(Location: Johannesburg, South Africa | Time: Late 1991 - Early 1992)
Days blurred into a monotonous cycle of feeding, sleeping, and staring. For Tom, trapped within the frustratingly unresponsive shell of an infant, it felt less like a new life and more like the universe's longest, most boring pit stop. His mind, sharp and accustomed to processing gigabytes of racing data and split-second decisions, was now tethered to a body that considered uncontrolled drooling a major activity.
He tried. Oh, how he tried. He'd focus all his mental energy, honed by years of virtual racing discipline, on simply willing his arm to move purposefully, only for it to flail randomly, occasionally connecting with his own face. He'd attempt to form words, articulate his impossible situation, but only incoherent gurgles and frustrated cries emerged, immediately misinterpreted by the giant, well-meaning figures who ruled his world.
These figures were his parents. He slowly pieced together their identities through observation and overheard snippets. His mother, Elena, was warmth personified. Her voice, soft and melodic with its South African lilt, was a constant soothing presence. She smelled faintly of expensive fabrics and design sketches often littered her side of the large, airy house. She was the clothing designer, the one with shares in that retail chain – he remembered that fragment from the prompt of his previous existence. His father, James, was different. His presence felt more structured, analytical. His British accent was precise, often heard on phone calls discussing "IPs," "development cycles," and "market penetration." The gaming CEO. It figured. Tom wondered if his dad's company had made any of the sims he'd loved so much. A strange, ironic loop.
His only true companion in this bewildering existence was the electric blue interface of the Formula 1 Racing System, humming persistently at the edge of his perception. It was his anchor to his past self, his roadmap to the future. During the endless hours spent lying in his cot, staring at the ceiling or the slowly rotating mobile above, Tom explored its functions.
He discovered he could navigate the basic menus with focused thought, like selecting options in a game lobby. It was rudimentary, tiring work, demanding intense concentration that often left him drained, leading to more naps.
The main screen showed his abysmal stats. Durability: 2/100. Stamina: 1/100. Reflexes: 1/100. Cognition was his only saving grace, artificially high due to his retained memories. Below the stats was a section labelled 'Developmental Objectives'. It currently listed tasks that were, frankly, humiliating:
* [Objective]: Voluntary Head Lift (Duration: 3 seconds) - Reward: 0.1 System Points (SP)
* [Objective]: Track Moving Object with Eyes (Consistent) - Reward: 0.1 SP
* [Objective]: Grip Object (Intentional) - Reward: 0.1 SP
0.1 System Points. It was insulting. In his past life, winning a major online race probably netted thousands in virtual currency or ranking points. Now, lifting his own head was a challenge worth a tenth of a point? Yet... it was the only path forward. This wasn't a simulator anymore. This was the ground floor, the absolute basics of building a biological racing machine. Every champion started somewhere, he reasoned grimly, even if that somewhere involved struggling not to face-plant into his own mattress.
He focused on the head lift. During 'tummy time' – a torturous practice Elena insisted upon, placing him face down on a soft mat – Tom channelled every ounce of mental fortitude. He remembered the G-forces in the simulator, the strain on his neck muscles. This was different, a fight against simple gravity and underdeveloped sinew. He pushed with his weak arms, strained his neck, his infant brain screaming commands his infant body barely understood.
Failure. His head flopped back down. A small whimper escaped, born of pure frustration.
Elena picked him up, murmuring comforting words. "There, there, little guy. Getting strong, aren't we? Almost had it."
Almost isn't pole position, Mom, he thought despairingly.
Days turned into weeks. He continued his silent 'training'. He meticulously tracked the movements of the mobile above his cot, forcing his eyes to follow smoothly, fighting the infant urge to let his gaze wander randomly. He grasped at the fingers Elena or James offered, trying to make the involuntary reflex intentional, focusing his will into his tiny fist.
The System remained patient, impassive. It simply displayed the objectives, logged his pathetic attempts, and waited. There were other menus – 'Skills', 'Inventory', 'Garage' – but they were all greyed out, inaccessible. [Prerequisite: Basic Motor Functionality], the System informed him curtly.
Then, one afternoon, during another session of the dreaded tummy time, something clicked. He pushed, strained, and this time, his head wobbled upwards, clearing the mat. He held it, vision swimming slightly, neck muscles screaming in protest. One second. Two seconds. Three… four…
[Objective Complete: Voluntary Head Lift (Duration: 3 seconds)]
[Reward: 0.1 SP Awarded]
[Current SP: 0.1]
His head flopped back down, exhausted but triumphant. A minuscule number, 0.1, glowed next to his SP counter in the system interface. It was practically nothing. But it was his. Earned. The first point scored in his new life, the first step on the impossibly long road back to the cockpit.
Lying there, catching his breath, Tom felt a flicker of grim determination harden within him. This body was his new chassis, flawed and underdeveloped. The System was his telemetry. The world was his racetrack. Development would be slow, measured in humiliatingly small increments like these. But progress was progress.
He might be stuck in the longest pit stop imaginable, but the engine of his ambition had just sputtered back to life. He had 0.1 points, and a universe of racing to conquer. He just needed to learn how to roll over first.