The clock on the wall of the Hugo Speed pit ticked slowly toward noon. The team lounged around, the nervous energy of the earlier race finally ebbing away into a more relaxed rhythm. Yet outside, the paddock was anything but calm. A commotion had started up at the far end, the sort of noise only a massive logistical operation could make. Everyone's attention turned to the unmistakable sight of the Naka GP convoy preparing to depart.
Two massive Scania semi-trucks, each pulling enormous black trailers emblazoned with Naka GP's logo and hints of Mercedes' silver star, roared to life. The ground vibrated with their idle, low diesel thrum filling the paddock air. Behind them rolled two pristine Mercedes-Benz Actros motorhomes, gleaming in the late morning sun. Their paintwork was immaculate, polished black with chrome accents that caught every ray of light. They were less motorhomes and more fortresses on wheels, housing the team's drivers, executives, and perhaps a few secrets that no one outside their circle was meant to know.
Trailing close were four Mercedes Sprinter vans, their sliding doors shut tight, curtains drawn. From the way the security detail moved around them, everyone could tell these weren't just transport vans, they carried sensitive gear, probably even more data systems and tools than a regular pit garage would need.
Then came the unmistakable Mercedes-Benz Unimog 437s, hulking and rugged, painted in tactical matte black. The two giants rumbled like beasts from another world, designed to cross deserts and jungles, but now deployed to carry spare parts and equipment. The presence of those trucks alone screamed wealth, excess, and intimidation.
But it didn't stop there. 2 brand new Mercedes W223 S600s glided forward with quiet menace. One carried Akagi Nakamura himself, the man whose mere presence earlier had thrown Izamuri into turmoil. The other belonged to Bellasconi, whose arrival at the event had already caused confusion and bitterness in the paddock politics. Both sedans were flanked closely by their security entourag, 4 Mercedes G-Wagons with tinted windows, each vehicle bristling with an unspoken warning: do not approach.
The convoy's exclamation mark came last. Two Lamborghini Huracán LP580-2s, painted pitch-black, engines snarling like predators eager for the hunt. Their naturally aspirated V10s screamed through the paddock as the drivers, none other than James Hawthorn and Mike Hunt themselves, revved unnecessarily, showing off as if the race hadn't already ended hours ago.
Rin scowled, leaning against the pit wall. "Unbelievable. They drive like that here? In a paddock?"
Walter crossed his arms, his expression stern. "That's Naka GP for you. Narcissistic, self-centered… They act like every ground they touch belongs to them."
Haruka chuckled darkly. "Reminds me of gang bosses making their getaway after a job."
The rest of the Hugo Speed and G-Force crews didn't bother hiding their disapproval. Their eyes followed the extravagant exit, the display of power that looked more like a state motorcade than a racing team heading home. When the convoy finally disappeared through the paddock gates, the air quieted. Only then did people breathe normally again.
Daichi exhaled slowly, adjusting his glasses. "Good riddance. Let them parade off. The race is over, and the real enthusiasts are still here."
The others nodded. Around them, the atmosphere gradually softened. Mechanics from smaller teams resumed packing tools, Honda enthusiasts began gathering near the spectator areas, and in Hugo Speed's pit, the tension melted into camaraderie.
Inside the garage, the teams had set up a large smart TV. For now, it wasn't tuned to the RWC stream, it was loaded with archived episodes of Top Gear, the glory days of Clarkson, Hammond, and May. The room echoed with the familiar opening music and the trio's ridiculous antics.
On screen, the famous Hilux test played out: the attempt to destroy Toyota's unkillable workhorse. Crashing into walls, drowning in the sea, setting it on fire, yet it kept running.
"God, I've seen this one a hundred times, and it never gets old," Simon said, grinning wide.
Rin leaned forward, eyes bright. "They dropped it from a building, and it still worked. That's insane."
Hugo smirked, arms crossed proudly as he watched alongside them. "And that, gentlemen, is why my recovery vehicles aren't just any trucks. Two Land Cruiser 70 Series pickups, no gimmicks, no electronics that'll die in the rain. Just raw, indestructible machines."
Walter chuckled, gesturing at the screen. "So Top Gear sold you on them?"
"Partly," Hugo admitted with a shrug. "But there's another reason. The Toyota War."
That drew everyone's attention. Nikolai raised an eyebrow. "The conflict in Chad and Libya?"
"Exactly," Hugo nodded. "Back in the '80s, Libya had tanks, armored personnel carriers, artillery. Chad had… Toyota pickups. Hiluxes, Land Cruisers, modified with machine guns bolted to the back. And you know what happened? Chad annihilated Libyan forces. They called it the Toyota War for a reason."
Daichi let out a low whistle. "So even in real war, those trucks proved themselves."
"Which is why," Hugo continued, "if my team ever needs to recover a car from a ditch, haul equipment across rough ground, or survive some bizarre apocalypse, I'd rather trust a Toyota pickup over anything else. These things have history. Legacy. Unkillable."
Izamuri couldn't help but smirk, the tension of the morning finally easing. "So you're telling me our recovery vehicle is basically a war hero?"
Hugo laughed. "Exactly. A war hero on four wheels."
The group erupted into easy laughter, the earlier image of the Naka GP convoy fading into irrelevance. The brash, overcompensating display of wealth paled compared to the humble reliability of two Toyota workhorses parked quietly at the back of the paddock.
For the next hour, they lounged in the pit, half watching Top Gear, half joking with one another. Clarkson's absurd metaphors and Hammond's endless crashes filled the air with laughter. Occasionally, one of the mechanics from Hugo's crew popped in, checking the setup for the RWC broadcast later.
Meanwhile, outside, the paddock buzzed with life. Honda enthusiasts were already preparing for the second track day scheduled for 2 PM. Civics, Integras, and S2000s lined up in neat rows, their owners chatting, polishing their cars, and revving engines for the crowd. The faint aroma of grilled street food wafted over from the spectator areas.
Inside Hugo Speed's pit, however, time seemed to slow. Between the camaraderie, the shared humor of an old motoring show, and the simple hum of the paddock, the crew found peace. The storm of the race was behind them, and the storm of the RWC broadcast had yet to begin.
Daichi leaned back, arms folded, a faint smile on his face. "Funny, isn't it? Naka GP leaves like royalty, but I'd rather be here, watching some ridiculous Brits try to kill a truck."
The minutes ticked past, the sounds of the Honda community track day still echoing faintly from outside, but inside, everyone's focus shifted entirely to the upcoming broadcast. The Racers World Challenge. RWC, was about to begin.
By 2 PM sharp, the screen flickered, the logo of the streaming service giving way to the bold red-and-black insignia of the RWC. A dramatic orchestral piece swelled as the pre-race broadcast cut straight into live footage from the Sentul International Circuit in Bogor, Indonesia. The familiar rolling hills and palm trees framed the wide paddock area, alive with activity.
Teams filled the camera feed, mechanics wheeling trolleys stacked with tires, engineers hunched over laptops in the humid air, drivers walking casually with umbrellas shading them from the tropical heat. Some crews wore pristine uniforms, others looked sweat-soaked already from the morning's effort. The broadcast lingered on the vibrant patchwork of tents, motorhomes, and hospitality units, giving viewers an intimate look at the behind-the-scenes chaos.
Haruka leaned forward, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "So this is it… the RWC paddock. Looks like F1, but rougher around the edges."
Simon nodded. "Not surprising, it's the third most popular series in the world. Behind WEC and Formula 1. Still huge, though."
Walter pointed at the screen as the camera panned across one garage, where engineers adjusted a car's massive rear wing. "Look at that. They've got the professionalism of a factory team, but the variety is different. Not every car looks the same."
Hugo smirked knowingly. "That's what makes RWC interesting. It's not about one-spec formulas, it's about teams, manufacturers, and tuners bringing their own interpretations of the regulations. It's wild, unpredictable."
The broadcast commentary filled the room, alternating between Indonesian and English. The camera transitioned smoothly, showing snippets of the crowd: Indonesian motorsport fans waving flags, young kids wearing caps emblazoned with car logos, families perched in the grandstands with snacks and drinks.
Then came a highlight reel. "And earlier today," the commentator announced, "the support race for RWC wrapped up here at Sentul, the Indonesian Touring Car Race, ITCR."
The screen cut to footage from the race held just an hour earlier. The track was filled with compact hatchbacks jostling for space, brightly colored Honda Jazz GK5s dominating the 1500cc class, their high-pitched engines buzzing like angry hornets as they weaved and darted. Meanwhile, the 1200cc class featured a sea of Honda Brio hatchbacks, tiny yet spirited, darting along the straights and corners with surprising pace.
Rin tilted his head, curious. "Those cars… they're all Hondas. Jazz and Brio. No Toyotas? No Suzukis?"
Daichi's sharp eyes narrowed at the feed. His memory pulled him back to his own days in Indonesia. "Back in my time, it wasn't like this. The ITCC. Indonesian Touring Car Championship, had variety. Toyota, Honda, even Daihatsu. But now…" He paused, almost wistful. "It seems Honda has taken over completely. They dominate the grid."
Nikolai chuckled. "Honda must have made it affordable enough to flood the classes."
"Not just affordability," Daichi countered. "Honda knows how to market their cars to enthusiasts. The Jazz and Brio are simple, reliable, cheap to run, and tunable. People can enter racing without burning their entire life savings." He gestured at the screen. "But it's strange. Without Toyota or other brands, it looks less diverse than it used to. Almost… uniform."
On screen, the replay showed highlights of overtakes in the ITCR. Jazz drivers bumping shoulders through Turn 1, Brio drivers darting through the infield section, tires squealing, cars leaning aggressively into Sentul's sweeping curves. The racing was tight, sometimes frantic, but the fans loved it, cheering loudly as local heroes pushed their cars to the absolute limit.
Finally, the broadcast returned live. A reporter stood with a microphone in hand, standing next to the day's race winner, still in his sweat-soaked racing suit.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the commentator boomed, "the winner of the ITCR 1500 Class… Fitra Eri!"
The camera zoomed in on Fitra, helmet in hand, his face flushed but glowing with satisfaction. Behind him, his red Honda Jazz GK5 gleamed under the tropical sun, stickers from sponsors plastered across its panels.
The interviewer began in Indonesian, and subtitles scrolled along the bottom of the screen for the international broadcast.
"Congratulations, Mr. Fitra. How do you feel about today's win?"
Fitra grinned, speaking with energy despite his exhaustion. "It was a tough race, everyone was pushing hard. The Jazz performed perfectly today. I want to thank my team, my family, and all the fans here at Sentul. Without their support, I couldn't have done this."
The crowd behind the camera roared in approval, flags waving, kids jumping up and down on the fence lines.
Daichi watched quietly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Fitra Eri. I've heard his name before. He's been around for years, hasn't he?"
Walter nodded. "Yeah. He's not just a racer… He's a journalist and YouTuber too. Known for bridging the gap between fans and the sport. People trust him."
The interviewer pressed further. "The ITCR looks very competitive this season. What do you think about the dominance of Honda in both the 1500 and 1200 classes?"
Fitra laughed lightly, wiping sweat from his brow. "Honda is strong, no doubt. The Jazz and Brio are reliable platforms. But I always say, motorsport isn't just about the car. It's about the driver, the team, the strategy. If other manufacturers want to challenge us, I welcome it. Competition makes us stronger."
The crowd applauded again, chanting his name, and the camera zoomed in on his confident smile.
Izamuri leaned closer to the screen, eyes wide. "So this guy's basically the face of Indonesian touring cars right now?"
"Exactly," Daichi replied. "When I was there in '97, it was still Toyota Team Indonesia leading the charge. Times have changed."
Haruka tilted his head, smirking. "Funny how history repeats. One brand dominates, others fade. But the passion of the fans never goes away."
The interviewer wrapped up, thanking Fitra for his time. The winner raised his fist toward the camera, smiling broadly as the fans cheered again.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the commentator concluded, "that was your ITCR 1500 champion of today's support race, Fitra Eri! Stay tuned as we prepare for the main event, the opening round of the Racers World Challenge!"
The broadcast cut back to shots of the paddock, but the room inside Hugo Speed's pit was still filled with murmurs of discussion. Daichi's expression was thoughtful, his mind stuck on how different the scene looked compared to his own experience decades ago.
And so, as the interview ended, the crew leaned back in their chair, as the broadcast transitioned smoothly from the ITCR support race to the main focus of the day. The camera swept across the wide paddock of Sentul International Circuit, a hive of activity as teams from across the world prepared their machines for the opening round of the Racers World Challenge. The hum of generators, the clatter of tools, and the steady rumble of idling engines filled the background, giving the viewers at home a taste of the atmosphere.
The announcers' voices rose with excitement. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the paddock tour for Round 1 of the Racers World Challenge 2020! Today we're bringing you closer than ever to the cars, the drivers, and the atmosphere of this international championship!"
The camera zoomed into the pit lane, where one after another, the doors of garages were wide open. Teams in matching uniforms swarmed around their cars, some fine-tuning setups, others simply wiping bodywork until it gleamed under the tropical sun. The RWC was a peculiar beast—it blended grassroots spirit with top-level engineering. It wasn't Formula 1 or WEC, but it wasn't club racing either. It was something in between: raw, eclectic, unpredictable.
Walter whistled as the broadcast showed the first machine up close. "That's a Supra, isn't it? Not the new A90. That's the old Mk4."
The camera panned across three Toyota Supra JZA80s, their iconic long noses and muscular fenders instantly recognizable. Each bore different liveries, reflecting the variety in teams. One in matte black with red highlights, another wrapped in fluorescent green with a dragon motif, and a third in a clean white-and-blue scheme reminiscent of Toyota's classic JGTC colors.
Daichi nodded knowingly. "The Mk4 Supra is still competitive if prepared right. Its 2JZ-GTE is strong, but in RWC they have to run it restricted. Probably capped around 500 horsepower like the rest of the grid. What matters more is reliability and balance. And look—" he pointed at the screen as mechanics tightened large slicks onto the hubs, "—they're running modern tires and suspension. That old chassis still has fight left in it."
The broadcast shifted to a neighboring garage. A row of front-wheel-drive Hondas sat ready. Civic Type Rs from the EK9, FD2, and FK8 generations. Their teams were smaller, almost family-like compared to the larger factory-supported efforts, but their atmosphere was no less intense. Young mechanics worked feverishly, data engineers studied laptops, and drivers leaned casually against pit walls, their helmets resting nearby.
Haruka chuckled. "Civics again. First in ITCR, now here too. Honda really does flood every series."
Simon added, "FWD cars can be lethal here. Sentul's tight corners favor agility. They'll struggle against the big boys in raw power on the straights, but in traffic? They could pick off places."
Next, the feed jumped to something more exotic: a pair of Porsche 911 GT3 Cups, their wide stances and unmistakable silhouettes a stark contrast to the Japanese machinery. The crews fussed over them with surgical precision, German efficiency on display, with everything spotless, ordered, and exact.
"That's trouble for everyone else," Walter muttered. "Those Porsches are built for endurance. If they survive the opening chaos, they'll claw their way up with consistency."
But the true surprise came moments later. The camera cut to a garage where a hulking shape rested on jacks, stripped and brutal-looking. The announcer's voice rose with a tinge of disbelief. "And here it is, the wildest machine on the grid. A rear-wheel-drive converted Nissan GT-R R35."
The car looked monstrous, its wide bodywork stretched even further with custom fenders. The usual AWD system that made the GT-R famous was gone; instead, the team had engineered a full RWD setup, complete with a massive transaxle. The rear tires looked like they belonged on a drag car, while the front end had been pared down aggressively to reduce weight.
Rin's eyes widened. "They took the GT-R's biggest advantage. It's AWD drivetrain and ripped it out?"
Daichi smirked. "In RWC rules, AWD is banned. If you want to run a GT-R, you have to go RWD. It makes the car unpredictable, but when it hooks up… nothing's stopping it down a straight."
The commentators explained. The R35's VR38DETT was detuned to fit the series' 500-horsepower cap, but the car still carried significant weight penalties due to its size. Handling it would require immense skill.
And then, the strangest machine of all appeared on screen. The broadcast zoomed into a garage where mechanics swarmed around what looked like an ordinary Nissan R32 GT-R, but its hood was propped open in a bizarre way, revealing two separate engine bays, one in front, and one in the rear.
"Unbelievable!" the announcer cried. "This team has entered a twin-engine R32 Skyline GT-R, running not one, but two Toyota 3S-GTE engines!"
Gasps erupted from the G-Force pit as everyone stared at the screen. The car looked hacked together yet meticulously engineered. Each engine produced roughly 200 horsepower, combining to a legal 400 total. The front powered the front wheels, the rear powered the back, creating a makeshift AWD system disguised within RWC's strict rules.
Nikolai burst out laughing. "That's insane! Two engines? That's… diabolical!"
Simon shook his head, half in awe, half in disapproval. "It's clever. The rules ban single-engine AWD setups. So what do they do? Split the powerplants. It is legal, but with massive compromises."
The commentators broke it down: because the car only produced 400 horsepower combined instead of 500 like most of the grid, it had less straight-line performance. On top of that, regulations forced it to run thinner-width tires and carry extra ballast weight for "safety and parity." But its uniqueness gave it surprising traction out of corners, and the team believed consistency would outweigh raw pace.
Haruka smirked. "Sounds like a science experiment. Either it works… or it blows up spectacularly."
The broadcast continued to showcase more variety: a Mazda RX-7 FD with a naturally aspirated 20B rotary screaming like a banshee, a pair of BMW M3 E46s still finding relevance decades after their prime, even a wild Ford Escort RS Cosworth imported and converted for RWC rules. Each car carried its own quirks, its own story of why it belonged here.
The camera then switched to the drivers. Some were grizzled veterans with world-class resumes, others were wide-eyed young guns hoping to make a name for themselves. National flags adorned their suits, ranging from Japanese and Indonesian locals to Europeans and Americans. The diversity was stunning, each driver embodying the international flavor of the series.
The pit lane buzzed with interviews. One reporter stopped a Supra driver, who claimed he'd been racing the same chassis for 15 years. Another caught up with a Porsche pilot, who calmly declared his team's strategy was "patience and precision." Then came the eccentric engineer of the twin-engine R32, who proudly explained that their project was "proof of innovation under restriction." His grin suggested he relished the chaos their car would bring.
Daichi folded his arms, eyes narrowing. "This… this is RWC. Not the clean, sterile world of F1. Here, ingenuity fights against money, creativity clashes with tradition. It's messy, it's wild… but it's real racing."
The broadcast wrapped the paddock tour with sweeping drone shots of the entire grid lined up, mechanics making final adjustments, the pit lane shimmering under the equatorial sun. The atmosphere was electric, as if a storm was about to break.
In Hugo Speed's pit, silence fell for a moment as everyone digested what they'd seen.
Izamuri finally broke it, whispering almost to himself. "If this is just the paddock… what's the race going to be like?"