Author's Note! Since there really wasn't enough room in the summary for me to explain everything...

This story is a trilogy, as it has three points of interest over a long period of time. Part 1 is set in the early 1970s, Part 2 is set in the mid 1980s, and Part 3 is set in 2006, during/around the events we see in Cars. I'll be posting chapter updates regularly - and I'll include the Part #s in the chapter titles to make things easier.

This here's the beginning of Part 1. It takes a couple chapters to get the context of the situation, I'll tell you now. Questions won't be answered immediately in all cases.

I hope you enjoy it!


The familiar sound of the reel filled the empty room as the projector flickered to life, projecting a grainy image against the wall above the garage door. 3… 2… 1… The colors seemed faded, but the scene, no matter how many times he watched it, was so full of life, so full of excitement, the dull colors seemed as vivid as anything he'd seen in real life.

"And here you have it, folks. The beginning of the 1951 Piston Cup racing season! It's sure to be a blast. We've got a spectacular line up today here at Thunder Hollow Speedway…"

The voiceover seemed to fade into the background as the race started. He'd watched this video, heard these words what seemed like a hundred times. He knew them by heart. His focus turned to the racers.

They were incredible. No less than forty cars were racing around this small dirt oval, inches from each other, taking every opportunity to pass each other up, all fighting for the lead. Yet, somehow in this intense competition, there was a comradery of sorts between the racers. It seemed so odd, so completely different from anything he'd ever experienced, but it was real all the same. Things were different in the outside world. What he wouldn't give to see it.

"And look at this! It's the Fabulous Hudson Hornet! This racer showed up in Thomasville a couple months ago, and is – "

The reel stuttered to a halt as it ran out of tape, as it always had at this part. He scrambled for the next video, replaced the reel in the projector, and set it to play again. Why they never spliced the two together was beyond him. This was the best part!

3… 2… 1… "… moving up the ranks quickly! These newer cars just seem to be built for this."

That shiny blue car with the extravagant livery was rocketing forward from the back of the field, taking every opening he could find. When the others took to the outside of the turns, slowing to prevent themselves from sliding, he never slowed down. The Hornet sailed through those corners with ease, flirting with the inside wall. It was amazing. Ten laps later, it seemed clear no one was going to take that lead from him.

An obnoxious pounding reverberated from the thin metal garage door. He jumped and instinctively pulled the plug on the projector. The garage door opener hummed to life as someone from outside opened it.

"Rise and shine, you – are you seriously watching those old reels again? We have cable, you know."

He squinted at the sudden influx of white light as it poured into his dark room. As his eyes adjusted, he pushed his box of video reels to the side and carefully placed the projector next to them. They were his only belongings, aside from a few letters and stationery items he used for contacting an outside friend, in that barren white box of a room where he spent most of his down time.

"There's nothing on TV during the week, Izzy." he responded to the overly magenta Charger Daytona. "Besides, the only TV we have is in the common room."

She sighed. What he wasn't saying was that he wasn't comfortable in the common room, and she didn't blame him.

"There's a race this weekend right? Saturday? Sunday?"

"Sunday, at 2 o'clock." he answered matter-of-factly.

"Tell you what, we'll get in there, and I'll watch it with you. They won't bother you then. Deal?" she offered.

"Really?" he perked up, sitting a few inches higher in his suspension.

"Of course." she smiled. "I could use something different, too."

The rumble of nearly a dozen Hemi engines shook the hallway as a steady parade of the colorful winged cars cruised by. Six Charger Daytonas and seven Road Runner Superbirds – they were the ones Chrysler had chosen, "the brigade" as they were called.

"Let's go, losers! Training time!" yelled the lime green Superbird in the rear of the pack as he passed them, obnoxiously enthusiastic as always.

Izzy rolled her eyes and backed away from the door. "Let's go, Strip. Maneuverability day."

He sighed and rolled forward into the stark white hallway. The bright lights that lined the halls of the factory felt invasive, like they were always waiting, watching him, ready to illuminate the path that would lead to his inevitable fate. Chrysler said the lighting was for 'safety' reasons. Strip just thought it was because they didn't believe in natural lighting, and that they wanted to show off their sparkling production environment. All it was doing at that moment was making his dark blue paint look like a black hole against the perfectly polished floor.

The factory itself seemed a mysterious labyrinth. Buildings merged with buildings in such a fashion that the third floor of one would become the sixth floor of another just by going through a doorway. The multilayered security system prevented nearly anyone from entering the heart of the operation, where the new cars were being manufactured. The completely automated process was fortified by wall upon wall of impenetrable materials, decoy buildings, and unorthodox design. This cradle of life had to be protected by any means necessary.

Strip followed his comrades and fellow fighters, behind Izzy. Everyone in front of her happily chatted and laughed for the duration of the ten-minute drive to the practice grounds. He couldn't figure out why they seemed to look forward to the weekly sessions. Maybe it was just that they really were fighters, that they enjoyed the prospect of a war. Still, he couldn't understand it.

They arrived at the practice grounds, a square mile of open area between several towering buildings. Ford wouldn't be able to send their drones to spy on them there without their noticing. It felt safe.

"Alright, team, listen up." a white and chrome Power Wagon emerged from a door to their left, looking at a clipboard. "Maneuverability day. Everyone's favorite."

There were a couple half-hearted exclamations of excitement, and some intentionally unsubdued sarcastic remarks. Maneuverability day sucked for everyone. It seemed like a simple series of activities that were supposedly designed to sharpen their collective agility, but for a set of high powered, modified, heavy muscle cars, it was much more than that. Rick, the Power Wagon in charge, took initiative to try to fix this issue a couple months beforehand by adding even more modifications. Despite the argument that the extra pieces would only make them heavier, he went forward with it. He was the CEO. He could do whatever he wanted if it meant winning the war he'd helped create.

"Izabel. Melissa. You two are up first." Rick said, looking through the lineup. "Let's get crackin'. Here's what I want you to do…"

It was the same old drill. Everyone already knew what to do - just follow the instructions, and don't crash.

Strip watched his sister roll to the starting line, next to a red Superbird. They exchanged pleasantries briefly, taunting each other and making bets on who would make it through the course first. It was funny how everyone seemed to like Izzy. She got along fine with Melissa and the others – even Diego, the belligerent green 'bird from earlier. Strip had spent hours pondering why he wasn't received the same way. He looked like the rest of them, and had the same capabilities. It could only be one thing – the way Rick treated him was different.

Rick blew the whistle. It was go time.

The sounds of whirring machinery and sliding metal began every training session. Izzy and Melissa triggered their transformation processes to prepare for launch, as Chrysler's training sessions weren't executed on the ground, but in the air.

"They'll never be prepared for this. Chrysler manufactures cars, not planes. GM and Ford will be looking for the enemy on the ground, not in the sky. That's what will give us the advantage."

It was the same story repeated again and again. "Chrysler engineering at its finest." or "Breakthrough of the century." It seemed so overrated. It wasn't a breakthrough at all – it was the manipulation of living beings into war machines. Strip tried not to think about the ethical implications of what had happened to them all. The cars on the outside weren't treated like this.

He watched as Izzy's paneling slid out of place, making room for two long, wide, but thin wings to protrude from her sides, just below her windows. Her spoiler split in half at the top and folded outwards to resemble a jet plane's tail fin, while the rest of her body panels inverted and moved into new places. In no more than five seconds, the pink Daytona and the red Superbird had morphed into matte black, plane-like machines that had only the slightest resemblance of their real makes and models. They were no longer Chrysler aero cars. They looked as if a small child had put a puzzle together wrong, forcing pieces together that clearly didn't fit. Was it functional? Yes, but it wasn't pretty.

The girls didn't show it, but the process made them feel slightly sick, as it did to all the rest of the team. It wasn't natural.

But no matter. They drove down the stretch of flat tarmac toward a ramp, gaining incredible speed with the help of two small jet engines that folded out over their rear wheels. These supplemented their regular combustion engines on the ground when exposed, and kept their bodies airborne once they lifted off.

Around the courtyard they flew, banking hard to avoid the buildings in the corners, but otherwise sticking as close as they could to them. To Ricky's credit, the new sensors and modified wing flaps did help. It was easier to react to random drafts, hard rolls, and flying projectiles than it had been previously.

They executed simultaneous barrel rolls as they roared back over the start/finish line. It was time to bring the rain. Ricky hit a button and flipped a couple switches on a nearby control panel. Out across the expanse, several different machines buzzed to life and locked onto their targets. A laser grid sectioned off the airspace, and it was up to Izzy and Melissa to dodge the beams while concurrently evading any other projectiles.

From the ground, it looked impossible, but in the air, there always seemed to be a way out. Up and over, down and about, through the air they tumbled in an almost graceful way. They dodged the soft projectiles with ease, and avoided the burning touch of the lasers with only minimal effort. When they finished that lap, Rick cranked up the intensity. As always, he did this three times per set of flyers.

"Good job, Iz." Rick said as they finished their trial and landed nearby. "You're getting better at leaving airspace for others. Melissa, good, but you gotta work on those turns. They gotta be tighter next time."

"Yes, sir." they both responded with equal amounts of numbness. Rick would never be completely satisfied with anyone, so neither a compliment nor a piece of criticism from him was ever seriously taken to heart.

Sometimes the worst part about this particular bit of training was the waiting around for everyone else to finish. Hours passed as everyone took their turns, cycling through two at a time. Those that were finished weren't allowed to go back inside and wait. Watching the others train provided valuable insight, or so they were told. It was boring, that's what it was.

"Alright. Down to the end." Rick said in a tone that sounded as eager to be done as they were. "Strip, you're up. And unless anyone wants to join, you're flying solo."

Last, as usual. Why did they choose thirteen combatants? That's an unlucky, uneven number that never made things easy. Twelve would have been much better, he thought as he rolled forward.

It seemed to happen so much quicker when flying alone. All eyes were on him as the whistle blew. He clenched his teeth and started barreling toward the take-off ramp, deciding to bare his wings and transform while in motion to save time. Focusing on driving also helped him ignore the pain of the shifting parts, but he'd never admit that.

As he lifted into the air, he thought back to the Fabulous Hudson Hornet, racing ever so close to his boundaries. Pouring on the speed, he flew with the tip of his right wing inches from the walls, looking forward and anticipating the apex of the corners he was going to take. This was going to be his fastest lap yet.

The laser grid was different this time. The openings between the strands of red light had different contours than he'd grown accustomed to, but that was okay. Just picture it's a field of racers. Look for the openings. He had an instinct for this, an uncanny ability to tell what was going to be where in the next moment. Cannons shot projectiles toward him in a fairly predictable manner.

It was over in a matter of minutes, or so it felt. Maybe having fun was the trick. Maybe the others had games they played in their minds that made practice fun for them, too.

"Wow." Rick looked between his scribble covered clipboard and the landing Superbird. "I, uh, hmm. That was good, kid. Real good."

Strip retracted his wings and returned to normal, approaching the CEO. "Thank you, sir." he said out of politeness.

The other cars murmured amongst themselves as they eyed him. Izzy looked happy, but the others rolled their eyes and slowly made their way back inside.

"Don't forget! Big meeting tomorrow!" Rick called after them. "Be there!"

Strip started to follow them, but Rick reached out to stop him. "Hold on there, boy. How'd you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You just shaved four seconds off your best time. And you were the fastest then."

Strip swallowed forcefully and looked aside. He wasn't about to tell the truck that controlled nearly every aspect of his life that he'd pretended he was an old racecar.

"I just – it's instinctual I guess." he answered. "Sometimes things are easier if you don't overthink 'em."

"Huh." Rick smiled, a rare sight, as he backed away to return inside. "Well, keep it up, kid. You were made for this."

Weren't we all?