THE END OF SILENCE
Disclaimer: I do not own Acceleracers or Hot Wheels or anything copyrighted that might have slipped into the story, which includes the chapter titles, which I plan on stealing from the band RED, because they are amazing. (I stole the title, too.)
Summary: Three-quel to The Art of Stealing Cars and the final installment in the KT story. Tezla reveals (several) something(s) crucial to the defeat of the Silencerz. All the Kara and Alex, along with the rest of the crew, are back, ready to race and lay a serious beat down on those pesky racers.
A/N: Dude, who would have thought I'd be finally posting this!? It's not all completely done, but I hope to have it all at least done by the time I go back to school next week so it won't be a problem to put it up. I feel super horrible for leaving, and I'm not proclaiming to have returned, but I am here temporarily with some good stuff. My writing style has changed a little since I posted Seven Ways, but I definitely hope it's for the better. So, enjoy, and feel free to yell at me, haha.
Chapter One: Start Again
The engine of the gold Mustang GT revved once, reverberating off the surrounding buildings, only to be echoed by the vehicle beside it. A clean, white Dodge Stealth sat there--the windows tinted like a one-way mirror, only showing the image of the city backdrop and not the driver. The outline of a maple leaf traced over the hood and part of the left side in solid black line. Logos bordered the bottom of both sides, proudly broadcasting the driver's allegiances.
The race was a straight shot to the coast. It was easy. There were no tricks and no special skills were needed. The Mustang revved again, edging toward the line that held the two vehicles back and threatening to give a false start.
A teenager, clad in black, stepped into the space between the two eager cars. He declared the traditional "clean" race between the drivers. His wispy brown hair blew around for a moment in the wind, finally coming to a rest in its usual helter-skelter position.
"Both drivers ready?" he asked. A few short strides brought him to the other side of the line and, once there, he turned to face the direction he had come. In reply, both vehicles roared in unison, trembling under the strain of the invisible force that held them in place.
"Are you sure?" the teen teased, a smirk crossing his face. Of course, like the first question, was more of a statement. There was no going back now.
"Alright," he sighed, "go already." He raised his hand, hiking his thumb over his shoulder.
Both vehicles rocketed off the line with a high-pitched scream. The smell of burnt rubber and exhaust filled the air in their absence, and only the quickly-fading tail lights could be seen behind the teen.
Nobody could have predicted how close the race truly was, but it could be imagined. Each driver was one of the best in their respective areas, both having the confidence to make you believe that they could win and both having the skills to do so. It all basically came down to the cars, and the rare chance that something went horribly wrong.
The race was strictly private, done on a whim in a near empty part of the city. There were two witnesses, one per driver. The teenager in black was the representative of the hometown boy in the Mustang, although not completely partial. He was loyal--and would stay loyal--to the hometown driver, but not tied to him in any way. It wasn't his money that was on the line. He knew little of the other driver and his witness, but he held a silent respect for the both of them. There was enough information in the teen's database for him to tell that they weren't just talk, and that went a long way with the teen and his driver. That's why there were here.
A distant squeal of tires told the two standing at the finish that both cars had made it to the docks and were starting their return trip. From the appearance of the headlights as the cars drifted into a 180-degree turn, the Stealth's driver was ahead, but not by much.
The teen blinked, shifting his weight a little uneasily. Most of the races the Mustang's driver was in were never this close, and they never had him behind at the half. Sure, it wasn't his money, but just the thought of losing a good six grand, in cash, made his hands clammy.
The rest of the race seemed to go in slow motion--the headlights of the two cars never seeming to get any closer until they were almost right on top of the finish. The Stealth flew by first, the bumper crossing less than a few inches in front of the Mustang's.
A slightly frustrated look crossed the teen's face as he blinked against the wind the two cars stirred up, knowing little good would come of this in the near future. He gazed across at his fellow witness, making solid eye contact with the other guy. His face was serene, almost emotionless, as he stared back at the teen, as if laying a smack down like this was something he did every day. Maybe it was... the teen didn't know, but whatever the reason was, it made him a little angry. He didn't always show emotion, either, but this was a big race. How could he not?
Six grand. The teen held back a shiver of discomfort.
Each vehicle from the race pulled back up to the start, each killing their engine in turn. The Stealth's driver was the first to get out, walking quickly to his friend to share congratulations. The Mustang's driver, however, took his time exiting. He walked over to the other driver and offered a fold of hundreds, a sour look on his face. The driver took them, a cocky smile crossing his features for a second before saying something to the hometown driver. Whatever was said made him flush in anger, and, after what looked like a second of deliberation, he turned and skulked back to get into his car. The teen was already waiting in the passenger's seat.
"Dead man walking," the teen commented as the driver got in.
The driver scowled. "Shut up, Mark."
"I'm serious," Mark Anderson sighed, "Kara is going to murder you when she finds out you lost that much money in one race."
Turning the key in the ignition, the driver sighed. "I know," he said reluctantly. "I just want to repent all my sins before I get home, you know. Silence would be nice. Though, I don't even think God deciding to hit me with a lightning bolt can compare to Kara deciding that I'm not going to have kids later on." He threw a glance upward as he shifted the Mustang into gear. "Dear God... it's me, Alex... I'd just like to say that I'm sorry..."