching across the factory floor, in her stained coveralls, hands on hips and war writ on her face, a scowl beneath her greasy warpaint as she approached.

“I thought we had an understanding, that the Evo project was to remain open.” Annabel stared laser beams, piercing his lenses, searing into the back of his eyes. But Graham had the numbers, and he would stand upon them.

“The understanding was conditional on our fiscal situation allowing it. Which it hasn’t.”

“Bollocks,” Annabel clipped. “You said yourself we were back in the black.”

Graham adjusted his glasses, perhaps trying to get those blasted laser beams to refract somewhere else. “That was insofar as we had enough to cover the production costs of the Fore Gen 2 and the engineering costs for a third.”

“I don’t care about the third gen. My grandpa died of a broken heart, Graham. Broken because he saw our motorsport days coming to a close, because we’ve had nothing worth racing since Group B died. And if we lose the same passion that he had, then his vision too will also have died.”

“Annabel-” Too late he realised his mistake, when Annabel’s eyes flashed: “Don’t Annabel me!”

“Anna.” Wiping away the cold sweat with a handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket specifically for when Anna harangued him, Graham resumed. “Passion alone doesn’t guarantee survival. Your grandpa hired me for the singular purpose of saving this company. That meant tying up all the loose ends. Paying back unpaid debts. Streamlining the workflow. And most importantly, focusing on the investments that yield the most. Of all the things we were able to do, this is the best, and dare I say, the only option for us. Rest assured that I will respect your grandfather’s wishes, first and foremost, by keeping Armada’s doors open.”

Anna wrung her hands. “I know that. I’m not saying you’re not doing a grand job of that, either. It’s just that to see us being reduced to an ecobox company-”

“Since when were we becoming an ecobox company? The Fore has superior handling and the Eagle superior performance to their direct competitors.”

“But the Birdie comes with an optional slushbox. Remember the last time the company tried that? Remember the Feltram? Last I saw the Birdie variant didn’t do awfully well and still isn’t. That’s what we get when we turn our backs on the spirit of the company. If we don’t have that-”

“What if I told you that the Fore represents the future of motorsport? That it will become the ideal platform for World Champhionship Rally?”

“Well I would say that I don’t like it and you and all the suits running the show aren’t looking in the right places. Yes, Group B was unsafe. So was F1 for that matter. But fans are pining for something daring, and they look to us. The Evo RC was incomplete, it borrowed an engine from the Italians. It should be our mission to finish what we started, even if, especially if what we create is unique in the world.”

Graham’s brow knitted. This was why he was getting wrinkles: when an unstoppable force such as Anna came along, he had to be an unmoveable object, but being an unmoveable object to Arthur’s granddaughter was a special task. Why does she have to be so like you? Graham cursed under his breath.

“You should give the Fore a chance,” Graham insisted. “The world is changing and we have to change before it does or we won’t even survive the present. Trust me, there’ll come a time when it forges its own legend worthy of any other Armada name.”

Anna stared at him, chewing her lower lip, arms crossed. Finally, she spun on her heel and stormed away. “We’ll see about that,” she shot, not even bothering to look back as she vanished through the giant roller-door and into the England grey.

Chapter 2

Portrait of a Young Man and his Queen

A man’s home was his castle. The rundown Wymondham shanty Edward Cox shared with Anna and three others may have been a far cry from a castle, but he fancied Anna, and he reckoned Anna fancied him too (why else would she agree to live with him after all of high school), so he might as well have been the bloody king and she his queen as far as he was concerned. And no less for the reason that Anna was motoring royalty, granddaughter to the founding father of Armada, which technically would have made her a Princess, perhaps. Either way, the analogy fell apart a bit for he was no king, though as an aspiring journalist (in motorsports no less), his vocation was surely no less noble.

Right now, at the unholy hour of eight in the evening, as he was scouring the sports pages for clues in his future rivals’ travails, Anna was pacing up and down, her slippers going plap plap plap on the linoleum. All that plapping was starting to perturb him.

“Anna dearest,” Edward murmured, “It’s not healthy to frown so deeply.”

Anna ignored him. Well, she was deep in thought, so it probably wasn’t ignoring him. Suddenly she snapped upright, grabbed the plastic chair and dragged it to directly opposite Edward, plonking herself into it so she straddled it, chin propped on folded arms, and stared at him. “Ed, I’d like your thoughts on something.”

Edward blinked, his heart skipping a beat. With a gaze intense and purposeful, Anna did not look the part, but Edward knew a damsel in distress when he saw one. Tilting his imaginary visor, he prepared his most chivalrous voice, only for his mouth to fill with cotton when he saw the legs of her coveralls riding up her thighs, exposing her tan lines from the balmy Summer sun. Averting his eyes and licking his lips, he tried again. “M’lady how may I avail thee.”

Anna’s frown deepened, at least, one half of it, and she stared at him for a moment before continuing. “Can you predict the future of motorsports?”

Edward gaped for a moment, before remembering that this was Anna, his Anna, that was the way she had been since he’d known her. Not like normal girls, no, but perhaps that was part of why- Well, no, of course he couldn’t, so he went for bluster instead. “Maybe. Let me consult my crystal ball. Maybe it’ll tell us who’ll win at Snetterton and we can make a quick buck.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean that you smart-arse. What I mean is, in your journalistic pursuits, have you picked up on any trends or inside news in the codes about how the codes might change across Britain and Europe.”

Edward slowly raised his shoulders into a shrug. “…why would you want to know that?”

“Because I don’t have a controlling stake in my grandpa’s own company and the guy who’s in charge wants to ruin it,” she harumphed, then started muttering under her breath, “I’ll be damned if that Graham turns the company into an ecobox procession just because rally cars are going back to milk carton displacements…”

Ah, the black knight, Graham Streeton, planting the seeds of poison in her mind, to usurp the throne, and oust her from her empire. It was up to him, then, the white knight, to fend him off, and pour the sweet ambrosia of salvation to her lips-

“I mean, wouldn’t you agree that motorsports that got slower instead of faster was dull, unexciting? Not good for fans?”

Edward jolted back to the platonic present. “Yes, yes it would, and fans indeed get upset when the thrill of the racing becomes secondary. Although to be honest with you, the big focus right now on the big codes is safety, because fans also get really upset when their favourite race driver dies in a crash. Just last year, Aryton Senna-”

“Yeah I know about all that, but F1 is a bit of a basket-case anyway. And it’s not like Armada Motors was ever going to be about that.”

“But that just begs the question, what is Armada Motors about now? Because-”

“Exactly!” Anna pounded her fist into her other palm. “We haven’t made a big impact on the enthusiast scene for over a decade, and-”

“Actually,” Edward held up a finger, “The Eagle GTi is making a big impact; great reviews, improved sales-” Irritated, Anna cut him off.

“I know very well about all of that and don’t need to hear it again thank you. And before you say it’ll be the future of motorsports, need I remind you it was very mediocre when it ran in the BTCC.”

“Ok, ok,” Edward capitulated, muttering under his breath something about how Armada’s form in actual competition motorsports was patchy throughout all of history and that was just the way the world turned. “Anyway, what do you think Armada Motorsports should be about? If it’s not about the Fore?”

Anna’s eyes went starry. “Real sports cars, naturally. Roadsters. Coupés. Little mid-engine rockets. Delivering near-supercar performance on a budget. And no blasted ecoboxes.”

Edward looked at Anna’s radiating, regal self and almost caught himself sighing. A gem as rare as this needed not only to be treasured by one worthy, who appreciated her true worth, but also to be cut and polished to reveal her true brilliance! Fleeting visions flashed before him, of Anna storming the fort and defeating the rigid, crumbling Black Knight, of a crown atop her curls, and him at her side, dispensing the new rule of the land with his knowledge and wisdom, a rule of the love of the sports car, all stemming from her seeking his aid! But before all that, the work that needed doing started now: “Anna, that is a pure and beautiful vision and I love y- it. We need to lay the foundations to make it happen.”

“Well Ed, that’s exactly why I’m talking about it now. See, the way I see it, Graham’s missing a huge opportunity here, canning the Evo RC successor, what with the rally grey-market imports really making the money among the real enthusiast scene. And beyond that, the world desperately needs another Talon. The problem is, how do I even get Graham to listen?”

Edward put on his best wisdom face. “A dry, earthly mortal like Graham clearly only cares about one thing: money. That is why you’re in this predicament. Convincing him means convincing him that sating the fans demands will translate to money. And what does that?” Edward didn’t wait for an answer to his rhetorical question: “That’s right, word of mouth! Win on Sunday, Sell on Monday! The fans pass on their recommendations and it filters through to the general public.” Edward puffed up in preparation for his moment of glory: “And so it will be the duty of motor journalists such as I-”

Anna popped his bubble. “Yeah, but, you can’t have words without deeds.” Edward’s face fell while Anna mumbled on in deep thought. “Besides, the Fore’s success was despite the whole Winning On Sunday thing not actually happening. The last real victory we had was the Pikes Peak record in 1984, and of course that was in the Evo RC. Which we can’t even enter into the European Rally Cross because different regs. Not that the board would ever approve factory support for a race team, unless we look to sponsor privateer, but these days they only appear in historical and classic rallies, which isn’t relevant for creating a legend, which leaves us with…”

Edward tried to regroup: “Anna dear, you shouldn’t underestimate the written word. The fans will rally around the romantic notion evoked by my articles, that is what holds real power-”

He was once again interrupted, this time by Anna jumping upright, kicking the chair away with a clatter. “Of course! Why didn’t I think about this sooner!”

Crestfallen, Edward couldn’t help but ask. “Think about what?”

“I’ll do the racing myself.”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll find a code that’ll take me, and if I don’t, well, the wannabe boy racers have another thing coming!”

Once again Edward found himself struggling to find words, but this time, not due to brain-blocking hormones, but sheer shock. “T-t-that’s… have you flippin’ lost it? That’s crazy! And dangerous!”

Anna squared off, hands on hips. “Make up your mind Ed. First you’re agreeing with me that the fans need some excitement. Now you’re telling me that racing is dangerous and I shouldn’t. Is the thought of putting one’s money where one’s mouth is so scary?”

“But, but, why does it have to be you doing the racing? And on the street?”

“Why not? All the boys seem to be doing it. Is it because I’m a girl?”

Emotion swirled through Edward, threatening to destabilise the fragile conception of his kingdom. A coup of the heart, a mutiny of the sexes. His sweet princess, queen, now given to be a warrior, slipping away from his grasp. The dangerous glint in Anna’s eye loomed large, but in his youthful emasculated turmoil, Edward lacked the preternatural instinct to recognise the thin ice he had ventured way over.

“Well, there’s a reason racing is done by the boys. Brutish, testosterone laden, it’s patently unladylike.”

In the blink of an eye, the glint had turned into a flash and then a conflagration. “Unladylike, huh? Pray tell, what would you have me do and not do, as a lady? I was born and raised with motorsport in my blood, and be damned if some feckless pillock deign to advise me on the delicacies of my constitution by declaring me unfit to drive.”

Feckless pillock!? Surely this was just asking for a joust. There came a time in every man’s life when man must assert his strength and stand his ground, and stand he would, for surely Anna would expect no less! So Edward put his paper down and thrust his jaw out. “There is a good reason why there are so few women in motorsport. Name one who was successful-”

“Michèle Mouton,” Anna answered even before Edward had finished.

Edward faltered. “I said successful.”

Her lips pursed, her voice clipped, Anna bit out each word, “Four rally wins, a hundred and sixty two stage wins, a Pikes Peak record and a Le Mans class win, I daresay she was successful.”

“Walter Röhrl still beat her to the championship.”

“But she still wiped the sexist smirk off Ari Vatanen’s face.”

Edward was running out of legs to stand on, and started fumbling at his collar. “She’s the only one! And she retired nearly ten years ago! To have kids!”

By now Anna’s voice was bordering on a shout, not in volume, but intensity, the straining cords in her neck working her jaw furiously as it strangled her words. “She retired, because Toivonen died, and Group B died with him! Don’t you understand?”

Completely flustered now, both by the conversation and the fact that he was currently witnessing both hot and cold kinds of fury emanating from Anna, Edward flung his hands wide. “Understand what?! Come now, you’re being completely unreasonable! No woman in their right mind looks to go racing just because-”

No longer was the fury radiating from every pore and every hair; it had coalesced into the fire in her eyes, and the squaring of her jaw. “The world of motorsports needs more Moutons. Clearly I should take up her mantle, and others after me. And the suits and the pillocks will naysay, but we will persist. Wouldn’t that be something to write about.” She turned on her heel and strode away, out of Edward’s kingdom, transcending the elements into yet a higher, divine plane. It was at that moment that Edward knew that she was mad, and madly out of his league, and he could say no more.

The other two chapters will be posted as soon as I’m done. If I get the time I may also sketch Anna. HT to accent for very entertaining portraits!


You are crazy, you know that? :smile:


Kenji’s point of view, part 1

Malaga, Spain. Kenji drives his Maesima to the city centre, where the race should begin, when driving and noticing that there’s noone there yet, he thought:

I think that’s a wrong place.

Despite that, he had checked his map once again and parked the car in one of parking spots. Then, he had walked out of the car and stood in front of it, smiling demonicly.

So they are calling you the Executor. I wonder if you’re that scary.

Then Kenji saw the first car approaching, a blue muscle car with two stormtroopers straight out of Star Wars saga walking out. Kenji became a little suspicious when seeing those movie characters, but he took them just as cosplayers and thought a bit looking at the logo:

FOA… Haven’t seen this brand, but those drivers, are they cosplaying stormtroopers…? Okay, it explains it all, just two Star Wars freaks.

Then, next vehicle was a Communitasia. As Kenji was drinking water, sight of people walking out of the car basicly made him piss all the water: those people had looked EXACTLY like long dead Charles Marx and Vladimir Lenin. Lenin, noticing that had walked to the japanese man and asked:

Ay privet comrade, everything’s good with you?

Kenji was looking at him, surprised and terrified at the same sight, so he had shortly replied: Yes. That was enough to make the creepy man go away to his friend. Meanwhile, Kenji had jumped into the car, drank three beers and hit himself in the head in case of hallucinating due to hours long trip. Next car was a blue Armada that had some problems to pass quietly and peacefully. Kenji observed it and thought that it must have well over 600 hp. After that, he went for a walk watching another racers going on the start and observing their cars.


[quote=“Oskiinus, post:257, topic:22228”]
First Order Automotive? Explains it all, Star Wars freaks [/quote]

I wouldn’t make that connection in 1995, actually.


Shimura is ahead of his time back then, deal with that. :ok_hand:


Squidhead is correct for the following couple of points…

In the Star Wars universe The First Order didn’t exist before 2012 (when Disney threw away all of the expanded universe material and decided what they were going to class as canon!).

The logo on the car is actually the logo for FTi, as the car is not allowed to be branded as FOA because, as previously stated, “FOA do not make muscle cars!” Yes, FTi is a subsiduary of FOA but is primarily used for Bob and a select group of engineers, to modify FOA cars and use them in motorsport or for their own special projects.

And finally, FOA’s actual logo is actually that of the Sith. I made logos for Empire Engineering and FOA but they looked crap.

FOA’s time line is
1916-1960 - SiTh Engineering (more commonly known as simply SiTh)
1960-1985 - Empire Engineering
1986-Present - First Order Automotive, First Order Engineering (Mods - look closely at the towbar :slight_smile: ) and Force Tuned integration (1994-present)


So, my bad then :laughing: Gotta correct.


The trouble of cross-referencing different lore of different brands on automation :smiley:


And the problem of anachronic Automationverse… But, actually, many universes have anachronysms, like GTA SA, which is placed in 1992 has a 1997 JDM Accord and 2005 GT.


Ah fuck, yeah, I did a pretty shit job of that because I was so busy cross referencing real life. It could do with some recalibration eventually.

Also totally still writing the last chapter before the race but now I have to cross referencing against all the other cars ROFL.


Chapter 1: The start.

Málaga, 8th of October 1995. 5:10 AM, 5 minutes before the start of the race. 5600km to Athens.

A man, wearing a helmet arrived at the start. He was carrying a “Get ready!” sign, showing it to the different racers. As soon as he was noticed, the drivers started getting into their cars, igniting the engines; the straight piped engines screamed, and soon more than a person was taking a peek through their windows. The cars lined up, creating a grid.

However, the police had already been notified. As the cars lined up, a patrol car arrived, stopping at the opposite end of the grid; from it, an officer got out and walked towards the group.

“Hey! All of you, get out of your cars now!”. - Shouted the officer. The helmeted man noticed this; he would have to get out of there as soon as possible, so he just flipped the sign, which had “GO!” written on the other side, and started running away.

(Music suggestion by @thecarlover!)

All of the cars launched, squealing their tyres. The drivers banged through their gears, struggling to overtake each other in the narrow street, as they headed north, towards the A-45 motorway.

The police officer ran back to his patrol car, hurrying and grabbing the microfone.

-Central! This is an emergency, an illegal race just started! Over!.
-What is their trajectory?
-Northbound, I repeat, northbound! There are around 40 cars, maybe a few more.
-We’re dispatching an helicopter to inspect the race so we can notify the interceptors. Over.

The drivers turned to the right, avoiding the fences on the sides of the paved road. Some of the drivers chose to grip the corners, while others handbrake drifted the turns. The sound of the engines resonated, bouncing on the buildings placed at both sides of the roads. Due to the narrowness of the street, some of the cars, like the Dingo Z or the NRZ-986 scratched their paint against the fences on both sides of the road.

Unfortunately for George Robinson, he was pushed by the Tsukuba into a gutter, where he scratched one of his wheels, ripping it open and going flat. He had to stop as soon as it was possible for him to do so safely and change the ripped tyre. He got into his car as soon as it was possible for him to do so again and went on with his race, now knowing he had to make up for the lost time.

It didn’t take too long until the racers reached the Armiñan’s Bridge, with the drivers steering to their rights, facing north again. The road turned wider, and that allowed beasts like the F219 and the Chaucer to start overtaking and taking the lead. As the drivers finally entered a last stretch of city, the entrance to the A45 motorway was finally visible. All of the drivers floored it as they flew through the avenue, waking up more than several families.

The F219 was on the lead, with the Chaucer close in their mirrors. As they braked to get into the entrance of the A45, the Chaucer bumped the 219 on the back. This made the 219 lose control, not by spinning out fortunately, but they scrapped their front bumper against a fence, and making one of the front wheels get stuck on a gutter. Taking the car out took quite a few tries, and the front aero would have to be repaired later.

“Alright, first stop is this town called Casarabonela.” - Thought Ken Holt, as he drafted behind the Erin Scarlet. The pack of cars, with the differences in power becoming more notable, but not too much as the highway was relatively twisty, danced around the little traffic that was present that early in the morning.

The Visios XCT was keeping up, but it was suddenly bumped by the Chupacabra. The impact made the wing get loose, making the car become more unstable and forcing the driver to stop to bolt the wing on again.

The low banked corners of the highway were navigated by the pack, hugged by arid landscapes at both sides. The Dolphine tried to take the corners as fast as it could, with the Shromet interval drafting behind. The Catalan driver did his best, only to find himself being overtaken by the blue sports car.

The race would soon start being monitorized by a police helicopter, trying to identify the plates and the cars, giving descriptions of them to the interceptors.

-“Helicopter here. Looks like the cars are going towards Casabermeja.”
-“How many?”
-“Fourty five cars.”
-“We’ll be preparing a roadblock in Casabermeja. Get ready.”
-“Roger that.”

It would be a matter of minutes before the cars reached Casabermeja, as fast as they were going. As the racers approached the town, the mountains started forcing the motorway to become twistier. Some racers noticed that the chopper wasn’t following the race anymore.

The pack started slowing down, entering the town. As they entered the first street…they were surprised by a roadblock; in a matter of seconds, they would have to either crash into it or brake and be arrested; there was no apparent way to avoid it. Would this be the end of the race?

However…the Chaucer’s driver, leading the pack, noticed something just in time. He started heel toeing his way down to second gear, and handbrake drifted into a secondary, almost unnoticeable street.

To be continued.

Times spreadsheet:


Not too bad on fuel. Nice. Also pretty ok on the highway section, also nice. Also Motley Crue, very nice. And writing of story. NICE.


okay not that that’s sorted, time for the story :stuck_out_tongue:

Lenin: well that was an intense start.

Marx: indeed it was, almost feels lucky we only got away with a scratch.

Lenin: Yeah, and that cop at the start also gave us a scare, we cannot get arrested, imagine the interrogation they’ll give us.

Marx: yeah, we don’t belong in 1995 at all.

Lenin: well anyways, lets just stay focused on the race.

at that moment they near the town

Lenin: dammit, a roadblock.

Marx: hey they’re turning down that street points to a few cars a few seconds ahead of them Follow them.

Lenin: I shall.

Lenin turns the car hard down the street and accelerates down it, then arrives at the first stop

Lenin: well Karl, We’ve made it.

Marx: Indeed, we have. lets just enjoy this town while it lasts. Just be on the lookout for police.

Lenin: I shall.


GAR Part 1

The Chevalier Interceptor Custom pulls up to a Spanish parking lot filled with cars and Johnny and Elliot step out

“Looks like you got us in the right place alright” Johnny says looking around.

“Of course I would, you doubt my skills?” replied Elliot

Looking around, they see everyone staring at them

“Why y’all on edge?” Yelled Johnny in a loud bellowing voice.

“Well it might have to do that we’ve got a big blue police car in an illegal race” states Elliot. “Who wants to see cops in an illegal race? Anyways I’ll be fillin’ her up with gas for the race, you go scout the competition.”

“Sure thing, be back before the race starts…”

While scouting the competition, Johnny spots a bright pink car and a lime green wagon. Lighting a cigarette Johnny walks up to them.

“Ha, y’all got a pansy car. Y’all better prepare to be left…”

Before he could finish his sentence the hoods of both cars open up for Johnny to find a 7.3L twin turbo V12 and an equally large 5.5L V8


“What you want?” replied Elliot reclining on the front seat of the Chevalier

“Ya know how ya said there aint gonna be no big ass V12 and V8 turbos? Well guess what two of them got just that! Hows this piece of shit gonna beat that?”

“But I just modified it for this race. You dont like it?”

“No I dont like it”

Elliot opens the hood of the Chevalier

“Modified Cop motor, 440 Cubic inch plant, got new cop tyres, new cop suspension, new rally shocks and the cars been modified to run on 95 Octane and it aint got catalytic converters, all straight piped and Ill tell you know, this aint gonna be breaking down quickly…So whaddya say, if this pile of junk can outrun the Mafia, it wont have a problem beating anyone else.”


When the cops showed up, Marcus crammed the XR-3 into first and dumped the clutch as soon as the sign was flipped to “go,” sending the car screaming toward the motorway. As he passed the cop, he yelled out of his open window, “Catch me if you can, fart-face!” Quickly winding the window back up, the back end stepped out, costing Mark a little bit of valuable time as he hurtled out of the parking lot.

The pressure of the race was on, but Marcus kept his cool, reaching over and grabbing third as he roared toward the bridge, the XR-3’s mighty 4.1 liter inline triple roaring like an old Harley, the straight pipe treating everyone to the lovely note of the eco-car-turned-race-rocket.

With the motorway entrance in sight, Marcus slowed to make the corner, watching to make sure he didn’t get hit or hit anyone else, not that he cared for clean racing, but because he knew most of these cars were made of metal, and his was fiberglass. However, once they were on the highway, he put the pedal to the firewall and sent the lime green beast hurtling down the road. He made a quick check to ensure his neon green lights were still on, as well as both the highbeams and the low-beams, intending on blinding anyone who dared pass him.

The tires howled around several of the corners, and Mark’s police scanner kept him informed of the upcoming situation.

“Fucking roadblock! Should’ve brought an SUV, I could drive straight through the bastards.” he cursed, though still took the time to flip the bird at another passing car. “Fuck you, too!” he yelled, though knew the other driver couldn’t hear him, as it was all part of his method behind the wheel, to keep his cool under pressure. It gave him the appearance of being a little unhinged and easy to set off, but also kept him calm where it mattered, and when it mattered.

As they hurtled into the town, Marcus saw the roadblock, but saw plenty of tire marks where his fellow competitors had squeezed down a side-street. Being this far back gave him a slight edge on knowing it was there, and as such, Mark set up his lazy drift early, flinging the XR-3 up the side-street with an echoing roar and squeal of tires.