Author's note: Hello guys, sorry for the extra long wait, I was extra busy these last few weeks and didn't get much of a chance to read over reviews or check out other stories in the fandom. I've noticed that some of the recent chapters can seem 'boring' and more or less snippets of one-shots with Jackson and Ray and the others, but I assure you, things are still going up and down for each character, but there will also always be the "slower days' for action. I tend to really try to capture the essence of each character as they interact with other cars around them, and I want readers to have a solid ground of how Jackson (and the others for that matter) think and reason in different situations.

Hope you are all doing great, Happy Halloween! And Vroom vroom!

Chapter 24: Some Things Never Change

The paint must've been a hue made to match a training track for a driving school of all places. A bright, carnival or arcade-like red font lining turn one and turn two. From the dark green Faux Wheel Drive team's pit, the crew chief— a pick-up truck doning the darkened army green colors, watched his racer ease his way around the track.

"This place looks like the track from racing school," Hurb, sporting his number 54 scoffed with a smile, speaking through his speaker , "it even feels like it."

His crew chief watched as some other racers entered the track, soon falling in line behind, "yeah, well, don't get too comfy, we gotta train."

"Maybe if I ease it up the RPM's, I'll make it to third place," the racer said. He listened to the hums of engines following his steady lead. The small pack soon sped up with Hurb's sudden jolt to 190 mph, their engines howling in the arena as some RSN officials cheered, and idling racers watched on, preping.

Leon ignored the growling race cars zipping around the track as the ground trembled under his small frame. He rolled down the series of parked trailers. The simple tone colors that once decorated each trailer now replaced with ombrés, tinted windows, and sleek polished tones that shimmered in darkness and light. Gale watched him approaching Jackson's closed trailer, ready to give him the usual one liner Ray was known to beckon his racer with.

"Where's Ray?" Gale said, quickly obstructing the pitty from the trailer's hatch with her body. He shot her an inquisitive look, "He's not here yet, but sent me a message to tell Storm— if he's not already— to start tearing up the track."

Gale reversed, lining herself up beside the trailer to face Leon. He noticed her peek inside the tinted window quickly before she turned her attention back to him. She looked as if she saw a ghost.

"Jackson's sleeping right now."

Leon stared back, blinking once, "Uh… he does know it's time to train, right?"

Gale sighed, "Of course he does! Storm's just taking a rest now— I mean come on he's gonna do fine, he's on a streak. Just let him... recuperate."

Leon stared back, he finally blew out a sigh. He opened his mouth to comment when the trailer hatch suddenly rolled down, revealing Jackson Storm, his expression it's usual nature with a hint of indifference to the world around him.

"I know it's training time," he said simply, looking at his forklift pitty. "I'll be out in 5 minutes, no reminder needed."

"No problem, Jack," Leon said, watching Gale seemingly shrink as Jackson didn't address her when he closed himself away a second time. His demeanor hardly seeming groggy or moody, just to-the-point.

Gale quickly followed the forklift, "Leo, wait!"

He soon turned on his treads, facing the approaching truck. "What was that about, anyway?"

She exhaled a breath, giving the environment a quick scan for privacy, "I don't really want to annoy him with demands."

"It's his job to race, train, repeat." Leon answered, raising a lid.

Gale scoffed, "I know that, duh! He just seems, I don't really know, kind of irritable the last few days."

Leon sighed, "He's got a race tomorrow morning, IGNTR, RSN, and we, all have expectations for him, and he knows it."

Jackson saw Gale leave the side of the trailer, allowing hot sunlight to warm his rim through the tinted trailer's windows. His eyes fell closed as he allowed his thoughts to flow freely.

What was this? The sixth, seventh win? It mattered. He would keep this up with the same ease. There was no real challenge with the other racers, they were fast, but they weren't as talented as him. Every turn, Jackson could feel the track rise, his axles could feel the traction fighting back with little chance of beating him. He maintained his speed as the track would straighten itself on his path, his engine blocking out much of the screaming audience, they were probably cheering for veteran racers that weren't here anymore. It didn't matter when Jackson could see the 'S' emblem sported on antennas and IGNTR souvenirs in the grandstands when he zipped by. The cars knew who the new champion was.

The cheers were good, sometimes they shouted, "Go Storm!", or his favorite, "There's a storm coming!" from the mouth of Darrell Cartrip as his electric roars pass the announcer's block. Jackson couldn't see the guy, but he heard there was some sort of flame get-up on his front end. Sounded cool enough as long as his voice didn't match his model. When Storm took a glance at the box high up above the cars in the audience, he caught a glare of sharp sunlight. That didn't disturb him as much as it once did, but the rare sight of a peachy vehicle caught his attention. He didn't catch much of a glance as he zipped by. If he was lucky he'd have noticed earlier, but the last lap was a breeze like any other.

His cool grey eyes scanned some pitties passing by with several tires in load outside the window. This was his 'Me' time, and Gale didn't have to be so weird about it. Speaking of weird...

Melsie? Or no—Melise, that was it. Weird rare names for weird rare cars. How could he forget a car like her? He still could hear her voice raise up an octave as she choked to scream out a cheer for him during his rookie week. She was always... interesting. Not just the doe eyes and guileless expression on a car no more than a few years younger than him, but the way she carried herself. Had he actually remembered much past the big eyes and peachy paint, on a twee front, or her terrified face when she lost control and scratched a speck of his paint. She drove like pre-schooler.

Maybe it was her who made the boredom ease out. She fell into a fountain like a clumsy and dumb tractor, fortunately she made it look graceful. Whenever she opened her mouth, something different came out each time. When Hicks opened his mouth, he was rambling redundancy even McQueen was tired of hearing. Some out-dated Piston Cup in tow as he pranced around on air. The other racers held up a front for the cameras and behind the scenes. The same one-liners to keep the press happy and the Network hustling.

She, Peaches— wasn't trying to squeeze into a cookie-cutter. She was a weirdo, the kind that Jackson was certain bit around a cookie instead of through it. She was a seasoned car who took her place and held it. Her traction was definitely under par, and her horsepower was weaker than an old forklift's, but she was always trying, even when she made a fool of herself. Storm had an admiration for cars who didn't give up, he knew the pride all too well himself.

One image the race car couldn't seem to erase from his mind was the apparent coy expression of contempt on her front as he arrived at the airport. She probably tried to hide it, but she wasn't as quick as him— in any way. She had her lids raised up in an arch, her eyes seemed to sparkle as she caught sight of Jackson Storm. For merely a few seconds, she managed to poke out her bottom lip in a pout, and her cheeks were rosier than usual. She had an even more interesting 'angry face', like a pissed angel wagon. Jackson was certain her reaction was to the sound of his revving, or presence in general. He would have to make a mental note to rev and catch her look of fluster and flush if he saw her again. She looked even better with pink tinge around her hood, especially if he was the influence of it.

But she was still a total weirdo— a cuter weirdo at that. He had already encountered a fair share of strange fans, some who would make a guy as car-pleasing as Treadless reverse in repulsion. Who asks for their undercarriage or tail pipe to be signed? Melise wasn't a fan, or so she claimed, but Jackson was still certain she pushed her luck at the airport when she left. Not only did she hug him without asking first, but she chose the slow lane over an interesting life. If it all meant nothing, she must've hardly had something here to begin with, as inconclusive as the idea seemed to be.

Quincy and Gale input a number of hers on the trailer phone, but it was of little use. Call her? What for? Hey how's the weather in your boring life? Useless. But he'd keep it anyway, even if she couldn't call him. Maybe she would somehow invade his life pleasantly again. Melise could be a spectator the grandstands, Piston Cup staff again— not a racer though, she wasn't much of a gutsy driver when it came to speeding. Worse yet, if she crashed then, that might be the last time he would see her. She looked good in peach, she looked even better put together, and with his print on her left fender.

Bringing himself back to reality, Jackson listened to the sounds of engines sweeping across the track in the distance. This job wasn't tough enough, and he wasn't sure how much more boring it could get. There was another race to win, and he was already certain how that would turn out.

He pushed the open button, and the hatch fell down steadily. Cameras flooded in, flashing on Jackson Storm's entrance to the track. His eyes apathetic to the mass following him.

"Storm! Jackson! Can we get a quick broadcast of how things are looking?"

"Sign my hood! Here!"

His tires kept rolling, "I've got a place to be right now. Later on." Jackson said, his eyes focussed on the BnL logo ahead.

Hurb accelerated forward, passing Treadless and Swervez after he rounded the second turn. They were hot on his tail as he watched the clear track ahead of him. It was peaceful, no cars to bump into, and a sense of freedom seeing the barren route all to himself. Hurb's eyes widened as an approaching engine became louder and louder. Soon enough, Jackson Storm zipped by, his face neutral as usual as he left nearly two vehicles of space between Curbler and himself. The IGNTR racer's black spoiler caught a glimpse of sunlight, and flickered as his engine dominated the stadium. Hurb felt his short lived reign falling to the top three again as his eyes focussed on the bold 2.0 painted on Jackson's rear. It was a familiar sight as Curbler entered each turn just as Storm was finishing it. Soon enough there was a distance as Hurb listened for his crew chief to say something. When his voice never came, he glance to the pit road to see him staring in awe at Storm rounding the second turn.

He was certain if there was a crowd in the grandstands they would be louder than Piston Cup oil runners with their empty quart cans hooting and hollering behind the pit lane.

"Wow! Did you see that!?" his crew chief's voice came.

"I always see it," Hurb said, annoyed. "Every, single, race."

From the safety of the Pits, Grid watched the Jumbotron. The IGNTR racer's face remained stern as his eyes shifted naturally around in his line of focus. He didn't smile to the cheering crowd, he didn't even seem to take note of the track he was sharing with the other racers. He was owning everything, and by the envious expression on Tony's hood nearby, it wasn't much of a friendly gesture.

"Keep dreamin' Tony," the grey car said flatly, insinuating on of Tony's usual glares at him. The blue pick-up truck said nothing else, and accelerated back to his station.

Once alone, Tony pressed his treads into the asphalt grating dirt and marbles as he moved his tires alone the pavement. He saw the way he treated his fans. He was a glorious racer, yeah. But the way he just ignored cars, and brushed off fans. Tony knew he would kill to have a life filled with fans and groupies, cameras following him to his races and broadcasting the glamour. Storm ignored all of it like it was some sort of boring plasma television to replace the old broken one.

Tony pulled his eyes from the asphalt below to see Storm glancing on the big screen towards the grandstands as some cars poured in. His eyes ran over them with this vibe of interest he should've had with his fans. Who doesn't love fans? They make life easier when they aren't moping the floor with all your problems. Some of them were probably fun too, although Jackson seemed uninterested in anything else. Tony could see right through his façade. It pissed him off more than he wanted to admit. Storm had everything, speed, talent, glamour and he was epic to the core, but the car himself was a total jerk. How didn't anyone else see it?

An approaching engine did little to pull away his attention from the interesting pavement.

"Grid, just go dude, I need to fix my station anyway. The boss man says we are the worst oil runners he's ever had." Tony sighed.

"Name's Danny, not, uh 'Grid'," the race car scanned his eyes over the cans of oil as Tony's eyes darted up, and awe rose in them as he watched the Octane Gain racer tapping one of his own quarts of oil with his large racing tire curiously.

"Oil!?" Tony choked out with a raspy voice he almost didn't recognize as his own. This was the Daniel Swervez, right before his eyes.

Danny looked him down with concern, "You good?"

The blue pick-up truck nodded his hood quickly in awestruck. Swervez stared back, his expression perplexed and slightly amused.

"Ok, need four cans in my pit."

Tony hardly hesitated as he hogged several cans and followed the race car to his team's pit, spilling a few as he drove.

"I only need four, bro. But thanks." Swervez scanned his eyes over the mess as Tony's eyes remained transfixed on the Octane Gain colors around him.

"Chrysler! Dude I saw you on an RSN special like— a few months ago! You're the new Bobby Swift!" Tony turned to see his best friend, Grid rolling over. His bumper was curled into a grin.

Approaching forklifts gave the grey car a look that said they didn't care much for the legendary Bobby Swift. They, however, looked impressed by his Octane Gain decals and souvenir. They raised their brows in unison as Danny turned on his tires to face the new car.

"Hey. Thanks man," Swervez laughed as he scanned over the two young men. "Want an autograph?"

"YES!" Grid screamed as his eyes lit up in joy. Tony only opened his mouth, unable to get his own appraisal out before his fan-boy friend.

"Hey!" Danny turned with the short rev of his engine, "Can someone get me some ink for these guys!?" he asked his team as they searched for a utensil.

"Who cares about Storm when you've got Swervez?" Tony whispered to Grid.

The grey car gave his friend a smirk, "whatever you say. Everyone knows you wish you were him, though."

Storm sped by along the track, engine rumbling as he overlapped several racers. Grid's voice drowned out under it's volume.

"I don't, actually." Tony muttered.

Danny soon arrived back, his crew chief at his side, "Alright. The hood or fender? I ain't going anywhere else just to let you guys know." the race car said as the two boys grinned, forgetting their discussion.

"On the fender!" Grid exclaimed in excitement.

"He's already a legend, you know?"

Melise blinked her eyes several times trying to keep her mind peeling. She glanced from her vanity to the two crew members gawking at the dressing room television. She could hear the V8 engines and Bob Cutlass navigating viewers. They were watching the Racing Network.

The convertible kept her eyes away as she felt her heart ache. Why did so many cars have to love racing?

She made sure to arrive early for the photo op. But the last thing she expected was to be alone, waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive. She didn't want to admit it, but she fit into the new environment like a fifth tire. The crew was kind, inviting even, but Melise could feel her awkward presence falling in quickly.

"Okay, we've got about fourteen hours," Reyna busted into the room, commanding a small professional team of cars following in. Melise nearly jumped from her undercarriage as the BMW accelerated around the room, issuing different exercises to the cars.

"Since she is new, give her four sets," Reyna continued as the team listened, ignoring a startled Melise off to the side. "We need to see her at each angle so we know which is flattering."

The BMW turned to Melise, whom could only muster a nervous smile back, "You have a busy day ahead of you Miss Rūūnes." Melise could see her eyes scan her up and down quickly, assessing her appearance. Reyna didn't look pleased.

"We need to get her prepared," Reyna said aloud, gesturing the artist to approach Melise. "Why are you still wearing those bandages?" Reyna asked. Melise could sense some unrecognizable hostility in her tone.

"A doctor— they said it must stay on for a least a month until my headlight heals." Melise answered, her voice small.

"We need it off for the shoot," Reyna replied simply. "We'll be covering you in a better-looking coat of rose."

Melise stared on stunned, but began to oblige slowly and reluctantly. Her fender and cheek still felt raw sometimes, and she felt exposed with her bandage removed. Things were changing so quickly, and she wasn't sure she could keep up.

Pulling her tire through the cotton, the material soon came loose, and fell from her light to the ground. The warmth of it's touch no longer there and replaced with the breeze of cold air on her metal.

"Good," Reyna said, "You'll be taking fourteen hours to shoot, don't be stiff." she turned on her tires to the rest of the team, "Turo is counting on us, IGNTR is counting on us, let's move."

With that, the cars accelerated with efficiency to their blocks. The artist at Melise's side was joined by a forklift holding a can of spray paint. "So we're gonna get you ready, and then you'll do the shots, 'kay?" she stated in a sassy tone.

Without another word, Melise watched as her four tires were covered, and the forklift began painting over her bright peach color with a darker toned, bronze rose color that shimmered under the bright vanity light. She closed her eyes, praying for the best today.

In the dimmed room of the model floor, Reyna chatted away on her calls, eying the white space as she waited for the convertible to show.

Backstage, Melise felt her cab weigh down with new tires bolted in. Her face felt stiff and cakes with false lashes and heavy windshield makeup. Each blink took energy, and to keep her eyes as wide open as they once were was nearly non-existent.

"Ah, looking elegant and sparkling!" the forklift said, eying the convertible in her new get-up. Melise smiled at her awkwardly, unable to see for herself what she looked like. The feel was enough to say it was different.

"Chop, chop! Get her onto the runway, we need to get these shots ASAP!"

The vehicles rushed to the corridor luminated by dimmed flood lights. Melise could hardly see a thing in the glare of the runway spotlights, the audience was hardly visible as she rolled out onto the stage.

'I should runway roll,' Melise thought, nervousness peaking as she pushed the weight of the tires and moved along the path. In her head-on line of sight, Reyna was parked, evaluating the entire thing with keen eyes.

"Ah! You look so beautiful, like a Mayflower in the sunlight!" Reyna said, looking Melise up and down. The convertible's eyes were squinted as she tried to keep them open under the weight of heavy makeup and flashing photography.

"T-thank—"

"Much better than you did before! Darker paint, that's her coat!" Reyna continued. The cars beside, posh, and one wearing an IGNTR logo on his side, nodded and scribbled away. Melise stared on, awkward and out of place.

"Turn to the left," Reyna commanded. Melise accelerated and turned without question. The BMW appeared to be in deep thought as she looked the convertible up and down.

"Good, now to the right."

After a moment of silence and flickering, Melise straightened on her tires. She kept her shy eyes down as the small audience of staff watched on, whispering and scribbling more notes.

"Okay, everyone take ten minutes. I will handle the rest from here!" Reyna shouted. The other vehicles scattered back to their own matters, leaving Reyna to drive up onto the runway with a nervous and lonely Melise.

"You've never cat-cruised before have you?" she asked, her voice sounding friendlier again. Melise shook her hood.

"Never." she answered, her voice small.

"I can tell," the BMW continued. She lead Melise backstage, "We have a lot of work to do."

"Did I move wrong? Pose incorrectly?" Melise asked, unsure of how to answer the disappointment.

"Honesty, all of it. You're too stiff," Reyna explained, "you drive too cautiously, you don't smile, your axles are trembling, and you look goofy. We need to fix this now."

Melise didn't expect to feel hurt by the comment, but she didn't know how else to feel. She sucked in her bottom lip, lowering her eyes. Reyna turned to take a phone call.

While the BMW chatted away, Melise took a hefty cruise to the vanity once covered by vehicles preparing her, now empty to her sight. The car in the mirror stared back with a surprised look Melise didn't recognize. She was totally confused.

Her entire body was several shades darker in a pink color mixed with bronze, creating a rose-gold finish that shimmered and sparkled under light, matching the IGNTR feminine race brand tire logging her smaller frame down. The outer rim of the treads had a thin ring that matched her new tone of paint, giving her a distinct appearance that match the one and only, Jackson Storm. Her eyes were covered in deep eyeshadow that must've either been dark blue or purple if she could focus her eyes any longer than a few seconds. The dark long eyelashes with mainstream winged liner created a look so different, Melise wasn't so sure it was even her anymore.

"You have to roll like you earned it Mr. Turo chose you for this. That is you," Reyna rolled up to Melise's side. The convertible stared back at her own reflection with widened eyes and little emotion.

"I will try, I promise."