The road between the hotel and Fuji Speedway barely took five minutes to cover, but the absurdity of the situation made it feel like an eternity. The Civic EG8, with its rusty panels and misaligned exhaust, rattled confidently through the entrance of the circuit like it belonged there. Its headlights bounced on the uneven road before the twins parked it in the visitor's lot, squeezed between a pair of shiny Toyota Alphards that dwarfed their battered sedan.
The doors flung open, and out stepped Hojo and Tojo, still in their ridiculous pajamas, their slippers smacking against the asphalt as they waddled toward the pit area with single-minded determination. Not a word was exchanged between them. Their eyes were locked forward, their pace unusually fast for men who looked like they were on the brink of bursting.
From the shadows of the lot, the Hiace rolled in and parked silently two rows down. Walter cut the engine, the crew inside shifting into action. Daichi stepped out first, his sharp eyes following the twins as they disappeared into the faintly lit paddock beyond. He raised a hand, signaling the others to keep quiet. The last thing they needed was to alert the twins, or anyone else, of their presence.
The group disembarked quickly. Haruka slid the door shut without a sound, Simon adjusted his jacket against the cold night air, Nikolai stuffed his hands into his pockets, and Takamori stuck close to Daichi, heart pounding with adrenaline. Together they moved forward, slipping between parked vehicles and stacks of equipment crates until they reached the edge of the paddock.
The twins were already a good distance ahead, shuffling with surprising speed as if powered by pure chaos. They passed the rear pit entrance without hesitation, their heads turning left and right, scanning the area like soldiers on a mission.
"They're not even heading to our pit," Simon whispered incredulously.
"Not yet," Daichi replied grimly. His instincts kept him tense. He knew the twins well enough to understand they rarely operated with logic, but when they moved with this much conviction, it meant trouble.
The G-Force crew tailed them at a distance of about fifty meters, careful to stay in the shadows cast by the floodlights. The paddock at night had a strange energy, quiet, but not entirely still. A few mechanics from other teams loitered around, smoking cigarettes near their haulers or tinkering with tools inside half-open garages. The hum of generators and the faint clink of metal echoed faintly across the empty stretch.
Ahead, the twins marched on, slippers slapping against the ground with a strange rhythm. Their silence made them even more unnerving; not once did they whisper or joke like they usually did.
When they reached the G-Force pit, Daichi slowed, expecting them to stop. He raised a hand, motioning for the others to hold back. His muscles tensed, ready to step out and drag them by the scruff of their necks if they tried to tamper with the car or equipment.
But to his surprise, the twins didn't even glance at the garage. They walked straight past, as if their own team didn't exist.
"What the hell?" Haruka muttered under his breath, frowning.
"Then where—" Takamori began, but Daichi cut him off with a hand gesture to stay quiet.
They continued following.
Two paddocks down, loud voices and bursts of laughter spilled into the night. The unmistakable thump of bass-heavy music throbbed faintly through the air. Neon lights glowed from inside a massive motorhome parked in front of the pits. Outside, several young men in matching Naka GP jackets leaned against a catering table stacked with empty beer bottles and half-eaten platters of food. More figures could be seen moving inside through the tinted windows.
It was clear: the Naka GP crew was throwing a party.
Daichi's jaw tightened. The arrogant movie stars and their overfunded team had brought not only their money and muscle but now noise and recklessness, right in the middle of race week. He could see James Hawthorn's distinct tall silhouette leaning against a wall, glass in hand, while Mike Hunt strutted like a celebrity greeting fans. Their security detail loomed nearby, scanning the paddock casually, submachine guns barely concealed beneath their jackets.
Walter muttered under his breath, "Disgraceful. And yet FIA says nothing."
"Not FIA," Simon corrected. "It's a domestic series. Rules here bend if your wallet's fat enough."
The twins slowed, their pajama-clad figures now illuminated faintly by the glow spilling from the party. For a moment, Daichi thought they would wander straight into the mess, but instead, they veered right, just two paddocks before reaching Naka GP's setup.
Without hesitation, Hojo and Tojo turned sharply, waddling into the narrow lane behind a row of food trucks parked for the weekend. The trucks, their shutters closed for the night, loomed like silent sentinels. The twins disappeared behind them, their silhouettes swallowed by the shadows.
Daichi froze, calculating. The food truck lane ran parallel to the paddocks, offering a perfect concealed route. That meant the twins weren't just wandering, they were deliberately avoiding Naka GP's security.
"They know," Daichi whispered to himself, his suspicions flaring.
He gestured quickly for the others to follow. The group slipped into the narrow passage behind the food trucks, their shoes crunching softly on the gravel. The smell of old grease and faint exhaust lingered in the air. The lights from the main paddock barely reached here, throwing everything into a deep half-darkness.
Nikolai walked silently at the back, his heavy frame surprisingly nimble in the shadows. Walter and Simon stuck close together, their voices hushed to avoid drawing attention. Takamori, still jittery, kept looking back to make sure no one was tailing them. Haruka moved alongside Daichi, both of them hyper-focused on the pajama-clad silhouettes waddling just ahead.
"Whatever they're planning," Haruka muttered, "it's not good."
"No," Daichi agreed. His tone was low, almost growling. "And I'm going to stop them before they pull something insane."
The twins were close now, still silent, still waddling, but their pace had picked up slightly. Ahead, the faint glow of Naka GP's motorhome lights bled into the narrow lane, casting long shadows across the gravel. The thump of bass was louder here, mixed with bursts of drunken laughter.
Daichi's eyes narrowed. His instincts screamed that something was about to happen.
He raised his hand again, signaling for the others to pause just short of the light. The group crouched low behind a stack of folded plastic tables, watching carefully as the twins edged closer to the source of the noise.
Daichi clenched his fists, ready to strike. The moment the twins made their move, he was prepared to drag them back to the hotel by their ears if he had to.
But the twins didn't stop. They waddled right past the glowing motorhome, their shadows stretching long against the ground. Not a glance, not a word. They were focused on something further down.
Simon's voice was a whisper. "They're not even targeting Naka GP?"
"Then what the hell are they after?" Takamori asked, his throat dry.
Daichi didn't answer. His jaw tightened as he kept moving, following their path. Whatever awaited at the end of this strange midnight march, he knew one thing: it wasn't going to end well.
And for once, the entire crew shared the same thought, these weren't just twins being stupid. There was intent behind their silence, their pace, their timing.
Something was coming.
And it was happening tonight.
The narrow lane behind the food trucks stretched on, the gravel crunching faintly beneath the twins' slippers as they waddled further in, their strange silence amplifying the tension with every step. The dim glow from the party back at the Naka GP motorhome was now muffled, replaced by the soft hum of distant generators and the occasional creak of metal shutters settling in the night. The others trailed them cautiously, a small cluster of shadows in the dark, each man unsure what ridiculous endgame Hojo and Tojo had in mind.
For several minutes, nothing happened. The twins didn't whisper, didn't laugh, didn't even look at each other. They moved with eerie synchronization, like two men possessed. Even Haruka, who had seen enough chaos from them to last a lifetime, muttered under his breath, "This is unnatural. Even for them."
Simon adjusted his glasses, trying to peer through the dark. "It's almost like they rehearsed this."
"Rehearsed what?" Takamori asked nervously. "They haven't done anything yet."
"Oh, they're going to," Daichi said quietly, his eyes sharp. He had seen that kind of intent before—not from professional racers, but from men about to pull a stunt they thought was brilliant. His instincts told him this wasn't just the twins being aimless. They had a target.
And sure enough, the twins finally slowed.
After walking for several minutes in silence, Hojo and Tojo abruptly veered left. Without hesitation, they crossed the narrow paddock service road, their pajama-clad figures waddling through the shadows. A couple of mechanics in the distance, too preoccupied with finishing their late-night tasks, barely glanced at them.
The G-Force crew followed carefully, crouching low and darting across the same service road once the twins were far enough ahead. The road itself was dimly lit by a lone floodlight further down, leaving this section mercifully dark.
On the other side of the road, the twins pressed forward with renewed purpose. Daichi's eyes narrowed as he realized exactly where they were headed, the rear of the Naka GP motorhome. Unlike the bright, noisy front where the party raged on, the back was nearly deserted, cloaked in shadow and humming softly with machinery.
And there it was: a large external air conditioning unit, boxy and humming, chugging along to keep the inside of the luxury motorhome cool. Its metallic casing gleamed faintly under the minimal light, tucked against the wall of the paddock.
The twins crept toward it like two burglars who thought they were invisible. Daichi and the others froze about twenty meters back, ducking behind a stack of plastic crates. The low drone of the AC unit masked their breathing, but their disbelief was nearly audible.
"Don't tell me…" Walter whispered, horrified.
"Oh no," Nikolai muttered in Russian, rubbing his temple. "They wouldn't dare."
But they would.
The twins stopped right in front of the AC unit. Without exchanging a single word, they turned to each other, nodded once, and then, like synchronized swimmers of chaos, they both hooked their thumbs into their pajama waistbands. With one swift motion, they tugged their pants down just enough to reveal their pale asses gleaming in the moonlight.
The entire G-Force crew's jaws dropped in collective horror.
"You've got to be kidding me," Simon whispered, barely containing his disbelief.
Takamori slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh, his shoulders shaking violently. "Oh my god, they're really going to—"
"Don't finish that sentence," Haruka snapped in a low voice, his tone a mix of disgust and resignation.
Daichi, however, didn't flinch. His arms were crossed over his chest, his expression grim but not surprised. He had seen this exact look of mischief on the twins' faces countless times before, back in the workshop, on the road, anywhere they decided to sow chaos. And now, of all places, they had chosen to target Naka GP.
And the worst part? Daichi knew exactly why.
It wasn't just the arrogance of James and Mike, or their bloated entourage. No, this was personal. The twins had witnessed what those drivers did to Izamuri the previous day, how James nearly forced him into an accident, how they strutted around afterward like kings of the paddock. The twins, in their own deranged way, were enacting justice.
Karma, Daichi thought. Pure, unfiltered karma.
He exhaled slowly and shook his head. Every instinct as a professional told him to step in, to stop them before they did something stupid that would undoubtedly come back to bite the team later. But another part of him, the part that still burned from watching Izamuri humiliated yesterday, decided against it.
"Are we going to stop them?" Simon whispered urgently, glancing at Daichi.
Daichi's voice was calm, steady. "No."
Simon's eyes widened. "No? Daichi, they're about to gas an AC unit!"
"They're about to gas Naka GP's AC unit," Daichi corrected coldly. "After what those clowns did to Izamuri, I'd say this is divine retribution."
Walter pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. "You're condoning this? They're literally—"
"Yes," Daichi interrupted firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "Let them. If Naka GP wakes up tomorrow morning choking on their own arrogance and… whatever else, then maybe it'll remind them that this paddock isn't theirs to own."
Even Nikolai, usually the voice of brutal pragmatism, couldn't hide the smirk tugging at his lips. "In Russia, we say revenge is best served cold. Tonight… maybe it is served warm and lethal."
That earned a snort of laughter from Takamori, who was now clutching his stomach trying not to explode from suppressed giggles. Haruka groaned, muttering something about how much shame he felt being associated with these people, but even he didn't move to intervene.
Ahead, the twins were preparing themselves, their pajama pants still sagged around their knees. They glanced at the motorhome wall, then back at each other, like two lunatics about to perform the greatest duet of their lives.
Daichi stood there in silence, watching. For once, he didn't feel like a team leader burdened with responsibility. He felt like a spectator, witnessing an act of poetic absurdity unfold. "Haruka, record this. We're going to want proof, and a good laugh later."
Haruka blinked, torn between disbelief and resignation. But he fished his phone from his pocket, pressed the record button, and aimed the lens toward Hojo and Tojo. The glow from the screen captured their pajama-clad figures in the dim light, hunched like gremlins ready to unleash chaos.
And then it happened.
The twins squeezed their eyes shut in concentration, bent slightly forward, and began to release what could only be described as the slowest, most sinister fart ever conceived by human intestines. They had timed this to perfection, deliberately pushing it out gradually, careful not to make a single sound.
The smell hit them first.
Even standing several meters back in the shadows, Daichi, Walter, Simon, Nikolai, Takamori, and Haruka recoiled in unison as the invisible cloud wafted toward them. It wasn't just bad. It was apocalyptic.
Walter gagged instantly, clapping a hand over his nose. "Howly shit, it smells like a raccoon drowned in sewage and got left in the sun for a month!"
Simon stumbled back a step, pinching his nostrils shut. "No, that's worse. That's, oh god, it's like a landfill mated with a dead cow!"
Nikolai, usually stoic, coughed hard and spat to the ground. His voice was hoarse. "In Russia, even our vodka could not kill this smell."
Daichi, however, remained unmoved. His face didn't change, though his eyes watered faintly from the stench. To him, this was justice, pure and simple, delivered in gaseous form.
Ahead of them, Hojo and Tojo muttered under their breaths as they finished their unholy act.
"For Izamuri…" Hojo whispered, sweat dripping down his brow.
"…Justice delivered," Tojo added, his voice shaky but proud.
The final hiss escaped them like steam from a ruptured boiler. Then, almost simultaneously, they yanked their pajama pants back up and bolted to the right, their mission complete.
They barely made it ten steps before slamming, quite literally, into Daichi's chest. Startled, they froze, staring up at him as if expecting a lecture, a slap, or both.
But Daichi just looked down at them, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the twins braced for impact. Then Daichi gave the faintest of nods, his voice flat but approving.
"You did good, now let's watch your fireworks,"
The twins grinned, a glimmer of pride in their eyes.
And then they all turned to watch.
At first, nothing seemed to happen. The AC unit continued its steady hum, pumping cool, conditioned air into the luxurious motorhome. But then faint voices of laughter and conversation inside the vehicle faltered. A few coughs broke out. Then came the first shriek.
"WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS THAT SMELL?!"
The shriek was followed by another, then another. Within seconds, the motorhome erupted into chaos. Doors slammed. Curtains were ripped aside. The sound of chairs scraping and bodies stumbling filled the night.
Then, with a sudden crash, the motorhome door burst open.
Out tumbled one of the Naka GP mechanics, clutching his throat, his face green. He collapsed at the bottom of the stairs and immediately vomited across the tarmac, the splatter echoing grotesquely in the quiet paddock.
Behind him, another stumbled out, gasping for air, before doubling over onto a stack of tires and unloading the contents of his stomach. Then another, and another, team members, PR staff, even one of the suited managers, all of them spilling out in waves, coughing, gagging, collapsing on the asphalt like victims of some invisible plague.
The smell that had already been horrific inside now seemed amplified tenfold, funneled through the motorhome's ventilation system and unleashed with nuclear potency. It rolled into the motorhome like a toxic fog, suffocating everyone in it.
One man tripped down the steep steps, rolling onto the pavement and groaning before vomiting violently into a trash can. Another staggered into a metal barrier and retched all over it, clutching his chest. Someone else fell to their knees and spewed onto the side of a food truck.
From inside came more desperate cries, glass breaking, furniture toppling. People scrambled for windows, shoving them open just to stick their heads out for air, their faces contorted in misery.
Daichi and the others could hardly contain themselves.
Takamori bent over, clutching his stomach, tears streaming down his cheeks as he fought to keep quiet. "Oh my god… it's a massacre…!"
Haruka had given up entirely, pressing his sleeve against his mouth as he tried to stifle both laughter and gagging. Walter's face had gone red from trying not to wheeze, and even Simon, usually the most proper of the bunch, was trembling with suppressed laughter.
And the twins? The twins were glowing with satisfaction. Their eyes shone with triumph as they watched their "gas attack" unfold. For once, they weren't being scolded. They were being celebrated.
The chaos continued for another minute, until finally, both James Hawthorn and Mike Hunt themselves stumbled out of the motorhome, their racing suits half-zipped, their glamorous appearances ruined by retching and sweat. Mike tripped on the steps, face-planting into the asphalt before rolling onto his back and groaning. James leaned against the railing, vomiting violently into the gravel, his perfect Hollywood image shattered in the most humiliating way possible.
That was the final straw for the G-Force crew.
They couldn't hold it anymore.
Daichi motioned sharply with his hand. "Run."
And so they did.
All of them, Daichi, Walter, Simon, Nikolai, Haruka, Takamori, and the triumphant twins, bolted into the night like criminals fleeing a scene of chaos. Their footsteps thundered against the pavement as they sprinted back toward the parking lot, adrenaline coursing through them. The twins, lighter now with empty stomachs, practically skipped as they ran, giggling uncontrollably.
By the time they reached their cars, they were breathless, their chests heaving. But the second they slammed the doors shut, the dam broke.
The Hiace shook with laughter as Daichi, Simon, Walter, Haruka, and Takamori collapsed into seats, howling with uncontrollable hilarity. Nikolai was pounding his fist against the dashboard, gasping between chuckles.
In the Civic, the twins were laughing so hard they could barely steer, their car weaving slightly as they struggled to drive straight.
"Did you see their faces?!" Hojo shouted between fits of laughter.
"They looked like they'd been gassed in a trench war!" Tojo howled, wiping tears from his eyes.
Daichi, even as he laughed harder than he had in years, managed to mutter between wheezes, "That… that was a war crime."
But none of them cared.
As their cars rolled back toward the hotel, the echoes of Naka GP's misery still ringing faintly in their ears, the G-Force crew reveled in the absurd, glorious victory of the night. It wasn't conventional. It wasn't clean. But it was theirs. And for once, justice had been served.