βStrange girl | F1β
-Chapter one
ππ§ ππ‘π πππ©ππ‘π¬ π¨π ππ’π¨
βοΈΒ π¨π¦π§π’π¬ππ’ππ§π π©π¨π―βοΈ
The air vibrated in the Interlagos paddock, thick with the electrifying adrenaline that always precedes the roar of a Brazilian Grand Prix. But this time, a pulsating rumor spread among the teams and drivers, diverting attention to a captivating underworld: the legendary clandestine races that snaked through the intricate favelas of Rio. That night, far from the official glitz, in the heart of a favela where the flickering light of precarious bulbs competed with the distant twinkle of stars, an underground "qualifying" would take shape. It wasn't the Interlagos starting grid that would be decided, but the order of challenge for the real contest the following day, and the atmosphere, charged with palpable anticipation, already felt different, raw, almost savage.
Driven by a mix of insatiable curiosity and a dash of audacity, a select group from Formula 1's elite decided to break with the paddock routine and immerse themselves in this clandestine experience. Charles, Max, Oscar, Lando, George, Lewis, Carlos, Pierre, accompanied by a few analytical-looking engineers and team principals with their usual air of control, arrived in an organized manner with an almost conspiratorial discretion, although their faces betrayed a palpable excitement. For these men and women, accustomed to the impeccable asphalt, cutting-edge technology, and meticulous safety of official circuits, the whirlwind of chaos and the palpable rawness of these street races represented a leap into a parallel universe, where the rules were different and danger, a constant.
Crossing the invisible border that separated the orderly world of the paddock from the labyrinth of the favela, the first thing that hit them was the vibrant cacophony. Underground racers, figures weathered by the sun and speed, gestured and laughed with a boisterous ease, a contagious nonchalance that stood in stark contrast to the almost ritual seriousness of the F1 paddock. The air was thick with a blend of rapid and passionate Portuguese, sprinkled with phrases in Spanish and fluent English, creating a surprisingly cosmopolitan atmosphere amidst the precariousness. And then there were the cars: a fascinating spectacle where the blatant luxury of high-end models merged with extreme modifications, scars from countless nights of adrenaline, each vehicle radiating a unique personality, a visceral reflection of the driver who mastered it.
Amid this whirlwind of voices and engines, a robust man with sun-weathered skin and a mischievous grin etched on his face raised his voice, his tone resonating above the murmur and drawing everyone's attention. "Heyyy, anyone know if 'Ice Vanilla Latte' is gonna show up around here tonight?" he asked with a wry smile, as if referring to someone by the name of a sophisticated Starbucks drink completely out of place in this environment. An eyebrow shot up among the F1 team members; the contrast was surreal.
The comment hung in the air, unleashing a wave of immediate reactions. "If that skinny thing shows up, we're screwed," grunted another driver, a man with scarred knuckles and a hard look, as he rolled his eyes with palpable irritation. "Look on the bright side, it's all of us against her. If she gets too cocky again, we'll take her off the track without a second thought," added a third, with a chilling naturalness that left the Formula 1 newcomers exchanging incredulous glances. For these underground racers, the idea of taking a competitor off the track at breakneck speeds seemed like a tactic as common and uncomplicated as discussing the chances of rain for the next day. The rawness of the statement sank in with the F1 group.
Suddenly, a guttural and unmistakable roar ripped through the air, instantly silencing the cacophony of voices and the occasional sputtering of engines. As if magnetized, everyone present turned their heads toward the dark end of the alley. Slowly, a Honda emerged from the shadows, one of the latest and most powerful models, but what truly captured the attention of the makeshift garage was its bright and bold pink bodywork, a flash of almost unreal color that starkly contrasted with the dark and metallic tones that dominated the impromptu street scene.
The Honda glided with surprising smoothness and parked without the slightest hesitation alongside the other vehicles, but the real anticipation focused on the driver's side door. Eyes were glued to the car, tense, awaiting the driver's appearance. A murmur rippled through the crowd as the figure emerged from the cockpit. The surprise was almost palpable, an unexpected twist. It wasn't the burly and intimidating man that many expected, nor the tough guy hardened in a thousand battles; it was a woman.
Of slender build and a height that barely exceeded average, her presence radiated an almost ethereal quality. Her skin, of an immaculate pallor like freshly carved marble, contrasted with the pure white of her hair, a snowy cascade that framed a face with delicate features. But what truly captured attention were her eyes, of an icy and piercing blue, capable of conveying a surprising intensity, as if they could scrutinize the soul of anyone who dared to hold her gaze. Every detail of her appearance was a declaration of uniqueness, from the neutral and distant expression that veiled her thoughts to her deliberately casual attire: a loose black hoodie paired with matching Bermuda shorts and electric blue sneakers that added an unexpected touch of audacity.
The dense silence that had fallen over the place was broken by the mocking voice of one of the racers, a man with tattoos snaking up his arms and a sardonic smile etched on his lips. "Vanilla latte? We thought you'd chickened out tonight..."
The girl turned her head slowly, her blue eyes flashing a cold glint like freshly broken ice. With calculated indifference, she shrugged before replying in a voice as icy as her gaze. "I always show up. Whether you like it or not."
Without stopping, she walked past the racer with nonchalant steps, as if her presence were a mere formality. She moved with an almost feline calm through the makeshift circuit, her eyes scanning the surroundings with meticulous attention. Her attitude was calm, almost distant, but beneath that facade of serenity, an unwavering confidence could be perceived, a self-assurance that seemed to defy anyone who doubted her.
From the shadows offered by the edges of the alley, the Formula 1 drivers watched the scene unfolding before their eyes with a palpable mix of fascination and disbelief. Lando, with his usual spontaneity, was the first to break the silence, his voice tinged with astonishment. "But who the hell is that girl?" he asked, his eyes still fixed on the female figure, trying to process the strange mix of fragility and authority that emanated from her. Max, with his characteristic frown of concentration, crossed his arms over his chest while following the girl's every move with his gaze. "She must be damn good," he muttered, his tone revealing a dawning admiration. "Nobody dares to talk about someone like that unless that person has proven to them time and time again that they can leave them in the dust."
Lewis moved forward slowly, his penetrating gaze analyzing every detail. "The weirdest thing of all is the fear she seems to inspire. That kind of attitude isn't earned overnight; it has to come from somewhere."
Meanwhile, Hati Vulkasinβor simply "Ice Vanilla Latte," the nickname that resonated with a mixture of fear and respect in this underworldβcontinued her leisurely walk among the cars, ignoring with deliberate indifference the curious and sometimes hostile glances she attracted. Her universe wasn't that of gleaming closed circuits, interviews with a press eager for headlines, or lucrative multi-million dollar contracts. Hers was the raw and unforgiving asphalt of the streets, a battlefield where respect wasn't bought with sponsorships but conquered through audacious maneuvers and undeniable victories behind the wheel. That night, under the starry sky of the favela, it wasn't just the starting order for the next day's race that was at stake; the newfound interest of the Formula 1 observers was also in play. In some corner of their minds accustomed to precision and strategy, they all sensed that Hati Vulkasin was no ordinary driver, that there was something singular and dangerous in the way she moved and in the reaction she provoked.
.π₯ έ Λβ Λβ.π₯ έ Λβ Λβ.π₯ έ Λβ Λβ.π₯ έ Λβ Λβ.π₯ έ Λβ Λβ.π₯ έ Λβ
The atmosphere, which until recently had been charged with a tense but contained anticipation, suddenly thickened the instant a Brazilian driver, a tall and burly man with sun-bronzed skin and a gaze loaded with palpable resentment, approached Hati. His tone of voice, sharp and threatening as a razor's edge, cut through the murmur of the place, drawing everyone's attention once again. "Listen, Hati, don't play dumb. You know perfectly well what happens if you dare to do it. I'll take you off the track without a second thought, and if by chance you win again tonight, I swear I'm going to break each and every bone in those pale little girl arms of yours the moment you step out of the car."
Hati watched him without blinking, her blue eyes fixed on the Brazilian's with a cold intensity that didn't reveal the slightest shadow of fear. She tilted her head slightly, an almost feline gesture, as if weighing the validity of his words, deciding if they even deserved a response. Finally, she let out a barely audible sigh, laden with calculated indifference. "Then, make sure you break my bones properly," she replied in a calm but firm voice. "Because if you leave even one intact... I'll win again."
The sentence resonated in the air like a thrown gauntlet, igniting a murmur of surprise and admiration among the underground racers. The girl seemed made of ice, an unyielding fortress, although inside, a pang of unease began to stir. Hati looked away from the Brazilian, leaving him with a tense jaw and lips pressed tight with contained rage. Her blue eyes, now more alert, moved quickly, scanning the crowd. She perceived an unusual density of faces, more eyes watching with an intensity different from the usual at these kinds of gatherings.
Her gaze, previously distant, now moved with a restless curiosity, traveling from face to face among the makeshift crowd until, by an unexpected twist of fate, it stopped precisely at a point where two strangely familiar figures converged: Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton. Hati's eyes narrowed slightly, a thoughtful glint appearing in their depths, while a shadow of bewilderment fleetingly crossed her pale face. There was something different about them, a composure, an intensity in their gaze that contrasted with the frenzy and palpable excitement of the rest of the spectators.
For a moment, the girl was lost in her own thoughts, her pupils dilating slightly in a gesture of deep concentration, as if trying to fit the pieces of an invisible puzzle. Suddenly, an icy understanding struck her with the force of a punch to the stomach. She inhaled sharply, an almost imperceptible gasp that caught in her throat, and her eyes widened, reflecting genuine surprise, almost shock. "Shit... Formula 1 has found us," she murmured to herself, the words barely articulated, a whisper lost in the surrounding bustle.
The air seemed to grow denser, oppressive, as Hati scanned the place again, her attention now sharp and analytical. She recognized some of the faces she had seen in fleeting sports broadcasts; others were completely unknown, but you didn't need to be a motorsport expert to understand the unmistakable presence of Formula 1's elite. A cold knot of alarm pressed against her chest, constricting her breathing. If they were there, with their aura of celebrity and the weight of their names resonating throughout the motor racing world, how long would it be before police sirens tore through the favela night? The mere thought made her skin crawl, raising the small hairs on her arms.
Instinctively, she took a couple of steps backward, the movement clumsy and hesitant, her eyes still fixed on the Formula 1 group. Her usual composure, that impenetrable mask of indifference, cracked for a fraction of a second, revealing an unexpected vulnerability. She abruptly looked away, as if by ceasing to see them, she could make them disappear from the scene, like a child who covers their eyes so the monster under the bed will go away. But the terror had already settled inside her, cold and sharp, and there was no way to completely hide it. A slight tremor ran through her hands, betraying her growing anxiety.
As tough as the underground racers were, hardened in a thousand asphalt battles, as chilling as the Brazilian's threats had sounded, Hati knew deep down that this was different, a danger of an entirely different magnitude. The real risk didn't emanate from the Brazilian driver with his cheap bravado or from the adrenaline inherent in illegal racing. The real threat loomed in the figures watching her from the periphery, in what they represented with their fame and influence, and in the seismic consequences that their mere presence could unleash in her precarious world.
"Calm down, Hati. Don't let panic paralyze you now," she repeated mentally, struggling to control the rapid rhythm of her heart and the surge of adrenaline coursing through her. But even as she tried to regulate her breathing and straighten her posture, a sharp certainty tormented her, a thought as cold as steel that pierced her mind: if they are here, if the elite of the world's motorsport has set their eyes on this favela, it means that our secret, our risky world on the fringes of the law, might be about to be revealed to the entire world.
.π₯ έ Λβ Λβ.π₯ έ Λβ Λβ.π₯ έ Λβ Λβ.π₯ έ Λβ Λβ.π₯ έ Λβ Λβ.π₯ έ Λβ
βοΈπππ± π©π¨π―βοΈ
From the instant the brand-new Honda snaked into the labyrinth of alleyways in the favela, I knew this foray into the Carioca night would transcend any previous experience. The raw roar of the engines echoed between the precarious constructions of Rio, a visceral echo that seemed to rise from the bowels of the earth and vibrate in my own bones. It was a crude, untamed spectacle, a symphony of pure power that contrasted starkly with the clinical neatness and mathematical precision that defined the universe of Formula 1. Here, on this makeshift asphalt, there were no strict regulations, no vigilant stewards, no meticulously calculated strategies emanating from a pit wall overflowing with data. Everything was reduced to pure instinct, reckless courage, and, let's admit it, a generous dose of delicious madness.
We were intruders in this clandestine realm, a heterogeneous entourage of renowned drivers, sharp-minded engineers, and team principals with their usual air of authority, all of us clearly out of sync with the uninhibited atmosphere of the favela. Some, like Lando and George, seemed intoxicated by the novelty, their eyes shining with an almost childlike excitement at this impromptu adventure, as if they were immersed in the filming of a high-octane reality show. I, however, experienced a more complex sensation, an intriguing mix of voracious curiosity and a sharp unease. Because, as electrifying as the spectacle was, I couldn't ignore the reality that these drivers came from a radically different social and cultural stratum than mine, with stories etched in the asphalt that I would probably prefer not to unravel.
Amid the resounding laughter and rapid comments in Portuguese that mostly escaped me, some of the local drivers began to mention someone in particular. Although the speed of their street slang prevented me from catching all the nuances, an enigmatic phrase stuck in my mind, leaving me perplexed: "Ice Vanilla Latte." A nickname? Seriously? What kind of name was that for someone who risked their life behind the wheel in these alleys? Instinctively, I turned to Lewis, seeking an explanation, but he just shrugged with an amused smile and a look that mirrored my own curiosity.
Suddenly, an unusual silence fell over the makeshift circuit, a reluctant muteness that was only broken by the unmistakable roar of an approaching engine. A Honda, instantly recognizable by its characteristic bellow, appeared at the end of the alley, but it was the color that completely threw me off: pink. Not a sleek, metallic rose, the kind you'd see on a show car or some Monaco extravagance. No, this was a vibrant, almost fluorescent pink, with an intensity that bordered on childish, but which, in some inexplicable way... fit perfectly into this organized chaos.
The Honda braked with surprising precision, its tires sliding on the uneven asphalt until it stopped alongside the other contenders, and a palpable tension gripped the air as the driver's side door began to open slowly. What emerged from inside that defiant pink car was the last thing my mind, accustomed to athletic profiles and fireproof suits, had anticipated.
The first thing that caught my attention was a cascade of hair, as white as freshly fallen snow, which shone with an almost supernatural glow under the flickering makeshift lights of the favela. Then, I glimpsed the skin, of an almost translucent pallor, which contrasted strikingly with the oppressive darkness of the night. And when she finally raised her face, revealing her full profile, her eyes completely captivated me, as if a bolt of pure energy had struck me. They were an electric blue, intensely and deeply cold, as if she could scrutinize every last corner of my soul with a single glacial gaze.
For a fleeting instant, I lost track of my surroundings. It was as if the roar of the engines, the murmur of voices, and even the omnipresent acrid smell of gasoline vanished into an unreal silence. Only she remained in my field of vision, moving with a calmness that seemed almost dangerous in this adrenaline-fueled environment. She wore simple clothes, a dark hoodie and shorts, but somehow, that informality seemed to fit perfectly with her distant and defiant aura, as if fashion and conventions were alien concepts to her world.
"Vanilla Latte, we thought you'd chickened out tonight..." joked one of the local drivers, his voice tinged with a barely concealed tension as his eyes followed every move of the newcomer. She replied in a tone as icy as the blue of her eyes, uttering a phrase in Portuguese that, although it completely escaped me, conveyed an unmistakable message that she wasn't someone to be intimidated. There was something deeply disconcerting about her. It wasn't just her appearance, although undeniably striking, it was the way she moved, with an almost Olympian indifference to the chaos surrounding her, as if her presence there was a purely personal decision, dictated by her own rules, and not by anyone else's pressure.
I couldn't take my eyes off her. There was a magnetic force emanating from her presence, an elusive quality that my analytical mind, accustomed to dissecting every detail of a race car, was unable to define. Then, suddenly, something changed in the atmosphere. Her gaze, which until that moment had been directed into the void or scanning the surroundings with an almost arrogant indifference, abruptly shifted and locked directly onto me.
It was an instant, a single second that stretched to feel like an eternity. Her blue eyes, cold as steel, met mine, holding my gaze with surprising intensity before shifting towards Lewis, as if she were trying to decipher who we were and what we were doing there. I perceived a slight change in the dilation of her pupils, almost imperceptible, and then, for a fraction of a second, a spark of recognition, or perhaps alarm, crossed her pale face. Something worried her, that was undeniable, and although she tried to mask her unease with her usual facade of indifference, she wasn't quick enough to hide that brief flash of concern.
I saw her step back slightly, barely a hesitant step, but enough for even my untrained eye in street body language to notice a drastic change in her posture. The imperturbable figure who had walked so confidently through the track had transformed into someone who was clearly grappling with an invisible threat, something that had shaken her to her core. It was at that precise moment that understanding hit me with the force of lightning: she knew who we were.
The way her eyes scanned the makeshift circuit again, now with a palpable urgency, as if she were desperately searching for an escape route, said it all. She wasn't worried about us, at least not directly. Her unease lay in the implications of our presence, in what our unexpected appearance meant in her clandestine world. "The police," I thought, the word resonating with a somber certainty in my mind. That's what she was really afraid of.
I can't explain it, but a part of me felt a regretful urge to approach her, to bridge the distance and assure her that she had nothing to fear, that our presence wasn't intended to disrupt her world. But the cold, pragmatic logic of my mind told me that any attempt to approach her would only make things worse, that our mere existence there was already a sufficient intrusion. So I remained still, observing her from a distance, trying to decipher the enigma that this girl with an angelic appearance but with a gaze capable of freezing the soul of anyone who crossed her path represented.
I knew almost nothing about her. Not even her real name. But a strange certainty, a visceral intuition, had settled inside me, telling me that this night, the one I met as "Ice Vanilla Latte," would leave an indelible mark on my memory, that she wouldn't be someone easy to forget, not now, not ever.
Hi, how are you? Let me introduce myself, I'm Charlie, and this is one of my stories, one of my favorites, which is why I'm translating it to expand my audience and have a little more diversity in the stories. I'd like you to give it a chance and give me your opinions. They're all valid, since my native language is Spanish, not English, so I accept your criticism. Tell me what you think, vote, and comment for more episodes. ThanksΒ π¦
