Author's Note: Thank you for the kind reviews, I'm still reading through your fanfictions when I can!
Melise's is going through a lot of abandoned roads full of contradictions and some potholes. She's seemingly in constant confliction, whether it's because of her own life, being and oil runner, or dreaming about Jackson Storm. Ahh can't she just make up her mind already!?
To make it to the big leagues, you had to train, no doubt. Whether it was revving the engine to a fiery release of exhaust, or spinning out on turn two, there was strict effort, and a huge competition to tailgate with it.
Annually, sponsors forked out promising race cars by the dozens, but since the introductions of racing simulators, the quantities dropped staggeringly. A simulator was a top-notch instrument— more promising than a brand new speedometer. Allowing for free movement of the cabin, racers could navigate the track with paved ease, making the user's ability to move confidently increase. The resource yielded numbers sponsors could only dream of, two-hundred-ten miles per hour with little as a tire slip to worry a technician. The values spoke, revving louder than a stadium of racing fans.
The three trainees focussed diligently on the prospect in front of them, a silver Piston Cup replica mounted in front of the chief.
"Sir?"
Ray's eyes met the eager amber stare of the car on treadmill #1 his tires began to stall pulling him further away down the conveyor, "Call me, Chief, son."
"Chief," he breathed through quick pants. His engine reved as he fought the force of the exercise machine, catching up to the shared speed of his fellow trainees.
"Having trouble keeping up?"
"No!"
"Need to slow down?"
"No, Chief!"
Ray watched him perk up on his axles, his cheeks puffed as his engine caught up with him. The young racer's treads were soon on the floor as he panted.
"Are you alright, son?" Ray looked him over once, seeing no visible damage.
"I'm good, Chief... just a little tired."
Ray raised a lid, "wasn't it you who said, 'I want to be better than Storm'?"
The racer's gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes at bay, leaving Ray's question unanswered. The chief moved in closer, keeping a positive tone in his voice.
"Take five, then show me you can get up to two o' seven miles." Ray watched him reverse his way to the nearest corridor and vanish down the hall. His eyes turned back to his trainees who were watching and chatting away. They jumped and began speeding again once his coach-voice bellowed in.
"Get moving! Kick it up to two o' seven. You all want to be better than Jackson, show me."
The chief watched their speeds measured on a display above, seeing a steady maintain of two-hundred and three miles per hour. When the numbers stayed consistent, his eyes wandered to the noise vibrating his treads.
IGNTR wasn't one to give up offers or ideas for success. The company was still growing, and the facility was just one of their newest toys.
The one thing Ray was at wits end with, was the commotion of a party on the facility's large courtyard. The recent streak of wins was a likely celebration Ray was certain Jackson was hardly attending. Staff and technicians alike bobbed in excitement to the bass of subwoofers and intricate lights, eagerly awaiting Storm's arrival despite his trailer being firmly parked out back— the race car himself, missing in action from his own party.
Once break time arrived, the chief peered his eyes through the madness outside, seeing Quincy and Leon among the patrons, Gale lip-syncing along to the tunes— no Jackson Storm.
He sighed deeply, pulling himself out of the training ground, down the hallway. Ray could have felt a sense of pride in his racer if he announced that the venues and hosted events were too humble of IGNTR, but Jackson's excuse was useless.
"I don't need these kinds of things," he'd say, watching over the vehicles enjoying themselves.
'Need' be damned, it was his party, and he was going to at least say 'Hello' to his extended hard-working team.
The last car Ray expected to meet was the CEO of the franchise. A smile spread across the maroon car's grille as he saw the chief.
"Not attending our celebration, Reverham?" he asked, glancing his eyes briefly behind the pick-up truck.
"Not when there's cars to train," Ray answered, "maybe later."
"Ah, the trainees," his maroon paint glimmered in a glare of artificial light, "I take that they are all well?"
Ray chuckled, "All fine, RPM's are average and rising very slowly."
He nodded at the chief's statement, thinking through the words with a squint. If Ray guess anything in his mind correctly, they were no luck against Jackson's statistics.
"I'll look further into it," he answered, "But let's talk about Jackson Storm."
Ray could hear himself mentally sighing, if he could guess the next question...
"Where our talented race car?" the CEO asked, his eyes trailed down the hall behind the chief.
"I'm looking for him, too," Ray answered, "Odds are that he's relaxing around"
"Reverham, you've been here for the last two hours, why don't you lounge? "
The pick-up truck began rolling forward, "As his chief, I need to see that he's fine."
"Fair enough," the entrepreneur replied, "but while he's not with you, let's talk about his reception."
Ray braked, "His reception?"
The maroon business car nodded his hood once, "Yes. I know that he can be difficult, I remember receiving him a year ago."
Ray wasn't sure where this was going, and if Jackson's reputation had to be defended he wasn't sure he could do the job efficiently.
"His sportsmanship is fairly dull, I'd assume he's still working on his representation of our industry," the maroon car's voice was confident and to-the-point.
"I would applaud you on ignoring his stale behaviour over his racing performance, but a series of offers have rallied in for our star racer, and sending him off with a chip o his headlight is far from my interests."
"Offers, huh?"
Ray glanced to the familiar mature voice, seeing Jackson pulling up behind him through his rear-mirrors. The racer's expression was reproachful and full of tension.
"Like the offer to sellout for tires?"
The maroon CEO's eyes widened slightly as he heard the race car's words.
Ray glanced between the two, "What is this about?"
His grey eyes turned to the chief, "Thirty percent of my winnings for rim sales!"
"Rim sales?" Ray held his brakes, confused as Storm continued his confrontation.
"Thirty percent! For fancy rims!? This has to be a joke."
The CEO's eyes scanned the hall quickly as he lowered on his suspension, "We'll discuss this in my office, " he muttered.
Ray watched Jackson follow him with a stern expression, one that meant business. His engine accelerated as he followed the two. Whatever Jackson was upset about was serious.
The CEO parked himself behind a neatly tidied desk, his attention on Jackson's glare as Ray closed the door behind them.
"IGNTR is more than Liquid Adrenaline, Mister Storm." he said simply.
Jackson's expression remained consistently straight.
"As a young corporation we are seeking to expand our grasp to our fans,"
"You mean MY fans?" Jackson retorted.
"Rims are the next best way, especially with the simulator gaming," he continued through Storm's ignored comment.
"Now wait just a minute," Ray interrupted, "IGNTR is selling tires and rims?"
"Precisely," the business car said with a grin.
"Not just any," Jackson said, holding his glare, "the same design on my racing rims."
"Our partners found the design favorable to bring racing to fans at home."
"WITHOUT MENTIONING A THING ABOUT IT TO ME, THE GUY PAYING FOR IT!" Jackson barked.
"Calm down," Ray bumped his tire to Storm's side, "With all due respect, Sir, Jackson is building your profits, why wasn't he notified?"
The maroon business car's expression straightened, "I concluded that he is too busy for this merchandising."
"Again! Without asking!" Jackson's voice rose, "You know, I was expecting something like a new flavor, maybe another simulator, but selling out?"
"This discussion will go on forever, be prideful," The CEO spoke, "Celebrate, drink a gasohol if you like, you earned it."
"So we're going to forget about my earning being sold to— what was it? Element Sleek Rims? And using some prissy little convertible to market it?"
Ray pulled himself around, keeping a wall between the two cars, "Storm!"
"Incidents involving our racer are taken seriously for IGNTR's reputation, I found it to be an acceptable apology. We will be hosting a large VIP venue in a few days, make sure your calendar is open Mister Storm."
Jackson reversed keeping space between himself and Ray. His eyes studied the words before the boss spoke again, "Don't let that happen again, otherwise, be grateful for what we have done."
With his statement made, the CEO made his way out of the office, leaving the two alone. Ray watched as Jackson exhaled once.
"You still need to maintain your temper," Ray said, watching Jackson's eyes scan aimlessly around the room as his front remained a mix of indifference and weary.
"Yeah," he replied, "I'm in control, Ray. You've seen how I handle Chick Hicks' banter."
"Look, this is all up to IGNTR, if they want to sell rims and adrenaline, they can with the profits, you've still got your bank account."
Storm's eyes scanned to his chief, "I'm out of here." His engine revved, causing materials on the table to spill over. Before Ray could bid farewell, his racer was down the hall.
He had a feeling he wasn't going to hear the last of this. Wrongful so, Ray knew Jackson's concern was justified, he just wasn't so sure the race car would let it go. Even so, to a degree his anger was overflowing in seeming overreaction. Ray hadn't witnessed any marketing for tires yet, but Jackson had the whole picture already.
Ray was certain there must be more than meets the eye, but let it be. If Jackson was as mature as he had seen the young racer to be, he would let this fade away in time.
The rhythm of subwoofers were still vibrating the structure as nightfall hit. Some time around eight, a spotlight panned across the dark sky from the courtyard.
Jackson could hear a series of synchronized singing from patrons and staff alike outside. Keeping his room darkened, his treads vibrated steadily along the private and peaceful lounge room's floor as the noise continued into the night. His mouth tugged into a straight line as he watched what nonsense he could see from the second storey tinted windows.
When his private simulator chimed twice, indicating it had loaded and prepared his personal settings, the race car drove swiftly into it's grasp, wasting little time accelerating past virtual cars. Within minutes his speed found itself steadily balanced between 202 and 206 miles per hour.
He couldn't call it betrayal, she didn't belong to him, or anyone for that matter. They chose Melise, the convertible with no association with racing to merchandise IGNTR tires. Of all the race cars— Jackson Storm himself, they chose the damn adult car that still resembled a high schooler.
He could feel the simulator pushing back, his engine roared once, defeating its gravity.
Yeah, she looked crazy wearing all that makeup on her hood and windshield. Like one of those ridiculous trends that begged for acceptance. Soon enough, she'd be wearing high hover tires that push her bumper out for the world to see. Maybe he was wrong, maybe she actually knew better than to give up being weird to be original, but these companies meant business. If this 'world-reowned' tire company wanted her, she must have been a sight for sore headlights, Jackson couldn't agree more, cars like her were one of a kind.
That didn't matter, she was always at the center, a bigger pest than McQueen ever was.
The press invading his privacy during his rookie week, because of her refusing to hide in his trailer.
The Series choosing to get rid of her because she was becoming a distraction. Admitedly, Jackson found her departure to be cowardice. Even if he told her she was in the way, he expected a punch in the bumper himself— she was too geniune and submissive— he wasn't sure if it made his engine warmer in chivalrous homage or boiling hot in annoyance
The headlight, yeah, maybe leaving was best for her. But becoming a model for his stuff was far from okay.
Jackson could feel the simulator fighting him again. At this point, he wasn't so sure the machine was letting up or fighting back, he revved his engine and sped past the inclines.
It felt good. Seeing the clear track ahead was nohing new, but it was something good. His tires rolled rapidly with precise ease as the simulator's screen flickered, his grey eyes quickly turning to the display beside, seeing his speed.
214 miles per hour, a new record. A big one.
If Jackson was certain, the screen could've been incorrect. The room was dark as it was, and the power was suddenly tripping, causing the information to glitch.
It was all too easy, Jackson could hear the wind whistling through his axles as the conveyor sped at breakneck speed underneath him. There was no way the simulator was lying, he was fast. His eyes caught the digits just as the simulator sung it's record breaking tune, 214mph.
Then, it was over. the system shut down, the room became black, and Jackson let his tires slow down in the virtual training machine's hold. His hood wore a look of pleasure as peace and quiet erupted through the facility. The subwoofers were dead in the outage.
The data wasn't saved, his speed didn't exist until he could show it.
Storm watched as the gathers outside moved around aimlessly. Their chatter was mostly muffled, nothing important anyway.
All Jackson could hear, was the soft tone of Peaches cheering for him. He could listen to that voice all season long.