Lightning McQueen, free agent
"They're not gonna be like Mr. Tex in there," says Cruz, staring up at the formidable building. Then he feels her gaze drop, until she's staring at Lightning staring up at the formidable building. Compared to skyscrapers, they both seem very small.
"But I'm sure you'll do great! Miss Sally just asked me to remind you to be careful," Cruz adds encouragingly.
"I'm actually good at things sometimes, you know," says Lightning, without taking his eyes off the building. The logo looks heavy and sharp, ready to fall on unsuspecting hoods like a guillotine. "Who told you I'm not good at negotiating a contract?"
"Um. Miss Sally did," says Cruz.
"What?!"
"Oh, my bad. She said you're super great at everything. The greatest! You're definitely not going to be eaten alive by this gigantic, pointy building and the evil lurking within it."
"Hey, they're the ones who called me back. They probably disarmed all the booby traps." Lightning winks at her. Then he asks, more seriously, "You sure you're okay with this?"
"Absolutely," says Cruz. "To the future, right?"
"To the future," Lightning agrees. With that, he edges forward, and the building's front doors sweep open, smooth and quiet. The lobby is empty, so he makes his way to the elevator. Cruz waves at him from outside until the elevator doors clamp shut and Lightning shoots upward to the twentieth floor.
She corners him a few days after the race, when his defenses are down and he's not expecting the ambush.
"It's not an ambush," Cruz insists. "I know I'm your racer right now, but for five days, I was your trainer. And as your former trainer, I gotta say: I never would have let you get away with this!"
"Wait, what did I do?" Lightning asks. He's at least 95% sure he hasn't committed any crimes this week.
"You're not okay," says Cruz. She doesn't bother meeting him at his train of thought. "You told me you were fine, but you're not."
Lightning doesn't bother denying it. "Someone just died. Why would I be? You're not."
"But it's something else, too, isn't it," says Cruz. She's subdued, which for Cruz means serious business. "Do you want to talk about it?"
'Something else' is probably the understatement of the century. 'Something else' is hearing Doc's name all over the track again, all over the radio, and slamming headlong into the past. It's like he can't exist in the here and now without also existing in 2009. And 2009 still feels just as raw. He thought he'd gotten past that. He's not sure how self-involved you have to be to watch something bad happen to someone else, and then immediately get lost thinking about stuff that happened to you instead.
When he'd told this to Sally, she'd said, "That's called empathy, Stickers." And when he'd disagreed, told her no - not like this, not this way, she'd said, "And that's called trauma." Lightning doesn't really believe her, though. Trauma doesn't sound like his kind of thing.
Not that what's on TV sounds like him either. It's not like it's a narrative he hasn't heard before; Lightning just feels like he's not hearing it the same way anymore.
The narrative goes like this: Doc's legacy having been so sacred no one could touch it. Doc's presence having been so powerful no one else could ever occupy that space, up there on the crew chief stand. Look at Lightning McQueen: Racing without a crew chief again! But this time it's different! What a champ!
Lightning had been happy to believe that then. (Desperate to believe it, even.) If the Piston Cup says Doc's memory is powerful, it's not like Lightning's gonna fight them on that. It's true that Doc's with him in ways that he will always be.
But Doc's also still dead. And racing without him - without anyone - had not been a choice.
The reality was, no one had applied to take Doc's place - who'd be so presumptive? Who'd dare overstep? And so Lightning simply hadn't said anything. He'd just gone with it. Otherwise, what would he have said? That Doc's memory wasn't enough for him?
Sure, he'd raced without a crew chief, like all the headlines said. But it wasn't that different than the first time, and it didn't make him feel like a champ. Maybe he raced different the second time around. Still felt like garbage, though.
Now, with Storm, they're trying to make it a trend. Oh, do what Lightning McQueen did! That's how champions are made. Hands-off adulation and harrowing loneliness.
There's been murmurings about maybe if Storm hadn't burnt his bridges, they'd all be quicker to offer support. And sure - Lightning figures if Storm weren't Storm, maybe he'd have closer friends. Maybe he'd have a Cal, and a Bobby, and a Radiator Springs. But this, Lightning knows first-hand: The Cup still wouldn't have treated Storm any different. Lightning's spent a decade eager to take responsibility for his past transgressions. He figures one day, Storm will be, too. But when Doc had died, Lightning had already been well-liked. Loved, even. He'd still had to go it alone, wading through empty gestures and sidelong expressions of sympathy.
In racing, legacies are honored, but death is never mourned. That'd be too real, too sad. Too hard. And that's not what the Piston Cup is about.
Lightning's beginning to realize that there are ways that the sport itself is failing them. There are ways the way this sport is run is failing all of them. The idea leaves a bad taste in Lightning's mouth.
"Doc - " starts Lightning.
"Oh, great man," says the Cup.
"Yeah, but - "
"The best!"
"But I can't - I don't - "
"Shush, smile, there are cameras," says the Cup.
"Or don't," says a tabloid.
"Or do," says RSN. "We're honoring the Hudson Hornet with a special retrospective today. Isn't that great?"
"It is," Lightning agrees. "But - "
"No one can ever replace him. That's what we said last night. Great shot of the empty stand. Don't you agree? We figured that'd really play on camera. Real powerful stuff."
"Yes, but - "
"Perseverance! Courage in the face of tragedy! That's the theme of the season, right?"
"I mean, I guess that's the goal…"
"You're fine, right?" asks the Cup.
"No!" Lightning shouts. He shoots a glance at the tabloid. "I mean, yes."
"You're good to go? Alone? Because I mean, we've already written the script. You can roll with that, right?"
"Yes," Lightning says grimly.
"What are you going to tell Storm?"
"What do you mean?" Lightning asks. It's 2009. It's 2017. Lightning doesn't know anymore.
"You're digging his grave tonight, too," says the Cup. "Are you made of steel or not, McQueen? Change me."
"Have you talked to Danny at all?" Lightning asks Cruz.
The look she gives him is not without concern. She's clearly been waiting for him to say something for a while, and she clearly hadn't expected it to be about Danny.
"Um, not about you. Are you okay?"
"No. I don't know. Ask Sally. But whatever. The point is," Lightning doesn't remember what Cruz originally asked him about, so he just launches forward. "Danny thinks we're all doing Ray wrong. Storm, too. - I mean, the Cup. That's the 'we'. And we - "
Cruz takes a moment to try and parse his jumble. Then she says, "You mean, not doing anything? Nothing real? I know. That's what I've been trying to fix!"
Lightning smiles. Of course she is. That's Cruz.
"So what are we going to do about it?" Cruz asks.
"That's something I wanted to run by you, actually. I've already sent a couple emails. I've been thinking that maybe - "
Almost immediately after he'd stepped up as Cruz's crew chief that first time, the press had started asking him about growing the sport. What was he going to do for the sport now? How was he going to grow it? What were his long-term strategies? Does he see his sponsorship loyalty as a disadvantage now that it's time to grow the sport? How does he plan to tap his network? What's he going to do for the sport? You know - the sport. What's he going to do for it?
At the time, Lightning hadn't had a ready answer. This seemed like a question for cars like The King, not him. Six months ago, Lightning McQueen had just been a racecar, racing. No one had heard of Jackson Storm. Racing was the thing Lightning did, not something he - conceptualized. He'd never had a long-term strategy in his life. He felt like he hadn't had the time yet to think of one.
He didn't even know what 'grow the sport' was supposed to mean. Hadn't the Next-Gens done that? Bringing in IGNTR, Combustr, Blinkr. The vowels might not have made it into racing, but the money sure had. Besides, answering questions about 'growth' sounded a whole lot like selling mudflaps.
So he'd said, "Well, I raced for it." He'd already given it everything he had and then some. For better or worse.
But maybe the Piston Cup had places to grow that weren't just 'up.'
There's something that he needs to do.
Way up on the twentieth floor, in Fancy Lobby #2 of Fancy Skyscraper #387, there's a gigantic fishtank with a solitary fish inside it.
"Welcome to IGNTR," greets the receptionist.