the new calendar year has done nothing to improve jet’s driving. he’s bordering on desperation, insanity, the way he circles the track at the stack over and over and over and - he hasn’t beaten his best time. hasn’t even come close. he’s tried, repeatedly, implacably. he’s failed. the final loop ends with a strangled scream that rips through his chest, uncharacteristically demonstrative. his door cracks and he falls from his driver’s seat in a slump, the emotion his body too much for him to continue holding himself up. jet’s fist pounds the ground as he tries to pull himself back up, groans and curses and frustrated noises falling from him unbidden. the only thing that stops them is – “ what are you looking at ? ”