Parts: Coming Together
Disclaimer: I don't own Cars or anything related thereof.
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Chapter One
Boost played the tape sent to him by someone at CHROME one more time, but by then he had it memorized from beginning to end. Instead of paying attention, as he usually did, he allowed his mind to wander. He shook his hood at the thought of Finn giving this invitation to him. He had a shot at changing his life now, not that he'd told the others anything, yet.
He wasn't even sure if he was allowed to tell them, anyway.
Finally, he stopped the tape and turned off the television, deciding to revel in the silence. After all, this was one of the few chances he had to do so. His thoughts drifted through everything that happened over the past several weeks. Sure, he hadn't exactly been too involved in causing trouble with his friends during that time, much less drag raced other tuners and given the cops much reason to chase him.
When he really thought about it, the cops hadn't been on his case since they'd questioned him about Shorts' accident, and with Shorts gone, Boost felt like he didn't have much reason to continue being a tuner, or running from the law, or anything else he'd been doing with Shorts out and about, hanging over his roof like a cheesy Christmas decoration. But then, he wasn't sure if he wanted to have himself stripped down so that he could re-enter the world as a normal car with normal plans and a normal life. Even if he was sure he could get himself stripped down and successfully relocate himself and total who he'd used to be, he wasn't sure if he would be able to move on completely. He'd been a tuner for so long, turning his life around would take more than an invitation to a special school that was probably so private and so expensive he'd have to pay out his tailpipe to get a location out of somebody.
"Hey, man, whatcha doin'?" Wingo asked.
"Wha-oh, nothin'," Boost replied, turning to face the other tuner.
"Yeah, nothin', if you count staring at a blank screen as nothin'."
"I was watchin' somethin' and turned the TV off."
"What were you watchin'?"
Boost sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he said, "Promise me you won't tell them."
"Tell them what?"
Boost pulled the tape out of the player. "It's from a place called CHROME. I dunno how much I'm allowed to say, since it's all top secret and junk. Anyway, they sent me this tape, sort of like a demo or documentary or something. It's an invitation, y'know, to go to this special school they have there."
"You're going back to school?"
"Actually, I, uh, dunno yet. Don't tell 'em, okay?"
"I ain't talkin', man, but why are you even thinkin' about this?"
"We're free, man. Shorts is in jail, and we don't have to deal with him anymore, none of us do. I dunno what to do anymore. I don't have to be a tuner anymore, but I dunno what to do instead."
"C'mon, man. It sounds like you need somebody to harass, or a good drag race."
Boost shook his hood. "Not interested."
"Dude, who are you and what have you done with Boost?"
"Look, Wingo. I got a second chance. I haven't had that in years, maybe my whole life, and I dunno what to do with it."
Wingo settled back on his wheels, and all he could manage was a small, mangled, "Wow."
Boost turned back toward the television, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything else. After a moment, he said, "Maybe I'll go for a drive, y'know, clear my head."
"Yeah, okay," Wingo replied, allowing Boost to drive out of the building and watching him with confusion. Finally, he turned around and drove back into the garage.
CARS
It was the end of another big race, and Francesco Bernoulli was surrounded by cameras, reporters, and rabid fans within minutes of the race, as usual. He answered whatever questions came his way, posed for pictures, signed things, and made his way to his trailer.
Problem was, his trailer wasn't where he or his driver left it, unless there was something his driver wasn't telling him.
"Excuse me, sir, but if you'll please come with me, right this way," a suave, if unusual, voice said in English.
"Who are you? Francesco does not know you," he replied. "Now shoo, before Francesco calls security."
The car rolled in front of him. "I am security, at least in this particular instance." Francesco tried to roll past the car, but he stopped him. "Listen to me. Your life is in danger," the other car rasped. "I need you to come with me."
Francesco was about to make a retort when someone in the crowd gathered around him opened fire. The car shoved him backward, eliciting a string of Italian curses from him, but the other car seemed to ignore this. "What is the meaning of this?" Francesco demanded.
"Just shut up. There's a plane out back, waiting for us."
"No. Security. Francesco is being kidnapped."
A vintage car, painted black and polished to what would be considered showroom new by most cars, which just looked weird to Francesco, burst out of the crowd, firing a pair of mounted guns at the Italian. The other car whipped around to Francesco's back, hooked his back bumprette grappling hooks into the racer's bumper, and then whipped around to the front again. "Drive forward," he said. "Don't stop, for any reason, until you reach Siddeley."
A bullet struck Francesco's back panel, which seemed to be all the convincing the racer needed to speed forward, pulling this other car behind him. The other car fired at the car in pursuit.
Francesco drove out of the arena and through a few corridors running under the stands before reaching the main parking lot, where groups of cars were drinking, eating, partying, and playing several different types of music at once.
The car chasing them fired a few shots into Francesco's back bumper, breaking one of the grappling hooks attatched to him. The car tied to Francesco's back swung an arc before recovering himself and resuming the shooting match with the black car giving chase.
Francesco spotted a long, silver plane at the end of the lot. The plane dropped his loading ramp. "Get on board," the British car ordered, still firing at the pursuer. Francesco turned toward the plane, and the car giving chase fired at the plane. "Siddeley, go." Leaving his ramp down, the plane rolled forward.
"What is a-going on?" Francesco asked, looking around nervously.
"Just get on board. Jump if you have to, but get on."
Francesco jumped onto the ramp, and the plane began to pull up. A bullet shot through the air and, in a lucky shot, severed the cable tethering Francesco to the car that got him into this mess. He drove into the passenger cabin and couldn't help but admire the surroundings.
"Oh, you've got to be joking," the purple Jaguar said in a British accent, similar to the first car, rolling her eyes. "You're our witness?"
"Francesco has no idea what you're talking about," Francesco said.
"Obviously you've seen something you weren't supposed to, otherwise you wouldn't be pursued by the Italian Mafia."
"Obviously if Francesco saw something, Francesco was too drunk to remember anything seen by Francesco."
"Or it was too traumatic for Francesco to want to talk about." The Jag mimicked Francesco's voice, much to the racer's annoyance, but before he could voice it, she shut him down in Italian.
"You...you speak Italian?"
"Don't look so surprised. You're not the only one who's multilingual." Francesco tried to speak again, but the Jag said, "Don't waste your breath, either. We lost someone out there, and he needs to be found. Siddeley, can we activate Finn's tracking devices from here?"
Another British voice replied, "We should be able to, as long as his engine still runs and his battery is up and running."
The Jag messed a little with the computer and then said, "What about the witness?"
"Shouldn't we relocate him, according to plan?"
"Relocate Francesco? Impossible," the racer snapped.
"Yes, we relocate him," the Jag said to Siddeley.
"Do you have a place in mind?" the plane replied.
"You're the expert at this matter. What do you suggest?"
"Oh, somewhere out of the way, a sleepy little town in the middle of nowhere. I hear Lightning McQueen managed to pull it off for a few days early on in his career."
"But Radiator Springs is a hot tourist destination. Someone is bound to recognize him."
"It's off-season. He should be reasonably safe there."
"Siddeley, set a course for Radiator Springs, if you would."
