Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no money off the Fast & Furious franchise. It is owned by Universal Pictures and various other parties. See prologue for full disclaimer.

Note: This chapter was entirely re-worked and re-posted as of 12/26/13 around 9:50pm EST. So if you'd already read it before then I highly suggest reading it again. There is a lot more information in the new chapter. I posted the original version while stressed over Christmas preparations and my grandmother being in the hospital. After a day or two I realized that something about it just wasn't sitting right with me - style, content, etc. So I ripped it apart and re-did it. I feel much better about it now.

November 1998

The move to Los Angeles from Barstow in July had been both last minute and necessary. The burning need to get out of the city of her birth that had been growing constantly her entire life had finally exploded the same moment her best friend's car did after he hit a wall going 120 miles per hour because some novice had lost control of his own car first. That combined with the death of her mother a month earlier, also in a car accident, was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak.

It had also taken away any desire she once had to ever race her car again in any capacity. Putting her perfectly tuned, though stock, Mustang up against idiot teenagers in their first cars in order to learn the 'craft' had been all in good fun; but seeing her best friend, her true big brother as far as she was concerned, who had ten years of experience on her burn to death had been enough to put her off the sport as a whole.

Jose's crew thought she had sold her mother's house and bar and gone off to Boston due to her acceptance at MIT earlier in the year. They had no idea that the money from the sale of the house and bar had gone to Jose's wife and two kids to pay off his house's mortgage. Lucy hadn't wanted to accept the money but Trish had insisted, telling her, "I might have been ten years younger then him but Jose took me under his wing when I was fifteen and taught me how to do something with my brain other then nearly blow up my mother's circuit breaker every other month because I was bored. It's the least I can do."

When Lucy had pointed out that she would need the money in Boston Trish made some noise about a full scholarship and how she'd be fine. It wasn't a total lie if one considered the scholarship her savings account full of money from playing cards and cuts from the jobs Jose had needed her help with. It wouldn't be enough for a private university like MIT; but, it would at least help her out to get started somewhere away from Barstow.

Away from Barstow had been her only goal from the time she was eleven. She was going to manage at least that much.

She also never wanted Lucy to realize that Jose made a lot more money from selling off stolen cars and their parts then he did fixing cars; so, she encouraged her to sell the garage, pointing out that with the house paid off her income as a nurse would be enough to support her and the kids. Jose had protected Trish when she needed him to and now she would protect his family from the heat that was sure to come down on them if the garage was still around for the rest of the idiots he employed, his 'crew', to continue his side business.

She would have felt bad if not for the fact that she knew Jose was the only one who trusted her and that with him gone the others wouldn't accept her help. Her job had been to organize the inventory and override the cars computer systems, especially the GPS, when they arrived at an empty lot outside of town. Their jobs were to steal the cars. She didn't know who exactly got the parts; though she was almost certain Eric, Jose's 'second-in-command' did. Without her help with the computers all she could foresee was a cluster-fuck of epic proportions and that went against every single thing that Trish O'Conner stood for.

Knowledge was power and control. She didn't give up control of her life to anyone. Without control over your own circumstances and your own life you were just asking for trouble. And Trish wasn't about wait around to be implicated in previous jobs if Eric was able to continue Jose's 'project' when they wound up getting caught. That was a jail sentence waiting to happen; especially since she had turned eighteen in January. The cops weren't going to care that she hadn't actually stolen any cars herself and considering how the Barstow police felt about the name O'Conner she knew they'd love to drag her in on something.

All that considered Trish had packed up her white 1964 Mustang and headed for LA. It was the closest major city, that had a university she had been accepted at, and checked into a cheap hotel. Two weeks later she had a job at a coffee shop, had signed the lease on a studio apartment and registered for two summer classes at UCLA that would start in mid-July, declaring her major as computer science rather then engineering.

The next few months passed quickly with a full-time job combined with a full class load in the fall. Unfortunately, Trish hadn't factored into her plan what a severe hit her income was going to take from her 'change' in lifestyle. Which was why, despite her current aversion to everything racing, she was leaning on her car on the far edge of a large crowd behind a warehouse in Downtown Los Angeles.

The sights, sounds and smells were nearly identical to what she was used to in Barstow. Bright cars, skimpy clothes, loud music and engines with an undertone of motor oil and various types of smoke.

At the same time it was a whole other world then she was used to and she had no idea how to proceed. She had gotten far too used to being known by name at a race. Even on the edges of Jose's crew she had been considered 'elite'. She had been someone to talk to to get 'in'. Here, she was no one. She was just a young, innocent, strawberry blonde with big blue eyes dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and chucks. She probably looked about fifteen at first glance to the people in the crowd.

Even just a quick glance around from the outskirts she could tell that while there were plenty of idiot kids, who could probably barely drive their cars, none of them had been idiotic enough to show up with a factory tuned vehicle like she had seen at previous races back home. That meant racing was out. She might have gotten laughed at by most of the racers here if she put up her Mustang as is; but, she knew she could finally out drive anyone who hadn't put too many bells and whistles into their cars. It had taken her three years, but she had gotten there.

In the past if she would complain that her car was stock, Jose had always told her she didn't need anything extra yet; she just needed to drive her car like she was making love to it. She needed to learn to be a precision driver first, to know her car so well that it was an extension of herself and give control over to the car, and then they'd talk about tricking her car out. She tended to joke that if she let go of her control that much she'd surely get 'fucked' because she'd hit something, like a wall. Jose had merely laughed and told her that she was too 'in her own head all the time'; that she'd understand when she was older and had the skill to drive the way she needed to. He claimed if she didn't drive that way and he tricked her car out she would blow herself up the second she went up against a better racer.

She found that depressingly ironic being that he got blown up driving against a shitty driver. So much for his 'being one with the car' theory solving all your problems. So, despite what Jose had told her for years she couldn't help but believe that a major overhaul to her Mustang could have been very helpful right at that moment.

Apparently, the Los Angeles scene had one major difference to Barstow. Everyone knew cars here; even if they couldn't drive them, they knew to put enough NOS into the car to potentially blow themselves and half the block up. And that wasn't going to help her when all she had was her Mustang. All she had needed was one race, against one idiot kid, and she would have been in. Or at least in enough to start asking questions to get to her ultimate goal.

She needed a god damned real card game.

Trish had tried campus and within a month was considered persona non grata as college kids couldn't afford to lose the kind of money Trish played for. That hadn't really bothered her as the highest stakes she had found on campus, even in the greek houses, had been fifty-dollar antes. Being dis-invited to play poker because she had made three-hundred bucks in one night was frankly, to her, more annoying then anything else.

Asking bartenders in clubs had gotten her laughed at and told point blank that she looked like a sting operation in the works before they called a bouncer to remove the 'kid' who had 'snuck in'.

She could see their point and didn't really blame them; even if it was beyond frustrating. After all, she was a sting operation. It just happened to be her own. She hadn't lost a game of cards, unless she wanted to, since she was about fourteen all thanks to one of her mother's boyfriend's who had taught her how to count cards when she was twelve. The man was a math teacher and had taught her to count cards when he realized she could calculate pi to fifteen digits in her head. He thought he was helping out a burgeoning mathematician rather then teaching her how to use her IQ to cheat at cards.

It wasn't like it was her fault most people who like to gamble tended to be much stupider then she was. She quickly learned that the easiest marks were the ones that loved to gamble for the sake of gambling, and tended to drink more then was healthy, in the basement of her mother's bar. She made it her mission to help them lose the money they were so eager to drink away. Her mother never cared because the more money Trish won, the less her mother needed to spend on her.

It was, ironically, learning how to count cards that made her realize her own code in life. If fate, the ruler of the gambling world, actually existed then Trish wouldn't be able to win or lose when she wanted to. She had control over one of the, supposed, most unpredictable past-times in the world. So it had to be that simple; if you take control and responsibility of your own actions your life will go as smooth as possible. You can't let other people or outside influences dictate how you live. Jose asked her once if she felt at all bad cheating at cards and taking money from some of the guys who had families at home; she usually shrugged him off by, correctly, pointing out that they wouldn't be spending that money on their families anyway so why should she feel bad for their choices?

Regret about other peoples lives and the choices they made for themselves wasn't an emotion Trish O'Conner entertained. If she did, then when it came right down to it, she'd have to somewhat regret existing. She'd have to regret that her father was an asshole who cheated on his wife, leading to his divorce and eventual abandonment of his son. She'd have to admit that maybe Brian was a little right about what he had drilled into her head since she was eight and he was ten and they were both old enough to understand their circumstances. It was her fault. If her mother hadn't gotten knocked up. If there wasn't proof of the affair. But since she knew that was bullshit that was spurned on by his own mother's anger she refused to regret it.

The longer Trish stood there contemplating who she should introduce herself to, since she refused to act like a skank to get 'in', the more dismayed she became. Her only other option for money, other then finding a real card game, had been swallowing her pride and approaching her half-brother and that was something she really did not want to do.

She knew he was in Los Angeles; for all he seemed to hate her when they were growing up, he had actually written to her after her mother's death and given her his address and phone number. It had been a short note that barely said anything other then he was entering the police academy followed by brief, awkward, condolences that had almost made her feel bad about not offering her own a year earlier when his own mother had passed from cancer. Almost, because his mother regularly referred to Trish as 'the little bitch who ruined my marriage' in public. Needless to say she got over that passing regret quite quickly.

She still found it ironic, months later, that one of Barstow's biggest trouble-makers was going to be a cop and would have loved to laugh in his face over it. However, she still wasn't entirely certain that the contact hadn't been made out of some misplaced feelings of obligation, guilt or just plain social propriety. Until that random letter she hadn't heard a word from him since his arrest when he was sixteen; despite sending him several letters in juvie.

He might have been mean and nasty to her growing up whenever she tried to talk to him as a child but she had still held out, hoping for some kind of relationship with her big brother. She held out right up until the point where he apparently decided to go the route of ignoring her and sending back her letters unopened. She was eighteen now and didn't need the boy who should have been there for her when they were growing up just because he had finally hit his twenties, realized they were both totally alone family-wise and had possibly matured enough to realize what an asshole he had been.

She needed him when she was a kid. She didn't feel like assuaging any of his guilt now.

She also didn't need to hear what he would have to say about Jose. Those two had never gotten along. Eight years between them and as far as Jose had been concerned, Brian O'Conner was a snot-nosed kid who had a lead foot. Hearing her biological brother berate her for spending time with the person who had done everything Brian should have done for her wouldn't be healthy for Brian. He'd never physically hurt her, she trusted that much, but she wasn't above breaking his nose and pointing out that he was a hypocrite as she had been there when he was arrested for boosting, racing and subsequently wrecking stolen cars.

She knew what she had been doing was illegal. She was okay with that. His guilt over his own past was just that; his.

Which left her in a bit of a pickle.

Trish was just about to suck it up and plow into the crowd when a heavy weight fell onto her shoulders causing her to jump and turn around in surprise. Standing behind her was a beautiful Asian man, maybe two to three years older then she was with hair that couldn't seem to decide if it was long or short hanging in his eyes, wearing dark blue jeans, a white t-shirt and work boots. He looked like a typical racer straight out of a 1950s movie, right down to the cigarette tucked behind his ear.

She almost asked him if Fonzi was his role model.

"You looked cold," his strikingly smooth voice startled Trish out of her observations and had her pulling the garment from her shoulders, half expecting it to be a leather jacket. Instead she found a large zippered hoodie and quirked an eyebrow in response. "You don't talk?" he continued, curiously tilting his head, almost as if he was observing something at the zoo.

"Hi?" she questioned, slightly confused as to where he had come from since she was still on the far edge of the crowd by her car. "I'm Trish O'Conner," she added, deciding to go with polite as she was, actually, getting chilly.

"Han," he responded and then nodded at her Mustang. "Nice car. 64?"

"Yes," she replied, not surprised he got the year right. If she was on the street most people asked if it was a 65 and then got very confused when she told them it was a 64. When they tried debating her, she usually clarified that it was technically a 64 and a half because it was the first model and had actually come out at the end of 1964 rather then the beginning of 1965. Only car junkies actually cared or noticed; everyone else just shrugged and nodded like she was insane. Truthfully, there weren't any differences between the two, but she liked that Jose had taken the time and effort to track down an actual first model to restore for her.

Han only silently nodded and proceeded to lean back against Trish's car, much to her surprise and a little annoyance, lighting the cigarette that had been removed from behind his ear. She finally just shrugged, slipped the hoodie on and leaned back next to him trying not to think about how delicious his cigarette smelled. She had been looking for a contact in the community and she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth; or annoy him if he apparently wanted quiet.

Ten minutes, and three cigarettes, which was only driving her craving further, later she changed her mind and spoke up, "You know, those will kill you."

He simply rolled his eyes and quietly replied through a mouthful of smoke, "So will a lot of things."

"Well yea, but you know that cigarettes will kill you," she clarified and almost jumped again when he leaned down and smelled her hair.

"You smell like smoke," was all he commented on. "Ergo you smoke. Hypocrite."

"Not a hypocrite. I'm quitting. And that's why I know they'll kill you and me and a good chunk the population. Do you see me smoking right now?"

His response was to try to hand her his still lit cigarette and laugh when she scowled at him, "You don't want it?"

"No. I chose to quit and I'm going to."

"Hard?"

"Like a bitch," she mumbled; reminding herself that she controlled everything she did and she did not want to smoke. If she didn't want to smoke then she wouldn't smoke. "But I don't want to smoke."

"It's an addiction. Just cause you don't want to smoke doesn't mean you aren't going to."

"Nope. I don't do anything I don't want to do. I control everything in my life; including the result of a stupid choice I made when I was fourteen. It's been three days," Trish informed him.

"Uh-huh," he replied looking at Trish like she was a little crazy. "Give it a week," he added, purposefully blowing the smoke in her face and smirked at the glare she threw at him, waving her hand in front of her face.

"Why are we even talking about this?" she asked, frowning at how off track they had gotten.

"You brought it up."

"Right, okay," Trish mumbled, feeling ridiculous because she had never had a problem having a conversation with anyone before. She might be quiet, but she wasn't exactly shy. "So, what do you drive? Going by your whole stoic James Dean, Rebel Without a Cause vibe, I'll go out on a limb and say a classic Spyder?" she added with a blatantly snarky edge to her voice.

She grinned triumphantly when he actually laughed out loud at her, quite obvious, mocking of him and responded with an almost reverent, "I wish."

"So?"

"Do you actually care what I drive?" he asked, looking her up and down pointedly. "You don't look the type."

"Why do you think that?"

"For one, you're fully clothed. Secondly, you've been hiding back here for like an hour without actually paying attention to any of the races."

"I'm not hiding," she responded, glaring again. When all he did was raise an eyebrow she rolled her eyes and added, "So, okay, fine, I don't actually care what you drive. I just thought it'd be a good conversation starter considering the locale."

"No conversation start really necessary," he replied, shrugging. "I'm not really a big talker."

"Yea, I can see that," she laughing lightly. "Though you don't seem to have a problem with it right now."

"I like trying new things."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Eh," he responded, shaking his hand in a so-so gesture and falling silent once more much to her irritation. If he didn't want to talk to her he could go lean on a different car and blow smoke at someone else. He wasn't that good-looking.

She finally followed his line of sight, as it had gone back to where it was before she tried prodding him into a conversation that could possibly segue into asking if he knew where to play poker or at least who to ask.

She frowned and squinted to look past the three cars she thought he was studying and then rolled her eyes as she saw what was just past them, "Picking out tonight's conquest?"

"Who said I hadn't already?" he questioned back, turning to stare at her with a smirk.

"That's presumptuous," she mumbled, slightly flustered. He really was that good looking and she really was far too inexperienced due to spending most of her teen years with an over-protective married man who wouldn't let boys even breathe near her. "I just met you."

She blushed in embarrassment when he laughed, loudly, and commented, "I didn't mean you kid."

"Hey! I'm eighteen!"

She frowned in confusion when he only rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the car telling her, "Sure you are. Gotta go."

"Asshole," she mumbled under her breath, watching him walk away, as she stuffed her hands into the pockets of the hoodie she was wearing. "Shit. HEY!" she called. "Your jacket!"

When he only kept walking she frowned and stuffed her hands into the pockets of it; she wasn't about to chase him down as he was approaching some bottle blonde in a mini dress. Her fingers clenched around a single piece of paper in the otherwise empty pockets and she quickly pulled it out, hoping it wasn't too important because then she'd really have to chase down the racer. A quick glance at the single, ripped off piece of paper had her blinking in surprise as she read it.

Callahan's Pub. Downtown LA. 1PM. Sundays. $300 ante. Tell them you know Han Lue.

"How the fuck did he even know?" she asked the empty air and returned her gaze back to where he had been, just in time to catch him getting into a bright yellow car with, as predicted, a blonde in barely there clothes. "Well, well, you are full of surprises Mr. Lue," she muttered in a bit of shock because she recognized that car. It had been at her mother's bar once every six months for the last two years when she held a quiet, high stakes, black jack game that she refused to let Trish participate in because it was, 'bad for business if they keep losing.'

Laughing a bit at the situation, refusing to be completely creeped out since her mother had pictures of her growing up all over the damn place in that bar and if someone was there enough they'd probably recognize her, Trish quickly got into her car and decided to head home. Tomorrow was Sunday and she had, hopefully, quite a few wallets to lighten and tuition and rent to be paid.

A/N: First meeting out of the way. I subscribe the the idea that our Han is the adult version of Han from Better Luck Tomorrow (if you don't know - Sung Kang plays Han Lue in both BLT and the F&F series and Justin Lin directed both. Even though there is no 'official' connection it seems to be the fandom accepted truth). So at this point in the story he's only 20; therefore still cocky and very 'male'...if a little older and a little wiser from where he was as a senior in high school in BLT.

Reviews/Constructive Criticism very appreciated. Flames, not so much.