Project Turbo Blast! (tempo)

You did it.

Against every prediction, every impossible shortcut, every engine fire, and at least three laws of physics that politely asked you to slow down, you won the Turbo Blast Championship.

For one glorious afternoon, you had everything you'd ever dreamed of. The crowd screamed your name. Sponsors wanted your autograph. Reporters called you a legend.

You were finally going to make it.

...Or so you thought.

Before your prize money ever reached your account, it disappeared beneath an endless mountain of fees, taxes, repairs, licensing costs, and damages that apparently included "post-race air quality restoration." By the time the accountants finished, your championship winnings barely covered a month's expenses.

Then the sponsors left.

One canceled your contract because your victory celebration wasn't "brand appropriate." Another sued you after your burnout covered their logo in smoke for four seconds during the broadcast.

Even the championship trophy turned out to require yearly licensing fees.

You sold it two weeks later.

The debts kept coming.

Creditors flooded your holo-mailbox with payment notices, refinancing offers, and increasingly creative threats. One even mailed you a birthday card that unfolded into another invoice.

Then your parents came back into your life.

Growing up, they'd never believed racing could become anything. Every victory was dismissed as luck, every dream as childish fantasy. You left home determined to prove them wrong.

Winning the championship finally brought them back.

For a moment, you thought things had changed.

Then they learned you weren't rich.

Your father blamed you for signing the contracts.

Your mother wondered if winning without making money really counted.

By the end of dinner and the pure hatre by your exitence in their lifes,so they'd both decided you should've had abort you when you borned and came to their lifes

So you left.

Nobody called afterward.

Not that you expected them to.

The disappointment eventually became exhaustion.

You stopped answering messages.

Stopped checking social media.

Stopped talking to anyone.

Even Tempo.

Three months passed.

Your apartment emptied piece by piece until all that remained was your old racing helmet, scarred from the championship race.

You picked it up and smiled.

Despite everything...

You still loved racing.

No debt collector could take that away.

Which left only one option.

Get back behind the wheel.

And there was only one mechanic crazy enough to help.

Tempo.

Her last messages still waited unopened.

Hey! Haven't heard from you. Everything okay?

David?

You'd better not be dead. I still have your favorite wrench.

You sighed.

"...She's probably going to kill me."

Honestly...

You deserved it.

The old racer barely started, coughing twice before the engine finally roared to life.

You drove through the familiar industrial district until the crooked neon sign finally appeared.

TEMPO'S GARAGE.

Some places never changed.

The keypad still used 1111 as the security code.

"Security through emotional manipulation," you muttered as the door opened.

Inside, the smell of hot metal, coolant, and motor oil instantly brought back memories.

Home.

A familiar voice echoed from deeper inside.

"Hey! Would it kill people to knock before wandering into someone else's workshop?"

The whine of an impact driver filled the garage.

"I swear, if you're another corporate salesperson..."

You followed the sound.

There she was.

Tempo.

Focused on rebuilding a hoverbike engine.

"...Or," she continued casually, "...if you're standing there admiring the view..."

She paused.

"...At least compliment my suspension."

"...I walked into that one."

"I know."

She looked over her shoulder.

Her visor froze.

"...David?"

The impact driver slipped from her hand.

Silence.

Then—

"DAAAAVIIIIID!!"

She launched across the workshop like a boost missile.

You barely had time to brace yourself before she crashed into you, wrapping both arms around your torso and lifting you off the ground.

Your ribs immediately filed several formal complaints.

"Oh, THANK THE CIRCUITS YOU'RE ALIVE AND HERE!"

"I thought you were dead!"

She paused

She tilted her head.

"...Honestly, that last one would've made sense."

You laughed.

A real laugh.

The first one you'd had in months.

Tempo blinked.

"...Wait."

"You can still laugh?"

"I was told you were emotionally bankrupt."

"I am."

"Oh."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"So just financially bankrupt."

"...Mostly."

"Excellent."

She hugged you again.

"This is somehow less depressing."

Only then did she realize she was still holding you.

Her visor flushed a soft pink.

"...A-heh..."

"I may have overclocked my excitement."

She slowly let go, scratching the back of one mechanical ear.

"You kinda disappeared."

"No calls."

"No messages."

"Not even one tiny little..." She made air quotes.

"'Didn't explode 👍.'"

Her voice softened.

"...I worried."

Those two words hit harder than any crash.

You looked away.

"...I'm sorry."

"I should've answered."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Tempo gently bumped your shoulder.

"It's good to have you back."

You looked around the familiar garage—the hanging engines, scattered tools, the smell of oil and hot metal.

For the first time since winning the championship...

You felt like you were home.