Thud! THUD! THUD! THUD!
Those weren't just footsteps, they were the battering of war drums in Luca's ears, each one syncing with the panic racing through his chest.
"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!"
"..FIRE..!"
".. THERE'S FIRE...!"
"...THERE'S FIRE AT THE EDGE OF THE TRACK...!"
Thud! THUD! THUD! THUD!
Pant! Pant! Pant!
Luca's breathing was a ragged lody, gasping for air that refused to fill his lungs. He ran like an unstoppable beast, heavy like an elephant, driven by the primal need to save. The hot tarmac was scorched with black marks that Ansel had left in his path of chaos.
[Breathing: Spiked!]
Each breath burned in his throat, the air itself searing hot from the flas that devoured the car at the runoff. His heart pounded like a thousand pistons, each step faster than the last.
Urgency corrupted every fiber of his being, turning his legs into springs coiled with desperation. He sprinted down the track, faster than any Olympic runner, an athlete's grace, but a brother's fear. Attributes were one thing; instincts were another.
Urgency corrupted his limbs as he sprinted down the track more faster than an Olympic runner because of his Attributes. Luca knew he had to get there as fast as he could because marshals were generally slower, and from what he could see, this was no ordinary crash or fire.
The caras locked onto Luca Rennick as he sprinted across the track, his helt already tossed aside mid-run, the balaclava yanked from his head and flung behind like a spent layer of skin. Both objects clattered to the searing asphalt, loud enough to echo through the feed, and the thundering of his boots followed, each footfall a declaration of his refusal to slow down.
"—Look at that! The car is engulfed! This is what no driver wants to see—flas that high are dangerous!"
"—Hay fuego! Dios mío, el coche de Ansel está en llamas..!"
"WOOOOOOOOOOOHH!'"
Luca hadn't even hesitated. He'd leaped out of his cockpit the very instant he saw those infernal flas roar up from the Ferrari's chassis, that monstrous fireball that threatened to swallow Ansel whole. Abandoning his own machine, he'd let the system desync him from the 97, cutting the lifeline that had bonded him to his race. Nothing else existed now but the heat, the danger, the driver who's life was suddenly at stake.
Mandalora was thrown into shock with the way Ansel's Ferrari had imdiately caught fire. Smoke thickened in the air, a sinister curtain of blackness that painted the sky with horror, and the helicopters had gathered around to get a clearer view.
Luca's eyes were locked on that flaming car, but also searching for any nearby marshals who were approaching. A siren could be heard wailing from afar. Afar?! And the marshals he saw jogging weren't even close to Turn 5, where Ansel's crash had happened—they were still near the pitlane!
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┌———T4┐
T3 T5—┘
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└T2——T1—————=————
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