As Night Fell at Tatrasuna Pass
The night air had a bite to it, dry and sharp like cracked pine needles underfoot. A fine mist hung in the shadows between trees, stirred occasionally by mountain gusts that whispered through the pines lining the shoulder of the pass. Tatrasuna stood still, but not silent—beneath the stillness was a dormant roar, the kind that lived in asphalt baked under years of rubber and oil, waiting to be awakened.
Tatrasuna Pass was no playground. It was a coiled serpent of asphalt, a brutal gauntlet of blind corners, off-camber turns, and sheer drop-offs that made every inch of road feel like borrowed time. And tonight, that coiled serpent was twitching in anticipation.
Kaedehara Kazuha stood at the edge of the turnout, arms folded neatly across his chest. His silhouette was outlined by the soft glow of the overhead streetlamp, his crimson eyes narrowed, scanning the snake-like ribbon of road that vanished into the forested abyss below. There was something electric in the air, a tension that clung to the lungs like fog. He could feel it, just beneath the sound of the wind—the unmistakable pulse of incoming engines.
Beside him stood Sangonomiya Kokomi and Firefly. Kokomi's posture was graceful, composed as always, her hands clasped behind her back, while Firefly leaned against the hood of her RX-7 FD, golden paint catching the flickering halogen light like flame licking across steel.
Kazuha broke the silence first. "So, Kokomi," he began, his voice steady but tinged with subtle adrenaline, "did you hear? Team Speed Stars is on their way up here. They should be arriving in just a couple of minutes."
Kokomi inclined her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Yes, I did. It's pretty exciting, isn't it? This is an opportunity to show what Tatrasuna is made of."
Kazuha mirrored her expression, pride flaring faintly in his gaze. "No kidding. Racing with them on our home turf will be an honor—a privilege, really. But let's not forget what's at stake. We've got our pride to defend. This is our pass."
He pivoted toward Firefly, who hadn't moved. Her eyes were glued to her RX-7, one hand still gently resting on the sloping curve of the fender. She looked like she was lost somewhere between memory and anticipation, her chest rising and falling in a slow, practiced rhythm.
"Firefly." Kazuha's voice was sharper now, and when she didn't answer, he snapped his fingers.
She blinked, snapping out of her trance. "Oh, uh... yeah?"
Kazuha smirked. "I said, Team Speed Stars is almost here. Did you catch that?"
She nodded quickly, brushing hair from her face as she squared her shoulders. "Yeah, I heard."
"Good." Kazuha's tone softened, a quiet confidence laced through it. "You're our uphill ace. No one knows this stretch like you. That's going to matter."
Firefly's mouth curled into a crooked smirk. "Don't worry about me, Kazuha. Leave it to me. I'll handle this."
Kazuha tilted his head. "Do you want to know who you're racing against?"
Firefly scoffed and waved the question away. "Not a chance. That kind of stuff just messes with my head."
Turning back to her car, she ran her hand across the hood, knuckles grazing the paint like a ritual. The RX-7 gave a low groan as it settled on its suspension, gold glinting like the edge of a blade. Every nut and bolt in that engine bay had been touched by her hands. That bond ran deeper than horsepower numbers or spec sheets—it was personal.
"All I need to do," she muttered, "is get out there and drive my damndest."
The valley trembled a second later. First came the scream of a high-strung inline-four, supercharged, compressed, and spitting fire—an unnatural howl slicing through the mountain silence. Behind it, the snarling rhythm of a naturally aspirated four-cylinder echoed, crisp and angry, each throttle pulse like a whipcrack.
Headlights emerged from the tree line—two beams cutting through the mist before the shapes of the machines materialized: a Lancia 037 in its unmistakable Martini livery, low-slung and muscular, its stance hunkered like a predator; beside it, the black silhouette of a humble AE86, breathing steadily, calmly, like it knew exactly what it was doing.
The convoy came to a slow, precise halt. A pair of HiAce vans pulled in behind them, engine fans still ticking. The mountain was officially awake.
Firefly turned slowly, her expression shifting from relaxed to stunned the second her eyes locked onto the Lancia. She stood upright, arms falling to her sides.
Kazuha stepped up beside her, his voice lowering in awe. "Do you see that car in the Martini scheme? That's Clorinde. And that, Firefly, is no ordinary opponent."
Firefly opened her mouth, but her voice caught in her throat.
"That's the championship-winning Lancia 037 Group B rally car," Kazuha continued. "2.1-liter Lampredi inline-four, twin-cam, supercharged. Rear-wheel drive. One of the last of its kind. For a pass like Tatrasuna—tight, technical, and unforgiving—it's a weapon."
Firefly's hands curled into fists, breath caught somewhere between admiration and dread. "Clorinde… and a Lancia 037!?" she choked.
Kazuha chuckled, giving her a subtle shoulder check. "Don't tell me you're intimidated now. You've got to show her what our cars can do. Legends mean nothing if you can outrun them."
Firefly grit her teeth. "Of all the damn cars I had to face... why did it have to be this one?"
As Firefly fought with her nerves, Kazuha strode toward the newly arrived duo. From the AE86, Keqing stepped out, her face sharp with purpose, amethyst eyes scanning the lot.
"Is it okay if we start our practice runs tonight?" she asked calmly.
Kazuha offered a short bow. "Of course. The pass is yours."
Keqing nodded in kind. "Thank you."
Meanwhile, Ningguang approached Clorinde and Collei. Her heels clicked softly against the pavement, posture immaculate even in the cool mountain air.
"All right," she said, her voice brisk. "As usual—five runs, eighty percent pace. I want data, consistency, nothing more."
She turned to Clorinde. "This course is your stage. Treat it like Snezhnaya or Monte Carlo—tight, steep, unforgiving. That Lancia was built for this."
Clorinde laughed softly as she brushed back a lock of hair. "Reminds me of my dad's old rally tapes. Monte Carlo, Snezhnaya… those snowy cliffside switchbacks. It's almost nostalgic."
Ningguang nodded. "Then go make it yours. Both of you—get moving."
Clorinde and Collei exchanged glances. No more words were needed. The AE86's ignition clicked, then roared to life in a deep, guttural purr. A half-second later, the Lancia's engine ignited with a sharp bark, idling with a mechanical chug like it was trying to bite through the pavement.
The two cars peeled out of the lot, heading into the black maw of the pass. Their taillights shimmered red as blood in the mist, swallowed one by one by the darkness of the mountain.
Back at the turnout, Firefly stood frozen beside her FD, still watching.
Kazuha let out a breath as the last flicker of light vanished from view. "Those two cars... they're amazing."
Kokomi, hands tucked neatly behind her back, nodded. "Especially the Lancia. There's beauty in that machine."
Kazuha chuckled under his breath. "No kidding. The last RWD car to ever win the WRC title. Went head-to-head with monsters like the Audi Quattro and still came out on top. That's pedigree."
Meanwhile, deep in Tatrasuna Pass, the engines of the AE86 and Lancia howled in tandem. Collei was laser-focused, eyes darting from apex to tach needle, her shifts precise, her footwork smooth. She knew this stretch from her race with Ayaka. She flowed through it now like water through a streambed.
But the Lancia was a beast unleashed.
Clorinde's grip on the suede-wrapped steering wheel was firm, controlled. Her right foot modulated the throttle with rally-bred instinct, riding the torque wave as the supercharger whined and the suspension clawed at the pavement. She was alive.
"This feels great!" she shouted to no one but the engine and the trees. "Never driven Monte Carlo or Snezhnaya... but this—this is what my dad always talked about!"
The Lancia roared down a battered straightaway, suspension compressing hard on a dip. The underside kissed asphalt, sending a spray of sparks into the night. Metal scraped, tires howled. The car didn't falter—it thrived.
And in the parking area above, Firefly's expression hardened.
Her fear was gone now.
Now there was only focus.
And fire.
As time passed, Clorinde found herself crouched beside the Lancia, chatting quietly with Navia, her mechanic, while the exhaust ticked softly behind them, cooling in the cold mountain air. The scent of scorched tires and spent fuel still hung thick around the paddock.
"This track is amazing," Clorinde said, pulling off one glove and wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. "But we need to make some adjustments. Suspension's too low. It's bottoming out constantly—keeps smashing the chassis against the bumps like a sledgehammer." She exhaled, looking out at the pass. "Sparks flying off the undertray like it's fucking Monaco in '86. All we're missing is Alain Prost and a Marlboro livery."
Navia crouched beside her, flipping open her tablet and swiping through a series of setup sheets with grease-streaked fingers. Her gaze was steady, clinical. "Yeah, I figured you'd say that. I've got the gravel spec settings from last year's Illyrian test run saved. I'll bump up the ride height, soften the rebound a touch, and dial in more compliance on the front end. That should give the Lancia a bit more breathing room through the downhill compressions."
Clorinde gave a small nod of approval. "Perfect. I want it to stay aggressive, but right now I'm fighting the road more than I'm reading it. It's costing me precision on entry—especially in the second hairpin section."
Navia followed her line of sight across the lot. "Well, at least you're not the only one getting kicked around out there." She gestured toward the opposite side of the parking area, where Collei's Eight-Six sat perched on jack stands. Albedo was underneath it with a magnetic light clamped to the subframe, the faint clinking of tools punctuating the night air as he worked methodically in silence.
"Looks like Collei's car is having its own issues," Navia said with a dry smirk. "That pass is eating everyone alive tonight. No one's walking away without a few bruises."
Clorinde's eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating, as they drifted past the AE86 and locked onto Firefly's FD RX-7, sitting just a few spots down. Its low, aggressive stance and polished golden paint glinted under the parking lot lamps like a predator in wait.
"She's driving an FD," Clorinde muttered, folding her arms across her chest. "Just like Keqing's."
Navia glanced up. "Yeah. Same front bumper, same headlight swap, even the same front lip. Could've been ordered from the same catalog. Only difference I see is the wheels—those look like SSR Type-Cs, maybe. Lightweight forged, more track-oriented than Keqing's Enkeis."
Clorinde's brow furrowed. "Interesting. That FD… it's not just a show car. The ride height, the camber, the way it's sitting—whoever's tuning that thing knows what they're doing. That's a real machine."
Navia nodded slowly. "Well, yeah. It's got the look of a street car that's been built up from the ground with actual intent, not just for style. You can always tell the difference."
Clorinde's eyes lingered on the FD for another moment, her jaw tightening slightly. "So I'm going head-to-head with a lightweight rotary midrange monster. Great."
Navia smirked. "Hey, you've got a mid-engine, supercharged Group B legend. Besides, she doesn't have a championship-winning rally setup—or me."
Clorinde allowed herself the faintest of smiles. "Yeah. Let's keep it that way."
Navia tapped the tablet screen. "I'll get to work on the suspension. You get some water and try not to overanalyze everything."
But Clorinde didn't respond immediately. Her eyes were still fixed on Firefly's FD, the weight of what lay ahead settling on her shoulders like a co-driver's whispered countdown.
The calm before the storm never felt this heavy.
The following night, the mountain was alive again—wind slipping through the trees, headlights cutting ribbons through the dark. Kazuha gathered his team in the glow of the parking lot fluorescents, the white body of his Toyota Altezza casting long shadows behind him. His expression was unreadable, but the edge in his voice made everyone stand a little straighter.
"Alright," he began, his tone low and even, but resolute. "I've done my recon. Watched every lap they've run. These cars… they're the real deal."
He glanced out at the pass behind them, exhaling slowly as if the mountain itself weighed on his chest.
"That Eight-Six is flying up the course like it's part of the road. You'd think the damn thing was born here—like she's been running this line since she was a kid. And that Lancia?" He shook his head, lips tightening into a grim line. "That thing is a monster. Group B rally spec. They jacked the suspension so high, it's almost racing on gravel settings. Sparks flew the whole way down, and it didn't even flinch."
He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of his words settle over the group like mist on the downhill.
"On the downhill, Collei has the advantage. Despite the rough, bumpy asphalt, she's making it look easy—like the car floats through the mess that throws everyone else off balance. I've gotta be honest… the odds there aren't in our favor. But the uphill?" He looked over at the sleek, low-slung FD sitting just behind him, golden paint gleaming under the harsh lights. "That's where we strike. Firefly's got the power. Her FD can punch hard through every gear. We're betting it all on the uphill."
Firefly, leaning casually against the front fender of her RX-7 with her arms folded, locked eyes with Kazuha and gave a small, confident nod. "Right. I've got this one. I won't let you guys down."
Kazuha gave her a rare smile—subtle, but sincere. "That's the spirit."
A little while later, Firefly was strapped in and alone, barrelling through her final practice run before the race. The road fell away beneath her like a silver ribbon, and her grip on the MOMO steering wheel was tight but controlled, index fingers resting on the back of the spokes. She was smooth on throttle, feathering through the tight sections, then hammering down the gas as the course opened up into the longest straight on the lower half of the pass.
The rotary screamed—an angry, high-pitched wail echoing across the valley. Wind howled around the cabin. Her eyes flicked from the tach to the boost gauge.
1.2… 1.3… 1.5 psi—
Suddenly, a violent hiss exploded from the engine bay, followed by a gut-wrenching loss of power. The car shuddered, her power band collapsing like a snapped lifeline.
"What the—shit!" she gasped, her heart jumping to her throat. The FD lurched, stalling out of boost, and she immediately eased off the throttle, coasting to a stop with hazard lights flickering against the guardrail. The FD's heartbeat slowed, sputtered—then idled with an ugly unevenness.
She flung the door open and popped the hood with a slam, muttering under her breath as she stomped to the front.
"What the hell is wrong with you? You were fine yesterday," she hissed, eyes scanning the maze of pipes and vacuum lines, the glint of aluminum under sodium-lit darkness. She traced her fingers along the intercooler piping, looking for cracks, leaks—anything.
Before she could go further, the whine of a high-strung supercharged engine echoed through the forested bend below.
Seconds later, a pair of headlights carved through the trees like a blade. Clorinde's Lancia crested the curve, snarling through the gears, its nose dipping under braking. The white machine came to a precise halt just behind the FD, its rally lights throwing long shadows across the scene.
The Lancia's engine cut, and a moment later, Clorinde stepped out. Her suit was half-unzipped and tied at the waist, tank top soaked in sweat, hair tousled from the helmet she'd tossed into the passenger seat.
She walked over calmly, reading the situation in a heartbeat.
"What's going on?" she asked, her tone firm but not unkind. "Car give out on you?"
Firefly jumped slightly, startled by the sudden appearance. "Uh—yeah. I was doing a hot run when I lost all the boost, then bam—no power. Just died on me."
Clorinde circled around to the front, hands on her hips. "Just out of nowhere, huh?"
"Y-Y-Yeah…" Firefly stammered, clearly shaken.
Clorinde leaned in close, her trained eyes scanning the setup. It took her less than ten seconds.
"There," she said, pointing at a section near the turbo outlet. "Your intercooler piping's slipped. Clamp's rusted through and let the whole joint blow open. You've got a boost leak the size of a dinner plate."
Firefly stared blankly for a moment before her brain caught up. "Shit. Seriously?"
Clorinde gave a dry smirk. "It's an easy fix. Lucky you, I carry a bunch of spare hardware."
She turned back to the Lancia, popping the front latches with a practiced flick of her fingers. The composite nose tilted forward, revealing a sparse trunk space framed by tubular steel and a neatly strapped tool pouch. Clorinde rummaged through it, then pulled out a zippered kit and plucked a bolt from one of the pouches.
Walking back with deliberate calm, she flicked the bolt once in her hand. "Looks like this'll fit. Let's get it on before your rotary decides to swallow a vacuum line out of spite."
She leaned over Firefly's engine bay and went to work. The old bolt came off with a twist of her wrist, and she slid the coupler back onto the intercooler pipe, then locked the new bolt in place. Her movements were confident, precise, the kind that came from hundreds of roadside fixes in worse conditions.
After a few turns of the ratchet, she stepped back, brushing her forearm across her brow. "Done. Go ahead and start her up. Put your foot in it a little—let's see if the turbo builds clean now."
Firefly slid into the bucket seat, turned the key, and the 13B roared to life. The idle was back—smooth and aggressive. She stabbed the throttle. The turbo spooled fast and hard, boost holding steady past 1.5 psi with no flutter or hiss.
Firefly jumped out, face lit up with relief. "Holy shit, thank you, Clorinde. You saved me out here."
Clorinde gave a small shrug, but her smirk stayed. "Don't worry about it. I wasn't gonna let my opponent lose to a rusted clamp. I want a real race."
With that, she turned on her heel and climbed back into the Lancia. The belts clicked into place. One flick of the ignition, and the rally car came back to life with a thunderous growl. She gave Firefly a quick wave through the window before vanishing into the night with a blip of throttle and a howl of supercharged fury.
Firefly stood there for a moment, the FD's engine humming beside her, heart still pounding from the scare—and from the brief glimpse of her rival's sharp-edged kindness.
She closed the hood, cinched the latches tight, and gave her machine one final lookover.
Time to race.