Strip felt uneasy. He'd never seen Rick be so amiable, so personable. The CEO had always been terse and to the point, not kind, but never callous. The few one-on-one conversations they'd had in the past had all been strictly technical, and to Strip's knowledge they'd never been close personally. But there had been something – that one thing that made Rick treat him just differently enough that the others had noticed.
"Stacey and I tied the knot the year before you were made." Rick went on, staring at the lights in the distance as though they were something to long for. "We'd known each other for years. She wanted kids so bad, and I couldn't say no. You'd think that I, overseer of this here operation that manufactures new life, would know a thing or two about kids. I didn't have a clue, but she convinced me otherwise.
"We knew ahead of time that the Daytonas and the Superbirds would have a hard time finding homes. Not everyone wanted a racecar as a child, you know? 'Let's adopt one of those' she'd said. She loved the excessive design we gave your kind. So one day we went and waited at the end of the line, watching the new cars roll off. She was all excited. Somehow, she knew that day was going to be the day.
"Then you came along. Something along the way had gone wrong, and your spoiler was a little too tall. No one else would have probably noticed, but we did. 'That's the one,' she said. 'I want that one.' And so we went and filed the paperwork. You came home with us that night."
Strip sat, frozen in place, trying to comprehend what Rick was saying. They were his parents? How? He'd lived his life believing he'd had no family up to the point where he considered the brigade his siblings.
"You know, several months before, I got into that argument with Stephen and Paul, the CEOs at Ford and GM, respectively. I knew the war was coming, but I didn't imagine it would be like this. I told you guys we designed you for the war, to fight, and that had all been decided years prior, but that was a lie. You were built to race. I wanted to prove we were better by dominating the track, not by fighting. But in another discussion I lost my temper, agreed to something I shouldn't have, and here we are.
"Not long after the three of us made the big announcement that we were going to fight, an engineer came to me with sketches of ways we could reconfigure your kind for fighting. It was the best we could come up with on the spot, and I went with it. We profiled the other twelve as fighters, and pulled them out of the adoption pool.
"One day we left you alone for a minute too long and found you jabbering to Izzy. You two were both so naïve at the time, you wanted to be best friends. We couldn't afford to keep you around her if we wanted you to grow up unassociated. You threw a fit when we tried to split you up and understandably so. These were the only other cars you recognized, because they looked like you and behaved like you.
"One night Iz got really sick. So sick, we actually thought she wouldn't make it. You stayed next to her for nearly two days and didn't budge, claiming you were gonna 'fight off' whatever was making her ill. Stacey and I couldn't bear to separate you after that. We didn't want to make you fight, and endanger your life, but if you were going to fit in with the brigade, you had to be just like them. They weren't the type to tolerate differences. We decided one night to let you undergo the procedure to be one of them, thinking nothing was going to break that bond you'd formed with your sister, and that could be more powerful than any weapon we could give you. You'd protect each other to the end. But to do that, we had to give you up as our own."
Strip sat silently, overcome with a strange emotion he'd never felt. Rick's whole story felt like a depressing soap opera that he didn't want to be a part of, but nonetheless derived a strange sense of satisfaction from.
"I don't remember any of this."
"I wouldn't expect you to. You were much too young. Most cars don't start remembering things until they're a month old at best."
It seemed so unreal, so impossible, but it made sense. That was why Rick pushed him harder, to be better than the rest of them. That was why he'd take the time to give him pointers in one-on-ones, and not the others. That was why Stacey would visit the brigade so frequently to check in on them, and why she would always try to talk to him when she passed him in the halls.
"I'm sorry, Strip. I really am." Rick whispered. "I never wanted to make you miserable. I know how the others ended up treating you. In that sense I failed in giving you what I really wanted you to have. I'll never be able to make that up. That's why I didn't come after you when you left."
Strip looked down at his hood. All those months of training and social torture had led to something even greater. Had he not been part of the brigade, and then been allowed escape, he never would have met Tex, gotten the sponsorship, or become a racer. His friend Wayne would never have been promoted to be his agent. He never would have met Lynda.
"That's… a lot to take in," he admitted.
"I hope you understand why we couldn't tell you sooner." Rick looked over at him for the first time since starting into his story.
"I understand," Strip responded. He really did, but one thing still bothered him. "But why are you telling me now?"
"I drafted a statement of neutrality this morning, after the attack." Rick turned to look at him, genuine sadness in his eyes. "I said I'd accept defeat if they'd let you all live. I don't need to prove we're better. In some ways we are, in others we're not. It's the same across the board. Winning this war won't determine a thing. I sent it to Stephen, and he responded with his own statement and went public with it. He's not going to stop until he's got twelve more confirmed deaths."
"Or until we get him first."
Rick nodded woefully. "I didn't want to have to drag you back into this, but you need to be aware. If something goes wrong here, they're gonna go looking for you, and –"
A bright flash of orange lit up horizon, catching their attention. It quickly faded to dark again, but slowly started to glow as something caught fire.
"No," an edge returned to Rick's voice. "No!"
Strip shifted his glance away from Rick to the fire in the distance. The Power Wagon turned to his wall of monitors, desperately looking for something. He switched the volume on for the monitor displaying the local Detroit news and waited. Strip watched the fire grow in the distance. That wasn't Chrysler property by a long shot. That fire was practically in Canada.
"Uh, Rick? What was that?" Strip asked. "That wasn't us, was it?"
Rick shook himself and turned the volume up. "Look at this."
"This just in," the reporter listened intently into her headset, "it appears there's been an explosion at the Renaissance Center in downtown Detroit. The… top ten floors of the northeast tower are now completely engulfed in flames."
Rick switched the volume to a different monitor.
"… General Motors' headquarters under attack? So soon after a heavy blow to Chrysler this morning…"
An engine roared down the hallways and screeched to a near halt as Izzy came bursting in the room.
"Are you guys seeing this?" she squeaked.
The news reports were flowing in, everyone unanimously holding Ford accountable for the atrocity. Videos showed cars screaming in the streets, trying to get as far away as possible from the burning tower. City officials were evacuating everyone within a three-block radius
"This doesn't make sense." Rick muttered, thinking aloud.
"What do you mean?" Izzy asked, exasperated. "Ford just attacked GM, and GM doesn't have anything or anyone built to protect itself."
"Exactly." Rick pointed out. "Look. Look how there doesn't seem to be anyone attacking now. Ford would never strike once and leave. They're out to finish a job. They don't have a reason to go after GM right now. Their target is us. Also, Stephen knows better than to stage an attack downtown. That's too risky, even for him."
"You think it was an inside job?" Strip asked.
"Has to be." Rick said, the gears turning in his mind. "There's no other explanation. But why?"
They watched in silence as the city evacuated everyone near the Renaissance Center and the firefighters and emergency staff moved in. It was nothing short of chaos.
"Looks like we have word from Ford," one of the new anchors chimed in. "Have they taken credit for this?"
"Let's see," their co-anchor said, reading a piece of paper someone off screen had passed them. "Uh. Wow."
"Well, go on."
"Uh, it says, quote – 'We have a new weapon, the final weapon, that we will use against GM and Chrysler. Tonight, GM will experience a minor setback from within. Chrysler, you better keep a watch in your rearview.' – unquote."
"Excuse my language, but what the – "
Strip shared a glance with Izzy. Rick looked deep in thought.
"So they took credit for it?" Izzy asked, confused as ever. "They're not even there!"
"A weapon?" Rick wondered aloud. "What kind of a weapon…?"
"I don't know, but – "
The door blew open and off its hinges, and the bulletproof glass window across the room shattered as a massive influx of heat and air shadowed a deafening explosion from down the hall. All three cars were thrown against the wall of monitors that exploded under the pressure, showering them in pieces of broken glass. Seconds later, all was quiet except for the rumbling and groaning of the building's skeleton giving way.
"Drive!" Rick yelled. "Now!"
They didn't hesitate. The floor gave way a couple inches as they accelerated out the door, only to come to a screeching halt. The hallway simply ended no more than hundred yards away, wires sparking, hanging into the dark air. The lighting flickered until it went dark. There was no more elevator to that floor. There was no more alcove at the end of the hall.
"No." Rick rolled a couple inches in that direction. "Please, no."
Izzy looked confused. Why was Rick fixated on the end of the hall? The building they were in had just taken a major hit, and they needed to move. She looked to Strip and saw him shaking ever so slightly. Was there something she'd missed?
Strip stared at the severed hallway. Rick pushed past him and started screaming Stacey's name into the void. The floor gave way another few inches, and several large chunks of concrete fell past the gaping hole. How could this happen? He had planned to talk to her after his conversation with Rick. He had so many questions, so many things to tell her, and that had been before he knew she was his mother. How could that just be taken away?
"Let's move!" Izzy yelled, pushing Rick towards the emergency exit. "We don't have time to sit around and gawk."
Rick was swearing and fighting Izzy's every move. Strip shared in his rage quietly, seeing red for the first time in a very long time.
"Strip!" Izzy shouted. "Help me out, here!"
"Rick," Strip said in a voice so unusually stern it got the truck's attention, "if you want us to do something about this, we need your help, and we need it now."
Rick stared at him with tears in his eyes, mouth agape in shock. Strip couldn't help but break composure. He couldn't imagine what that felt like. His own pain was bad enough.
"Let's go." Strip motioned toward the emergency exit.
Rick took one last look down the hall before turning around and gunning it for the exit. There was work to be done. Izzy looked to Strip.
"Was she…?" she asked.
Strip looked away and followed Rick, leaving Izzy no choice but to follow.