Hi, this is inspired by the story 'Kaze' by Messenger Of Dreams, which everyone should read :) I really liked how it was written/gave a little insight into the back story of a blacklist racer. So here is my vision of how Clarence Callahan became Razor. It is part of the same story as my other upload, 'The Blacklist', which I promise to update soon! It occurs much later in time, at a point where Adam is closing in on Razor, probably having just defeated JV or Webster. In my Need for Speed, as I have mentioned on my other story somewhere, Adam does not lose the BMW, rather he uses it for defeating the majority of the Blacklist (he has his R32 Skyline for the first 3 of the 15). Therefore, Razor drives a Mercedes-Benz SL65 AMG Black Series. I chose that as his car because it is badass, and it looks and sounds evil. Very fitting for Blacklist number one, I thought.
...
I haven't always been number one. I haven't always been a street racer for that matter. Or a criminal. Or even the bad guy. I guess that's how people see me. A 'bad guy.' I'm not oblivious to the things people say about me. I've heard the rumours. My reputation precedes even myself. I don't care. I like it. I embrace it. The less truth people know about me, where I came from, the better. There are few people in this world who remember who I was before I became 'Razor', and I cut them out of my life years ago.
I sit behind the wheel my Mercedes in an empty car park on some industrial estate, the orange glow of the streetlamps reflected off of the gunmetal paintwork. I don't know why I am here. These days, with my reputation in doubt and people beginning to question how long I have left to sit at the top, I find solitude in the empty car parks, back alleys and other hidden spots in this city that I have come to know oh so well. I've never been a people person, but these days I can't even handle my own crew. I know what they're all thinking. They seem to think I'm losing it, that this is all getting to me. I don't help by sneaking off to my little hiding places every now and then, but no one knows where I go, what I do. Still, their allegiances to me are weaker than ever. People have never really been my 'friends'. I know why they stick around, why they suck up to my face but condemn me behind my back. Better to be my freind, than my enemy. At least that's how it used to be. That kid is slowly taking everything away from me. But he wont take my title. I can guarantee it.
Angrily, I turn my head and gaze across the car park at an office block. To anyone else it is exactly that; an empty office block. But it reminds me of the specific turning point in my life. The point where I realised I could be whoever I wanted to be, and became exactly that.
It was 2008. I had recently graduated. My grades were average, my ambitions still unknown. Even though I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, I had still expected more than I had settled for back then. I had landed an office job about a month after graduating, and had decided I hated it two weeks in. Eight months later, however, I was still there. Back then I lacked the motivation to do anything, let alone sort out the sad story that was my life. But I had had enough. Here I was, at 11:30pm, busting my ass to finish a heap of paperwork that my bitch supervisor had dumped on my desk before she left to go home seven and a half hours ago. I had been assured I would be fired if I did not complete it by 8:00am. I sigh, partly at my predicament, partly at the fact that it wasn't like I even had anywhere else to be, or anyone to see. I had no friends, no immediate family, no plans, and no life. I look at the pile of Styrofoam cups in my wastebin and decide it is time for another coffee. I walk the dull, grey hallways to the coffee machine. The building is quiet. Empty, I presume, aside from me and the security guards. As the machine slowly pours my coffee, I sigh again. At least it was pay-day tomorrow. I would finally be able to afford the exhaust upgrade for my Nissan 180sx. My car was the only good thing in my life. My pride and joy. I spent most of my wages and all of my free time on it. I loved driving back then. It was a pleasure, a sweet release from the rest of the world and a way of escaping my problems for however long I could sit behind the wheel. Nowadays, driving is just a rush, an adrenaline fuelled fight to hold on to my reputation and everything I have worked so hard to build over these last few years. In my Mercedes, in the present time, I sigh once more.
The coffee machine beeps to tell me that my drink is ready. The walk back to my desk is a slow one. I take a different route, and get purposely lost in the maze of hallways and stairwells. The building is so large, and my routine so repetitive that I have probably only ever seen about 10 per cent of it in the whole eight months I've been here. I use the maps that are dotted around on the walls to find my way back, finding nothing interesting along the way. If hell exists, it looks like this building, I think to myself.
I collapse into my chair and set my coffee upon my clutter-laden desk. It is then I notice the scene in one of the car parks my office overlooks that has been evolving in my absence. A gathering of cars and people. I count five cars. All of them look modified. I can see that two of them are a Toyota AE86 and an Mazda RX7 FC. My vision is blocked by the people milling around, so I can't distinguish the others. I watch them for a further ten minutes, in which time at least ten more cars arrive, and even more people. The crowd becomes rowdier. One of the cars – a new generation Mustang – does a burnout. I grab my car keys and whip my jacket off of my desk as a head for the door, spilling my coffee over the paperwork I have already forgotten about. Out in the hall, I call the elevator. It's stationary on Level 12, and I'm on 4. I head for the stairs instead, racing down them until I reach Level 0 - the underground car park. I'm a sweaty mess by the time I get there. My S14 waits for me, alone apart from a few other vehicles spread out around the giant empty space. I get inside, and make my way out of the building and towards the meet.
That night, I won my first ever race. It was against the driver of the Mustang. He was acting like some big shot, proclaiming to the whole car park that he had the fastest car there. I disagreed. I destroyed him.
On a quiet side street later that same night, I count the five grand I have in my hands over and over again. Ecstatic, adrenaline still pumping, and for the first time in a long time, happy. It doesn't take much at all to convince me that I could get used to this. I stick around town for a few months, win a lot more races, and when I finally have enough money, I pack up my things and leave for good. My new found confidence, skill and hunger for victory are my motivation for my fresh start. I can go anywhere, be anyone.
And I did. I cringe, resentful at the memory of who I used to be. He may be gone now, but I myself can't forget that person, however hard I try.
As I pull out of the car park and cruise along the main road, not really sure of where I am going next, someone roars up behind me flashing his lights, then overtakes me. Either he is ignorant and does not recognise my Mercedes, or he is a rookie fool who has just made a huge mistake. He drives an R34 Skyline. Bayside blue. It looks too shiny. I'm in the mood to trade paint tonight...
I press my foot to the floor and my angry AMG engine growls, as hungry as I am for blood.
We always get to taste it.