He was running out of time.
There were only so many laps he could fit in to a day, only so many turns, passes, and attempts at drafting. They'd taken the shortest break possible and he'd stared at the track the entire time. When he wasn't stuck on his own issues that needed sorted out, he was watching ghosts and shadows of a long gone era fly by the dilapidated bleachers.
If he concentrated hard enough he might even choke on the dust kicked up.
For now, though, he stared at the tire tracks he and Jackson had left in the powder-like dirt that afternoon.
Speaking of Storm, the kid's attitude had definitely shifted in the last two days. While Lightning had no misconceptions of them being the best of friends, there were no longer any snide remarks or taunting comments concerning his age. Jackson had taken a drastic turn for the formal, professional, speech between drivers. It was strange.
He'd actually been startled out of his thoughts at one point to hear the kid asking Smokey a few things. Instead of listening, though, he stewed over how the kid had no right to stories or answers that Lightning felt should be for him alone.
He didn't bring up the book. They weren't friends, they weren't going to be friends. Once Sunday came and went they would be back to the way things were.
Well, he hoped not exactly the way things were.
If he lost Sunday he was done.
Goodbye racetrack, hello stupid infomercials selling whatever product they could slap his face on.
He remembers seeing a set of golf clubs, what the hell did Lightning McQueen or #95 have to do with golf?
He'd never felt so alone.
He would give anything to talk to Doc. Knowing the closest thing he'd ever have to sitting and talking to his mentor again was the group of people he'd met that week only seemed to extend the gap, not bridge it. To be looked at with a sense of familiarity but little recognition was maddening. To know someone but to not truly know them was possibly the most heartbreaking thing he'd ever experienced. And it wasn't only on his end, he could tell the others were frustrated by the lack of answers they'd expected also.
They couldn't replace Doc and he couldn't replace Hud.
Lightning just wanted the week to be over with, to be honest.
He'd nearly called Sally the morning after his breakdown. So ready to call it quits, he wanted to tell Mack to hit the road, dump the kid at the closest training facility with a Thanks but no thanks for everything and limp back to Radiator Springs. Maybe if he hid for fifty years he could come back to a big welcome and bypass all the humiliating infomercial deals.
He never did call Sally and he thinks it had something to do with seeing Smokey show up that morning. Lightning knew he could never replace Hud, Jesse, The Fabulous Hudson Hornet, in the former crew chief's eyes but there must have been enough of a memory that was worth clinging to. Enough of something that brought the man back to the track at 8 AM that morning.
Which he hadn't expected, he'd thought it would be later.
He still felt adrift, even after everything they'd worked on, he felt like he just wasn't as solid behind the wheel as he'd anticipated to be. There was just something about the IGNTR #2.0 car that left a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Lightning wondered vaguely if Doc had felt the same way upon learning he was no longer a part of Piston Cup back in the '50s, but that was a question he wasn't willing to ask Smokey. That particular subject had been kicked under the rug completely.
At least he wasn't being blindsided, he had a chance to prepare for the worst.
He still wished Doc were there, though.
They'd done just about all they could do at this point, he was tired of training and he was tired of thinking. He just wanted to drive on the red dirt of Thomasville Speedway, because if he didn't look to either side he could pretend there was a navy blue Hudson Hornet keeping stride with the fire red stock car, before cutting him off on the turn to leave him in the dust.
The IGNTR #2.0 never joined his solo run and he was thankful for that. He wondered if Smokey had anything to do with it.
If he didn't know better, Smokey would have thought the kid was hesitant to leave the next morning. They'd all met back up at the abandoned track to see the transport truck off when McQueen had asked if they'd be joining them. They'd originally intended to watch the race in the comfort of their own homes, or more likely, his home, but with an elbow to the side from Louise he'd bitten back a sigh and agreed. Like he'd mentioned to the kid before, stranger things had happened.
So they'd followed the truck, condensing the crew in to two vehicles, his truck and Junior's Ford Coupe. He'd stared out the windshield at the #95 trailer the entire trip, and if Lou had spoken at all, he certainly hadn't been aware of it. The route to Florida hadn't changed, but an unfamiliar sense of dread fell over him as he parked the truck in the only space left for the #95 crew.
Crew Chief
Louise only gripped his arm briefly before getting out of the truck, looking him in the eye. "Take care of that boy."
He wasn't able to form a reply before a pit pass was shoved in his hands. The other three had refused passes and were gone before he could find out where they'd be.
A slew of people he didn't know all seemed to wait for instruction he wasn't ready to give, a headset was passed to him quickly and he caught his brother's name scribbled in that recognizable handwriting across one ear piece in white sharpie and felt the knot in his stomach tighten. This wasn't right. This wasn't the Piston Cup he knew. This wasn't dirt tracks and signing in, this wasn't modifying three wheel brakes. This was asphalt and headsets. This was point standings and penalties. While the core rules still applied, this was not his sport.
Take care of that boy.
Take care of Hud's boy.
With a sigh he'd been holding back since Thomasville, Smokey threw the headset around his neck and started giving orders to the people who'd been patiently waiting. He muttered lowly to himself before giving Lightning an encouraging slap on the shoulder.
"Because he's your brother's kid."
Jackson had been swarmed by his own crew as well as the press, but his sole intent had been to get in to his suit. He stood in his own pit space, just in front of McQueen's, and out of the way as they made sure the car was up to specs.
"This car is a mess, Jackson, what'd you do to it?"
Storm knew well enough that Reverham meant the dirt coating both sides of the car. There was nothing mechanically unsound.
"Took it off roading."
"Old school, huh?"
"Extremely."
"Can appreciate that." His crew chief smirked before swiping a hand through the collected dirt. "Can't move forward without knowing where you've been."
Why did that sound like something McQueen's friends would say...
He glanced to the #95 space and the eclectic group of people making sure the car was ready. McQueen's expression looked like he was willing the car to do well this race as he stared intently at the Rust-eze logo with his arms crossed. Jackson took a step in that direction before catching himself and jerking back awkwardly in realization.
He'd been about to offer his well wishes and good luck this race, without any underlying animosity or sarcasm...
What had those people done to him.
"Hey kid."
Lightning glanced up, helmet in hand, to see that Smokey had climbed back down from the pit box.
"Yeah?"
"Wanted to give you these, but forgot I had them in all this chaos."
He held out a five by seven black and white glossy photo, as well as a newer color print.
"I have doubles of both, thought you'd want 'em."
Lightning took the photos and pored over them for a moment. The black and white was another candid shot, a much younger Smokey with an arm around Doc's shoulders, both laughing over something to the point that neither were looking toward the camera. The color photo caused Lightning to take a deep breath, he remembered it being taken just before he'd been awarded his fourth Piston Cup. They stood in front of the half wall near the pits, both wearing their racing jackets and Doc's arm over his shoulders. They'd both been wearing sunglasses but one thing that had always stood out was that it was a rare time Doc had fully smiled. It wasn't a smirk, or a sarcastic grin, but a real genuine smile. In front of a camera no less.
He blinked a few times and grinned painfully. "Smokey these are great. Thank you."
Before Lightning could get too sentimental, Smokey explained the black and white photo. "Was back in '53, before everything went downhill." He smirked. "You know about the color one."
Lightning went to thank him again but the call came for the drivers. He hefted his helmet even as Smokey slapped his shoulder again before going back to the pit box.
"Make 'im proud, kid."
AN: Yes, Jackson, what have they done.
