Disclaimer: I do not own Knight Rider or any attached blessings to it. Neither do I own any additionally mentioned culture references, locations, songs, et cetera.
Chapter 11: Like the F&F
Everyone's seen a glimpse of Las Vegas at least once in their life times, whether they were actually in it or it was on TV: in the day, it was a colorful city and enjoyable. But once the sun went down, the difference between the day and night life was as radical as winter time Russia and spring time Amazon. Neon lights flared to life, people in all sorts of strange costumes strutted up and down the streets, advertising shows and events, each more fantastical and fun than the last. Visitors would try their best to keep from loosing their heads, but it wouldn't take long until the drinks and fun had them scooping out every penny from their pockets in a high-riding game of chance.
Tonight, police patrolled the streets, cleaning them off of pedestrians. Concrete barriers had been put up on some of the busiest streets to protect passer by from future speeders. Cars were parked or towed off the road and people scrambled for spots on the roofs with video camera to tape some of the action. After all, it isn't too often that you get to see legal bad-ass racing (NASCAR doesn't count).
It didn't take too much digging on Sarah's and Billy's part to find out that, of course, the entire racing event was fake: The cars were reinforced with hidden frames and the drivers were stunt men professionals who couldn't crash even if they wanted to and were drunk. The cars even had an emergency remote control system, so in case anything went wrong, people with remotes watching from helicopters in the air could simply take control of the cars and drive them somewhere else. It shouldn't be too surprising: No one in their right mind would allow legal street racing. Well, that is, unless you were from somewhere as bad ass as the south or Europe, but anyway…
"Alright," Michael said, re-stating the goals Sarah had left them with before going back to checking on Negado, "We humans are going to get up on the roofs and see if we can spot the Nissans from there. Kitt, Cadge; you patrol the outer streets where there isn't any racing. We report to each other and regroup at the Nissans' location as soon as they're spotted, got that?"
Confirmations came from all around.
"Oh, and Cadge: Low profile."
"Ah hahahahaha!" A pause. "Oh, you're serious."
"Just get going," Michael groaned.
Kitt went west, Cadge went north, and Michael and Jake made their way to a near by casino with a giant blue orb light on top to head to its roof where viewing platforms had been set up for the faked race. Smoke, alcohol, sweat, city fumes, and sweet stuff could be smelled in the air and one could feel the building energy as people excitedly waited for the race to begin. Michael and Jake couldn't help but notice all the lovely women strutting about with clothing made of less material than a common bath towel. They got to the roof and took to looking over different walls: Michael the west and Jake, the north. Michael didn't need to worry about Jake wandering off: If Jake wandered more than thirty feet from Michael the wristwatch-sized device strapped to his wrist would electrocute him. And the only thing that could get it off was either a welder or a certain code tapped into its interface.
To Michael's left were a group of young kids, probably not even out of high school yet. As Michael scanned the streets for any Nissan that might be the ones Izago hanged out with, the kids got more and more annoying as they tried posing as gangsters for the video camera one of them was holding. Dialogue of their lameness would be shown, but one has a cap to cussing. It was when one of them started calling themselves the Gold Tooth Daddy that Michael face palmed and considered throwing one of them off the roof.
- - - -
"So, Kitt, what're we looking for?" Cadge asked.
"I do not know, Cadge," Kitt replied over the radio, "From what Jake has said, it appears that we are looking for three Nissans of noticeable color and engine capability, who like to race—"
Cadge stopped short in the middle of the street he was driving on with a screech of brakes. The SUV behind him stopped short and honked angrily before the driver maneuvered the luxury vehicle around Cadge. Cadge blasted his speakers as loud as possible so that his challenge echoed all around the block and made people jump and stare.
"YO!!" he shouted, "I'M LOOKING FOR A RACE! WHO WANTS A PIECE OF ME?"
People exchanged confused mutterings. Was the race starting already?
It didn't take long for Cadge's challenge to be answered. He heard the engines before they came, each with a different tone, and the engine owners came around the bend.
They were three near-identical compact Nissans of undetermined car model. Looking at them, it was easy to see that these cars had just been cheap, college-ride deals until someone had slapped skirts, spoilers, neon lights and racing stripes on them.
The leading car was dark blue with a narrow white stripe running along its top center with electric blue neon lights beneath and its engine purring like a cat.
The second car was golden yellow with one thick white stripe down both sides with golden neon lights and an engine noise like a rusting rattling gear.
The final car was a rich, true green with a white stripe along only its driver side. Its neon lights flickered between laser green and an amethyst purple that matched its headlights of the same color. Its engine was wavering in the upper tones, as if trying to sing to the muffled song emitting from with in the car.
Cadge may have been a Half-Life—a machine created sentient by humans—but he knew his stuff enough to know that these cars were sentient. He could hear it in their engines, see it in their paint gloss, feel it in their aura; it was just something he knew, like how someone can tell the different between and awkward and a normal silence. He knew of only one incident that could create true-blue living cars; the Nevada Incident. It was surprising, really, to realize exactly how many vehicles had escaped the reversal of that day…
"So," Cadge said, dropping his volume to casual, "What're your names?"
"What'd ya want with them?" the golden yellow car snarled.
"I prefer not to race strangers," Cadge replied with a smirk in his voice. "I'm Cadge."
"Neos," the dark blue car responded calmly, drawing British chivalry to Cadge's computer mind.
"Deos," the golden-yellow car grunted. Something about his gravely voice made Cadge thought of Roman warriors.
"Ethos!" the true-green and purple car yipped. For some reason, in spite of lack of an accent, Cadge got France.
"So, now that we're not strangers any more…" Cadge suddenly spun around, tossing rubber burn smoke in the Nissans' front grilles as he skidded to face north and have them all face the same direction, "Ready to race?"
By standers whistled in approval; they were getting excited now. To them, the dialogue was just a show actors were putting up with vocals and speakers. They couldn't see in side the windows to look at the drivers and frankly, didn't want to; the mystery driver and electronic quality of the voices made it all so exciting and mysterious! People gathered and video taped the "performance", and the cars couldn't care less about them.
"You sure got a lot of nerve for showing up like this, Brittney," Deos snarled as he and his comrades rolled into a straight line.
"Brittney?" Cadge asked, amused.
"Yeah!" Ethos snickered, "Like, you're a rich brat girl's college ride, man! You're all, tee hee, sparkly and silver and stuff!"
"Oh, yes, that," Cadge said, "Didn't I mention that this is just my day-time appearance?"
Before the Nissans could ask, a loud clang went off in Cadge's engine and he hitched up on his front wheels as he transformed. He shrank somewhat. A spoiler's legs leaped from his trunk area and connected into the middle for the full item. The roof gained an inch or two, the front hood became a sharp corner and not a smooth nose. The silver paint glittered briefly before darkening into a jagged blue and yellow paint job splitting the vehicle. The head lights flashed on with a yellow glow and blue neon lights flickered to life in the shadows beneath the car. As a final touch, like a creature flexing its scales as it wakes up, the rims unfolded and turned, becoming ninja-star spinners.
The "rich brat girl's college ride" Porsche had become a road-raging Acura NSX.
People shouted and cheered in approval, absolutely loving Las Vegas' magic. The Nissans stalled in complete shock at the unforeseen change.
"We will need a starting girl," Cadge announced, "You, the pretty lass in pink, will you start us off?"
A young and small girl with curled brown hair and dressed in a shapeless, short pink dress and knee-high platform boots eagerly trotted out to stand in front and in a gap between the cars with her friends cheering her on and taking pictures from the sidewalk. Up the street, people saw the scene and bolted for the sidewalk.
"Uh, hey, where are we racing to, anyway?" Deos grunted.
"Mmmm, the building with the blue orb on top, over there."
"I see it," Neos confirmed.
The other two cars revved their engine in agreement.
"Ready!" the girl cried, putting her arms out to her sides.
People cheered and cameras flashed.
"Set!" she shouted, putting her hands over her head.
The cars revved their engines and flashed their head lights.
"GO!"
The girl shouted, kneeling as she flung her hands down. The cars took off on either side of her, sending her hair flying as they passed mere inches from her, and the race was on.
- - - -
"Base camp, this is Officer Mick, we have a problem."
"This is base camp to Officer Mick, what's your status, Mick?"
"I know we got this faked race especially set up for tourism, but, uh, we got a real race going on."
"WHAT!?"
"Apparently, a bunch of Nissans and an Acura are using the streets we cleared to make like Fast and Furious. Finish line is undetermined."
"Oh, it just figures, the one night we manage to shut the streets down for the best live show Las Vegas has seen since strippers, and some hot rods steal it! Quick, shut them down before—"
A new voice burst in on the radio conversation: "Hey yo, Vegas veggies and casino kids! We got ourselves a race!"
"Too late."
- - - -
The shadow of a helicopter zipped by low over the roof tops, tossing peoples' hair about as it rushed to follow the race and narrate it.
"That's right, we got ourselves a race between three supped-up Nissans and one awfully familiar Acura NSX—hey, it's the same car that went rogue and ditched its drivers at the Technology Shamroo last year! Hey, yo, li'le runaway, nice to see ya still rolling! How's the Oliver Twist thing going for ya? Watch out for that turn; going straight or left is gonna put ya in a shopping mall—ooh, nice skid to the right! But can ya make the next turn just up ahead? Yeap, and not even touching the sidewalk! Dude, someone tell the green and purple car to pull over, he almost took out that trash can! But man, is that blue car running smooth…"
Michael and Jake exchanged looks when they heard all of this on stereo someone had brought to the roof.
"Looks like Cadge's found our cars," Jake announced.
- - - -
As the cars raced, Bob "Chill" Crackers narrated to all of Las Vegas.
"Alright, the Acura's first, followed by Blue, Yellow, and Green and—dude, don't even play with me like that, drive straight! Man, Green's jacked up or something, 'cause he ain't staying parallel to the sidewalk. Now Blue's taking the lead from Acura, but—hot sauce! Here comes a new contender, a hot and spicy black Mustang. Hey, I know that dude! That's—that's the dude who did that stuff and that one place that one time! Holy cow! You still alive?
"Yow! That Mustang means business 'cause he's getting all up in Yellow's and Yellow ain't happy! Wham! Yellow slams sides with the Mustang in an attempt to knock the invader off the road—not cool, yo, bad sportsman ship! Boo! But, hey, Green's making a surprise come back by rocketing between the two and getting up on the other side of the Acura! Man, it's good that streets are wide enough to hold yo mama's fanny, eh?
"But, aww! Here comes the cops! Dude, who called the bacon wagons? We got, let's see, one, two—one, three—erk, stop moving! Ah, screw it, there's a lot. We got cops swarming everywhere, quick, someone call an exterminator 'cause we got an infestation! They're in front of the race, behind the race, in the race, and now on the race! One cop just went flying over a bump (when pigs fly!) and is doing some car porn on the back of Blue. Yellow comes to rescue of Blue by coming forward and swatting the cop car off and –ooh! Crashed cop stops two more!
"What the--? Dude! The Mustang just flashed like a girl for Madrigal beads and the other four cops just stopped! He got an EMP thing going on or something? That leaves three extremely unlucky bastards to take five cars down. Huh? Blue, Yellow, and Green are pulling back and letting the Acura and Mustang take the lead! The cops are going after the colors and—oh, I see! Yellow and Green swing out to either side to knock the cops out of the running and Blue induces a near-death experience by slamming on his brakes and getting his stuff in the last cop's face!
"With the cops out of the picture—and in record time, mind you; trust me, this is what I do for a living—the Blue, Green, and Yellow make for a come back! Blue comes around the Acura and Mustang's left, Green on their right, and Yellow looks like he's gonna muscle his way between them and slam them into a potential death trap! But there's a big-ass parking garage in front, a dead end at the Blue Orb casino to the right and only one pathetically tiny street to their right! What are they gonna do? Are they gonna make it? Or are they—holy shit, they went into the parking garage!"
- - - -
Everybody slammed on their brakes simultaneously, slipping and spinning about as they skidded to a halt just inside the parking garage, but before its gate. Burnt rubber perfumed the air and rubber smoke drifted up from everybody's wheels. If they were organic, they would have all been panting. The garage guards in their small booth, having listened to the race on the radio, eagerly clamored for space at the booth's small window to see the end of the show.
Loud pops rang out—the sound of gun fire on a muffler—and the tires of the Nissans suddenly went flat with embarrassing squeak-whistles. The Nissans emitted confused engine rumbles as Michael and Jake came out from behind a pillar. Behind the pillar were two tow trucks.
"What is the meaning of this!?" Neos exclaimed.
"Kitt; truck form, hauling chain," Michael ordered, "Jake and I will hook up the other two. Cadge; put up a distraction for the cops. And you guys," he turned on the guards. "What'll it take to keep you from telling others what you saw?"
- - - -
A few minutes later, a ragged blue and yellow Ascari A10 leaped like a jungle panther from the parking garage, barging right past the massing police outside. Bystanders whooped and cheered at what they thought was still a show. The actual show men decided to make the best out of the worse situation and sent out their own acting racers. After all: The show must go on.
As the actor-drivers, Ascari, and un-updated and confused cops caused mayhem and excitement on the main strips, Jake and Michael used their forcibly-rented tow trucks to pull Neos and Ethos out of the parking garage, towards a part of the town less known. Kitt followed in pickup truck form, towing Neos.
They found their way to a small fenced-in car lot where unwanted junk cars had been left. The FLAG team got tire locks from the two trucks and put them on the Nissans before unhooking them from Kitt and trucks, all in a line facing them. A streetlamp lit the other-wise dark and abandoned lot. The mood in the air was that of stubborn prisoners facing interrogation with their captors.
"It's a simple deal," Michael told them, "You tell us the full, unaltered, unhindered truth, and we'll fix your tries and let you be on your war. Kapeesh?"
Silence.
"Hey," Jake noted, picking up a long lead pipe off the roof of an abandoned car, "this looks useful…"
"What do you want to know?" Neos asked reluctantly.
"What do you know a Ferrari called Izago and a man called the Genie?" Michael asked.
"Izago?" Ethos asked, "Oh, yeah, him, nice guy. He helps us get street credit if we back him up with stuff. Lately, he's been on this real tight personal project to go after some whack job called the Genie. Doesn't say why, or who the guy is. All I know is that the Genie's some shmuck Izago's taking down, personal-like."
"Izago disappeared about a week ago, saying that he was going to sneak into the Genie's lamp and destroy him from the inside out," Neos continued. "I take that that means he knows how to infiltrate what ever society the Genie is building up around him and is gonna take out the guy from the inside."
"Man, I've seen Izago whacky before," Deos grunted, "But seeing him talk about the Genie like that made him serious… and if you don't like Izago when he's whacky, you'll be terrified of him when he's serious."
"How does he know of the Genie? How did he track him down?" Michael asked.
"We don't know to both questions," Neos answered, "Izago would just appear once in a while, tell us to cause some mischief here or there, and he would disappear and do his own thing. If we did well enough of a job, he would spread the word about us around a little and get us street credit."
"Who and what are you, anyway?" Jake asked.
"We're the Nissan Nuisances," Neos replied, "I'm Neos, this is Deos, and Ethos. We were impounded racers being transported through Nevada when the Nevada Incident happened. When he heard of the machines coming to life, the transport trucker tore out of the state so fast that the straps came undone and we rolled right off the truck. We got out of there before we could get picked up again, or receive the reversal broadcast of the airwave that made us sentient."
"Wait, if you were on a truck, doesn't that mean that the truck was sentient, too?" Jake asked, "And how do you keep your gas full and stuff?"
"We don't know about the truck; never saw it or the driver again," Neos said dismissively. "As for mechanical maintenance, well, let's just say that Deos can be very persuasive to people."
"You don't mean—"Michael began, feeling his stomach flutter.
"Deos sings!" Ethos sang.
"Shaddup!" Deos whined, embarrassed, "I just play a nice song I mix up myself in my radio, and when the humans are close enough, I talk to 'em to fill us up, that's all!"
"You seem more like the type to threaten," Kitt commented.
"Deos is a master of words," Neos said fondly, "And friendship works better than fear. You would do well to remember that next time you want to talk, humans."
The last word had uncharacteristic venom aimed at Jake and Michael.
"Sorry," Michael said, shrugging apologetically, "It's how I roll. Okay, Jake, I saw a tire store just on the corner. We can run over, buy some real fast, and get these guys fixed before Cadge adds a new landmark to Las Vegas."
"Nice," Jake snickered, following Michael.
When the humans had left, Kitt decided to attempt a final step.
"Don't you have any idea as to where Izago has gone?" he pleaded, "The lives of some of our friends are at stake."
"Who're the friends?" Deos grunted.
"A couple of human females by the name of Zoe and Ms. Rebecca Wild," Kitt answered, "It appears that the Genie has kidnapped them in direct link to our intrusion of his matters when we stopped a thief carrying dud power ups that he created. We have no idea how much time the girls have left before they are disposed of and hence, time is of the essence."
The cars were quiet briefly before they began to communicate in Machine: The language of flashing lights and engine noises that made up a sentient machine's native vocabulary. But being an emotionally distant Half-Life, Kitt was not native and could only catch snatches of the conversation and its feelings. Empathy, girls, sympathy, are they pretty, suspicion, agreement. They finally returned to English.
"Well," Neos said hesitantly, "Izago did mention a place called Aladdin's Bar, and unofficial, hole-in-the-wall bar where the Genie appears to frequent to pick up supplies for whatever he does. We can lead you to the town, but you are on your own from there."
"Thank you," Kitt sighed in relief, "Your help is most appreciated."
"Just please, and do us a favor?" Ethos pleaded.
"Don't shoot our tires out like freaking target practice!" Deos bellowed, using a worse word in place for "freaking".
