I really hate creating tech, but this is the best I can do. But it's fiction, after all. :)

Ending a Race Sunday has been edited, fellows. :) Just a heads-up. ^-^" I didn't mean to put this up as an ad or whatever tho...so beware! D8

Hehe, I figured they'd be great friends despite the competitiveness, Pancake...xD


Chapter Nine

"Alright guys, gather round; we've an announcement!" Margo's voice sounded in the headset system that had been provided for them, and the racers gathered round, as well as other cars who had been invited to watch.

As common places of tourism had been exhausted in the four days allotted for it, the cars moved on to another part of the agenda: a practice day. Francesco announced the local track open for practice, and everyone was excited for the next day.

Everyone stared at the four-door coupe with a single headphone with a microphone positioned near her mouth. "Petro Cartalina, Giuseppe Motorosi and Otto Bonn are here to help you boys fix up your techniques today," Margo announced aloud, gesturing to each of the European crew chiefs at the mention of their names. "You may wonder why I'm here, muttering 'Why should a simple little exec be here to help us?'" she squeaked the question, and the others chuckled. "Yeah, well, can any of them speak straight English like you fellows?" She glared at them slightly as the rest muttered assent. "I'm here not just because of the tech, but because I'm here to translate, am I clear with that?" The rest nodded, and she reached for a panel.

"Alright, there's a little thing about this new tech I'm testing today," she said, and switched on a green light on the panel. "You won't be able to hear what any of us will be saying if not directed to you."

"How do we know?" Max inquired, interest piqued.

"Simple," she said. "If any of those with an administrator-recognized headset say a name that should be registered with a name or number, for example Max's number four or his first or last name, then the rest of the headsets will shut down except the one with the code for the headphone line to remain open. It's geeky, I know," she said as she noticed sighing in the crowd, "but this is the simplest explanation."

"Can I see how it works?" Max asked. "I mean, I still can't believe how anyone could code this."

Margo rolled her eyes, obviously irritated. "Rip," she called, and all static from Max's headset died, "any point of interest in Porto Corsa?"

"Erm," Rip stammered, startled he would be the one she would choose, "I love its coastline."

She fixed her gaze on Max again, gaze and smile suggesting, See?

"Wunderbar," Max whispered in awe as she flicked the headsets for a general listening.

"Now go fix all your settings; the gates open in a few minutes!" she called, and the cars scattered.

As he settled in with his favorite settings, new tires and a tank full of petrol, Miguel relaxed, and focused on racing against his friends. Yet, the sight of her silver body under the brilliant sunlight and the sound of her voice as she translated Giuseppe's and Otto's tips lingered in his focus, and soon, all he thought about was impressing her.

"Rodrigo, your timing is off!" Petro snarled into the radio as Miguel made a late turn.

"Sorry," he growled in frustration, reclaiming his focus on the trace. He'd glanced into the pits at the straight containing the finish line, trying to catch her attention. Rip and Raoul had passed him, laughing triumphantly and teasingly.

"Ooh, we know why!" Rip called into the radio, glancing at Miguel in his rearview mirror.

"Oh, oh!" Raoul put in. "Don't blow his top, Rip!"

"Why you—"

"Miguel," a female voice snapped at him, "you would do well to focus on where you're going."

"Sorry," he repeated.

"And Rip, Raoul," she continued, "you both better do better than you both think you are!"

"Yes, Margo," the two friends replied.

"So, she put you in your places, eh?" Miguel sneered as he sided by his friends momentarily, and he laughed triumphantly at their confusion as he passed them completely.

The day dragged on. The racers reviewed their performance over the TV sets from recordings. Older racers in the field gave their own tips and observations to the younger, less experienced then them. As the near-exhausted drivers took a break, someone had decided to take up a challenge.

"Marlene, think you can help me out?" Margo nudged her cousin. "So long as you're still able to go a hundred-fifty miles, that is."

Miguel's hearing pricked. What was she suggesting?

"Are you sure, Margo?" the mother asked.

"While I'm still young," the A7retorted smilingly. "Come on! It's the only day I'll be able to race; you won't deprive me of this opportunity, will you?"

"Maybe," Marlene replied. "You're only an executive car, Margo. You can only go so fast."

"But there's no reason I can't try," she reasoned. "Please?"

Miguel only stiffened, as did a few of the rest. It was dangerous to race: you could crash, lose control, or worse, break down on the track. He wouldn't wish that on her, even if he barely knew her. What would Marlene say?

"No," Francesco said finally. "I won't allow it."

"But—"

The Italian fixed her with a hard glare that even Miguel shied away from it in fear. "Okay," she squeaked as she winced, moving away, and Francesco turned back with an unamused expression.

Miguel heaved a silent sigh of relief, relaxing. Only then had he noticed how much his chassis ached from tensing.

"Why don't we get cleaned up and rest?" Marlene suggested as Margo stalked away into the garages.

Mindlessly, Miguel turned to follow her into the garage, where he found her taillights to him. The sounds of his friends faded behind him as he turned deeper into the closed space. She was muttering indignantly, and it was evident in her rearview mirror she hadn't noticed him, until he drew closer, the soft rumble of his engine making her glance into his reflection.

She raised her voice. "Miguel," she murmured, restrained. Her rearview mirror adjusted to view him fully. "Did you want something?" Her voice was dangerously quiet.

"No." He was quiet as her. "You're upset, aren't you?" he blurted out.

She scoffed, eyes rolling as she turned back to the panel in front of her. "Who wouldn't?" she murmured. "I've wanted to try doing a straight since when? Since I wanted to be an engineer?"

"But what Francesco said is just right," he told her. "He's concerned."

"But that doesn't mean I can't see for myself," she said stubbornly, voice tight.

"But that's what he doesn't want, exactly," he went on. "He doesn't want to see you hurt."

"I'm not his daughter!" she called, stopping in her tracks. "He's not responsible for what I do."

"But he can't help feeling that way," he told her. Just as Petro can't help feeling that way for me.

"Well, maybe he should!" She turned on him, her brown glare piercing him. "Maybe he should let me see for myself, just how hard I can hit the wall, because you can't ever experience anything if you don't try it!" she spat.

Dismay filled him, showing in his gaze. He didn't expect her to be like this, a seemingly sweet car that was a fierce lioness inside. As they exchanged stares for a while though, she softened, and she sighed as she sank on her suspension.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, almost grudgingly. "I didn't mean to snap that way. I was just…I was just upset, that's all." She turned away from him, embarrassed by her outburst.

There were no words to explain his surprise, but her moved to nearly side by her, his eyes searching for hers. It took him a while to form a sentence. "I didn't mean for you to get mad," he told her. Stupidest excuse, Rodrigo! But he continued. "I just wanted and hoped you understood."

But he had failed to notice she was crying now, and only now had he seen gems of dew rolling down her silver paint, and alarm prickled in his chassis.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he said immediately, his side now brushing hers as it did in the party when she was startled.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked, trying to keep her breaths regular. "You should have left when I turned away."

He was confused. What was going on?

"Why? Why should I leave?"

She turned away from him, afraid to show her face. She forced herself to quiet in the lengthening silence between them, but she couldn't stop her gasps.

"It's a thing of mine to cry after I'm…upset," she corrected, voice a hoarse whisper. "It happens."

He blinked. How odd it was for a car to be that way! "How did it happen?" he asked. "I mean, I just wanted to know, you don't have to if—"

"I used to not have anyone to turn to when I wanted to rant," she said quietly, cutting him off. "And so, all I had were my pillows and my room, and the dead air around me. When I'm mad, this happens. When frustration arises, this happens." She sighed. "I'm sorry again you had to see me this way. I didn't mean to—"

"Everyone has limitations," he told her softly, smilingly, as he gazed into her sad brown eyes. "You don't have to act perfect around me if you don't want to."

She stared at him or a while longer, emotions clear and surging in her eyes. "But what if I mess up?" She turned away. "I really hate messing up in front of others."

"How can you not practice what you preach?" he blurted, startled. "Nobody's perfect, remember?"

"I know that, but I hate feeling weak and small."

"Why? A lot of people—"

"A lot of people haven't gone through what I have," she shot back, facing him. Her gaze was clear and unwavering as she stared at him squarely. There was a moment of silence, and she twitched her lips in thought. "And I'd rather we—I—discuss this in a better place and time."

"Alright," he conceded. "Tonight, six-thirty."

Amusement and surprise flickered in her gaze. "Where?"

"Should I go to the Bernoulli's, or…?"

A corner of her lips twitched in amusement. "Maybe I should meet you at the hotel instead," she told him.

"Fino," he replied, and she reversed out of the space, swerving around and burning rubber as she headed outside. Surprise made his lip pop open at her change of mood. This was one fickle girl.

But as he, too, headed out, he he found Margo out of the group, talking to someone else. A kind of frustration clawed at his belly as he realized she was talking to Max Schnell.

He jerked his front quite angrily in the pair's direction as he sided by Rip and Raoul. "What's he doing with her?"

"I dunno." Rip was startled by the intensity of his friend's frustration.

But he didn't have to strain to hear what they were saying.

"…I'd like to talk to you about the new tech."

Jealousy and alarm surged through Miguel. These two had something to talk about, and he hadn't really a topic in mind that they both had in common. And what would she say? Would she agree to go or not? Did Max even ask for a date, he wondered. Maybe, considering what he was asking, and considering that she'd only mentioned the basics of the new tech.

"…later." He failed to catch the first part of her reply, and this left him frustrated. "And besides, the technology isn't even new!"

Wait, that sounded right. His spirits picked up, and he continued to listen.

"Then how?" Max asked.

Margo snorted. "I did my research and solutions. You're older and more experienced. Can't you figure it out on your own?"

"But I want to know now!" At the rising of his voice, the group turned.

"This is why I don't like you, Max," Margo spat openly with narrowed eyes. "You tend to take help for granted sometimes, and thane things for your own.

"What? How can Max take things from her?" Rip hissed quietly.

"I saw your book, Schnell," she continued. "Don't think I didn't see most of my advice." With that, she stalked back t othe group.

"Margo?" Marlene asked gently as the A7 sided by the golden grand tourer. "Is anything wrong?"

She gave one last glare at the German through her rearview mirror before glancing back and speaking. "Just a misunderstanding."

"That was no misunderstanding," Carla put in, her soprano voice ringing with her Portuguese accent. "Not from what we've heard."

"Yeah," Rip encouraged. "What happened?"

There was a pause as she decided what to say. "I'm sure he wouldn't want to make things public," she murmured.

"You're too soft for your own good," Raoul replied, but there was no hardness in his tone.

Yet, the A7 didn't take that too nicely. "I'm not soft," she said flatly. "I just take what I've learned from life and apply it."

"Don't be so hard on Raoul," Rip defended as the Frenchman lowered his front.

"Don't assume then," she replied, obviously trying to keep calm. It was tense for a moment before she murmured, "I'm sorry, Raoul. I didn't mean to be so hard."

The small blue car nodded. "It's okay."

The subdued A7 turned away before anyone else could ask questions. Miguel left her to her own devices for the while, remembering he should have left her alone.

After a little more conversation the racers scattered, and the family returned home. Miguel was exhausted by the day's events, and returned to his room instead, and settled down to sleep.

The only problem with sleep is that people tend do forget things.