A/N: I'm really in no position to be starting any stories... but I realized how much I love Cars this past week and this story idea just came to me. Unlikely I'll ever finish it, but I wanted to do this, so hey...
I'm not planning for the OC in this chapter to be very prominent in the story (but she will be there). She's supposed to be semi-representation of the public and the media. Also, her name is a pun because I couldn't help myself. Alice Uncertain.
Characters in the character box could change because I'm indecisive as hell.
When cars gather, it's normally over a common interest. Perhaps it's a political thing, or maybe something entertaining, like a musical or a fan meet up.
But the crowd wants to see something new.
Racing on an asphalt track? That's old news. Flying? Went on hiatus and never came back. Jackson Storm isn't the shiny new toy in the toy store anymore, and Cruz "The Royal" Ramirez's golden signature paint job is slowly flaking away in the eyes of the public.
Ripslinger's aerodynamics is about as talked about as last year's oil butter spread scandal ("Our butter spread knocks you dead!" Literally, as the case had been) and Dusty Crophopper is more myth than anything else.
What the world wants is something fresh and exciting...
And there is only one car who can give it to them.
The television screen flicked on, and the aerial camera zoomed in on a few of the racers at the front of the line. There was a change of camera angle, and, suddenly, pieces of asphalt could be seen bouncing up and down as the wheels of prestigious racers screeched over the racing track.
Another change of angle allowed the viewer to see the large audience in the stands, most of them flashing their cameras, cheering on their favorite racers, or simply screaming into oblivion.
"Welcome back, folks, to the 2018 Hudson Hornet Memorial Piston Cup! In case you haven't been with us, I'm Bob Cutlass, here with my fellow host and friend, Darrell Cartrip, and extraordinary number cruncher and fresh new voice in the racing world, Natalie Certain!" the voice of Bob Cutlass boomed over the roars of the crowd and the growls of the racers' engines.
"Boy oh boy," said Darrell Cartrip, "All this racing can't be good for my oil pressure, especially when we've got Dinoco's Royal Ramirez and ol' thunder clouds going head to head for the championship! What d'you think, Miss Certain?"
The statistical analyst began to ramble off numbers and factors that no one could understand unless they were a real pie in the sky, and finished off her analysis with a genteel smile. "Even with the numbers ever in Jackson Storm's favor, I've learned not to discount what drive and determination can do in these kinds of high pressure situations. Personally, I've got my money on Dinoco's Royal Ramirez, but it could go either way, honestly."
"Spoken in true Certain fashion!" Darrell appraised, giving the maroon car a grin. He fixed his eyes on the racers below. "And oh! What's this? Swervez has just been walled by Jackson! I repeat; Swervez has just been walled by Jackson! Boogity, boogity, what in tarnation is going on down there?!"
"We all know that Storm's never been quite the same after his first loss to Ramirez," remarked Bob, "Here's to hoping that he doesn't get himself disqualified by using excessive force and violence, like what we saw back in 2005, when retired Piston Cup winner, Chick Hicks, caused a massive pileup. I still can't believe McQueen managed to get around that mess, even after all these years, eh, Darrell?"
"Speaking of good ol' McQueen, hear anything about him coming back for good?" Darrell looked down to where Lightning McQueen, Cruz Ramirez's crew chief, was perched, hoping to get a telling reaction. But there was none; the crew chief was completely in the zone, intent on giving Cruz Ramirez the best advice to beat Jackson Storm.
"Who knows, Darrell? Who knows? The legend says that he's not out of the racing game just yet—"
The television screen flickered off.
Alison Certain yawned.
Boring.
I've seen more races than I have treads on my tires.
The powder blue car rolled out of her garage and out into the bustling city of Los Angeles, heading down to her favorite gas station cafe.
"Good morning, Alison!" a neighbor called as he watered his flowers, giving her a wave of his tire.
"Oh—good morning to you too, Mr. Patel!" Alison stopped to wave back, only to be met with some honking.
"Don't stop in the middle of the road!" one guy yelled.
"Sorry," Alison muttered, driving on.
Mr. Patel flashed her an apologetic look that she missed.
Ignore that guy, Alison told herself, thinking about the rude car that had horned her. You are Alison Certain, not a mathematical genius like dear old sis, but still a genius. Kinda. Not really. Just a single journalist looking for some action in her life. Used to get off on racing competitions. Now it's just overdone and boring. Chrysler, it sounds like I'm reciting my Fender profile.
Not that she had one. She had way too much integrity for that.
She hummed a little song to herself as she entered the gas station for a can of caffeinated hot oil to wake her up.
"Just the usual," she told the waitress that she saw every day. The waitress gave the blue Evolv Motors Provoc Quantus 4S—how lucky of her to be built just like her sister (hooray...)—her 'usual': a can of hot, dark, smooth oil.
"Hey, hey, Certain! You're certainly looking fine today!" A male car drove up to her, his windshields at half-mast.
Alison sighed in fond exasperation. "Hello to you too, Nick. You know, if Vicky were here, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."
"She'll never know. Besides, I just wanted to talk to you about the big race. I know you're a huge racing fan, especially when it comes to The King. Why, you did get that blue paint job because of him, and kept it after he retired, too. Did you see that win Royal Ramirez pulled off? Chrysler, it was close—they had to examine the video footage and everything. Ramirez only won by a tire tread. Heh, you know what they said about big tires—"
"As much as I wish I could say I watched the race up until the final lap," Alison cut him off, not really wanting to hear anything dirty about Cruz Ramirez's tires, "I didn't even manage to make it that far."
"Huh? But, Certain, you love racing!"
"Used to," Alison corrected, shaking her hood. "It was good when The King was around... But now... it's like I'm rewatching the same race over and over again. Cruz beats Storm. Storm beats Cruz. They tie. Cruz beats Storm in tiebreak. They tie again. Storm beats Cruz in tiebreak. Media can't get enough of it. Thinks that they're in some sort of conspiracy, or even a secret relationship. I have a good source that told me one reporter actually harassed a kid painted in Jackson and Cruz's colors because he thought the kid being a fan of both of them meant that he was their secret love child. Needless to say, he got fired. It was messy. And loud."
Nick's eyes widened.
"You see, Nick," Alison continued to rant, spinning her right tire on the concrete in frustration, "The racing world is getting real old real fast. It has to be, if reporters are harassing little kids and accusing them of being the bastard children of popular racers. Do you know what this means, Nick?"
"From the way you make it sound, I'm not sure if I want to know, to be totally honest."
"Change!" Alison burst out, getting some looks from other patrons. She was certain—hah!—that there were probably way more cars eavesdropping than she currently realized, but she didn't care. "We need something new! Fresh! Exciting! Something that's never been done before."
"Oh, yeah? Like what?" Nick humored her, his eyes boring into hers.
"Like a... like a..." Alison trailed off, pouting. "I got nothing. Besides, whatever I come up with will be too big and bold to ever be run. It's not like I have any connections, besides my sister."
"Ah, Certain." Nick shook his hood. "You really wind yourself up sometimes, and all for nothing, too. Come here, let's go for a drive. Take a looksie around at our wonderful metropolis."
"Nick, I drive by this road every day for my daily oil fix—I've probably memorized every crack and crevice in the road by now. What's there to look at?"
"Um, ah, how about... oh, would you look at that! A cork board that wasn't there before!"
"Wonderful," Alison said dryly, spinning around to look at the cork board on the outskirts of the gas station. "'Have you seen this car? Well, now you have'. Nice, nice, real funny... whoever made that should become a standup comedian. Hardy-har-har."
"Oh, cut it out. I'm just trying to get you out of this funk. Why don't you go check out the other posters while I buy another drink?"
Nick drove back inside, allowing Alison to privately scan the posters, bored. "What's there to look at anyway? Tutor needed, Danny Swervez expected to be fine for next race, Lightning McQueen making comeback next season, string of thieves in the area, Zündapp escaped, Lightning McQueen marrying long-time love, Sally Carrera... boring, boring, boring!"
Huffing, Alison reversed and rejoined Nick in the gas station. "If only something big could happen. Something crazy and extravagant in the racing world to pick it up again. The reporters, including me, would have a field day..."
As she and Nick left the store together, the latter accidentally bumped into a smaller car.
"Whoops, sorry, pal," Nick apologized, hardly giving the other car a second chance.
"No need," said the other car, and Alison absently thought that his accent was hard to pinpoint.
"I'm going back home to chill and work on my next article," Alison said to Nick as they cruised down the streets of LA. "I was just supposed to come out for a caffeine run anyway."
"No problem," Nick said amiably. "I'm taking Vicky out for dinner in a few hours anyway, so I better get going. Have fun with that article of yours."
"Oh, it's going to be real fun," muttered Alison when Nick left. "Real fun, recounting the big race when you haven't even watched it..." Such was the life of an unenthusiastic-about-racing journalist working for a racing magazine publisher. "If only something explosive and worth writing about could happen... if only."