Ford Motor Company's headquarters engulfed the majority of Dearborn, a city within a city. Though not tall, the buildings stretched across the land in orderly miniature districts, perfectly manicured and free from the scars of war. From the air, they looked the same. It was nearly impossible for an outsider to distinguish the manufacturing units from the resident housing from the adoption offices. That had been one of the reasons Chrysler never attacked them on their own land. The risk of endangering civilian life had been too high.
The moment the three black helicopters entered restricted airspace, the alarms on premise went haywire. For a few short minutes, the grounds buzzed to life as all employees retreated to safety, to bunkers hidden underground, preparing for an attack. Nothing but the sound of chopper blades and blaring sirens filled the air as their transporters dropped the six of them off next to the tallest building, marking the center of Ford's home territory.
"Alright, what now?" Rick yelled over the deafening sound of helicopters taking to the air again.
Chick motioned toward the doors ahead. The sleek, black building rose before them, contrasting the bright blue sky. The façade facing them was nothing but a jointed sheet of tinted safety glass that wrapped around the building, casting their reflections back at them – two old executive officers, three racecars, and an angry pink medical professional.
Without warning, Izzy took point and fired a shot into the glass wall that prohibited them from entering. Instantaneously, the glass fractured and fell to the ground in a fluid motion.
"Clear," she said, moving forward and leaving her stunned company behind.
Chick frowned and moved to the side to press a switch next to the entrance. The metal frame of what used to be the front door moved apart to make way for them, shards of glass still haphazardly clinging to it.
"Was that really necessary?" he asked.
Izzy scowled and pushed past him, tires crunching on shrapnel as she entered the building, guns drawn.
Chick rolled his eyes and followed. Paul went next, looking around in awe at modern architecture. Ford's corporate building was a far cry better than his rented space at the Renaissance Center. He silently took notes on a few interior decorating patterns.
Behind him, Strip followed with McQueen sticking close and Rick taking up the rear. Strip had his senses dialed to eleven, processing as much about his environment as possible. There was a little voice in the back of his mind screaming for him to leave and to get as far away as possible. It was the same voice he'd listened to thirty-some years earlier when he left Michigan for good. It felt wrong to ignore it.
"This way." Chick hung a left and drove past the elevator. "Ol' Steve prefers his concrete dungeon over his ivory tower exec suite."
"I thought it was some sort of unspoken rule that the CEO had to have an office at the top of the tallest building," Paul whispered, dropping back a little to drive next to Strip as if they were old friends. Agitated and admittedly unnerved by the GM executive, Strip didn't act as though he heard him.
The building's lobby narrowed into a hallway that promptly ended as they entered it. It was strange, no doors, no ramps to another level, nothing but a wall of windows to their left and a polished marble barrier to the right. Izzy fell back next to Strip and let Chick and Paul lead. She tried her best to keep from hyperventilating, but Strip could see it in her eyes. Claustrophobia and a fear of entrapment had plagued her ever since they could remember. They shared a glance, equally apprehensive about their situation.
Chick touched the wall to his right. A subtle click sounded from in front of them, and a thin black piece of metal emerged from a crack between the polished blocks. Chick looked straight ahead as it performed a retinal recognition scan on him, granting him access to whatever lay beyond. The scanner slid back into place as the floor underneath started to move.
The seemingly solid floor began to slope downward, hinging at a point far behind them. As the end of the hall lowered, it unveiled a darkened corridor, dimly lit by old-fashioned wire lights. As soon as the floor came to a halt, Chick rolled off and into the dismal alley. The rest followed him cautiously.
Lightning came to the sudden realization that he shouldn't be there. He should have stayed in Radiator Springs. He should have stayed with Sally. He had no business going into the basement of any manufacturer's corporate building, none at all. He tried to stay next to the King, even though the Superbird had insisted he stay behind him. Lightning looked over and tried to glean the same sense of security he'd felt earlier in the King's presence. In the faded light of the tunnel, the white '43' on the King's door stood out in bright contrast. He focused on that, and thought back to those days on the track.
This wasn't the track.
"Well!" A strong voice echoed off the concrete walls from somewhere unseen. "Look who's here!"
Chick rounded a sharp turn in the hall and rolled into a well-lit workshop, followed by his five sworn enemies.
Stephen looked up from his workbench and eyed the unwelcome company. "And you brought the welcoming committee, eh? Guess that means you didn't do your job."
"We just wanna talk, man," Chick said, making room for everyone else to filter in.
Paul took a little liberty to look around the shop, driving around Chick to admire the contraptions lining the room. Stephen had built a full-blown private machine shop in the basement. All around were unfamiliar models of drivetrains, suspension parts, and wild takes on up-to-date electronic guidance systems.
"Well, first, you – " Stephen pointed to Paul as he gazed at an oddly shaped engine block near the right wall of the room, " – don't. Touch. Anything. I'll have you litigated for snooping around company confidential research."
Paul backed off and turned to face Stephen instead. Rick forced himself forward and parked directly in front of Stephen's workbench, staring coldly at his competitor. He had to consciously quell the urge to put the old Business Coupe in the ground right where he was.
Strip moved forward as well, stopping several feet to the left of Rick just to get a better look around. Chick was hanging back off to the left, fidgeting and rolling his tire back and forth in little arcs across the polished floor. Who knew what he'd experienced in this room. It was all too possible some of these prototypes had been tested on him.
The retired racer looked past his former opponent to the far corner of the room and shivered. There, all stacked in an orderly pile, were lifeless husks of older model cars. It was haunting. Everything from Crown Victorias to GTs to the very same models of Mustangs that had been used to fight. Strip shivered and tried to convince himself that those bodies never held life. They were just shapes, prototypes of what eventually came to pass. But he couldn't be sure.
Izzy hung back. She needed to have a clear perspective of everything in the room. She wasn't about to trust anyone enough to turn her back to them. Confined spaces didn't lend themselves well to combat. She had to be ready to strike from any and every angle.
Stephen put down the wired mess of a contraption he'd been working on and turned his focus to the issue at hand.
"So you guys wanna talk? About what?" he asked "Ending the war? Which one of these guys we're gonna throw under the bus? Take you pick, as long as it ain't my guy."
"Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?" Rick asked, forgoing any courtesy that may have existed previously.
Stephen laughed in a relaxed manner and shook himself. "Rick, come on. You were as enthusiastic about this as I was. Just suck it up, man. It is what it is."
"I have the right to change my mind," Rick argued. "We all do."
He looked to Paul, who, alarmed at being put on the spot, struggled to come up with any supporting argument.
"Y – yeah. What he said," Paul agreed with a shrug. "It's not gonna mean anything in the end anyway, who wins, who loses."
"Oh, but you misunderstand," Stephen corrected him in a smooth voice, rolling away from his station and casually approaching them. "Remember how upset everyone got back in the eighties? Do you? The country was on the brink of a revolution just to bring us down. To subdue us! But they didn't. They knew they couldn't. That's the kind of power we have, guys. That's the power I want to keep - I want to be the best of it. You know that."
"This was never about power," Rick argued. "We shouldn't abuse the liberties we have. This was about which one of us was the best manufacturer. Which one of us could create the best form of life. Nothing more."
"Maybe not at face value," Stephen said. "But think about it. What are we? We control our companies. We've all three of us dedicated our lives to making sure the manufacturing plants stay functional and life is replenished regularly. It's about the business, guys. Sure, it's about what we can do to outsmart each other, but it's more than that. We control the world as we know it. If I can prove that I'm the best head of manufacturing in America - or better yet, the world? What does that say about me, my company? Sales and adoptions will be through the roof! You know the rule – always do what's in the best interest of the corporation. Winning this war is ultimately in my best interest."
His words flowed like honey from his mouth, so suave and convincing it would make any less experienced, any less battle-hardened car second guess their opinion.
It lit Rick's conscious on fire.
"How many cars have to die?" he asked, his temper getting the best of him. "How many before you're happy?"
Stephen shrugged as though it were a trivial thing to consider. "Well, looking around me right now, two is the best case scenario, three's the worst if I ignore your stupid little pact you guys made. I mean, come on! What's a few lives? We can make more. That's what we do, isn't it?"
"Uh, how about no deaths? That'd be great," Chick tentatively threw out, breaking into the dialogue.
Stephen glared at him. "You have given me nothing but trouble since the day I brought you in. You didn't do what I required of you, and you know you're not welcome until you do. Don't talk again. Let the experts handle this."
Chick shuddered slightly in rage. He had no tolerance for being on the receiving end of such condescension. He became acutely aware of the fact that Stephen no longer had a hold on him. He could actually act against his oppressors will! But how could he do so effectively? His weapons were all scattered in a dumpster somewhere on Chrysler's property.
"I'm only gonna say this once, so listen up," Stephen announced, growing short with patience. "You came to talk this out? We're talking. You're not going to change my mind. I'm not one to start something and leave it unfinished. If you want so bad to end this today, then let it end the way it was intended."
"No."
Strip's voice resonated off the concrete walls around them with the same intensity and clarity his cutting stare held. If Stephen wasn't going to play nice, he wasn't either.
"You don't have power over us. You can't make us fight."
Stephen looked over at the Dinoco racer and nodded in approval despite the disappointment in his eyes.
"You know, it's a shame really," the Ford said in an elevated tone fueled with irritation. "You were always my favorite racer. I was quite the fan for a while, despite your stupid make and model. I liked the way you handled yourself on the track - made me think you were smarter than this. I sometimes wondered what I'd do if you turned out to be the missing thirteenth fighter. I guess now I know."
Stephen reached under the table and flicked a switch. Everyone in the room stiffened in apprehension as a little red light flickered to life next to it. There was a short buzz as nothing happened. Stephen's countenance failed.
Chick let out a victorious laugh at the absence of any noticeable action.
"Kill switch don't work so well anymore, does it?" he asked with renewed confidence.
"What?" Stephen seemed shocked, looking around the room in confusion. His gaze settled on Paul.
"All in an alliance," Paul said nonchalantly. "I said I'd do anything to help end this, yeah? That includes unwiring high jacked nervous systems for an ally."
Stephen growled. "This is a simple problem. A simple solution. Honestly, look at you all. Why don't you start with the flimsy guy there in the red, huh? He's harmless. Someone finish him off. Get this thing started."
"But I worked so hard on him," Paul said quietly from across the room.
Lightning sat uneasily between Strip and Rick, waiting. He didn't know what he was waiting for. Death? Someone to save him? To wake up and find all of this a dream?
"I don't even know why you made him to begin with," Rick muttered. "No offense, kid."
Paul looked down at the ground in front of him and frowned. He let out a labored sigh.
"Well, if I'm being honest, it was my plan B," he admitted. "I could try to outdo all of your guys' battle tech, or I could make some bait."
Bait? Strip's mind started turning. He'd used Lightning as bait earlier to drag Chick out of town. Lightning – the alliance – was the reason they were all together in Detroit, having this conversation to begin with.
Lightning was just a means to an end.
Strip felt himself grow cold in fear.
"Anything to end a war, right?" Paul asked.
Instinctively, Strip forced himself to transform faster than he thought possible and covered Lightning with his wing.
A loud bang reverberated off the lab walls, mixing with the hysteria of multiple screams.
Strip felt a spray of oil spatter onto his hood.