"Ready."

Strip looked across the courtyard as Rick's voice came over the radio. Diego was staring back at him from the opposite corner, watching his every move. They were circling the area, no more than two hundred feet above the ground while the rest watched on. It was sparring day according to the calendar.

"Set."

Weeks had passed since the maneuverability tests, and their training regimen was growing more intense. What better way to practice fighting than to actually spar? Their guns had been loaded with rubber training pellets instead of bullets, which would still hurt, but wouldn't pierce metal and cause lethal damage.

"Go!"

The goal? Don't be the first to be shot.

Diego came flying across the courtyard, spraying bullets haphazardly in Strip's direction. They were easy enough to avoid, but Strip knew something Rick didn't when he'd paired them up: Diego had a score to settle, and he wasn't about to play nice.

Strip didn't mind the added competition, as he was confident he could win, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to. After some consideration, maybe letting Diego think he was better than him would solve some of their social conflicts. But was it worth it? Diego had knocked a couple of the others out of the air before, just to prove a point…

"Don't let him get to you."

That's what Izzy had told him a couple days prior. She said that Diego was just out for attention, that he'll calm down after he's forced to fight for real. Strip doubted this. He and the other trainees had been around each other since they were manufactured, and Diego was always vying for more and more praise. It was who he was, regardless of the situation.

Strip swooped up and over his opponent in a corkscrew, coming to a level behind him and starting into a turn to better position himself. He watched as Diego struggled to pull up into a vertical and avoid collision with a wall. Maybe Izzy was right. This wasn't the time or place to solve their differences.

Diego righted himself once more and saw Strip coming for him. A few precisely placed shots whizzed over his roof, missing him by a fraction of an inch.

"Not today, you don't." Diego muttered, altering his trajectory ever so slightly. "This one's mine."

It instantly turned into a game of chicken, each of them flying straight toward the other from opposite corners of the training fields, target locked. Strip noticed no shots were being fired, and decided to return the favor. Despite imminent disapproval from Rick, this competition had turned into a test of bravery, if not stupidity.

The space between them eroded quickly. Five, four, three seconds to impact, Strip thought he saw Diego smile. In no more than half a second, Diego had fired three shots, and Strip two in anticipated response. All five of those projectiles found their targets, but something was off. The first two Diego fired off had been followed by their signature dull bang, as were Strip's shots. But that third one had more of a crack to it. Diego's eyes widen as he realized what had happened and pulled up, trying to avoid collision.

Strip's gaze flickered down to his hood. Two dents, yeah that was normal. But where did that gaping hole come from? The world around him suddenly seemed very fluid, and quite small. Shocked from the wound, he forgot about the competition, and started to fall sideways through the air.

As he tipped, the very end of his right wing made contact with the underside of Diego's, slicing through the outer layer of sheet metal. The loss of structural integrity in addition to the increased G-forces Diego was pulling trying to get out of the way sheared that wing right in half. He violently spiraled the next hundred and fifty feet to the not-so-soft cushion of dirt and grass.

"Pull up!"

"Strip, pull up!"

Upon hearing his name, Strip came to his senses once again. That wasn't Rick's voice. It was Izzy's. He glanced over and saw her driving across the field towards his position, passing Diego's smoking body on the way.

Wait. What did she say?

The ground was getting dangerously close, and so was that building. Blinking to rid his vision of whatever fluid streamed from his hood up to his windshield, he wound his thrusters up for more power and pulled his wing flaps up. It took nearly everything he had left to avoid a straight-on crash, but he managed to get turned around.

That was it – all he could manage. He was leaking something all over the grass beneath him as he tried to land. Was that oil? Transmission fluid? It didn't matter. He started to lose feeling across his right row of pistons. He nearly laughed as he thought about the irony of what it would be like to die before ever actually fighting the enemy.

He hit the ground hard, leaving a path of uncovered dirt as he plowed through the grass, coming to a stop near the center of the courtyard. He closed his eyes as the pain started to set in. Blocking out the yelling and the rumble of approaching engines, he could hear the wind blowing through the blades of the grass, and a couple crickets nearby. He focused on that, finding it oddly peaceful.

It was chaos for a few minutes. Half the brigade went to check on Diego, who aside from a rudely amputated wing, was functional and in once piece. The rest of them followed Izzy and Rick as they sped towards Strip, the gorier scene and thus more interesting.

"No, I swear to you guys, that wasn't intentional." Izzy heard Diego say as she passed. "I don't like him, but I'd never kill him."

"I think you just did." another voice commented. It sounded like Matt, the black and white Daytona.

They could be dealt with later, she told herself. There were more pressing matters. She glanced over at Rick as they approached the crash site, and thought she saw worry through his scowl. She didn't quite understand why he viewed Strip differently than he did the rest, but she'd never been happier to have that be the case. Maybe there would be hope for him, or maybe the damage wasn't that bad.

It was that bad. In fact, it looked even worse up close than it had from across the way. Izzy panicked when she saw him sitting so still with his eyes closed, and rushed to his side to nudge him. Rick quickly removed his hood and assessed the damage.

"Eww." a chorus of disgusted sounds rose from behind Izzy. She glowered at them, but admittedly acknowledged that the damage was nauseating to look at.

"Header's busted all to hell. Valve cover's shattered. That spark plug wire is just gone." Rick mumbled everything that was immediately obvious to him. He'd always told them saying things aloud made them easier for him to remember.

"Hey." Izzy prodded her brother again with another gentle push. "Can you hear me? Come on. Wake up."

"Hmm." her voice pulled him out of his dream-like state. He cracked his eyes open and seemed disturbed to be looking at the mess inside him.

"You take my hood off, and you take me out of my happy place?" he grumbled weakly, looking around. "What is wrong with you guys?"

Izzy rolled backward and sighed with relief. Rick cast a sideways glance at her and shook himself.

"Don't relax yet. We're not out of the woods here. Strip, can you change back? The wings are gonna make it hard to get you back inside." Rick asked quickly, but clearly.

Strip winced but managed to withdraw all his flying aids. Luckily, his rough landing didn't cause any further damage aside from some cosmetic scratches. As the last panel slid back into place, his vision started to go black around the edges.

"I'm gonna be sick." he said as the vertigo from the change peaked.

"You can't afford to do that." Rick told him. "You've lost too much oil. Keep it down."

He moaned and closed his eyes again. The voices swirled around him as he tried to find something, any one thing to set his focus on that wasn't pain. The last thing he remembered was the feeling of a tow hook being secured to his frame.

It all seemed like a nice, long nap – the kind where when you fall asleep, you lose track of all time and sense of location. Everything behind that curtain of darkness was calming, comforting even.

However, like all good things, even that ended. Strip awoke feeling rather cold and stiff, and somehow different. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was all too familiar with this room.

He sat in the middle of a wide space with racks of tools arranged neatly and orderly around him. This was where they'd given them all the wings and jet engines. This was where every modification, tune-up, or crucial repair was made. He hated this place.

"You awake, kiddo?" a sweet voice came around from behind him.

He jumped, having been under the assumption he was alone. He glanced downward at his hood. No dents, no hole. There was even a fresh coat of paint.

"Uh, yeah." he said, his voice hoarse from lack of use. "Hey, Stacey."

"You feelin' better?" she asked with a gentle smile, driving around to park in front of him, facing him. "I brought you some oil. Thought you might be thirsty."

She slid the can in front of him so he wouldn't have to move as the anesthetic wore off. He took a drink, and man was she right, he was thirsty. She watched patiently while he sucked it down.

"Thank you." he said when he was done. "That was good."

She nodded once and sank into her suspension a little, getting comfortable. Strip noticed and wondered what she wanted to talk about, as she only did that when she was settling in for a conversation.

"Are you sure you feel okay?" she asked again, and he realized he hadn't answered.

"Yeah, yeah much better." he said, moving around a little and starting his engine. It turned over a couple times, but roared to life as always. "A little weird, but it might be the drugs."

"We had to pull your old engine and give you a new one." she informed him. "There was too much work to be done to just leave it in and work on it. It's gotta be rebuilt. Thought it'd be easier to do a complete swap."

"Ah, okay." he realized, shutting it off. That explained the weird feeling. This engine lacked the seasoned feel his old one did, but it was the same in all other regards. He'd break it in eventually. "Yeah it seems fine."

"Great!" she seemed genuinely happy to hear it.

"So what happened?" Strip asked, thinking back to the incident. "It seemed… sudden."

Stacey shrugged. "All we know is that Diego fired a live bullet. We don't know how it got loaded into his gun. Shouldn't have been possible. We're beginning to wonder if it was intentional."

Strip frowned, remembering the look on Diego's face after they'd realized what had happened. "I don't think it was on purpose. He seemed as surprised as I was. Probably just got mixed in with the fakes."

"That's what everyone else is sayin', but… I dunno. There's something about him I don't trust." she pondered. "But that's between you and me. I didn't say that."

Strip forced a smile. "Yeah, I know. He wants something. I don't think my death is it, though."

Her face fell and she stared at the ground for a brief moment, rubbing her front left tire across a seam in the floor. Confused by her sudden change in demeanor, Strip suddenly wondered why she wasn't here for just a quick visit.

"Is somethin' wrong?" he asked, concerned. "Why'd you really come in here?"

She sighed and looked at him with sad eyes, a sight he'd never seen before. It made him oddly emotional to see the one positive car he regularly interacted with look so down and conflicted.

"I heard you talking to Izzy a few weeks ago in the hallways. Right before we ran into each other. Remember that?" she said. "I just, I can't shake it."

Strip tried to remember which instance she was referring to, as that happened quite a lot. "You mean the lab rat thing?"

"Not just that, the whole conversation." she said. "I come to work for eight or nine hours a day, and I get to go home afterwards. I can do whatever I want outside of these walls, but you guys, all of you are stuck here. You're gonna be stuck here until either we win this war or you die."

She paused for a moment and sniffled, trying not to cry. She looked almost as desperate as he felt. He patiently waited for her to continue.

"Call me stupid, but I never looked at it that way before. None of the others complain about being here and fighting. It's like they're willingly employed. But you're not, not a single one of you. And it's my fault. I profiled each of you and that's what Rick made his decision on."

It was true, and he'd known this. He was chosen for a strange combination of things. He'd registered as having both protective qualities (a basic requirement) and an air of collectedness. They thought he'd be able to keep his cool in tight situations, and that was true. He'd also shown capacity for incredible reflexes and prompt, precise decision making. It was everything they could have wanted.

"We never asked you what you wanted. We just pulled you off the line and started preparing you for all of this. I feel like a monster."

Strip sat there, silently. He couldn't tell her it was okay, because it wasn't. He wanted to comfort her, but her points were all valid. He didn't know what to do.

"You know," she started into the sentence with half a laugh. "Rick was furious about you and Diego crashing out there. He said it would take weeks to repair the both of you, all because you wanted to do something stupid. But here we are. It's only Friday and you're both fine. He was really worried about you, you know."

"Why?" That seemed silly. What's the big deal if you lose one car when you've got a dozen backups?

"I talked to him after he calmed down. I think he feels guilty too. About everything, I mean. He was a part of causing this war, right up there with the heads of GM and Ford. Rick couldn't let his ego down, and look at us. But he's not a bad guy, and sometimes I think you guys don't necessarily realize that. Sometimes I think he forgets it, too."

"Why are you telling me this? There's nothing we can do to stop it now." Strip pointed out.

"Maybe not. But I need do something. Strip, I care about you. I care about the rest of the brigade. I don't want to keep you from experiencing life, not when the possibility of it being so short is at stake."

"What are you gonna do?"

"On the underside of your hood I placed a sensor. The kind all employees have that lets them in and out of the gate out front."

"Wait, you're lettin' me go?"

"Not letting you go. Just giving you the freedom you need. You can't stay here your entire life. There's a world out there. You're free to explore over the weekends or whenever you get a day without training. I can do that much for you."

Strip stared at her like she was nuts. "Rick will have your hood on a platter for this."

"Oh, I can handle him." she winked, turning to drive out of the room. "You just take care of yourself. Go visit that friend of yours. Wayne, right? Go meet new cars. Just stay safe and try to blend in."

She was almost out of the room before he remembered his manners. "Hey." he called to her, rolling forward off the lowered lift he'd been sitting on. "Thank you."

She stopped briefly and flashed him another smile. "Oh, and don't tell anyone I said this, but I think you'd make a great racer."

With that, she left him sitting alone.