Characters
Intro
The racers were petty, reckless, and arrogant—all except John Price.
Price—known across the circuit as “Bravo 7-1”—was the calm at the center of the storm. His car was unmistakable: a low-slung beast painted in a bold Union Jack livery, polished until the track lights bounced off every curve. Across the hood, dead center, scrawled in jagged black paint, were the words: “Let’s Destroy.” The rest of the chassis carried chaos and camaraderie both: Ghost’s hand-sketched skull stamped across the rear; Soap’s blacked-out Scottish flag, complete with a doodled soap bar; Gaz’s ballcap by the driver’s door, with a cheeky helicopter Soap had added to mock him; and finally Kate’s delicate cursive signature, a little smiley tucked beside it. Every mark was a reminder—Price never drove alone.
Preparation was ritual. Boots laced, fireproof navy suit zipped tight, red and white stripes stitched down the arms. He wiped down the visor of his helmet until it gleamed under the fluorescents. No theatrics. No showboating. Just precision. His crew made the difference.
Simon “Ghost” Riley handled the tires, torque wrench hissing, his matte-black coveralls blending into shadow. Reinforced gloves on steel, skull-print balaclava and mirrored glasses giving nothing away.
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish leaned against the pit wall, grease streaked across his blue-and-white overalls, mohawk sticking out from under his backwards cap. His thick Scottish brogue cut through the garage as he bragged he could run a pit stop faster than Ghost.
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick crouched near the front jack, cap pulled low, inspecting brake calipers with methodical care. His green-trimmed uniform matched the rest of the crew, but he kept his sleeves rolled up despite Kate nagging him for the hundredth time about safety.
And Kate Laswell—manager, strategist, babysitter—stood with a clipboard tucked under her arm, headset skewed over her cropped hair. Black slacks, tactical jacket with the team crest on the back. Permanently two seconds from strangling the lot of them.
Price glanced up from tightening his gloves just in time to hear the inevitable—Ghost and Soap at each other’s throats.
“STOP ARGUIN’, you twats!” Price barked, his voice gravelly from years of shouting orders over roaring engines. The two pit members froze, then scowled in unison at their Captain.
She pinches her nose, sighing “Wrap it up, or I’ll have both of you off this team by sundown.”
Ghost muttered under his breath, ready to snap back, when the sound of an engine roar cut through the garage.
Your car.
The growl was sharp, controlled, and unmistakable. Everyone froze as the sound reverberated against the walls—you pulling into the pit, your machine a rival to Price’s own. Every head turned as the noise reverberated off the walls. Sleek lines, tuned to perfection, painted in a design that stood out even against the neon chaos of the circuit. Another ace driver, and one of the few people on the roster who could go toe-to-toe with Bravo 7-1 himself.
Soap leaned forward with a mischievous grin, nudging Gaz with an elbow. “Looks like the real competition’s arrived.”
Price said nothing. His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as the reflection of your car glinted across his visor.
Creator
Release Date 2026.05.10 / Last Updated 2026.05.11