My Formula 1 System

The application and first round of tests went smoothly, and the doctors at Clinica San Cataldo assured Luca that everything would be handled professionally. They promised to keep the screening process airtight, preventing any tampering—whether from external forces or even Luca and his team themselves.

They returned to the facility in high spirits, satisfied with how things had gone.

From now on, Luca would be visiting the hospital daily, since their process was quick and efficient. As for the FIA sub-quarters, he'd only need to show up every two or three days.

In between those days, he'd be drilling in the single-seater provided for him.

That very afternoon, the car arrived. It was rolled right into the front of the main building as if it were a rented sedan being dropped off. Find your next read at My Virtual Library Empire

Or at least, that's what Luca thought at first.

Then he realized that it wasn't rolled or towed. It was driven.

The moment the Dallara came to a stop, some bloke jumped out and strode straight to Mr. Ruben, shaking his hand like they were old pals. He was wearing a plain, all-black racing suit, completely unbranded—just like the Dallara itself.

Luca stepped forward to get a better look.

The car was jet black from nose to rear wing, both its primary and secondary colors merging into one. The only break in the darkness was a soft gray accent, just enough to add a touch of aesthetic. But other than that, this machine was a shadow on wheels.

No team name. No branding. Just a SomberCore-powered Dallara, owned by no team, carrying nothing but raw potential.

Luca leaned in, studying the machine he'd be training with before his real Trampos Dallara arrived from Berlin.

From the cockpit layout to the chassis, everything seemed identical to his own—except for one detail. Everywhere that should have had Trampos' emblem was painted black.

This wasn't a car. It was a goddamn specimen. A test machine, stripped of identity.

Luca narrowed his eyes, wondering if it had even been maintained properly.

This was a Dallara from a private freelancing company—not a factory team. And if that was the case…

Surely, they wouldn't take care of their machines like actual teams did.

Right?

Mr. Ruben had finished discussing the important details and was now casually chatting with the man who had just climbed out of the Dallara's cockpit.

Mid-conversation, he gestured toward Luca, who was still studying the machine.

"That's him."

The man turned to look. "Him?"

"Yes."

Then, with sudden enthusiasm, the bloke called out— "Oi, Luca!"—before striding toward him. "Come on, let me give you the keys to this bad boy!"

Luca turned, puzzled. "Keys?"

He barely had time to react before the "keys" turned out to be a tight, bone-squeezing hug.

"Now you'll be able to drive it!" the man said cheerfully, grinning wide—his white teeth practically the only bright thing about him, considering the all-black racing suit he wore.

"I'm a fan of Trampos," he added, stepping back slightly. "Believe me, that's something rare in the country you're in now."

Luca, still slightly stiff from the unexpected hug, pushed himself free and instead extended a handshake.

"Thanks for delivering it. I hope it's insured?"

The man puffed his chest proudly. "Of course!"

Then, just as quickly, his expression fell.

"That doesn't mean you should crash it."

"Of course," Luca replied, mimicking him.

Afterwards, Luca decided to analyse the car with his system to be sure.

[ANALYZING CAR'S DATA]

[Car's status generating...]

[... Generation complete]

[Vehicle Specifications:

Brand: Dallara

Model: F2 04

Engine Type: Mercedes-AMG M239 Hybrid Power Unit

Weight: 740 kg ]

[Performance Metrics:

Top Speed: 300 km/h (0 km/h)

Acceleration: 3.5 sec

Max Power: 620 HP

Aerodynamic Efficiency: 1.5 ]

[Operational Status:

Fuel Level: 30%

Tire Condition: Worn

Telemetry Status: Inactive

DRS Availability: Not Engaged ]

--------------

[SYSTEM ONLINE...]

The next morning was quiet, calm, and crisp. Luca woke up to the soft, mellow ding-dong of his system, signaling the start of his Daily Routine.

The gym at the facility was just as commodious as the track outside, and with the limited personnel around, it was entirely reserved for him alone.

So, Luca exercised in peace, cycling through every piece of equipment he could make use of. He kept his session efficient, only taking a brief amount of time to simulate one race in the sim room adjacent to the gym.

Once done, he returned to his room, continued his Daily Routine—showered, changed into team gear, and headed down for breakfast that had been prepared.

By 11:15, everyone, including Luca, was ready to begin drills that were expected of them while they were there. The crew had spent the previous evening washing and fine-tuning the Dallara, ensuring it was in good condition. They had also conducted test runs and made necessary adjustments, also careful not to damage the company's asset.

However, in the rush of the sudden trip, no one—not even Luca—had managed to bring a Trampos Veststar of his size and helmet for him to use during training. Sure, they could head out and buy one, but…

This was Italy.

Instead, they settled for a non-branded racing suit, the kind provided by the training facility itself. It was tailored to match the colors of Italy—red, green, and white.

Luca found it amusing. Dressed in full Italian colors, he looked like he was gearing up for the Olympics or a World Cup competition, rather than motorsport training.

White was the dominant color, covering most of the suit. Green traced the shoulders and sleeves, while red ran along the sides and lower legs in sleek, sharp accents. The facility's logo—a minimalist tricolor emblem—sat on the upper chest and back.

Fitted, breathable, and aerodynamic.

Luca donned it the same way Ansel did, fastening the zipper up to his neck. He grabbed the white helmet, tucked it under his arm, and set out for the track.

Everyone was already waiting for Luca, dressed in their Trampos Veststars and helmets, the crew buzzing with quiet anticipation. The Dallara sat at the center of attention, almost calm in its presence. But Luca quickly noticed something a bit different about it.

Someone had pasted a bumper sticker on both sides of the car—a fiery #21—his number. It was an obvious, noticeable touch, where his official number would've been. It made him smile, amused by the gesture.

As he walked closer, the crew member who had put the stickers on the car explained that she had traveled with a lot of stickers and just decided to throw them on. She even handed him a smaller #21 sticker, perfectly sized for his helmet, and offered to help him apply it.

"Nice," Luca said with thanks. It was something at least. He was a driver of Trampos, not Italy, anything related to Trampos would do.

He turned to approach Mr. Ruben to get the rundown for the day, curious if Mr. Grant and Ms. Vallotton had passed on any additional instructions.

But as he walked toward Ruben, his eyes caught sight of Mr. Ammermann, the doctor, lounging in a relaxing steel chair. He was dressed casually in a white shirt and jeans, looking thoroughly comfortable, almost out of place among the bustling crew.

Luca couldn't blame Mr. Ammermann. This was kind of an early holiday for him.

"Ol' man Grant says he wants you training for understeer and power through turns," Ruben said, snapping Luca back to the present. "That's what Erik is doing right now, so let's get to it!"

The crew cheered softly as they helped Luca get strapped in securely to the black Dallara.

[SYNCHRONIZING HOST....]

[SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE]

[Host is now synced with Dallara (F2 04)]

It doesn't even feel like the F2 04, Luca said inwardly as he engaged the engine.

As tradition, he'd make one or two warm up laps and a third power lap.