Chapter 5: Polish and Respect.
Carson rolled up his sleeves and approached Bay 2. The “drift missile” sat there like a crouched predator: a 2018 Mustang GT, slammed on air suspension, wide fenders stretched over 18-inch staggered rims painted matte gunmetal with red pinstripes that caught the shop lights like blood veins. The body was wrapped in deep midnight purple with ghost flames that only appeared under certain angles—subtle, mean, built for grip and slide in equal measure. Exhaust tips poked out the rear like twin cannons, still warm from the morning battle.
He started with the exterior. Bucket of soapy water first, microfiber mitt gliding in straight lines to avoid swirls. Then the real work: the enchanted rune-wax Rico told him to use yesterday, the same blue-shimmering stuff. Carson took his time, working section by section, letting the mana particles sink deep into the clear coat. His low stats meant no auto-buffs, no perfect mirror finish on the first pass, but patience made up for it. He buffed until his shoulders burned, then hit the polish on the rims—those deep-dish concave faces deserved extra love. He knelt, rag in hand, chasing every spoke, every lip, until the gunmetal gleamed cold and lethal.
He stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow, and just… looked. The Mustang wasn’t showroom pretty. No way. This dark horse was track ugly in the best way—it would eat a show pony in a heartbeat. Aggressive. Purpose-built. Something in his chest tightened—familiarity without memory. Phantom clutching biting in his palm. Like he’d once owned something close to this, or dreamed of it.
Carson was a rotary guy, but even he couldn’t deny the growl of a V8. The rumble that shook the bones. Engines that barked pushing the pulse. He could appreciate the raw iron of muscle cars—he just preferred the scream of imports.
A shadow fell over him. One of the other mechanics—tall, tattooed half-orc named Jax—ambled up, wiping grease from his hands. Carson swallowed watching the tattoo along his neck pulse with deep red.
“You’re doing it right, but you missed the undercarriage,” Jax rumbled, voice like gravel in a gearbox. “Customer wants the whole thing clean. Lift’s easy. Watch.”
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Jax showed him the controls: foot pedal to raise, safety locks, drop switches. Carson followed the steps, heart kicking a little harder as the Mustang rose smoothly. Underneath was a different world—warmth flooded from above, Carsons eyes dilated with each tick-tick-tick of the exhaust tips cooling, custom subframe reinforcements, reinforced control arms, a massive rear differential with cooling fins, braided brake lines glowing faintly with heat runes. Jax pointed out the critical spots: differential housing, sway bar links, exhaust heat shields. “Degrease here, brush the grime out, don’t spray anything near the sensors unless you want a check-engine light and a pissed-off owner.” Mana crackled in his mouth as he chewed minty mana-gum.
Carson nodded, grabbed the degreaser and a stiff brush, and got to work. Arms aching, back protesting, but the stamina buff from breakfast held. By the time the Mustang dropped back down, every inch—top to bottom—looked ready for a photoshoot or a canyon run—this was car calendar work.
The driver walked back ten minutes after Carson buffed the headlights: young human, buzz cut, racing gloves still on, smelling faintly of burnt clutch. He circled the car twice, same as Rico had done yesterday, then stopped in front of Carson.
“Damn. You do this?” he asked.
“Yeah. First time on a lift, but yeah.”
The guy grinned, pulled out his wallet, and peeled off a twenty. “Solid work. Keep it.”
Carson took the bill, folding it into his pocket next to the rest. A soft chime: glancing at the neon blue number in the right periphery, it absorbed the +$20 updating the new balance: $170 he liked that the System automatically counted—math sucks.
He barely had time to register the new total before tires crunched gravel outside. Another car rolled in—a bone-stock-looking Honda Civic hatchback, EK chassis, faded red paint, no body kit, no wing, no nothing. Just a daily driver that had seen better decades.
Rico’s voice cut across the shop from the office doorway.
“Carson! Bay 3 just got dropped off. Full detail—exterior, interior, engine bay. Customer wants it looking factory-fresh. Hop to it. Work ain’t done till I say it’s done.”
Carson glanced at the Mustang one last time as its owner fired it up. Just enough horses to start a stampede. The driver nodded—respect—and peeled out with a satisfying crackle of exhaust. The System pinged.
[A driver has noticed your attention to detail.]
Reward: +1 Street Cred.
Street Reputation: 6/???]
Then he turned to the Civic, already mentally mapping the panels. Spotting grime on the wheels. Detecting the scuff on the tires.
Respect may be earned in other cities. Here in the Lowtown District, it was polished until people recognized you.
