A/N: So here's something I've been working with on-and-off for the past month or little more. Just to put things into perspective, let me just say that I love NFS: Hot Pursuit (the 2010 release, that is). being a fan of the old Burnout games, the arcadeyness of Seacrest County's Hot Pursuit just clicked with me.
It's also worth mentioning that I have a good number of Hot Pursuit 'gameplay remixes' on my YouTube channel. Called the 'Metal Makes You Faster' series, I've basically been playing certain cop and racer events, setting a new PB in each and placing a metal song over the gameplay. It's not exactly the most creative idea ever, but I felt like doing it.
Due to the way in which I've written this, you'll only get a decent understanding of the surroundings (Mission Beach, Lost Horse Road etc.) if you yourself have played the game. If not...go and watch some videos of it on YT.
Enjoy, and I'll see you at the ending A/N!
The Seacrest Files
A 'Need For Speed: Hot Pursuit' Fan Fiction
Prologue: Zero Tolerance
'Street Racing'
It speaks for itself. Take a car, any car, much like one would a card from a deck, supe it up in the preferred methods – be it body kits, engine refits, tyres, weight reduction – and take it to your local illegal racing circle.
Well, all of the above bar the last bullet point are simple enough.
For a wannabe speed junkie, it's far from easy to just take your ride into the downtown area and 'find' a group to mingle with. It requires a certain amount of tact, street-savvy thinking and a vigilant nature above all. Confidence can speak for so much amongst allies and competition alike, but not watching one's back can only lead down one road.
A road that ends in a 6-by-6-foot room furnished with a bunk bed, toilet/sink combination and a reinforced wire window bestowing the finest views of grassy hills beyond a vast, dark grey wall of 5-foot-thick stone slabs.
The common misconception amongst those eager to make their name is that the tight corners and long straights of city blocks provide the best information about the 'runner'.
This is false.
The straights tell of the vehicle's speed and acceleration, while the harsh corners tell of its handling, whether its drivetrain has been counterbalanced to either make grandiose work of drifting or keep hard grip. The driver is but the means to show off the property, they are nothing but a tool, a peon to the engineering pitch in which they sit. As a result, only the pink slip matters in the heavily-populated areas. The most common thought on the minds of racing adventurers becomes 'will it evade the cops', instead of 'that guy's one to watch'.
The city is by farthest the easiest locale in which one can escape. Sudden corners, heavy all-day traffic and dark back alleys provide the greatest obstacles and pieces of cover against the 'Rolling Law'. As a matter of fact, the cramped streets of the city are seen by some as the 'Coward's Retreat', an environment in which running away without confrontation is the only acceptable outcome; a hub of spineless 'crankshafters'.
The 'some' who say these things are oft regarded negatively by their peers. They are the so-called 'Xtrers', the term a portmanteau derived from 'extreme' and 'runners'. Traditional traits of an 'Xtrer' include more money than sense, more balls than brains, and more arrogance than an Alpha Lion. The arrogance is understandable, for the mantra of Xtrer circles emphasises the driver over the vehicle.
'City Screechers' will:
Race for pink slips
Race to flaunt the tech
Run away the moment the nearest cop farts
Prioritise visual flair and the superficial, using adhesive decals to give their ride the illusion of 'pro' status
'Xtrers' will:
Credit drivers for their abilities and achievements over those of the cars
Make the most of what chassis supports them
Race in varying environments
Defend their races against the authorities by whatever means are necessary
Race for the ultimate satisfaction, savouring the bond between man and machine where they see neither to be complete without the other
Ironically, Xtrers are seen as 'casual' by Screechers, mostly because the former are fuelled by 'feel' rather than material goods and cold, hard cash.
Sometimes petrol-heads from either circle will venture into the other in order to round their experience. Despite this, the change in scenery is often too far from their comfort zone to convert a travel investment into knowledgeable or even financial return.
That is why with its smooth and open roads, vast landscapes, varying weather and combination of challenging curves, straights and hairpins…Xtrers believe Seacrest County was their very own gift from God.
Situated near an archipelago on the far-west coast, Seacrest has it all. Snow-tipped mountains with hazardous frosty shortcuts, claustrophobic valley trails, a good few square-kilometres worth of desert that dares to challenge even the most robust sand filters and even lush wooded areas that tempt wet-weather drifters to avoid the hard wood barriers boxing them in.
So vast and varied is the county that there are few places to hide within its limits, but that simply means that racers put pedal to the metal and speed away from whatever tiny cop banger dare chase after them.
What they never expected though, only three years after Xtrers began to reign, was for Seacrest County's finest to fight back…
The midday sun at its highest peak shone like a billion-watt spotlight over the meandering structures of the elevated Coral Bay Drive highway. Not a single jagged edge marred the illustrious white of the pillars and protective concrete barriers, allowing traffic to flow through it and over the brush below like a suspended mountain stream. Gentle whispers of wind cut across the tarmac, left only to be savoured by the few birds that risked an attempt at proximity with the hulking, shiny, noisy box-like birds that would drift past.
One such pigeon was itself curious, plodding along the hard surface and nipping at anything that looked remotely like a morsel. This was strange to the bird, for the soft greens and browns under its claws from locales past would gift it with many a seed or crumb; but this black, grating object it stood upon was nowhere near as gracious. Its head twitched fleetingly, the ears under its grey feathers taking in the tiniest unfamiliar sound.
It was a good thing the bird's side-planted eyes had such a large periphery, for otherwise it wouldn't have seen the black inverted triangle and red border gunning straight for it. The pigeon's distressed caw as it took off was drowned out tenfold by the thunderous roar bellowed forth from the exhausts of the larger 'bird'. A thinner cry soon followed it, and immediately after was a duet of multi-shifting tones and stuttered wails birthed from two 'magpies'.
"Central, this is Traffic Police car 4-6-5. Two units currently in pursuit of racers heading south along Coral Bay Drive; suspects are driving erratically and failing to stop."
The deputy in the passenger seat of the Ford Crown Victoria spoke with a calm telling of many years' experience in the field even as his body lurched from the sudden changes of direction his driving partner forced through the vehicle. He observed to their front right the second police unit swerving around a civilian SUV, the bodywork listing and suspension shifting with the quick change in weight distribution but nonetheless expertly controlled.
"10-4, 4-6-5, request description of suspect vehicles for local BOLO." The female officer's tone through the car's CV also spoke of her time in the job, a controlled but not unemotional pitch delivered without hesitation or falter. The interior of the unit mostly muffled out the sirens emanating from its roof, but occasionally it made the radio hard to comprehend.
"Two suspect vehicles follow: one blue Audi TT coupe, one red Alfa Romeo 8C. No plates on either vehicle."
"Hold on, Brad."
The officer in the passenger seat, 'Brad', was made alert to the road ahead by his partner as the suspended highway seamlessly melded into the cliff-face beside it before the road made a hard cambered curve to the right. Quickly flicking the Vic to the left and into one of the two oncoming lanes, the wheel was rapidly spun back to the right, forcing the back end of the vehicle to break traction and into a slide. Even at 110 miles-per-hour, there appeared an unfathomable grace in how the car maintained its sideways motion with next to no corrective motions.
Their partner vehicle further ahead held its grip to take the inside line while the two illegal racers further ahead both kicked vast plumes of smoke from their torque-wrung tyres.
The blue Audi TT RS was only an approximate 50 yards ahead, but it still possessed a top speed far greater than the cops currently pursuing them. The Alfa Romeo 8C Competizione in its flaming red design was an even higher cut above thanks to its 5.7-litre V8 powertrain. All four pursuing officers already knew once they made chase that their set of wheels wouldn't be enough.
"Central, be advised, pursuit is approaching an intersection. Stand by for update in direction."
"10-4."
All four speeding masses negotiated the harsh uphill left curve, with the 8C further ahead taking a horrendous risk by occupying one of the oncoming lanes around the blind turn. If the car were only a few feet to the left, it would have ploughed straight into a truck. Said truck's chassis began to smoke as the shocked civilian driver placed an untold amount of tonnage on the brake pedal.
Despite the hour, local traffic was at a minimum, posing good news for both the racers ahead and the cops behind them. With no traffic the racers could push, but the police could also maintain their pursuit without jeopardising the public. The chase cut through a light right-left chicane leading to the three-way junction, taking precaution to not cut the first curve and careen straight into the decorative natural rock formation.
One thing that the Seacrest County Police Department prided itself on was its officers' wealth of knowledge of the Xtrer phenomenon and their customs. One such custom was their communion and social bonds. Unlike most car racers, but not dissimilar to many biker rings, Xtrers would attempt to assist those of their own that were in bother. The most common form of this was the method of distraction.
The 8C ahead was slowly getting reeled back to the TP units kept to the right-hand lane, yet showed no subtle hints of an intention to turn. The unit ahead of 4-6-5 caught the TT's slipstream, using it to slingshot through and around another civilian vehicle before looking to make a move on the Alfa, leaving the Audi to the rear-guard 4-6-5.
As much as it looked like the chase was about to split, 3-years' experience of chasing wannabe racers told them that both of the suspects had a definitive finishing line.
They certainly wouldn't waste time by going from point-A to point-B via point-C.
The assumption started to ring true as the Audi redirected, pointing the nose toward the slip road on the right, taking as straight a line through the imaginary apex as possible to maintain its speed.
"You still with him, Greg?" Brad asked, only to mentally admonish himself a moment later for his unnecessary doubt.
"No worries." Was the simple response.
Brad looked back toward the Alfa, his green eyes widening just in time to see the glare of its brake lights and a spasmodic jerk of the front wheels in their direction. The rear end reacted violently, the growl of the newly-opened throttle breaching 4-6-5's windows, but the suspect driver held it with a rapid counter-steer. The second police car, unit 4-2-4, was already expecting the move and used the energy loss from the Alfa's turn to try and engage it. The Vic understeered and narrowly missed the rear of the 8C, but shot into the small runoff area beside the road. An experienced shift in throttle application and steering input avoided the roadside barrier, but it put 4-2-4 on the back foot.
"Central, be advised, Coral Bay Drive pursuit has turned onto Grand Ocean Road. Suspects continuing southbound and still refusing to stop, units 4-2-4 and 4-6-5 are still engaging."
"4-6-5, do you require assistance?"
Although the 8C had lost its ground from its temporary attempt at splitting the pair of police units, it surprised the officers that it took up until now for the driver to show off one of the best perks of being an Xtrer. The 8C's engine hummed, working the driveshaft into increasing the rotation of the rear wheels. From 4-2-4's perspective, they could clearly see the purple tongues of flame rudely spitting back at them through the Alfa's exhaust. Once they saw that, the hope for potential apprehensions dropped significantly.
For with the fireworks from the exhaust came the tell of additional chemicals pumping into the engine. Nitrous oxide provided to the cylinders - when combusted by the spark plugs – creates a greater output of oxygen in combination with the standard fuel and thus can generate greater concussive pressure to fire the pistons and turn the crankshaft.
The effect was immediate, cannon-balling the red sports car away from the two Crown Vics at a good 15 mile-per-hour speed difference and rapidly climbing. The Alfa briefly stagnated as its driver shifted up to the next gear, but the gap was widening by the second. The two short tunnels they entered at the start of Grand Ocean Road echoed back-and-forth the multiple engine rumbles into a symphony of engineering prowess, almost completely overwhelming the sirens that demanded priority. Seeing their peer try to shorten their time to the finish line, the Audi also kicked in the boost.
By the time the chase had left the tunnels and arrived in the midst of the to-be-ignored beauty of the coastal view, the racers were back to combating one another while the police units turned once again into annoying flies buzzing behind them. For the next minute, the pursuit would swerve through the dusty cliff-side road, over the old bridge and avoiding innocent vehicles. Not even the glistening surface of the coastal sea and its reflection of the cloudless sky was enough to pull the officers from their mindset.
Greg had done all he could to keep the suspects in sight, but their jointly superior hardware meant straining all of his driving skill to unprecedented stresses. The sheer speed of the pursuit had him falling slowly into tunnel vision as it became about avoiding the obstacles directly ahead, while at the same time trying to keep the drive as clean as possible in order to not lose any more distance.
"Central, unit 4-2-4 requires reinforcements on the Grand Ocean Road pursuit. Officers are ill-equipped and request fast unit assistance, Highway Patrol clearance or above."
"Roger, unit 4-2-4, BOLO of suspect vehicles has been broadcast, request for assistance will be relayed to units near your 20. Until then, continue pursuit and relay necessary intel."
"Copy, Central, but these guys need taking down fast."
Just as 4-2-4 had finished broadcasting, the officers got a reprieve as a minute flash popped close to the now-distant 8C. The flash split apart into orange rivulets that soon vanished as the ambient air rapidly cooled them. The sparking glance rattled the unfortunate civilian hatchback and jolted it toward the coastal side of the road. The pursuit had remained clean up until that moment, but the officers' priority of apprehending the suspects in this particular case outweighed the needs of a damaged body panel and a shaken – but completely unhurt – driver.
Brad took the opportunity to give a fair warning.
"Hey, 4-2-4 these guys are getting reckless now, keep an eye out!"
'55…keep it at 55', thought the driver of a blue Ford Transit van with a tinge of inner nervousness.
Driving at 55 miles-per-hour wasn't the worrying factor…
…it was the sleek, seamless police decals adorning the streamlined sports car sat only a few metres behind him as they rolled up the shallow and cambered gradient of Lost Horse Road. To their right was a beautiful ochre orchard that belonged to the farm they had passed not five minutes before; on the left, a criss-crossing pattern of dirt trails amongst young, auburn-leafed trees.
The driver of the police vehicle was grateful for the mandatory helmets in HP-class vehicles and above, for the extended cap guarded his eyes from the high sun, lest it potentially cause him to lose control in an emergency.
"All units, all units! Officers require immediate assistance on Grand Ocean Road. Highway Patrol-plus-class vehicles in the vicinity are to redirect and intercept." The LED next to the vehicle's CV receiver blinked sporadically as the order was transmitted.
The officer's lips pulled apart into a somewhat cheeky grin. He looked down to the centre of the steering wheel in front of him, tentatively running a thumb over the horizontal double-wing logo of the manufacturer of his vehicle before placing his hand at the gear lever on his left.
"Silly Brits…"
Having said that, this particular officer was quite partial to manual gearboxes, it provided more of a connection with the vehicle at their command. A quick press of a red button on the fitted control panel in the middle of the dash brought the light bars on the roof bursting to life.
Needless to say that the van driver had a microsecond heart attack thinking he was getting pulled over.
A smooth application of throttle bucked the car forward before it lunged into the opposite lane and cut straight back in front of the van's path, catching the awed eyes of said van driver. The police vehicle continued until the officer was satisfied with a safe distance, and then he yanked the hand brake to throw the rear of the car all the way round and face the direction from whence they came.
He maintained the throttle pressure, making sure the wheels continued to spin even as the car nearly came to a dead halt. With rubber smouldering and kicking up smoke signals around him, the officer took a moment to prepare.
"Showtime."
As if reading his speech, the car desperately fought back against the pedal, pleading for the driver to let off and gain traction even as the inertia in the wheel spin was already accelerating the vehicle away. A quick lift from the throttle sought to reclaim the grip, and the full acceleration capability of the car took over, screaming full delight through the high revs.
Due to the speeds that higher class vehicles in the SCPD could reach, some functions were made available at the push of a button on the steering wheel, reducing the risk of one-handed steering should an officer have need of the radio. Exercising the very reason it was implemented, the officer depressed a switch just beside his anchored left thumb.
"Central, this is Rapid Deployment unit 5-6-7 now inbound to Grand Ocean Road. Currently westbound on Lost Horse Road to intercept. Request SITREP."
"10-4, stand by while I transfer you to the pursuit operator." The operator who replied, the general purpose officer that made the county-wide call from before, replied with haste.
The officer noted the wide hairpin ahead and pulled further to the right of his current lane in order to straighten the entry line. The sirens blasted around him, making themselves known even as the car's eagerness was palpable through the high ranges, and it showed itself off even more as the officer flicked the nose into the turn and lifted from the throttle.
The rear tyres whined in protest despite the momentary reprieve, telling of how they could no longer hold. A downshift and reapplication of power made sure the break in grip was fully intentional.
Even at 160 miles-per-hour, the car held the wide arcing slide, moving further to the outside and kicking up dust in order to avoid possible traffic. Just as the car was levelling the nose to the front once more, the radio came to life with a new female voice.
"Unit 5-6-7, two TP units are currently in a hot pursuit situation with speeding vehicles. Suspects are driving dangerously and refusing to stop. Pursuit is reaching speeds between 150 and 170 and officers are ill-equipped. One MOP has already been forced off the road."
"Make and model of suspect vehicles?" For all the times the movies portrayed it as a piece of cake, any SCPD officer would speak true when they said that trying to converse whilst driving over 100 around tight bends is like juggling 5 balls whilst on a unicycle, reciting Tolstoy even as you balanced a wheelbarrow on your chin.
"Two suspects: One red Alfa Romeo 8C, one blue Audi TT coupe. No plates. Both vehicles are confirmed nitrous-enabled."
"Use of force?" The officer cut the car left into the empty oncoming lane to avoid a pickup truck closing exponentially quick.
"Permitted to lowest degree, exercise caution. Additional equipment can be authorised if necessary."
In other words: 'PIT manoeuvres only.'
"ETA to Grand Ocean is 30 seconds, can you patch me into the pursuit frequency?"
The peaceful farmhouse and wheat silo observing the gentle s-curve along the farmland were – for the umpteenth time – rattled by the screaming engine and blaring howls of the police car as it tore by as if pursuing a phantom.
150 metres
That was now the gap between rogue and authority. The gap had widened substantially as the pursuit had climbed a harsh hill and gently curved into a deserted 2-kilometre straight, zooming past a stop-off diner and attracting all the pairs of eyes inside it. For some of the patrons, that was likely to be the most interesting part of their commuting day.
Unprofessional anger tore at Brad's chest. This had to happen even as the Traffic Police fleet were getting new nitrous overhauls. Only two of the seventeen cars had been fitted to date. 4-2-4 and 4-6-5 were neither. Additionally, he knew that backup should have been called for earlier.
Even so, the suspects were not exactly running away with it, a lot of their moves possessed amateurish traits; traits such as jerky steering movements, unneccessary touches of the brakes and ill-timed uses of nitrous.
Arrogance was the bane of this pursuit.
The quartet of speeding vehicles meandered along the cliff-side road, both police and racers sometimes departing the tarmac to spit light brown plumes from the gravelly run-offs.
"This is unit 4-2-4", 4-6-5's tenants listened in, with Greg's eyes saccading to the rear-view mirror in observance of their partner unit, "We're already maxing our top speed and the suspects are slowly making ground, we can no longer continue pursuit."
Hopelessness dwelled over the officers, for their common sense knew very well that the fight was lost. Their cars screamed in agony, pistons splurting as if to convulse, overworked to sickness by desperation. But through the groaning mechanisms came a saving grace, a new voice over the radio backed by the apparent growl of a lioness.
"4-2-4 be advised, Rapid Deployment vehicle joining your pursuit."
At last, a sliver of hope! The fact the joining officer was of RD made the significance even greater, they'd be able to catch up in no time.
"10-4, RD, suspects have just hit Lost Horse junction and are continuing straight on down Sunset Drive. What is your location and ETA?"
Indeed, both the Alfa and Audi had completely disregarded the turn-off for Lost Horse Road and continued to speed toward the left-right-left curve leading into the tunnel that carved a deep scar into the cliff face.
"Stand by."
With hope still ripe in their minds, the officers continued their push, the junction ahead growing and growing as they approached.
And then they drove straight by…
Nothing…
Perhaps their new ally was further along the road? Parked in an alcove and waiting for the pursuit to get past?
The thought had gone through their heads, but neither Brad nor Greg had actually bothered to look to the left and down the avenue that started Lost Horse Road.
Unit 4-2-4, however…
It was like a perfectly choreographed set piece in an action movie. A new chorus of fluctuating sirens steadily gained body and volume at an incredible pace, catching the attention of the officer sitting in 4-2-4's passenger seat.
What he saw: Beauty.
Sunlight was glimmered and environments messily reflected off the polished silver and blue bodywork of the Aston Martin V12 Vantage. Not a single sharp edge marred the panels, making the car swim through the air, pushing it aside as if it were non-existent.
The car was already moving laterally, the fixed rotating rear tyres subject to onslaught by the tarmac moving diagonally along it, constantly ruining the traction and burning the rubber through sheer friction. The wheel-arcs were filled with smoke in their very own pyrotechnics display, yet the front of the vehicle remained unperturbed and guided the whole mass of the vehicle round the sharp bend, wheels pointed outward to hold the drift.
The speed of the Aston coming out of the turn flung it just ahead of 4-2-4 and pushed it out to the far right of the road, but the officer was soon back in control and moving into the traffic lanes. While the sight brought a small level of awe to the officers behind, the occupants of 4-6-5 simply felt relief.
"Unit 5-6-7 on station and engaging."
It was certainly a move of flair, drifting the car at high speed to needle between the two Vics, but professionalism was immediately back to the forefront of the moment.
"TP units, hold position to prepare for PIT and move in for the arrest ASAP."
It was as if the officer in the Aston was sat right next to them, yet watching the vehicle and its driver speed away directly ahead was a spine-tingling moment of interactivity. The RD car sped away, briefly entering the oncoming lane to cleanly pass 4-6-5 and grabbing the attention of the officers within.
The dual exhausts of the British-made vehicle regurgitated a similar purple-tinted flame, and the effect of such was instantaneous as the vehicle shot away at an even greater rate. 4-2-4 and 4-6-5 continued down the same road, waiting for the first signs of contact.
The suspects were already half way down the tunnel once 5-6-7 exited the bends before it, but both the Alfa and Audi had to make harsh evasive swerves to pass two civilian vehicles blocking both lanes. The Audi overcorrected and forced the back end out, combined with the acceleration it pushed the vehicle far too close to the tunnel wall for comfort, forcing the driver to let off the power and re-correct.
It was to be a costly mistake, for the nitrous of the Aston had brought the closing speed to almost 65 miles-per-hour.
The Audi re-engaged the boost out of the tunnel to enter the sharp left turn leading towards Mission Hotel, but the rocky outcrop forced another correction and yet more speed bleed. It was obvious that the new police presence was affecting this particular racer.
The Aston drifted without error around the same corner, front wheels briefly cutting into the sand of the outcrop and levelling out only ten metres behind. The final mistake came as the Audi driver moved back to the left to take the wide line into the long right bend before the entrance to the hotel. More focussed on making the turn, the suspect turned in as usual, what they didn't expect was for their pursuer to turn in earlier and take a greater speed on a steeper line.
A steeper line that put the Aston on a collision course.
The first moment the suspect driver knew it was over, his body was juggled inside his seat like a brick in a tumble dryer, kept only in place by a four-point harness. The rear of the Audi was violently thrown off balance, paint chips and sparks punctuating the spectacle of the display, and the sudden shift in weight and inertia lifted the entire right side of the car.
Gravity was no match for centripetal force, and the combined spin and lift of the car's momentum flung it past ninety-degrees and careening on its side into the feeble wire fence on the outside of the road. Panels warped, wing mirrors and windows shattered and chassis groaned under the incredible force of the crash. Numerous supporting poles for the fence were wrenched from the ground as the wires between them ensnared the once clean-looking Audi, which finally came to rest on its roof amongst dusty gravel and wind-shaken vegetation.
The officer in the Aston had no time to admire, for the Alfa ahead had understeered around the bend and had lost pace.
"Central, suspect Audi is out of the game. TP units will be making arrest."
Both 4-2-4 and 4-6-5 were only just exiting the tunnel as 5-6-7 continued onward for the Alfa. The amount of chaos they came across in such little time was no doubt astounding. 4-2-4 pulled into the runoff area just by the destroyed fence, both officers leaping out with weapons drawn in preparation of apprehending the driver.
The Aston, while aesthetically damaged at the front from the impact, was still speaking its full health to the officer through clean revs and still-responsive handling. Just ahead the Alfa took the conventional road route leading to Mission Beach before leaving the officer's sight behind some iron fencing.
Luckily, there was always the scenic route.
Seeing the gap the Aston twitched to the left, body leaning with the sudden shift in weight, leaving the road and gunning straight through a driveway highlighted by two columns. The officer pressed harder on the acceleration to keep the speed up the steep hill and briefly left his seat as the car's wheels launched it over the crest.
It's not every day that a visitor to the Mission Hotel sees a police car speed through the open-air drop-off foyer.
In the blink of an eye, the car was shooting off another crest and into a downhill bend. Gravity carried the vehicle even quicker, spitting it straight out of the other end of the driveway and back onto the main road, with the Alfa very much in sight.
"Central, 4-2-4, driver of suspect Audi has been arrested, request EMS and a tow-truck."
"10-4, units are on the way to your 20, hold tight."
The purple exhaust of the Alfa spluttered and vomited a quick flash of orange before dying out. It was a clear indication of an empty nitrous allocation.
The SCPD had invested extra funds into a rechargeable Nitrous Engagement System, one that took kinetic energy from the brakes and used it to prime the valve that sent the boost into the cylinders. Due to the volume of nitrous it allowed through, the valve could only be kept open for two seconds. This was to avoid overworking the engine and risking, for example, busted pistons, cracked cylinders, busted gasket heads and a twisted crankshaft.
There was no universal system used by Xtrers, but what intelligence they could gather told the PD that their nitrous allocation was longer, but supplied less cubic-centimetres of nitrous per second.
Whatever the system, the officer of 5-6-7 now knew that the Alfa had used it up. The Aston had a full valve charge. He used it.
The officer was urged back into his seat from the extra horsepower, rocketing the Aston back up to 180 and climbing. With the gap down to seven metres and closing, the nose of the Aston was firmly directed to the rear fender of the red Italian rogue. The offender swerved out to the oncoming lane, taking a straight line down the hill that flowed into the straight splitting Sunset Drive from Mission Beach.
The neighbourhood banner stood proudly further ahead of them, welcoming them to the beach despite the criminal tendencies.
"Central, 5-6-7 requests immediate permission to deploy MSS."
Fully aware that an officer wouldn't unnecessarily risk their vehicle, the Alfa swerved back into oncoming in order to hold off a possible PIT manoeuvre or shunt. The rapid change in direction lost the Alfa more speed, allowing the Aston to get ahead by a good ten metres. The officer quickly scanned the dash for his NES charge.
38%
Not even one second's worth of boost. But it was all he'd need.
"5-6-7, MSS is authorised within safety limits."
That was all he needed to hear. Eagerly smashing his right thumb on a nearby blue button, the NES valve opened and a surge of boost flowed into the cylinders. The spark plugs detonated the compressed cocktail of chemicals and hammered the pistons down.
Just on the right side of the dash between the driver's side door and the steering wheel were two rectangular buttons. One of which was decorated with a horizontal line of vertical zig-zags. The officer sized up the gap with a quick check in the rear-view.
Fifteen metres.
Plenty of space.
With that, the zig-zag button was pressed.
The MSS. One of the greatest innovations in car-stopping technology, purpose built for the sake of reducing potential officer casualties out in the field when such similar devices had to be manually deployed by a stationary unit.
Beneath the button sat a simple circuitry. The current activated by the switch shot like a bullet through the wires that went back into the engine compartment and seamlessly transitioned into the chassis wirework along the floor and back into the trunk where there sat a large, weighty, black metal box.
Inside the box was a small white-metal contraption partitioned into three sections. All of a sudden, the wireless receiver inside the device received an order from its parent, flashing the blue LED lights above each partition to life. A panel in the floor of the trunk suddenly slid back, allowing gravity to take hold of the device and pull it through the lower half of the vehicle. Railings either side kept the device upright as it fell to impact with the rolling asphalt below.
The driver of the Alfa would see it far too late.
The device met the sheer headwind of the open air, wrenching the little box-shaped mechanism from the back of the Aston to roll along the ground thanks to the aluminium balls beneath that acted as bi-axial wheels. Free of the guide rails inside the trunk, the compressed springs inside the device exerted their pressure, forcing laterally outward the two side partitions, almost quadrupling the surface area of the device.
But it was what sat between the newly-extended partitions that mattered.
The MSS – 'Mobile Spike Strip'
Along each internal railing sat row upon row of razor-sharp hollow spikes, each one designed to puncture through rubber and suck the air straight from any tyre that should run over it.
This time, those tyres belonged to the Alfa.
At the speeds they were travelling and the small gap between them, the suspect would have been lucky to only hit one tyre on the strip. Both front wheels went straight over it.
The explosive depressurisation of the tyres under the weight of the vehicle rattled the front axle and nearly tore the steering wheel from the driver's hands. All of a sudden the car was driving as if in a peat bog, the tyres exerting almost no grip. The situation worsened once the nose of the car jerked to the left, pulling the rear with it.
The car spun with no hope of control, round and round like the nearby pier amusement rides before slamming sideways into a slip-off partition, completely caving the right side of the car and beaching it. The engine compartment momentarily smoked despite the relatively minor amount of frontal damage.
Further ahead the officer of 5-6-7 was watching, prepared to continue on should the Alfa somehow avoid the strip. But it was unnecessary. The physical pursuit was over, with the judicial pursuit preparing its opening chapter.
The Aston's grating siren and fluorescent ceiling lights nabbed the attention of some children enjoying their Saturday on the aforementioned pier looking out over the glistening, fluctuating water's surface under the high sun. One particular adolescent called out to his party, pointing excitedly back to the coast, back to a large plume of smoke from when the Aston had performed a half-donut and quickly parked beside the driver's side door.
The officer was already disengaging his harness and reaching for the firearm at his hip.
"Driver, show me your hands!"
The driver just stared at him, wild flight instinct written in a thousand-yard stare.
"Now! Hands out the window!"
Finally the situation caught on. A busted car, a cop right beside his only escape route and a gun in his face. This was a particular no-brainer.
Miraculously the Alfa's electrics were still functional, and a shaky finger weakly pressed on the switch for the window.
The officer's attention was momentarily stolen by the familiar grinding of rubber on loose gravel. Looking across, he saw 4-6-5 pulling up with lights blinking but siren disabled. They too disembarked with weapons quickly drawn, pacing with caution toward the 'one that nearly got away'.
The driver's hands hung loosely through the door, his head hanging even looser in sure defeat.
"You got him?" Greg asked to the RD officer, his blond hair acting as bright as the star above.
"He's not going anywhere. Right?"
The last word was pointed at the suspect, who said and did nothing in response.
After that it became textbook. A brief on-site one-sided Q&A while the three officers awaited a medical crew for the driver and a tow-truck for the busted Alfa. Once a pinnacle of Italian aesthetic and ergonomic design, the twisted blood-red shape looked only good for a future crushing death in a scrapyard.
The kids on the other side of the road had gathered during the climax of the arrest, trying to get the best – more or less the least blurry - shots of one of the 'fast police cars' they had seen in one of the local news bulletins.
Despite a playful plea from the suspect to ride in the Aston, Brad and Greg had him firmly sat in the back of the Crown Vic. An ugly car as the law-breaker's carriage, a pretty one for the men capturing them.
5-6-7 roared to life again with its manipulator firmly sat behind the wheel. With the car already facing the direction of the nearest station, the officer gave a quick wave to the children insistent on witnessing the entirety of the event, adding a quick burnout for their viewing pleasure before accelerating away to escort 4-6-5.
It was but one of the many four-wheeled battles that had awed, damaged, lit up and brought reputation to the county of Seacrest and its citizens, and it would certainly not be the last. The Xtrer phenomenon had an incredible following after the first racers arrived, and the enticing prospect of police challenges only made the risk swell the fuel-blooded passion of all who were more interested in rubber smoke than that of tobacco.
Xtrers were here to stay, and the SCPD were ready to stop them.
Yet it begged a very obvious question:
Were the police helping to deter the races, or was its fast car fleet just another catalyst to the adrenaline-laden fun that the Xtrers sought in the first place?
A/N: Due to Hot Pursuit's nature, the cars in real life can't take two or three spike strip hits before going down, nor could an Aston Martin function like new after ramming into the side of another car at speed. There were some things in the game for which I simply had to make RL explanations, otherwise the whole thing would seem far-fetched.
Reviews are welcomed in whichever form you choose to write them. With any luck I haven't completely pissed off those NFS fans who are taking their time to read this (which I'm grateful for!)
I've listed this piece as 'Complete' despite labelling it as a Prologue because I'd like to know if people would want to see the saga of Seacrest continue or whether this works well enough as a standalone function. Let me know in reviews!
Until next time, see you!