Machinas Con Passione’s Shitbox Adventures Episode 9 - Storytime.
It’s been a long time on the road thus far for our heroes at Machinas Con Passione, but the morale booster of becoming a walking, talking van-band, along with said band’s ability to change songs depending on who sped past them on the fly, led to an all around enjoyable stage for the MCP members, who were glad to at least be able to focus on something other than the driving for once. It was business as usual for the hastily assembled crew, who, upon touching base in Trugarde, quickly got into their now established routine. Chad would do some disgustingly ridiculous feat of strength, Benjamin either began hunting or scribbling away at his log, Maria would go to sleep, and Giacomo would likely bother a team or two, while Thibault was generally pretty chill and had actually found himself on good terms with at least a good amount of the garage. Bill often found himself tagging along with Maria, because the alternative of being benched thousands of times or being stuck in an enclosed space with Giacomo for too long made the choice of staying inside an easy one.
Giacomo, being Giacomo, would take the first opportunity to get a painting of himself done he could, leading to the untimely interruption of Chad’s “daily grind”, which usually involved helping locals using his previously mentioned freakish power. The team would gather around and get their painting done, when Giacomo put on the smooth talk, loudly telling a “great story” of his to anyone within earshot, including various teams fortunate? or maybe unfortunate enough to listen to Giacomo go on. “Well.” Giacomo started. “I’m sure some of you are familiar with my team’s NASCAR program, right?” By this point, the vast majority of camp had become familiar with Machinas Con Passione’s history, more than likely without asking to hear any of it first. “Well, of course, our driver is one Ryouchi Katou. Son of a legend, Hikiko Katou.” Some of the more dedicated F1 fans in the crowd were at least familiar with Hikiko, to varying degrees. She’d spent 13 seasons in the sport, from 1988 to 2001, taking the 2000 season off on a sabbatical. Boasting 21 podiums in that time, she made Thibault, who had his own brush with Formula One, look like an absolute chump, with his paltry 2 point haul from his stints in 2015-2017, and substitute races in 2020. Thibault visibly shifted in his seat recalling his own experience in the sport. He at least found himself faring better than Ryouchi, who ended up being an F2 washout, and needed MCP to bail him out and take him to the United States, for reasons which remain foggy to this day. Giacomo couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Let me tell you all, about my first brush with greatness!”
Naples, 1988.
Twenty.
Twenty-One.
Twenty-Two.
The analog numbers steadily increased on the elevator’s floor indicator, each number inducing another pang of anxiety in Hikiko Katou’s chest, each floor change scrambled her thoughts further and further. She knew the importance of meeting him today, but never that he was so tightly interconnected to her own past.
ding dong
The elevator doors opened, revealing an office space packed to the brim with extravagantly dressed, yet professional all the same workers, feverishly crunching numbers and making an assortment of phone calls. The back of the room held a set of booming doors, embroidered with wine red felt leather, and a sharply dressed woman of dark skin complexion answering two phone calls at once. Hikiko struggled to read the equally loud sign above the doors, needing her glasses to make sense of what was written. “Ufficio di Alessio Scarfiotti”. Fine gold print and everything. Hikiko approached the door, and, upon making eye contact with the secretary, was quickly buzzed in.
“Come in.” A voice boomed over the loudspeaker, which Hikiko had neglected to notice previously. Hikiko let herself in, being greeted by a surprisingly quaint room, not at all as extravagant as the office preceding it. It wasn’t bare bones, but it was a carefully curated balance between practicality and comfort, one seemingly befitting a particular person’s tastes. There were the basics, a bookshelf, filled with a large array of deeply complex technological engineering books relating to cars dating back to the Grand Prix era of the 30s, a fireplace, stoked with trees Hikiko recognized from the flight as being local to the area, and a middle aged Italian man, sat next to a boy who couldn’t have been older than Hikiko herself, quietly advising him over a sheet of paper. Upon Hikiko’s entrance, he immediately looked up to her, and the two made eye contact. In an instant, it was clear to Hikiko that she was staring at a man who’d become more than familiar with heartbreak. A man who seemed closed off, from just his eyes alone. She opened her mouth to speak, but he beat her to the punch. “Ah. it’s you. I expected this, but not so soon. you can’t be older than…” Hikiko filled in the gap for him.
“Seventeen.” The old man’s face changed from one of detached hardness to one of what almost seemed to be genuine pride. “Incredible. simply incredible. to progress so quickly at your age. You were no older than Giacomo here when you started.” Giacomo, too, was surprised by this information, but an exchange of eye contact between father and son communicated more than enough, and Giacomo went back to drawing. Hikiko maintained eye contact. “What do you know? About my career?” “Well, the long and short of it. you’re one of the best drivers Japan has to offer, but you’re so… inexperienced.” Hikiko held back a smile, pride swelling up within her. “Tyrrell signed me. if Julian doesn’t perform, I’ll get his seat.” Alessio’s expression hardened yet again. “Hm. I get a strange feeling you wanted to talk about something else.” Hikiko’s face hardened as well, the youth’s face lacking the wrinkles and experience to make as much of an impact with facial features alone compared to the older man, who’s face changed yet again. One of remorse, this time. Geniune sadness. “I… I’m sorry.” It was then another change happened, Hikiko’s pride quickly wallowed into despair and rage. She scoffed. “Sorry? Sorry doesn’t cut it! I’ve had to leave everything behind! My entire life! My family hates me, or thinks I’m dead! I… I haven’t seen my friends in 3 years… things would have been different if he was still alive, and you know it. You let him die, and made my life hell!”
Alessio faltered at the youth’s accusation. Those words were the same things he’d been telling himself for nearly 20 years now. He was still young then, deciding to start a Sports car team in the dawn of the 1970s, the team, which bore his name, designed a car from the ground up. Despite handling issues, the car found itself competitive, leading to the issues being overlooked. That is, of course, until Le Mans. Yasuhiro “Joe” Katou was in the cockpit then, but even a driver of his caliber couldn’t catch snap oversteer that violent. The car was in the trees before anyone back home even knew it. Alessio’s eyes began to well up, reliving the memory in his head once more, though he wasn’t ready to give in yet, ceding only sightly. “You didn’t deserve that. You made the ultimate sacrifice for your dream, but you know there’s another reason why you weren’t allowed to grow up around racing. There’s a reason why it was taken away from you.” Alessio had a knack for reading people, but he also had common sense. In racing, death is accepted. To an extent. There’s always a tolerance, an upper limit. One that would cause even the most die-hard fan to turn his TV off in disgust. He knew this, and Hikiko did as well. She sighed deeply. “1977… South Africa…” Alessio knew the race well. Who wouldn’t? To see the cycle continue, though, he was a bit surprised. “Why? Why do you want to join a sport where that happens?” Hikiko’s answer was about as simple as Alessio had expected from someone her age. “I have to do it.” Alessio scoffed. Does she really think it’s that easy? That simple? “For some people, racing is life. What they don’t realize is, like life itself, death permeates racing. More so than any sport on the planet. You can not separate the two. Most will live, but some must die. Always.” Hikiko knew as much, she’d seen it firsthand. “I know. but I’m not just living this “racing life” for myself. I want to honor his memory.”
Alessio patted Giacomo on the back, and with careful, practiced motions, sat down in his chair, cut a Cuban, and lit it, taking a long drag before responding. “Your uncle once said that the state racing reflects the times. The 60s? The age of the action hero. People who lived to be near death every week. Buff machismo. Selfishness. The 70s. The age of excess. Too much power. Too much downforce. Your uncle died to this very excess. The 80s? the age of complacency. The excess has gone unchecked. I’m not superstitious myself, unlike Giacomo here, but the numbers are not in your favor. Are you really ready to enter Formula One? With the stakes higher than ever?” Hikiko was a racing fan as much as a driver. She’d seen it herself. Ground effects. Turbochargers. Rocket fuel. Broken legs. Decapitations. Drivers being launched from their car. Being burned alive. But Hikiko also knew these weren’t just being overlooked, as they had been. At first, a process to analyze these crashes was put into place, and now regulation changes were being implemented to make the sport safer. To make sure no more young flames are snuffed out early. “Things are changing. I wont need to worry about “death” or “excess” anymore. Only about racing. It’s what my uncle would have wanted me to do. I know it.” Alessio, at the very least, admired this kid’s resolve. He took another long drag. “I have no doubts that what you say is true. but remember. Death follows life, like a miasma, penetrating its very fiber. especially this “racing life” of yours. People have been saying “It won’t happen to me” for decades. Don’t make their mistake.” It was then that a shocking pain, like a condensed lightning bolt, coursed through Hikiko’s left leg, no doubt caused by her practice crash a few days ago.” Alessio simply stared at her leg, and they stood facing each other in silence. “That limp. You’ve had a brush with death. You’re brave, but watch yourself.” Hikiko’s blood began to boil. How can the man who’s car killed her uncle tell her to ‘watch herself’? That’s rich. “He died in your car. you can’t tell me to be careful.” Alessio sighed.
Mentally admitting defeat, he took another drag of his cigar. “I won’t preach to you, but I will do this.” Alessio reached into his drawer and pulled out a contract, pre-filled with Hikiko’s details. He handed the youth a pen. “I offer you my financial backing. I’ve supported you in an unofficial capacity so far, but I want us to be on the same page.” Hikiko was incredulous. Of course, her progression was rapid, but to her knowledge, she’d only had major backing from Panasonic, and that was after dominating every karting championship she could get her hands on. “You’ve… supported me?” Alessio nodded. Yes. I wish to continue to do so. I wish to sponsor you.” Hikiko raised an eyebrow. “what’s the catch?” Alessio smiled. Maybe this kid was smarter then she put off. “Well, there is only one. My son. Giacomo. he’s only two years younger than you. Would you help him, when he needs you?” Hikiko only stared, unfaltering and silent. Giacomo looked up, parting his long and flowing, meticulously maintained hair from his face, looking up at Hikiko and smiling. “Ms. Katou, right? I hear you’re almost as good as father was! Very impressive, I must say!" Giacomo excitedly grabbed his paper and ran up to Hikiko, stopping short of outright shoving the sheet into Hikiko’s face. "Hey! Hey! Check out this design I’ve been working on!” On his paper was a rather detailed blueprint for a v8 engine, intended for formula one competition, sans turbo. “They say naturally aspirated engines are the future!” Alessio turned to Giacomo, smiling a bit, as he further elaborated on his request. “Giacomo is nearly rabid for motor racing. Who am I to hold him back on his dream? If I cannot stop him, I would prefer to at least secure him a friend. Someone who can watch his back.”
Hikiko stared blankly at Giacomo and his drawing, then at Alessio. “I don’t have any reason to help you. Nor do I understand your spiel about death, only for you to offer to support my career.” Alessio nodded. “To die is a terrible, yet inevitable thing. To die with regrets is even worse. You can prevent one, but not the other. And, I understand your refusal. I won’t hold a grudge against you.” “I… Don’t know if I can return the favor, but… it’s complicated. I understand what you mean, what you’re trying to say, but I miss my uncle.” Alessio took another, much longer drag of his Cuban, and leaned forward in his desk, making direct eye contact with the aspiring driver. “You were born the same year he died, less than a month later.” Hikiko stared at her feet for a minute. The knot in her stomach twisting as tight as it ever had. She sighed. “I know, but… I miss him. It hurts knowing I’ll never get to see him. I feel… almost connected to him.” Yes. Those were the right words. She knew what to say to him now. Hikiko stared into Alessio’s eyes. Right into the eyes of the man who knew what it felt like firsthand to lose your drive. Your purpose. Behind his eyes stood a shell, behind hers, a fire. A deep, burning determination. The blinders were on. “I’m going to do what I feel is right. I’m going to make it to Formula One… alone.”
Trugarde Camp, Crugandr, 2022.
Among Machinas con Passione, there was a stunned silence, which was soon broken by Maria, looking mildly incredulous to say the least. “Yeah, right, didn’t you hire this bozo over here to design the engine for you? I doubt that story’s all true, to say the least.” Giacomo opened his mouth to speak, but Chad interrupted. “Giacomo is… Well, himself. But he’s very thorough with certain details, even if they dont always make sense. MCP is more than just a name, he’s very much a ‘Man’ Con Passione, if anything else.” Chad’s words, though maybe true, didn’t necessarily strike true with everyone, but seemed to quell any doubts about the story being made up, for now at least. “Oh, the painting, is it done?” Giacomo asked, hurriedly rushing over to see the finished result of the painting, only to find that, well, all things considered, it was quite phenomenal. However, it seems that Giacomo had gotten overly excited in his explanation, and the painter wound up painting him with multiple sets of arms, each gesturing in a different way.
Oh Giacomo, never change.
Part 9 - Fin
we do a little stretching of the old writing chops. AND I wrote a side story. I’m on fire, boo yah.
anyway, yeah, uh, anyone feel free to pitch in with collabs lul. eggspac out.
Holy mother of…", he exclaims as he is being swung around. " 
What was that for!?"
