Tumbling Wheel
A look into the life of Tomber Roues before (and a little bit after) being interrupted and later chased down by two spy cars and a tow truck.
~Cars 2 ©PIXAR 2011~
With a profession such as his, one could never be too careful.
Tomber Roues had to always take great care when making sales. The potential buyer's background was usually checked if it was a face to face exchange, and whilst many would expect the little three-wheeled car to have relatively outdated equipment, he was actually equipped with a rather current computer as to check the VIN number of any car he encountered. He'd managed to pilfer it from Finn—an old ally—after attempting to sell black market parts to a pair of undercover police cars in Morocco….if it weren't for the Aston Martin's interference, he would have been trapped in that impound lot and rusted away for twenty plus years.
It helped that he'd also had some extremely vital information concerning the spy car's latest mission.
After successfully learning his lesson, the Reliant Regal had returned to Paris, where his permanent headquarters was set up. He wasn't a well known black market parts dealer, which was why he had so many customers. He boasted all of the big mafia leaders, celebrities, and at times even important government officials knocking on his door from dawn until dusk. The police knew next to nothing about him, and so Tomber remained invisible, and anonymous.
Or so he'd hoped.
The years of skirting the authorities and expecting his next customer to stab him in the back had taken their toll on the three-wheeled car, and his anxiety reigned. He could hardly leave his shop anymore without glances behind him, as if expecting police cars to jump out from the slim crack between his building and that of another merchant.
It didn't help that the notorious Finn McMissile kept popping up over the years, often at random, to receive information on whatever criminals he was currently searching for. Most of which were Tomber's customers. And while the Reliant Regal wasn't usually one to 'rat anyone out', if it kept himself out of prison, he would do it in an engine cycle.
And so the succession continued.
As the years progressed, black market parts seemed to become more and more valuable, and a result he would have far more customers. Then Finn would come to him out of nowhere, often alone, and drill him for information. At times he believed the spy car took his job far too seriously. But even still, he kept up the act. Finn was a friend, there was no doubt in that, but at times had had to wonder how far the secret agent's tolerance for friendship went. Would the Aston Martin eventually arrest him once he was of no more use to him? Send him to some hole-in-the-wall prison after so many years of dedicated partnership? These questions and more swam through the Reliant Regal's mind, unasked, and unanswered.
He didn't want to risk learning the truth.
It had been a relatively nice day. The sky was a clear, opaque blue, with large clouds hanging lowly over Paris—a sure sign of imminent rainfall in the next few days.
The building that housed his base of operations was located in a once abandoned convention center from the late 1800s, the Marché aux Piéces —set in one of the most rundown regions of the city—but was still in moderately good condition. The gleaming mosaic tiles underfoot, having once perfectly shown one's reflection when in their prime, were now tarnished and coated with grime in some places, as well as the elegant moldings that still stood were stable tributes to the greatness this building had once exalted.
The only thing that robbed this once great edifice of its original beauty was time— as well as the hundreds of merchants that had stationed themselves on both the interior and exterior of it.
It had been a fairly slow day for Tomber, but he didn't mind for once. He had just received well over fifty-thousand Euros for sending that anonymous car—one of his latest, and best customers—his new clutch assembly the day before. Most of the money was so that he would keep quiet—which he had no qualms with, unless a certain spy car decided to drop by…which he probably would.
Over the years, the Reliant Regal had developed somewhat of a 'sixth sense' for when his old comrade would pop up. It was either that, or he was just being extra paranoid again. And in all truth, his unwarranted suspicion was usually the culprit.
It had been midday, perhaps a bit later, and he'd been speaking to a potential customer. The car, a lemon like himself, didn't have much, but was a fellow merchant and Tomber had been willing to cut the price in half. The marketplace had been rather peaceful, and was startled by an unknown and thoroughly rusted tow truck's sudden cry. And while he would have usually ignored such an insignificant thing, his paranoia had kicked in.
He had caught the reflection of the Aston Martin in several dozen polished hubcaps hung up against the wall of a stand. And thus, the chase was on.
Tomber knew this role by heart. Dodge a couple stalls; knock down some merchandise, thus blocking the spy car's path. It was a long rehearsed practice. Because neither could be seen speaking or even interacting with the other, for the sake and safety of both their professions, they played a little 'cops and robbers' when their meetings were out in the open. Most would think the sleek secret agent to be some sort of police car or detective in disguise, and so their ruse worked perfectly.
Perhaps a bit too perfectly.
The other spy car that the Reliant Regal hadn't taken notice of cut him off, and in his shock, he attempted to brake and turn—he hadn't seen Finn come to him with a partner…ever—only making himself lose his balance, flipping end over end as his fender hit the ground with a grating screech of metal, before hurtling over the Jaguar's roof and into a pile of tires inside a small stand. From that instant, before she even released her tazers, Tomber had loathed her.
The Gremlin stationed outside a stall turned away from the fast-paced events that had raised so much suspicion among the venders, ignoring the Aston Martin, Jaguar, and tow truck that departed, leaving the three-wheeled car behind.
Instead, he activated the headset over his roof, muttering to his fellow on the other end.
"He's alone. Move in."
The Reliant Regal didn't notice the lemon trailing him. He paid his fellow venders' curious looks no mind, though he did notice that the amount of strange glances he received after each unexpected visit had substantially depleted over the years, as did the probing questions.
The way back to his store was a long one, as he'd been at the very forefront stalls of the Marché aux Piéces when Finn had chased him down. The shops around him became of better quality as he drove further, though the district's overall cleanliness could not hide the decrepit roads, yellowed windows and peeling paint one could find if looking closely.
Still sore after his ordeal with the British spy's tazer, Tomber rose on his axles, stretching as he reached the front door of his store. His shocks creaked painfully as he entered, lowering with a groan as he kicked the door closed with a tire.
"I am getting too old for this," he grumbled, looking over his cluttered workspace.
Various car parts littered several if the tables around him, completely covering the actual counters, couple with empty oil cans and cigarette stubs. Tomber groaned at the mess, rolling forward to survey the mess. Engines and other auto pieces dangled from chains suspended over him, tethered to the ceiling, jangling ominously from time to time. The floor, made of tarnished tiles, was in need of a good scrubbing, and the windows had several cracks running through them. The walls, composed of cheap plaster and wood, were scarred with burns, most from welding equipment if he recalled correctly. It was hard to think that this was what he came home to every day.
The Reliant Regal couldn't ignore the state of his domicile, instead growling softly as he wheeled around to one of the tables. Rising on his tires, he attempted to gather the various items into miscellaneous piles, grumbling under his breath as he did so.
"This is the last time that fool McMissile gets the drop on me…these surprise visits are doing a wonder for my oil pressure as it is….engine failure is the last thing I need…."
The familiar creak of his front door opening drove the French car from his traitorous thoughts. Without turning, Tomber yelled gruffly to the car in the doorway, "we're not open! Allez vous en!"
The three-wheeled car froze however at the stranger's next words, spoken gravely and in a thick New York accent, "I ain't here for any parts. Just you, Roues."
The crisp staccato of gunshots ripped through the humdrum of the Marché aux Piéces, the surrounding cars all turning towards the familiar shack in stunned silence, only for the wooden storefront to crumble under a wave of bullets, dust and timber raining down and out in a dirty explosion from the exposed hole, and a Reliant Regal quickly zoomed out of the mess, fishtailing as he momentarily lost his balance, and idled for a millisecond to gain his bearings before speeding down a random aisle.
A pale green Gremlin, coated in layers of rust and grime, followed the French car, large guns on either fender, and also took a brief pause before following after the three-wheeled car.
And all the while, the shoppers and merchants alike only watched in the same stupefied stillness.
"Those maudit customers," Tomber growled, taking a swift glance to his rearview mirror and noted that the Gremlin was still following him. "Should've known not to tell McMissile anything…" the aged car puffed, "this job is going to be the death of me…"
Maneuvering with as much caution as possible, while still keeping up speed, the Reliant Regal muttered more curses under his breath, feeling the firearms hidden inside his own fenders quivering with anticipation. The call for protection was understandable, but the need to actually use them had been nearly nonexistent...until now. But the French car was no fighter—he'd never been classically trained, preferring not to get his treads dirty…but drastic events, called for drastic measures. Not that he was about to face the car chasing him—Chrysler help him. He needed to do what he dreaded most.
Call for help.
Tomber growled in irritation, but he knew the stakes. If he was captured, whoever had sent the goon after him could torture any information out of him—the spies' whereabouts, C.H.R.O.M.E. intelligence…everything that the parts dealer had locked in his subconscious and gained over the years. And so, it was with a colorful swear on his lips that he activated his ancient communicator, finding call information momentarily flash before his eyes, before the correct one was selected. He bit back a groan as the reception buzzed, and an aggravatingly familiar voice answered.
"Miss us already, Tomber?"
The three-wheeled car bit back a scathing retort, truly not in the mood for his comrade's warped sense of humor, and the fact that he had somehow gained one. "Not really, no," Tomber replied evenly, dodging another stand and barely avoided from losing his balance.
"Then why call?"
Tomber inhaled deeply, doing his best to keep his temper under control,"oh, I fancied a chat, McMissile!" he snapped sarcastically, attempting his best British accent.
The Aston Martin on the other end ignored his retort, his tone instead growing worried, "what's the problem, Tomber?"
"Oh, nothing, just being chased down by one of my customers!"
"A Lemon?"
"Well of course, you"— Tomber took another deep breath, quelling his rage. "What am I supposed to do, McMissile? You know that field work was never my specialty."
"Well you have weapons, don't you?"
"Oui, but"—
The spy car cut him off. "Then you should be all set. I presume that you can hold your own against one measly henchman." The three-wheel could practically see the coy smirk across his grill.
"McMissile, I swear to Dodge, if you leave me here with this…this imbecile, I will personally hunt you down," the Reliant Regal managed to ground out, panted from exertion as he rounded another tight corner, and received only a lighthearted chuckle from the other end.
"Oh please, Tomber. Both you and I know how fierce of a fighter you can be when you put your mind to it—minus the few times when you're flipping through the air because of loss of balance."
"Finn, if you"—
"Oh bother, I have to go, Tomber," the secret agent muttered ruefully on the other line, speaking to someone in the background. "Mater is having a spot of trouble with the buffing machine. I trust you can take care of that Lemon buffoon all on your own? All that needs to be done is to disable any communication devices on him."
"McMissile, don't you dare"— and thus the three-wheeled car was met with a dial done. "Merde," he cursed, looking back down at his rearview mirror. With a roll of the eyes and a resigned sigh, Tomber gave into his comrade's advice and activated his weapons. But curse his parts if he wasn't going to get back at Finn McMissile for making him do so.
Allez vous en! - Go away!
A/N:….I won't translate the curse that Tomber said at the end…
I decided to write this a couple months back but just got around to finishing it. I noticed that nobody gives Tomber any love, and decided to remedy that. ;)
As for the title and Tomber's last name, Roues means wheel, and his first name 'is tumbling' when directly translated from French, and thus, Tumbling Wheel (Tomber Roues) was born.
Reviews are love :D