Sorry about the duplications and mistakes I've made, this is my first time using this site as a writer, hoping to get better each day. They have been fixed, and I continually edit chapters to fix any grammatical or duplicate errors.
My life has been busier this week, and I didn't get to update yesterday. Here it is, the next part will most likely be posted later today. I already have Chapter 7 drafted. It's where the film begins.
Chapter 6 : 'Oil, Oil, and More Oil'
The Copper Canyon Speedway was full of life as cars drove each and every direction preparing for the late afternoon's race. Some racers and their crew had even showed up to practice on the track, albeit, away from the comotion behind the pit-lane.
A Piston Cup official idled beside a large grey tank. He made a turn towards the seven employees parked in front of him.
Four of them, sporting a plain dark blue paintjob on their metal, and giddy faces poorly masked by the forced, stoic demeanor any professional could identify.
The other two– one of them, red, sporting '95' and lightning bolts all over his front to rear, and the other, grey and covered in 'Octane Gain' stickers. The car in red looked like a speed-bump had hit his undercarriage, his eyes darted left and right with wheels rolling back and forth slightly, searching for McQueen like his life depended on it. The other one looked bored out of his mind.
And the last employee, a girl– a convertible with a peach scheme, she observed the instructor diligently, her excitement was kept timidly at bay.
"As I demonstrated before," the pick-up truck instructor continued, "You will bring any, and all empty quarts of oil to your situated stations to be re-filled."
He glanced back to the large tank behind him, "And each station has one of these oil resevoirs, you simply roll the gauge to the quantity of quarts needed, and press the red button. The tank does the res–"
"McQueen! It's Lightning McQueen!" his red, oil runner fan yelled at the top of his voice, cracking it in the process, and scaring his fellow employees. The instructor rolled his eyes at the display.
Lightning, passing by with his pit-crew on his tail, braked abruptly, and glanced over through gritted teeth and squinted eyes. The volume of the fan's voice was louder than the commotion in the speedway.
"Hey, it's good to see you too," Lightning answered, whilst he glanced between the seven cars staring him down. He observed the red racer, an obvious fan, and smiled brightly to him.
McQueen revved his engine once, and chanted his 'Ka-Chow' bit. "Stay safe," he said accelerating to his pit.
The six of the oil runners began swooning over the recent interaction like high school boys, before their attention was chaste away with a grunt from the instructor. The convertible shifted on her axles awkwardly, feeling out of place.
"Now, if your station is out of oil– unlikely– you can get it from any other station," the instructor rehashed.
"But watch your driving. We've got reporters, pitties, and EMS– all more important, operating the arena as well."
The truck gestured a forklift holding strips of large decals, each one displaying the Piston Cup Racing Series logo.
"Get these guys in uniform," the instructor announced. Each car in front of him now observing the decals stickered to on the pick-up's sides.
"Man, this is so cool," one of the dark blue cars said, his face lighting up as he began lining up behind the six others.
"We all have a long day of training ourselves." the instructor smiled proudly.
"Here will do." Ray gestured for the tow-truck to drop the wheeled machine. He presented Ray with a discouraged look, pursing his lips as he drove off
"Hey, it's the best we can do for Storm's privacy." Ray answered. He pressed the the release hatch, and the hefty contraption began to unfold itself slowly with a robotic chime. The tow-truck returned, pulling in the rest of the components for the machine, promptly dropping them neatly.
Ray glanced behind him to greet the subtle engines of two approaching forklifts, both donning the IGNTR paint and number.
"Sweet training facility, Reverham," One of the pitties said, sarcastically. He glanced around the dingy room,
"Storm's gonna love training in the hotel basement."
"Well, this is what you get without a training facility. I got him the largest room down here, Leon," Ray replied.
"Now you and Quincy, set up the ramp and Jackson's optimum settings," he began to drive off, "I'll go find our rookie."
When Ray drove around the lobby of the hotel, the last thing he wanted to notice, was that Storm was still in his room. Sure, it was early, but he had been through early morning drills before. Ray headed to the higher levels of the suites.
Exiting the elevator, Ray spotted his rookie down the hallway, staring at the comotion of the Copper Canyon Speedway from the high up hotel window as cars sped in and out.
"Jackson," Ray called, rolling up to him, "big day's here, time to train until late afternoon, then you'll be on the track."
Jackson continued to idle at the window. After a moment he spoke,
"Two guys thought I was a 'wannabe' when I came out of my suite. They saw the sponsors, and everything..." Jackson trailed off, his eyes catching sight of something outside, as he spoke.
"I've got several 'wins' under my hood, several months of training, for this?" he said in a questioning voice. Ray sighed.
"Fellow racers that have a world of fans, insulting the new guy?" Jackson said, as his eyes began searching the cars in the stadium for something he wasn't finding.
"For the love of Chrysler..." Ray muttered, he had already told Jackson to ignore the comments. The rookie always found himself bothered by something, whether it was track marbles, the scent of burning rubber, or losing a video game.
Jackson side-eyed Ray, straightening himself on his axles.
"Someone cheered for me last night, when I was doing laps."
Ray's eyes gave a confused expression. Jackson started his way down the hall, as Ray drove beside him, listening.
"Who cheered?" Ray asked.
"I don't know, but it was a girl."
"Hmm, how did she get in the arena..."
"Not a clue," Jackson pressed the elevator button, listening as the lift approached. "Maybe she was cleaning staff."
"Or a fan," Ray replied. Jackson glanced at his crew chief, he raised an eyebrow at the idea.
Ray observed Jackson's expression. He seemed calm, level-headed, but somewhat curious. His grey eyes must've been searching the chaos at the speedway in the distance earlier for some girl who really didn't matter.
"But it doesn't matter," Jackson continued as the door chimed and announced it was going down.
"I have a race to win."
Ray's face brightened up. The last thing he needed was a Storm headed over this girl's hood after she made her display. He would never admit it, but Ray knew Jackson must've never really hung out with girls. The guys down at the arcade were rambunctious, loud, rough and competitive. This girl, whoever she was, must've heard about his wins online, and wanted a piece of his bumper. That, or she was actually an honest fan of the rookie amongst pessimist veteran racers. Either reality didn't sit too well with Ray, knowing how boys could act when they chase after girls. He had dealt with rookies who fell off their game before when they spent a minute with groupies.
Jackson, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed, and indifferent about the situation.
"Glad you're staying focussed, Storm." Ray said, as the elevator chimed, revealing the hotel lobby. "This way."
The pick-up accelerated to a long hallway past the main entrance. Jackson looked amongst the lobby once, then followed.
"...Where did you put my simulator?" Jackson questioned, as the hallway turned, creating a looping ramp headed downstairs.
"In the basement," Ray answered simply as he pushed open the doors. "It's private, it's quiet, and it–"
"Ridiculous?" Jackson guessed Ray's final words. Ray's face became amused as Jackson's eyes scanned the room, stopping on his two pitties, Leon and Quincy.
"Hey, Stormy," Leon said, perched beside the simulator, ready to be used. "Sim's ready."
Quincy rocked side to side on his wheels, humming some tunes playing in his head.
Jackson glanced at Ray, his face adorning a dumbfounded expression.
"It was here, or the parking lot." Ray smiled. Jackson sighed, then approached the simulator.
The machine's twin treadmills for each front and back tire was still in pristine condition despite being used numerous times before at the IGNTR facility. It's intricate screen displayed an RPM gauge sitting at '0' along with a speedometer at zero MPH. A series of readers lined down the screen, each displaying the rider's drag force, racing line accuracy in percent, and his velocity on turns. The old timer racers wished they could have this sort of cutting-edge technology.
Storm eased his way onto the simulator, his eyes– relaxed and collected. Ray knew this was one way Jackson blew off steam. Racing on the simulator was a calm pass time for him.
"Start it up," Ray said. Leon pressed a golden button on the screen on his computer, side-lining the simulator. Jackson's wheels were locked in place, and the simulator announced, "The green fla–"
Before finishing it's sentence, Storm was racing down the virtual track. His speed gradually picking up from 60mph, to 100mph, racing to 190mph in a matter of thirty seconds.
Leon and four other pitties analyzed the data on the computers as Ray watched Jackson own the virtual track.
Quincy remained in his own world, swaying beside an ignoring Ray.
"Drag, good. Line, ninety-eight percent." One forklift said, scanning his eyes from the computer to Storm.
"Speed, two hundred and five miles per hour. Pristine." Leon said.
"You know, I can go faster than this," Jackson stated.
"Save that for the final lap," Ray said, "everything is looking great, Jackson."
He focussed on the virtual track in front of him, imagining it was the Copper Canyon Speedway just outside. The hollering of the grandstands, the marbles on the track, even the smell of exhaust, Jackson imagine all of it vividly as he stared at the edges of the track, immersed.
In his cabin, all he heard was 'McQueen' chanted over and over, in his own daydream. Who was this guy anyway?
The thought of losing to these old guys made Jackson's gas tank turn. He knew it wasn't obvious, but he relished in the idea of knowing all the cars doubting him now, would be bowing their hoods for him in hours. Keeping his cool was a normal thing about Jackson, as long as things were to his liking, or indifference– which was most of the time– he was as calm as the starry night.
In the end, whoever this 'Lightning McQueen' guy– or 'Champion'– was, he was going down today.
Shannon smiled brightly as she greeted Piston Series staff passing her station on Victory Lane.
"Hello, nice to meet you," she repeated as each car passed, stopping to shake her tire. Her usual friendly nature beamed.
Chick Hick's accelerated past her, giving her a grin. He headed towards the grandstands, working his way through the commotion of racers and staff alike. His eyes suddenly caught sight of a girl, working hard to measure each quart of oil the tank released into cans. Her eyes scanned over the numbers situated on the cans, and she checked off a sheet when what she saw was satisfactory.
"Well, what do we have here," Chick smiled, "One of Dinoco's girls is working hard?"
Melise's eyes darted to the racer in front of her. She smiled awkwardly while laughing nervously.
Chick's tone became more casual, "what's a young, cute, car like you doing out here, and playing with oil."
"This has to be measured properly, otherwise someone could get a stomach-ache." She mused, her voice resonating confidence only she knew was masked by her normal shyness. Melise was surprised she even pulled it off.
"Ah, so pretty, and smart," Chick drove around her, reading her mark down sheet briefly.
"Stay safe out here, watch out for the big, burly racers." He joked once more, driving off to the grandstands.
Melise sighed, when a voice suddenly came from behind her.
"Hey, don't mind him," A blue race car, donning the Dinoco sponsor said, his voice resonating a friendly and slight southern accent. He smiled at Melise as she turned, realizing who it was. It was Cal Weathers. She returned the kind expression.
"He's like that with everyone, crass jokes." Cal stated, as Lightning McQueen pulled up beside him. He greeted Melise with a nod of his hood and a friendly smile.
"Yeah," Lightning began, "You did all this work by yourself?" His tone resonated honesty and geniality.
Melise nodded once, her expression timid. "Yes," she answered him.
"I knew it," Cal said, "When we stopped getting oil after Lightning gave those boys autographs. We knew someone must be doing the extra work."
"You're doing a good job," Lightning said, glancing at all the oil canisters filled properly.
Melise's face wore a look of confusion, which quickly turned into a smile of thanks.
"Oh, thank... you," she replied as she glanced to see her fellow oil runners playing soccer with an empty canister, while four others adored a signed fender on McQueen's obvious red-painted fan. He cringed away from his pals when they tried to touch the sacred autograph.
"Well, keep up the good work," McQueen said, he glanced at Cal, "we appreciate it."
"Yes," Melise began, "Good luck, both of you." she said shyly. The two racers smiled genuinely.
"Thanks, we appreciate that too," Cal said.
Melise watched as the two began to drive off, Cal said 'Goodbye' while McQueen smiled. She had to admit they both sounded slightly similar, their accents were both southern, albeit, McQueen's faded in and out when he spoke, while Cal's was slightly there. She had seen McQueen on television, heard his voice in advertisements, but only noticed his twang when he was right in front of her.
Melise glanced about the stadium, viewing the mostly vacant grandstands. A few staff relaxed and others used to distance to converse preparation for the race later today.
She tried to imagine what this place would look like later. Screaming fans, RV's clustered in the infield, the scent of oil and exhaust, burning rubber, loud engines reving left and right... Melise genuinely wondered how Shannon did it. It seemed overwhelming even for a RSN spokescar who wasn't racing.
She did another once over the speedway, today was going to be a crazy and different day, and she wasn't sure she was ready for it.