The Spanish sun hammered down on MotorLand Aragón, bleaching the grandstands white and making the tarmac shimmer like molten silver. The air crackled, thick with exhaust fumes, burnt rubber, and the palpable tension of twenty-two riders coiled tight. Pole position belonged to the scarlet #93 Ducati Lenovo Team machine.
Marc Márquez sat within its embrace, a statue clad in crimson leathers. No fidgeting, no nervous glances. Only an unnerving stillness, the calm eye of an impending hurricane. Two positions back, on the inside of the second row, the #04 Gresini Racing Ducati of Ayanokōji Kiyotaka radiated a different kind of quiet.
It was the poised silence of a scalpel, honed and waiting. His visor hid eyes constantly scanning the dashboard feed – tire pressures, engine temp, RPM sync. Optimal. Reaction window: 0.122 seconds estimated. The five red lights above the track burned like malevolent eyes.
Darkness.
The world exploded.
Márquez wasn't launched; he was ejected. A primal howl ripped from the Ducati as instinct overrode physics, the throttle slammed wide before conscious thought could intervene. Beside him, Pecco Bagnaia's factory Ducati flinched, a micro-second hesitation costing him dearly. From P3, Ayanokōji moved.
Not with the raw violence of Márquez, but with terrifying, neural-network precision. The #04 Gresini Ducati surged forward, a grey phantom slicing through the thin air, exploiting the vacuum created by Bagnaia's stumble and slotting ruthlessly into second place as the pack hurtled, screaming, towards the tightening vise of Turn 1.
"LIGHTS OUT AT ARAGÓN AND MÁRQUEZ IS CLEAN AWAY!" roared commentator Simon Crafar, his voice riding the wave of engine noise. "Bagnaia caught off slightly off the line! But look at this! Look at the rookie! Ayanokōji in the #04 Gresini Ducati! He's absolutely nailed the start, Steve! He's P2! He's right on the tail of Márquez into Turn 1!"
Through the dizzying plunge of Turn 1, the violent flick left into Turn 2, and the brutal hard braking and rapid right of Turn 3, Márquez flowed like oil on water. His lines defied the geometric perfection of the circuit map.
He braked meters later than any data logger would recommend, not because he calculated the risk, but because he felt the limit breathe beneath him. His lean angles were obscene, elbow sliders kissing the still-cool morning patches of asphalt in the shadows, the bike seemingly telepathically glued to a trajectory only his body comprehended. He doesn't compute vectors. He feels the flow.
Ayanokōji mirrored the scarlet blur ahead, his own Ducati shuddering violently at the absolute edge of adhesion, the front tire protesting with a high-frequency shimmy. He replicated the late braking, the aggressive line, the savage throttle application demanded to stay attached.
Lap 1, Sector 1: Gap to #93: +0.3s.
Fast. Instinctive. Relentless.
"Through the first complex, Márquez already stretching his legs!" Matt Birt's voice cut in, excitement building. "Ayanokōji hanging on bravely in second, but you can see the sheer commitment Márquez is showing! That lean angle into Turn 3... breathtaking, almost reckless, yet totally controlled. Bagnaia's third, but already half a second back from the leaders followed by Alex!"
Down the interminable back straight, the Ducatis became howling, earthbound rockets. Márquez's scarlet machine seemed to warp the air, pulling away inch by inexorable inch despite the #04 clawing into its slipstream. "The tow is helping Ayanokōji , but not enough!" Crafar analyzed. "Look at the top speed trap data coming in... Márquez has maybe a kilometer or two an hour advantage. Small, but significant. The gap is opening... almost half a second as they approach the daunting Turn 12!"
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Random COTE One-shots
FanfictionClassroom of the Elite scenarios and subtle but welcomed crossovers. I like writing at random but this has served as a memory of my improvements in writing. Updates will vary depending on the schedules. A story uploaded depicts a sudden burst of m...
