Disclaimer: No intention of copyright violation is intended

This story starts exactly when the pilot episode of the second season, Outlaw Champion ends.

Certain bits and pieces from Mark's childhood were gratefully borrowed and used from Arianna's great story, Remembrance.

My most sincere and humble thanks to the greatest beta and friend, TimberWolf!

THE FIRST SECOND CHANCE

It was a little past midnight when Mark closed the door after escorting his friend to the waiting taxi. Slowly turning around he leaned his back against the door. It had certainly been an interesting evening with some unexpected surprises. He pushed himself away from the door, but instead of returning to the den, he headed into the kitchen, grabbing another beer from the fridge. He felt that without the shielding company of an outsider, he needed a few minutes before he could face the judge's searching and knowing gaze, this time alone. He wasn't exactly unhappy about how things had turned out at the end. E.J. deserved a break and anyway, he was paying the price for his thoughtless mistake. But he wasn't sure how he felt about this last blow, Corlette giving him the trophy. Learning that losing one of the biggest, very possibly fate turning races of his career hadn't been his fault on any terms, that his car had been sabotaged and that he hadn't had any control whatsoever over the final result, left him feeling a little cheated by life. He knew that there was no point in dwelling on the "what ifs" or "if onlys", and usually he consciously avoided thinking too much about certain pivotal moments in his past.

However this time the fact that things could have happened so much differently was thrown right into his face with full force, almost mocking him: yes, you could have had it all, and now you can't do a damned thing about it! He stood in the kitchen for another few minutes, his back to the door, staring out of the window into the dark garden, mentally closing the door that had been ripped open just a few hours ago. Then he squared his shoulders, finally ready to return to the den. But even before he turned around, he felt the presence of another. He carefully put a neutral expression on his face before turning back, and sure enough, the older man stood there, leaning against the kitchen door's frame, watching him.

"Hey Judge, just came to get another beer. You want one too?" He asked, trying for nonchalance.

Instead of answering the question, Hardcastle asked back a little hesitantly:

"You okay, kiddo?"

Mark shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be?" He averted his eyes, not feeling quite comfortable discussing this very topic with the judge.

After not quite a whole year of living and working with the man, he had already learned that he was wrong about the jurist on many fronts, and that Milton 'Hardcase' Hardcastle wasn't half as bad as he liked to think him to be while spending countless hours of unintentional vigils in his prison bunk. In spite of the warning the judge had given him when he made his crazy 'indefinite' custody proposal (he vividly remembered those words: "I'm not looking for us to be buddies..."), they had formed an unlikely, unique kind of friendship that none of the two would openly admit to. Still, it really wasn't a good idea to go into discussing past injustices. It could lead too easily to paralleling the situation at hand with another certain occasion when he felt he was just as unfairly and arrogantly toyed with by fate, and he wasn't in the mood for that just now. Especially not after six bottles of beer, with the seventh in his hand. He rarely drank this much, but tonight they sort of were celebrating closures and new beginnings.

"I don't know, you just seemed a little upset." the judge was still looking at him with a slightly concerned look that Mark attributed to the higher than usual amount of beer he had seen Hardcastle consuming that evening too. The older man was usually more subtle about his gentler feelings, especially when it involved his favorite ex-con.

"I'm fine, Judge. Really. You said it yourself: it's ancient history. Let's move on, right?" Without waiting for an answer he walked past the older man and went into the den to collect the empty pizza boxes.

Hardcastle looked after him for another moment, then getting another beer himself, he followed the young man.

When he stepped into the den, Mark was standing in front of the fireplace holding the greasy paper boxes with one hand, while touching the trophy with his other; the prize he got just that evening, but had earned about a decade ago. Gently wiping his thumb across the shiny metal plague screwed onto the wooden base he almost whispered:

"I promised this one to Flip before the race, you know. I was so sure I'd win it…"

Hardcastle wasn't surprised by the statement. In fact, he had expected it. He sat down in one of the comfortable leather armchairs and looked up at the young man, waiting if there was more to come. But Mark remained silent.

"Was he disappointed?" The older man asked, just to keep the kid talking, since he was pretty sure of the answer.

McCormick finally dropped the boxes back on the coffee table and sat down in the other chair before he answered.

"Nah… Flip was a great guy. Never too pushy, at least never with me. He just said it was racers' luck, that's all. And that the next one will go better." He made a face before adding flatly, "Except there wasn't a next one." After a few seconds of reflective silence he glanced up at his friend. "But I gotta tell you, I was really upset then. Racing is not cheap, and he had pumped a lot of money into it by that time. And I knew I was good, good enough to win. I wanted to prove he was right about me, that he didn't make a mistake when he gave me a chance. Not just to him. Mostly to the others. Those who thought – and kept telling him – that it wasn't a good idea to take in a stray kid. Too bad I couldn't." He finished quietly.

"It does sound like he was a good man. And I'm sure he didn't have regrets about you." Hardcastle nodded.

"I don't know… Well, I hope not." Mark took a swig from his beer, half-emptying the bottle.

Hardcastle saw McCormick's eyes glazing over a little and realized that Mark talked about more than he had intended to because his defenses were already affected by the alcohol in his system.

During the past months he had grown to like this kid, although he was careful not to let it on. Sure, there was a lot to like about the man and he had learned long ago how to read and consequently how to take the occasional mouthiness and the inevitable whining. He was a good kid, sharp and fast, and underneath the cocky mask he had a kind heart and a sensitive soul. Most importantly he saw that whatever mistakes had let him go astray in the past, those were just that: mistakes. He had said it to Farnell a few months back and he had meant it: this one had integrity. But he was still a little raw, too rough to really shine and Hardcastle knew people well enough to recognize that this one needed firm guidance and some grinding to make it to the end safely.

They never really talked about personal stuff. He preferred to keep his own private life to himself, at least for now. McCormick hardly ever talked about his pre-prison life to anyone, and definitely not to him. What little he knew about the kid, he knew from Mark's file, and apart from some impersonal data that basically showed that McCormick had been a troublemaker ever since he got on the system's radar, it didn't give away anything that would explain the whys and hows. Hardcastle knew that his mother had died when he was ten years old and that there wasn't any sign of a father or siblings. He knew about a few foster homes where they had placed McCormick between the age of 11 and 13, and that he never stayed anywhere long enough to warm up to either place or people. He knew that the only blood relative listed in the kid's file was an uncle who officially had given up any rights he had as a guardian when Mark was about 14, around the same time the kid had had his first documented encounter with the law for hotwiring a car, and had been sent to juvie for a coupla months. That was about it. The next station in his file was his first arrest for the repossession beef in Georgia. After that he actually ended up in front of himself for the Porsche. However, between 15 and his early 20s there was a big gap. That was the time he started to get recognition in the racing circuit, but there was nothing personal. Hardcastle decided that it was as good time as any to get some more information, in fact better, for Mark may volunteer more in this unusual state.

"So, how did you meet him?" He started conversationally.

Mark grinned at the memory. "I stole the Coyote… sort of."

It wasn't the first, certainly not the biggest trouble young Mark McCormick had ever gotten himself into during the past two years of his short life, but as the door banged loudly behind his back and he heard the key turning in the lock, he was pretty sure this particular mistake was amongst the worst ones he had ever made. After a few seconds of intense listening, he decided he was completely alone in the darkness. His posture lost some of its rigidity and he sighed. Something was increasingly bugging him about this situation.

He knew it wasn't that he had been locked in the dark and since the light switch was placed on the outside wall, the only light that penetrated the thick darkness was the small flame of his lighter. He hadn't been afraid of the dark for a long time. He got used to it, he learned to use it, found out how he could turn it into an advantage for him. No, his itchiness wasn't about being alone in the dark.

He never really analyzed his reactions to certain situations - a teenage boy rarely does -, but even without conscious realization he had learned by now that he passionately hated being locked up. Being trapped for whatever reason, not being able to go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, left him feeling without control, and he did not like that. Control was power, the only kind he possessed. Really, the only thing he had. If it was taken away, he had nothing left.

He remembered those nights he spent on the streets after he took off from his uncle's and aunt's house, and later from the foster homes. Cold nights, when he had no one to watch his back, and there were many nasty kinds of danger a thirteen year old boy had to look out for. During those months he usually slept on the hard, dirty ground of some empty warehouse or in a dark alley with his eyes half open, his back against some filthy wall, always ready to bolt off at the first sign of trouble.

Then one day he wasn't lucky or quick enough to disappear from three older, heavier guys, and the only thing that saved his butt from a serious kicking was the unexpected help from a stranger. The other boy bolted into the middle of the brawl, hauling back one of his attackers and giving him some much-needed air, and after that the fight was basically over. They finished off the remaining two punks easily. "Billy Bauer," – his savior introduced himself with a wide grin. The three years older and much more experienced boy quickly recognized the opportunities the stray, skinny kid presented – a nimble, fast tool in small crimes, one who had obvious talent, who was faithful and could easily be manipulated. He used young Mark's abilities for his own purposes, and in return he taught him how to survive on his own, how to get the most with the least effort and how to handle trouble. It was a useful kind of symbiosis for both of them, although they never really thought about it consciously. They gave each other whatever they could offer – help, protection, experience, company, speed, abilities, and they accepted everything they got without thinking too much about it. They got along well, and their almost business-like relationship slowly, subtly turned into something stronger, something that if they had ever tried to explain, they could have even identified as friendship.

One year passed, twelve months of living the carefree, vagabond, independent life of the street kids. By the time he reached his fourteenth birthday, Mark – thanks to Billy's lessons – became a master thief of anything movable from food on the market to cars for joyriding, hardly ever getting caught, and on those rare occasions when he was, he knew he got out faster than he got in. He never thought his luck would change until the fateful day when Bill had one beer too many, and decided to "borrow" a Ferrari for a quick ride. Bill drove and after missing a STOP sign they were hit by another car. They were caught and even though for once Mark had nothing to do with it, apart from the fact that he sat in the car too, it was enough to earn him a few months in juvie. Once he got out he decided to leave Jersey and Billy Bauer behind for a while and hitchhiked down to Florida.

He liked it there immediately. The weather was much warmer; more food to grab, and the best of all was in Daytona Beach which was a real feast for a fifteen year old car-loving kid like he was. He had always felt a strong attraction to cars for as long as he could remember. He felt he knew them personally, like they were living things, and it just felt natural for him to drive. He sneaked in the racetrack as often as he could, staring at the speeding cars with a loving, craving expression. He would hang around all day, and when he got hungry, he never had any trouble finding a willing merchant in the nearby market who would give him some food or a few dollars for helping with carrying boxes and sacks or emptying delivery cars. On those few occasions when there wasn't any other opportunity, he would even risk shoplifting every once in a while. He didn't make a sport out of it, but he rarely let a chance pass.

This morning wasn't any different. He had fun watching the test races until around noon when he felt the familiar emptiness in his stomach. He turned to leave the racetrack to look around for possible lunch options. He wanted to get back in time for the afternoon race, so instead of using the main exit he decided to take a shortcut to the high back wall he used for getting in since that was well out of sight of the security guards.

He cut through the boxes and after a quick turn to the left he almost reached the spot he aimed for when something caught his eyes. He was already at the pit farthest away from the tracks, the noise of the crowds hardly audible. He only saw two men standing around, wearing bright yellow t-shirts with the logo of their teams, their backs to him. And he saw something else, something that was just too tempting to ignore – a black leather briefcase on a camp table under the sunroof sticking out of the solid tent appointed to be the mobile office that belonged to the pit. He stopped and turned his full attention to the situation at hand, deciding that lunch could wait. He quickly pulled into the shadow of the tent and after making sure that the men were too deeply involved in a discussion, he carefully stepped forward, sneaking closer and closer to the table. Once there, he quietly lifted the briefcase and stepped back into the shadows. He looked around to see if there was anybody around, but apart from the two guys the area was deserted, so he sat down to check out his newly gained booty.

He slowly opened the case, and made a face when except for a single white folder inside, the case was empty. He shrugged and took it out.

"Papers…" he murmured disappointedly. But when he unfolded the large white sheet, he saw the painted picture of a red racecar. It was the most beautiful and unique car he ever saw. An elegant, long front with large, black headlight covers and an unusual bubble-like top with a rounded windshield. The white sign on the car's side read 'Coyote'.

He couldn't take his eyes off of the breathtaking picture. He gently stroked over the square letters when he was startled by the slightest noise on his left side. The next moment he felt an iron-like grip on his wrist and he looked up into surprised and more curious than angry grey eyes.

The man didn't call the security guards on him, but he didn't release him either. Instead he dragged the loudly protesting boy to the nearest garage where he suddenly halted and jerked Mark around, grabbing him by his t-shirt.

"Lemme go!" Mark snarled as he tried his hardest to pull away from the man, but his grip was too strong.

"Listen kid, I don't have time for you right now, but you have a choice: you keep your mouth shut; don't give me any more trouble, or I'll call the security. What will it be?"

Mark stared into the man's eyes defiantly, but didn't say a word. He was a little scared, not too much, but just enough that it took away the edge he usually had when facing new and possibly threatening situations.

"Right. Be quiet then." the man growled, and then turned to a short, dark haired, thick man, one of the two who stood by and who was approaching them now to see what was going on.

"Joey, I have to go to meet a potential investor to show him the concept of the Coyote. I'll be back as soon as I can. You watch this garage for me, and don't let anyone in or out, right?" Mark could hear the unquestionable authority in the older man's voice, and wasn't surprised when the other guy immediately answered a "You got it, boss!"

His captor looked at him again, giving him a little shake before tossing him in the garage, banging the heavy metal door behind him. So there he was, trapped and in the dark, and in complete and utter uncertainty.

He quickly realized that as much as he knew about picking locks, he simply couldn't open the garage door (a specially designed security system, he learned much later). Feeling that panic was close, he took a couple of deep, calming breaths. He wondered what the stranger wanted to do with him, hoping he wouldn't have to wait too long to find out. He wasn't going to give him to the cops, he was sure of it. Living on the streets for so long, he already had experience with older men making dirty offers for money. His shoulder-length curly brown hair and dark blue eyes attracted the vultures and he had already been approached a number of times. They saw an easy prey in him, and were stunned to be repeatedly turned down in a rather vehement, even aggressive way. After a few broken noses and crushed, kicked-in groins they learned to stay away from him, but every now and then a new face around the block tried his luck with the pretty kid. It wasn't any different here in Florida either. He looked around for something he could use as a weapon to defend himself, and found a long, sharp screw driver on a shelf. He hid it in his jacket just to be prepared in case he would have to persuade the man to find another toy. Feeling marginally safer, he finally looked around in the garage. He had to wait for about an hour when the door eventually opened and the man who had caught him stood there watching the boy with a searching gaze.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked after a second, his voice neutral.

"What do you want from me?" Mark asked back, trying to hide his nervousness from the stranger.

"Well, for now I'm interested in your name." The man gave a hard, measuring look to the scruffy youth standing on the far side of the garage, his back against the wall, his hand clutching the screw driver, and Mark felt the man sizing him up inside out with that single glance.

"Why?" the kid was still cautious. The man seemed to be slightly amused.

"Because if you tell me, then I won't have to call you "dirty little thief", that's why."

Mark lifted his head and frowned.

"Mark McCormick." He finally gave his name.

"Flip Johnson." The other answered with a nod.

Mark's chin dropped. Even he knew the name of the racecar designer whose works he had seen many times in car magazines. Flip saw the recognition and the surprise on the boy's face and lifted an eyebrow.

"You've heard of me?" he asked, a little surprised himself.

Mark nodded slowly.

"Yeah. Yes, I have. You build racecars." Then he added somewhat hesitantly in a quiet voice. "I'm sorry for trying to steal your briefcase."

The man didn't answer immediately. He looked at the boy standing rigidly, his back still against the wall. Finally he asked:

"Where do you live? Where are your parents?"

The boy didn't answer, just pressed his lips together, his blue eyes meeting the older man's grey ones.

"Well, if you don't tell me, you can tell the cops."

He turned to leave, but he was stopped by the quiet 'wait'. He turned back questioningly.

"My mother died five years ago. I don't know my father."

"You're alone?" the man waited for an answer, but it didn't come, so he prodded some more. "Why aren't you with a foster family?"

Mark shrugged. "It never worked out. I ran away from the last family about two years ago." Flip looked doubtful.

"You live on the streets now? How old are you anyway? Thirteen? Fourteen?"

"Fifteen. And I'm doing just fine."

"Yeah, I can see that." the man answered flatly. Flip took a step closer, but he stopped when he saw the kid stiffening defensively, his hand reaching for the screw driver. "I'm not gonna hurt ya kid, put that thing down."

Mark looked down at his hand, a little embarrassed, realizing that he acted reflexively. He carefully put the tool down on the shelf beside him, and looked up at Johnson. The man took another step, and now they stood face to face. He considered the situation, scratching his chin absently. If he called the cops, they would put the boy into juvie for a while, then he would be thrown back right to where he was now. And if he just let him go, the kid would go back to the streets and would get lost, of that he was sure. As he looked down into the closed, carefully guarded young face, into the wary dark blue eyes half hidden by the long lashes that couldn't quite cover the insecurity and fear, he felt something good about the boy. He couldn't explain it, but he had the feeling that this McCormick kid had something special that would be a shame to waste. He sighed. His brains told him to stay away, not to take a burden that wasn't his responsibility, but he hardly ever let his rational side overrule his instincts. He came to a decision.

"Tell me something, kid. Would you be willing to do something better with your life?"

Mark cocked his head, narrowing his eyes and looking up at the man, trying to find the catch. But he saw nothing threatening or dishonest in the tanned, weathered features.

When he didn't get an answer, Flip continued.

"I could use some help in my shop. If you want, you can work for me. And you can sleep there as well. There's an office in the back with a cot. Are you interested?"

Mark was speechless. It was such an unexpected offer that he couldn't answer; he just stared at the man in front of him, not really believing he'd heard what he thought he'd heard. But the man suddenly reached out with his right hand, and as he looked down at the open palm, inviting and even promising, he slowly reached out too, and placed his own right into Flip's larger one. The older man shook it, and the deal was done.

When Mark finished his story, they lapsed into a long silence. He finally looked up, just to check if his friend had fallen asleep, but he found the pale blue eyes watching him.

The judge cleared his throat and took a sip of his beer before he spoke.

"Well, that was some story, kiddo."

"Yeah, it was, wasn't it…" Mark sighed, then started to get up. He knew he'd told more than he normally would have done, but it felt good to talk about Flip. He missed his old friend a lot, and his life had changed so rapidly and so much since he had died that he realized guiltily how rarely he visited his memory.

The other armchair squeaked painfully as the judge pushed himself up too. He wanted to ask more questions, but he knew it wasn't the right time. He wasn't worried, he was sure he'd have other chances to get to know more about this kid, about what and who had made him the good man he was. Now he knew one person he could thank for this.

The two men cleaned out the pizza boxes and the empty bottles together in a relaxed, comfortable silence. Once the den was as tidy as it could be expected, McCormick turned to go back to the gatehouse. To go home. He smiled a little, as he thought about the word. The judge was already halfway up to the stairs on his way to his own bedroom, but he stopped for a second.

"McCormick…"

Mark turned back from the door, looking up expectantly.

"You already proved that Flip was right about you, you know."

Mark bowed his head to hide his blush at the unexpected words.

"Thanks." he said after a second.

"G'night, kiddo." the older man smiled at him, and turned to continue his way up the stairs.

"Good night, Judge."

The next day he stood at the grave of his old friend.

"Hey, Flip. I know, it's been a while… I am sorry." he started quietly, then stopped to think about how to put his feelings into words. Finally he sighed.

"I don't think I ever said it to you, but… I know I am only here because of you. Because you gave me a second chance. And I am grateful for that, more than I can ever say." he fell silent for a few minutes. Then he spoke again in a quiet voice.

"You'd like him, Flip. He is a donkey for sure, and I know how much you hated him. So did I. But believe me, old buddy, we were wrong about him. He's not that bad, if you give him a second chance too." He reached out to touch the cold stone, resting his hand on its coolness before turning to leave. But after a few steps he turned back with a small smile.

"I'm okay now, Flip."

Then he slowly walked to the familiar truck and its grumpy driver who was waiting for him patiently at the gate of the cemetery.

THE END