Chapter 10 : Cruise

Jackson didn't waste a minute to settle down after he reversed into his trailer. The space was already dark, making him feel more weary than he already was.

Everything was set to go. Luggage, packed. Tires, stored. IGNTR souvenirs, put away. Piston Cup, stored away.

The racer yawned, and closed his eyes. Peace and quiet away from screeching fans was enough for the long trip. Jackson lost track of how many pictures he had starred in with fans, how many autographs and spoilers he had signed as early as 5 AM, to make things more boring, he had to speak with IGNTR over the phone last night for nearly three hours, scheduling interviews, discussing news about training hours at the upcoming tracks, and urgency to avoid the Press unless required to speak to them. Now it was mid afternoon and he was exhausted.

Gale parked beside Ray, watching the trailer getting it's routine inspection.

"He's such a trooper, not even breaking a sweat." Gale beamed, she glanced to Ray. He raised an eyebrow, staring at the trailer.

"Knowing Jackson, he's probably catching some Z's now."

Ray always noted that Jackson was keen to keeping his weaknesses, even simple normal things, like fatigue at bay. He had grown from a brash trainee racer to a professional within months. During that time, the race car had gone from random outbursts of annoyance, to a reserved stoic car. Ray appreciated the effort, as he only had to tell Jackson once, and he straightened up gradually on his own.

"Good to go," the inspector said, nodding his hood once, "have a safe drive, Beaufort."

Ray waved 'bye' to Gale, and she hooked herself up. She took a glance back to Ray, and smiled, starting her engine. As she exited the stadium, the other racing team trailers– assortments of bright colors around the black trailer.

Thankful of the Piston Series officials, Ray had been given news that there were several simulators, the same model as Jackson's, waiting to be used by arriving racers. Less hassle not having to transport the big machine everywhere.

"Alright, I'm not going to need to carry along the simulator this time," Ray muttered to himself, thinking over the new information he had been briefed with. He headed back to the hotel a final time to finish up final preparations, and to make sure his racer didn't leave anything behind.

"... McQueen fans, sharing the same surprise and some, contempt, with the rookie's win."

The Vehicular News reporter stated in the final portion of his segment.

Quincy flipped the channel, seeing a similar report on Jackson's win. It felt damn great to be a member of this team.

The forklift peeked outside of the small room inside the trailer, Jackson was still, his taillights off, as soft, almost, inaudible snores filled the dark room. Quincy's face changed from a look of excitment to a sigh of annoyance seeing the racer napping.

"Why sleep when you could be celebrating?" he whispered, closing himself back into the room. Quincy glanced about the room, finding his bottles under the pile of tires in the corner. He popped the cork off of one with ease, downing half the bottle in one swish. He parked himself in the corner, thinking about whether or not Jackson would be up for getting wasted, or partying and getting drunk instead. The racer didn't seem to be very social, so wasted in the trailer it was. Quincy tucked several bottle away to the side, leaving himself with two unopened bottles of fresh gasohol, and one nearly finished.

"To... uh," the forklift thought for a moment, "to IGNTR, beating the other guys' tailpipes... and whatever else."

Quincy downed the last drops of the beverage, reaching for the second bottle instinctively. He opened it with his front bottom teeth, and began gulping.

When Jackson felt the trailer jerk to a stop, then head around traffic, his eyes opened in a series of slow, unalarmed blinks. He glanced to the windows, seeing the day had reached evening, the sun hovered just above the trees in the distance.

Jackson rolled out his axles, reading the digital clock above the trailer door.

6:49 PM

He cringed slightly at the time, he knew it was about 4 PM when he dosed off, but now it was practically nighttime.

He just needed to focus on the next track, the next race. He knew it had to come easy, Jackson barely felt his engine giving full horsepower as he sped pass the other racers.

A thud echoed through the trailer, and the race car glanced to the floor suspiciously. After the sound repeated itself a second time, Jackson's eyes lined their way to the trailer's backroom.

A series of knocks on the door lead to no answer, so Jackson pushed the door open with a single tire. His face contouring squinted eyes as the light inside blinded his dreary eyes, used to the dark.

"Two points," Quincy said, tossing an empty gasohol bottle into one of the tires, the bottle making a loud clank as it made contact with the blue rim inside. Jackson's eyelid twitched in a dumbfounded expression at the sight. He watched as Quincy's second toss bounced off the wall in an utterly horrible aim. The bottle rolled along the floor, towards Jackson's left tire.

"Oh... oh... it's still goin'" the forklift slurred, watching the bottle roll, and eventually stop against the racer's tire. Quincy's eyes trailed up, meeting Jackson's grey, hollow stare.

"Aye, that's my man," Quincy said, giving Jackson's tire a handshake the race car was uninterested in returning. "I saved you some," he pointed his lift in the direction of merely three liquor bottle left unopened. Jackson studied the bottle for a second before realizing exactly what Quincy had been up to.

"You were drinking," Jackson stated, his eyes narrowed at the mess, a single broken bottle lay among the tires, the several others, scattered around the floor. One bottle, inside the imaginary basketball net of race car tires.

"You don't wanna celebrate with your pal?" Quincy asked, stumbling on his tires.

"I've celebrated enough," Jackson replied, looking the forklift down incredulously. "Clean this up." The race car began reversing out of the room, his eyes disassociating any interest further.

"Aye, wait,"

Jackson's eyes focussed on him, addressing his pitty.

"Can you sing?"

"No."

"Sing me a song," the forklift smiled as Jackson's face became dumbfounded once again.

"What? No, clean this crap u–"

"Tell me a story," Quincy asked out of touch with reality, he parked himself in front of an annoyed Jackson Storm.

Jackson stared back, annoyed with Ray for bringing the alcoholic aboard his trailer,

"Just go back in there, and don't come out until I say so," the racer said. Quincy grinned, then rolled his way back into the room. Jackson closed the door, glancing outside the window. Still plains and trees, still a long journey. He sighed, Gale would eventually make a stop to recharge, hopefully, Quincy would be out of it by then, maybe puking.

Ray had told Jackson to keep his cool, focus on what mattered, the Piston Cup. There was a new day coming up, and a night to recuperate.