OK Number 78 - Exulansis

Naoto's eyes were dark, even beyond their normal deep, dark brown. The race was dying, but there was still a body to be kicked, a soul to be damned, and a battle to be fought.

His eyes, from his mother Kasumi Kōzuki in their dark, guarded hue, from his father Nathan Stadtfeld in their angular, inquisitive shape, eternally forming a suspicious veil. His lips, always held tight and narrow, were almost pulled into themselves as he threw the car up the track.

This day had gone so wrong. Rolo had ruined his chance, and that had brought out the rage that had been buried within him. But Naoto was not like his sister; her rage was externalised, unleashed in sudden bursts out at engineers, or violence. Naoto was different; he didn't have Lelouch's calculation, but, like the Frenchman, it formed an internal crust of bitter, spiteful determination, that he would take back what was his with a bullish, silent fury.

And how ironic a situation he found himself in.

"Naoto, Xingke is right there, he is in championship position now. The top four have crossed the line and finished the race, the front of the field will not change. Your sister is on 229, if you overtake Xingke, Kallen is World Champion."

Naoto didn't reply. He sat into himself, as he glared ahead, his form entirely committed to what he knew would need to happen next.

Xingke was three kilometres from his World Championship. Eight more corners, and Li Xingke would be the 2019 Champion, with 229 points, tying Rolo and Kallen, and winning with five wins against two and four respectively.

Or, in eight more corners, Kallen would be, with 229 points, tied only with Rolo, Xingke having been pushed down to 227. There was nothing more to it than that.

Naoto briefly peeked down, past his steering wheel, to the centre of his world, pasted in four by five down by his knee.

God this year had been such an emotional rigmarole. It had jerked from fury at Kallen, triumphant comeback, frustrations with the team, to first driver, winning a race in Hungary after three years, almost losing Tohdoh, returning to Suzuka, losing out to Suzaku, but still, somehow, the best placed driver to take down Xingke out of anyone going in. He had taken the pole, but it had all gone so wrong. He would not be able to win the championship ahead of Xingke, not from here.

There, just in view pasted to the inside wall of his survival cell. A four by five centimetre print of his sister flashing a ridiculous peace sign with eyes shut and a big, toothy grin over Naoto, laughing uproariously on his hospital bed. Naoto looked high, and, as he could not remember the photo being taken, he could well have been. His leg was hidden out of view of the picture, presumably mangled to all hell and hidden beneath a cast. Both Kallen and Naoto had changed since 2017.

But it was still the perfect encapsulation of their partnership. Not unconditional, but he fought for her, and, as he had seen over the course of 2019, she fought for him.

He would not be able to beat Xingke in the championship. But he could beat him on track.

And if that helped his sister? Who had saved Tohdoh from death? Who had talked sense to him in hospital and in their apartment? Naoto laughed. Helping her win the title wouldn't even come close to repaying that debt.

Plus, he could take some pride in overtaking Xingke on track, a sign. He could have won, he could say that much to Kallen when the dust cleared. He could have done it.

But now was no time for could-have-beens. In fact, there was very little time at all; Naoto was running out of corners, this championship, this decade had so few corners left that they could be counted on your fingers.

Now was the time to attack. Perhaps on a more fundamental level than he ever had, he dug deep into his soul, into whatever bitter black vile kept his fleshy goo waking up fighting every morning. Deep, deep, so very deep, deeper than he had ever reached.

Corner entry, cut tight, raking the knife through the depth of the canvas of the tyres and watching the blood held within the rubber scar the circuit. Better exit towards Esse, take the outside line.

Fight, fight, there were only five corners left in the 2010's. Nothing, if Naoto was going to die today, nothing could be left unsaid. He had lost the championship, but Xingke had not defeated him. Naoto would lose to Xingke, but he would not be defeated by him.

Dive deep into Pinheirinho, rotate early with the throttle like Kallen would do, and again pick off a better exit. Kerb, apex, kerb. Naoto threw the car in without mind for the consequences; the end of the world was near, as the car floated away from the apex, settling on the outside kerb. An inch later on the brakes, a millisecond earlier on the throttle, the race would be over.

But Naoto's race wasn't over. There was still the task at hand; Xingke was still ahead.

Four to go.

Xingke was driving like a man possessed, safeguarding his position, planting the car in the middle of the road. He may as well have hung a sign on his rear wing reading "No way through", but Naoto couldn't read Hanzi, and, while he was not especially assertive in the past, that had changed.

Naoto, freshly spined, was breathing down Xingke's next with all the aggression of his sibling. He would not be denied. Naoto was burning alive for the second time, but this time he welcomed it, fed off it, as he let go of his restraints, and pushed Xingke to the boundary and back.

Hogging the road, Xingke slowed right up to fully rotate his car at nearly stall speed, turning completely around before he gassed it. Naoto however was able to go around the outside, dipping his left tyres out over the outside kerbs and into the grass, before rotating with more of his car straddling the wet mud than the tarmac. While Xingke got a good exit, Naoto got a better one, and swapped to the inside as they exited the corner.

Three to go.

He still wasn't past though, he still wasn't past the number eight. If only you could get points for singular force of will, Naoto in this instant in this corner in this country on this planet could summon all the forces of his internal darkness to force a way through.

But he was not Lelouch, and did not follow through with this, instead fighting, like he always had, like he had in his part time jobs, in his haggling for pence and parts and pleaded for a chance. It was the same thing, just on a new scale- he had always been fighting for Kallen as much for himself.

He was responsible for her, he had been ever since 2009.

Blast through the fast sweeper of Mergulho, rear right tyre to front left tyre, Geely to Rebellion.

Two to go.

Just the braking zone at Juncao and the curved run up to the line out of Subida dos Boxes. One braking zone and one acceleration zone. Naoto bit into his lip, and gave it a final try.

He had one ace up his sleeve though; Xingke's rear tyres weren't completely clear of Naoto's fronts, and so the Chinese pilot wasn't able to crowd the Japanese man out at the point of entry, and was instead forced to shallow his line significantly. This meant that Xingke would not be able to begin rotating the car until much later into the corner, which Naoto, though he did not consider it in any way that could be described as conscious, knew my instinct how to counter.

As Xingke tried to be the last of the late brakers, only pulling on the anchors at the last minute to avoid any dives under braking, Naoto pulled off the deception perfectly; brake early, and do all of the rotation before the apex as Xingke sailed ahead. As such, Naoto was fully rotated by the time Xingke had stopped, Naoto was accelerating past the apex by the time Xingke had rotated, and by the time Xingke had picked up the throttle and was accelerating out of the corner, Naoto had built up a good bit of speed behind him.

He had the run, and had done all he could. Naoto had had one last hand to play, and now all that was left to decide the championship was physics and fate.

Xingke was ahead, but up the hill Naoto's better initial momentum meant that the Chinese pilot was being reeled in bit by bit. Within the cockpit, Naoto jerked his torso backwards and forwards, lurching himself forwards as if to shuffle it along, and had to fight the urge to lower his head into the opening, as if that might reduce the drag. A cars length back… half a car back… the gap was closing on the run up to the line, but not fast enough even as Naoto pulled alongside, still reeling him in, but the line was closing up, seven hundred meters, Naoto tucked to the inside, five hundred meters, they were neck and neck, three hundred meters, but yes, yes, he had pulled ahead, pulled about half a cars length ahead by the time they passed the chequered flag, by the time it became real, that the hypothetical became the material, that Kallen, who Naoto had nurtured for almost a decade in a run-down Shinjuku flat, became the Champion of the World.

Naoto had no words, though Ohgi was more than willing to take up the slack, obliterating any shreds of the pilots eardrums.

"PEE SEVEN! YOU FINISHED AHEAD OF XINGKE BY LESS THAN TWO TENTHS OF A SECOND! YOU DID IT!"

He flipped his visor upwards, and, pumping his fist out of the cockpit and into the sky, began to weep.

It was over.

FINAL STANDINGS

Second - Kallen Kōzuki – 229 (4 wins)

First - Rolo Lamperouge – 229 (2 wins)

Eighth - Li Xingke – 227 (5 wins)

Third - Suzaku Kururugi – 226 (4 wins)

Seventh - Naoto Kōzuki – 220 (1 win) (4 seconds)

Fourth - Gino Weinberg – 220 (1 win) (3 seconds)

Meanwhile, on a whole different planet, a Japanese teenager was completing re-entry, descending back to this plane of existence. She felt like she was coming down from a psychedelic high, reacclimatising herself to the sense of feeling, feeling fear, feeling joy, feeling pride.

Kallen Kōzuki's brain was slowly doing the job of deorbiting itself, as the immediate, frenetic urgency of now, of the present needs to keep the car from skating off the road under the extreme loads Kallen was applying, faded. The car was no longer demanding everything of her, demanding her total subsumption, and she was no longer wholly subsumed by it. Her normal human functions, aesthetic to the job of driving, such as breathing, drinking, shouting, were slowly restored, as she woke up from the best dream she had ever had into an even better reality.

She had beaten Suzaku. She had done it, she had faced Suzaku at the height of his powers and won, both in the race and over a season, even with her handicap. Euphemia had been right; Suzaku, being on level points, matching her punch for punch through the race, up to the drag up to the line, made it all the more satisfying, and perhaps more importantly, it had forced her to adapt, forced her to innovate, had drawn out like blood Kallen's best, as she had to fight to improve just to keep abreast with him. He pushed her higher than she ever could have reached alone, pushed her to be faster than she ever could have grown.

Regardless of what was happening with Xingke, beating Suzaku, still the toughest competitor in the sport as far as Kallen could tell, was almost as satisfying. She had pulled out all the stops to do it, but Kallen had done it, no matter what may have been out of Kallen's control, the one irrefutable reality was that she had beaten Suzaku in equally good cars.

After being a social leper, and deservedly so, at the beginning of the year, having fought back, having taken the fight to Xingke while the Chinese pilot was dominating everything there was to dominate in the sport, having ran straight into the Hungarian fires without even a second thought, having driven through hands that would bleed if you looked at them the wrong way, having fought to her first home win without power steering. With all of that, Kallen had kept ahead of Suzaku even with his resurgence, winning four races on the bounce going in, and his momentum looking almost unstoppable.

However, this day could still be made better yet. If, if…

As if on cue, Nigel got onto her radio, crackling for a moment, before, with clear emotion, tried to fight his apparent condition to spit out his news.

"Kallen… my… Kallen, get the hell back here, we've got a party to put Japan to shame ready for you. It's all over, it's all over, Xingke's eighth, you did it. Xingke's eighth, by my calculations you've beaten him by two points, and tied Rolo for the championship. Four wins against his two, you are the champion!"

Nigel paused, before continuing "Missing two races off the bat, only driver to beat Xingke before the tyres changed, no power steering at Japan, last to second today… mate, you are the 2019 Formula One World Champion, and they didn't make it easy for you. Congratulations. Torque One, and return to box."

Nigel choked up towards the end, however Bartley was well able to take over the microphone and heap on the praise of a team that, after three consecutive titles, had been in the wilderness, and was shown the way by Kallen.

"Dekita Kallen! You kept your promise. You said you'd deliver us a title and you did it. Oshiyoseru, soshite gozaimasu. Omigoto, absolutely sublime all year, so fast. You are a World Champion, holy-"

As Bartley cut himself off, Kallen could only noiselessly laugh, her vocal chords shredded, before, overwhelmed, pulling off to the side of the track and stopping, unable to continue in a moment of sensory overload. All she could think to do was hammer at the dash, frantically pumping her fists in madness against the steering wheel if only to release some of the pent up energy that came with receiving this news. Every limb was breaking into vivid being, the skin on her hands were ripping apart at the seams, her arms were convulsing through every square inch of free space.

Kallen had waited for so many years for this moment. Even before 2017, while she drove for her own satisfaction, there was a common understanding that this, winning the World Championship, was the ultimate expression of success, the final statement of success, that you had been someone worth remembering, that, at least for a time, you had put together the best streak of anyone on the planet.

And she had done it. And she had felt it. But, for whatever reason, the validation made it real, it reminded her of her fight, that it wasn't for the worlds most expensive high.

There were no words, as words would seem to be doing an injustice to the nature of the sensation. Words, indeed all of language, attempting or even daring to express… this, in what could be perceived by onlookers, was simply not possible due to the nature of language. All of language, all of it, could only ever approximate, could only draw analogies to easily identifiable and tangible things. Goodness, for example, could only be measured against a scale of common good experiences. In Kallen's mind, placing this on the same scale as any other sensation, even winning a Grand Prix, even a pole position, anything at all, was an insult to the wonder of this moment by the simple virtue of comparing them.

If one were to ask a married couple to explain through language why they loved the person they loved as opposed to anyone else, the instinct would be outrage. To so coldly put into something as clinical as language, as that which could be expressed through the written or spoken word, would inherently undermine the full extent of all of the colours of the brilliant sky of passion and glory.

It was akin to explaining a rainbow to a blind person, or a cube to someone who could only perceive two dimensions. Certainly, it could be approximated, but never fully laid out. Language, inherently, was an impossible tool to communicate fully the buzzing, overwhelming, experience. Only incomplete comparisons could be vaguely hinted at, there was no way to assemble a sequence of words, it was impossible to encode language in such a way where the sensation that Kallen could be explained to others in the full resolution, in such a way where there was no loss, no haze, no ambiguity, where it could be fully and wholly understood and appreciated in its completeness, its intricate, wonderful brilliance, and its magnificence.

There were no words grand enough, in any language, in any dialect. There had ever, throughout the thousands of years of language, been any grunt, any combination of syllables shared by one person with another that could have adequately communicated it. To call it a googolplex of ecstasy would be a degrading insult. To call the magnitude of the sensation greater than the collective mass of every particle in the universe to the thousandth power would be a hideous understatement.

And, on top of that, the radio message… she really had done it. She had Bartley hadn't spoken Japanese at the start of the year, and had not tried once for the time Kallen had known him.

That he had broken out what was unquestionably Google Translate for the occasion just cemented it, as if it weren't already what Kallen now knew it to be. The sounds, the chanting of Oshiyoseru Kōzuki, every marshall leaping out from behind their posts, greeting her with all manner of flags waved in celebration, the sights, the senses, the knowledge that she had done it, that she was the World Champion.

This was the best day of Kallen's life. Everything, Kallen included, just melted away, as the car trundled to a stop just onto the run-off grass.

Kallen seemed to be making a number of traditions; she had won three from three races in Britain, she had in three from three Brazilian Grands Prix so far in her career been at some point in last place, and in no Brazilian Grand Prix had she returned her car to the garage in good condition. In 2017, she had slid the car into the grass out of the first corner after the end, in 2018 she had been missing her front wing and right wheel and suspension arms when she had managed to return it to the garage, and this year, she just felt her body suddenly return to her like a great whack to the jaw.

She had put everything she had into this year. For the first time, she felt so overwhelmed, so absolutely filled to the brim with every emotion of the rainbow, that she had the strange feeling of not wanting to drive anymore. She was just buzzing, every ounce of her form was tingling as she sat in what had turned from 'merely' the ultimate statement in prototype racing, to a piece of history. The seventieth car in history to have, in unity with a driver, delivered the award for World Champion. This car, the RPI-15/SC Gloucester, was the car that had brought her this success.

She was still uncertain as to her feel of the car. Her 2018 Rebellion, particularly later into the season, was more nimble and precise, with the length of the 2019 Camelot still leaving the front a little vague. However, the stable rear end made trail braking straightforward, and, as much as the process of driving the car was compromised from the start with the conservative fundamental architecture, the team had brought it back, and had done a fantastic job of turning it into something Kallen could wrangle into contention, such that by Japan, it drove like a dream. However, even beyond this, the feel of the car was immediately erased, her memory was already being flooded with nostalgia.

This was the car that had made her one of the thirty-six. Since 1950, thirty-six drivers had won the drivers championship. That this was the car that had made her one of those privileged few would forever be impossible to separate from her perception of this car.

Because fuck if she didn't love this car, no matter its flaws.

And so, as she parked the car off of Descida do Lago, she placed her steering wheel on the nose and gave the tyres a farewell hug. This car would never be driven in anger again. For 2020, a new chassis would be designed and fabricated from the ground up. While Kallen would have more input on the new one and from much earlier, she would miss this car. It was a car that, if she had had her way, she would never have driven, and it was brilliant.

She let go, and began to walk up the hill towards the pits.

She could say that this hill was different, that there was now nothing to fight for, and that it was over, but that was not quite correct. For some reason, she had at no point questioned it. After Monaco, the fact, not the chance but the fact, that she would be champion, no matter how dark the future seemed and no matter how far behind she was, seemed almost tautological.

When she walked up this hill, she would be given the prize and the podium and the glory. It was as certain as anything, and so having one more hill to walk up didn't bother her too greatly.

And she saw, and she heard.

And beyond her, the horizon teemed with the sprinkling rain of cheering forms, bouncing about the tarmac like an arrow shower, shooting off into the sudden future that unveiled itself as her tunnel reached its end. Her quest was at an end, but her future was only beginning.

She smiled, and fell up into the jubilant sea, falling, falling, falling out of her skin as she was swallowed up by the liberation of victory, and of redemption.

She did it.

Starting from the 30th of April 2017 in Kallen's time, all the way up to December 15th 2019. This story has taken Kallen so incredibly far, certainly further than I envisioned. This story started out as a canvas through which I could try to improve my writing of dramatic action scenes through the lens of motor racing, which was why the early chapters in particular spent so much time in the cars. However, it morphed, and gained life of its own.

Kallen, the plucky, urbane youth, has done it. She has grown from a replacement driver after her brothers accident, subbing in for him until his legs healed, into a force unto herself, beating Tohdoh in her first year in a reckless bet. This recklessness was a double edged sword, however she fought through her negative impulses to achieve victory.

Starting from the 6th of March 2018 in our time, all the way up to February 27th 2020. This story has seen me get and then lose a boyfriend. It's seen me start E. It's seen me nearly die getting hit by a car, and go through five months of brain surgery, acute care, and rehab. It's seen me deal with depression, complete the Leaving Cert, enter Law School, and learn Chinese to the point where I just passed my HSK1 exams. I'm not confident enough to call it all a good time, particularly in light of some of the more harrowing moments, but it was a time.

This fanfic isn't finished just yet; there's an epilogue coming in three days, perhaps a little sequel hook if you like, but I do not suspect I will hurry to the substantive work of writing the coming years for Kallen. I have an outline, but I am utterly exhausted, and I do not have the time to continue at present.

However, while there is one more chapter coming, this story, the story of Kallen's rise, fall, and redemption, her growth into a frontrunning driver, into a champion, is finished. Certainly, her story as a whole is not, but this particular, discrete tale, of her entering as a greenhorn and winning her first title.

Omedetou. Oshiyoseru Kōzuki.

~G1ll3s