author's note: I'm glad you're still tuning in! Thank you all for the kind reviews! I'm not to pleased with leaving you waiting a whole month for new chapters, but i still love writing this story. It's coming along, piece by piece. life is a busy highway, you know?
I wanted to add, whenever vehicles are described as "modern", this (I would imagine in the Carsverse it's a similar scenerio) means that the car is modelled as a 2011 and later type. I don't like to make the characters sound like they rolled out of a factory, so instead it's best to use specific adjectives to help understand what they should look like instead of vehicle numbers and years. Likewise, an old car will never be a modern car, so the idea can be imagined like an evolutionary tree. Kinda cool... Wishing you well!
The space was too dark, like a dungeon, void of arch windows the modern cellar's construction had. It was a bright, hot climate outside, and despite the beating sun, the lift truck found himself struggling to see his concerns above, his eyes still adjusting, and lantern too dim to work with. A steady trickle of water from the opened ceiling helped enough. The dark teal color of his paint job reflected on the plumbing tools scattered across the floor, and he squinted, raising his heavy duty forks with pokes and prods to identify any rust to the ongoing new installation of pipes. He pulled down his safety goggles, discontent with the past maintenance.
A lone beige Ford sedan pulled around the winding ramp, soon arriving in the spaceous, barren basement. He narrowed his lids in stupor of the darkness in the afternoon hour, his low beams flickered on.
"It's darker than night down here," his elderly chuckle was cut short by a drop of cold water on his windshield. He reverse with the creak of his suspension, glancing up in confusion. The forklift glanced up to the shine of proper lights revealing the maze of pipes and a larger one, the main one, dripping steadily from a bolt. His mouth frowned at the corner, "It's a leak from the master room," he glanced to the old Ford, abhorrence still on his hood as he listened, "likely a backed-up toilet."
More water dripped, splattering on the tile, " Ah, Chevy... These jokers probably put a temporary cap over the damage," the tug hammered the pipe once with a meter stick, echoing a ring of metal, "they're temporary for a reason."
"This a leak? Did they not test the water before they changed the pipes?" the Taurus coughed as the fork truck turned off a nearby fan blowing dust through the space and into the sedan's air filter.
"Sorry about that," the teal forklift turned on his tires, "Whoever the guys were, they left a mess too,." he glanced the Ford's way, "You think we should do them a favour and clean the dust away?"
The Taurus waved his tire in dismissal, "No time," he coughed once, glancing about the haze of grime and labyrinth of plumbing in the cut out ceiling, "the faster I get the power on, we can flush this stuff out with the air conditioning vents."
The sedan pulled up to the breaker, it's wires a tangled mess, "We're gonna leave it running all day and into tomorrow..." he paused a moment, thinking over the inevitable, "That ain't too rude is it?" the Ford tilted a lid in need of reassurance.
"The bill for the month will be big, but the thing will be habitable, free of dust," the lift replied in honesty.
"Good, that's all a car needs."
The two got to work, the silence creating a peaceful atmosphere of tinkering tools.
Loud bangs shook the floor above, and the pipe dripped furiously. The forklift narrowed his lids, peeking through squinted eyes. The safety goggles did the job right, but they didn't remove the splash factor. He cursed, wiping around his grille in disgust.
"What's going on up there?" He asked the Ford, shaking the plumbing leak off his visors. The Taurus listened as the shuffling and dragging continued a level above, "Movers," he answered, "They got tipped off to arrive and start early."
The little truck seemed impressed, "With a place like this, those must be good tips."
Pulling the old wires loose, the Ford nodded, careful to allowing his metal to touch the module. He hooked up fresh wires ones into the circuit, "Oh yeah," he agreed, "It's the prettiest lot I've seen in all my years as an electrician."
A hum rose as the vents above adjusted to the new pressure on them, they came to life moments later as cold air rushed out. The Taurus watched the vent low on the wall, "turn on the light," his tread pointed to a nearby switch mounted on the wall at the lift's disposal.
The room brightened with fluorescent light, and the Taurus shielded his unadjusted eyes into his tread, blinking after, "Good to see it's working down here."
"Hopefully, the entire house," the teal lift replied, glad to finally see his work properly.
The old Ford hummed in agreement, "It'd better be, I never thought this place would be bought, you know most cars can't afford this kind of space."
The forklift nodded, "You know I wish." he resumed tinkering with the plumbing. With the additional lighting, the loose bolt was clear in sight. The job could finish faster. Inhaling the fresh, cooled air, the elderly Taurus stretched his front axles, "With those guys getting things in order upstairs, I'll bet our we'll finish by the end of the week. This place will be liveable by then."
Shannon toyed with her headset, dusting off each fuzzy cover with her treads. The redundant task snapped her out of it, and she opted instead to tap her tire impatiently.
The lanes were nearly a sparkling clear. Not a speck of garbage littered the grandstands, the pit roads and oil tanks spotless, in-field grass was trimmed, free of RV skid marks. Everything was perfect. Racing Sports Network crew had timed their professional arrival, now idling under the heatwave for the teams to show.
Spokes sighed as the dome's large sky doors began to close on their sixth timely row of maintenance. Each several minutes consisted of a bright, sunlit stadium, only to be darkened to minimal natural light seething through opened tunnels to the back bays and hard light exit signs to guide above. Shannon didn't consider herself one to be easily impressed, especially after seeing the dome repeat its check four times over, but it's ability to not shudder all around it during the hundred ton travel from one side to close the other. Better yet it's menacing, huge gliding ceiling was quieter than an idling racer's engine. Architecture and technology, that was the glory of the Florida Super Speedway.
Beside the fiery journalist, a light blue Lugnutter van watched Shannon shift her weight from right to left, her cab rolled mere inches in careless neutral. He pushed the camera out of his blindspot, hearing her grumble in the same moment, "Where is he, Chuck?"
"He'll be here," he assured, his own impatience wearing thin, "They'll all be here... " Chuck Cables glanced to the scorching Floridian sun for a second before it burned his windshield. It's parallel position over the bowl dome left no natural shade, and the camera van spent enough years trackside to inference it was nearly three o'clock. Shannon was right, where were these guys? Any luck would guess these Next-Gen youngsters were getting their bumpers waxed, paint polished, not to mention that fixation with taking self portraits with those extendable sticks inside their trailers during down time. What did the kids call them… he rolled his tongue overthinking the made up term. "Selfies", yeah, that was it. Chuck scoffed, new age cars were getting faster, optimal, efficient— and dumber.
Silence on a raceway. The missing V8's and weak horsepower of average cars was like a shoreline without currents. It was a strange, nearly mind-boggling boredom that Chuck was sure in all his years he would remember. He gave the impressive speedway another once over, slipping his attention through the perfect tone of concrete on every lot of the grandstands. Not a single oil leak, forgotten antenna ball, or discarded piece of litter. Chuck sighed, reversing into the shade beside Shannon. She hardly bent a reaction despite his near collision into her, absence of attention to his blind spot when over-heating took over.
Safely inside the shade, Shannon had nothing to say, hardly a lid to open. The brown coupe opted to rest her weight on a right tire, her shallow expression was all she offered now. The racers had better have a show ready for the Network with these haphazard hours of operation. With any luck, she had high hope the Champion would show up first, but his new reputation was skyrocketing, which meant his deals were discounting, and his bank account... she didn't know how these young guys handled that kind of flow. Grudgingly, he looked good on camera, and during the off-season, Storm was as absent as McQueen, ironic yet considering they were highly sought after content. Rusteze had let McQueen go MIA without any deets, while IGNTR refused cameras on facility, citing it distracted their prime racer from being the best of the generations. In fact, the last RSN had heard from Storm was a new claim about his so called pure heart coming out— mushy stuff that salon magazines were gifted in raging about besides the core factor of his existence being centered around his ability on the track. And Storm was a force to be reckoned with, attitude and speed alone, he was the reigning champion, Natalie and Chick would see to it. If anyone had news worthwhile, it was the Racing Sports Network. Not some sappy housewife magazine.
Chuck saw Shannon adjust her mirrors suddenly. He watched her expression coat some interest, her cab remained reserved, "Do you hear that?"
The Lugnutter listened, hearing the spiel of nature, and a plane overhead. She wasn't talking about that. There was a bellowing diesel engine in the distance, it was getting louder, closer.
The semi truck's entrance tugged the journalist from her boredom, and she pulled a rough U-turn out and around the tent, looking the truck up and down from her distance. Lime green, some shades were darker than others on Vitoline's design. Nearby, RSN crew emerged into the beating sun, confirming a next-gen's arrival.
"Number 24! It's Racelott!" Chuck Cables announced to the crew, his camera, once resting on his hood propped up, ready to go LIVE when needed, "Come on!"
The glittery brown coupe watched the blue mini van with his entourage tailgating in express after the grumbling semi, and into Chase's sponsor tent. She pulled back into her previous parked position out of the sun, idling and looking about the speedway's intricate features with little regard. She turned her engine off. It didn't need to do any heavy gear work for now, this was going to be a long day.
When the trailer's hatch final rolled down, the Vitoline racer's content turned to sour squints behind the flashing film.
"Chase! HEY CHASE! How's it feel to be the first one at the track!?"
Racelott cleaned up his posture, forcing a grin and looking the Lugnutter van in his loud mouth, "Feels great, heh. Good day to qualify."
"Can we get some shots of you and Laney when he gets here!?" another crew member shouted above the noisy chatter.
"He didn't polish himself!"
The racer began searching for a way out among the greenery and Vitoline trinkets displayed around the tent. He was quick on his beeline exit, leaving the party behind to their unison of clamor in a growing traffic jam.
Entering the speedway's main grounds, Chase found his wonder brewing. Various tents lined the empty staff runners' lot. Each cover trimmed with pristine white that glared sunlight. Tire pressure monitors with digitized screens, coolant tents, and the raceway itself— a wide, elaborate dome that dipped down to reveal Daytona Beach's blue waters behind Pit Road neighbouring the stadium.
Shannon smirked, watching the racer pass her with awe on his hood, unaware of her presence in the shade. He touched his tread gently to the spotless track, as if testing to see if it was fragile, soon taking a cruise down the pits. Chase was never a threat. A good racer, fair, friendly competition.
Moving along the smooth asphalt, Chase picked up speed. Reaching a freeway cruise of eighty miles, looking about the details of the track. His eyes traced along the steel bars supporting a series of long flat screens. The greyed color and reflecting sunlit surface suggested they were monitors functioning as a 360° Jumbotron. The speedway was featured in 'In Drive' illustrated last year, and merely one of its fascinating features was the start flag replaced with a digitized green ribbon around the speedway's perimeter. Chase had to hear his old-school father marvel at the ingenuity for several days, the entirety of the track's high technology was shoved on his hood in a telling manner. An idea that announced pride in the Racelott lineage for making it to the future of racing.
Making his way around turn two, the speedway seared a stretch of road in hot sunrays, baking the sparkling asphalt. Chase evaluated the space, it was close to four car lengths, and if he guessed it, steaming.
Direct sunlight didn't have a perfect angle at this hour, and the speedway's architecture favoured the Daytona harbor outside. Crystal blue water held boats minding their business, but the skies aimed the perfect UV ray. Chase didn't bother slowing down, they would probably fix this by closing the bowl later on.
The moment of warmth lasted two seconds, and the regular breeze pushed through, blinding sun dissipated. At that second, Chase could feel the familiar sensation of vibrating road, and pulled up, a swift rev as the heat in his engine occupied the inches beside the wall, waiting for the car behind to pass. He scanned his raised lid to the commotion of RSN yet again failing to catch a racer before he reached the track. Racelott squinted to get a better look at the trailer parked five lots down from his own. He took a moment to think the arithmetic over, and a gust of yellow decals passed, abruptly slowing down once he noted the Vitoline racer's presence.
Danny lined up beside Racelott, and the Octane Gain racer bumped him a tire, "Chase, long time no see."
Chase grinned, "Hey man, it's been weeks." The duo cruised down the track, chit-chatter beginning in the tranquility away from aggressive media.
"Tell me, isn't this the most high tech thing you've ever seen?" Vetting the speedway's features, Danny observed the jumbo widescreens around the high level perimeter, just then they faded from a lame grey to vibrant green, digitally mimicking a traditional start flag.
"It's got style," Swervez replied, smirking as his name transitioned in a sharp array on the screen alongside Vitoline.
Gazing down the spotless stretch of track ahead, Chase easily invited the natural urge he was built for. The asphalt sparkled like a brand new steel roller coaster, free of scratches, tire marks, or even burned rubber along its rubble strips.
"That's one clean road," Chase exchanged a glance with Daniel, his own stare matching with a creeping grin. Chase extended his axle, stretching in moderate warm-up, "Whaddaya' say?"
Swervez kept his smirk firm, a curve accented his mouth as he revved his engine twice, accepting the challenge.
In the distance, Network crew cheered, spectating the friendly competition. It was the kind of percipient content fans and sponsors ate up like gasoline— tell-tale evidence against the stereotypes of pushy, careless driving and entitlement revolving around Next-Generation racers.
Shannon remained in park, inattentive to the V8 engines in the distance. Her eyes bore into the Lugnutter straighten a car length in front, he prepared his camera with a parallel alignment beside his left headlight.
"Seriously, Chuck?"
Cables flexed his mirrors, catching the journalist's daze. He tailored the lens with a tire, focussing on Racelott and Swervez passing in a nearly melodic drabble of pure horsepower.
"They aren't HIM, but you're not impressed by THAT!?" with one eye in line with the shot, he extended his tire in emphasis. To the racers, it must've felt like a cruise down the street. To onlookers, it was almost a blur of adrenaline pushing guys who barely broke a cylinder of sweat.
She wore apathy, a lethargic state Chuck easily began to ignore. Sure, Stormy with his winning streak bumper was worthwhile content, but Next-Gens were a a colorful array of dull personalities. Might as well catch it all. The duo sped down the pit road, abruptly skidding to a halt as Swervez hooted, kicking up dust in victory. Chase's grin turned to grimace as his filter inhaled the burning rubber. He coughed in the haze.
The were like little tykes racing each other during recess. The youthful appeal of their banter brought a smile to Chuck's grille. He paused the film, ready to show Shannon his footage, maybe that would ease her impatient RPM. But the coupe had somehow exited the tent in the short period. Merely meters away, she was transfixed on the newest arrival. If Chuck was certain, she was— in particular—reading the sponsor decals of the neon moving van's color through glares of sunlight. Soon enough, her eyes moved along the trailer's detail in a habitual manner, her suspension leveled, and she acknowledged the Tank Coat logo. Rich Mixon.
Chuck didn't bother to pry further into Shannon crotchety. Her mood was temporary, unlike her schedule and time. The journalist had arrived early, he and the rest of the crew too. Keenly prepared for sudden shifts to the racers' free time, the last thing expected was that they would slack on arriving at all. Sure the highways were congested on a Friday, but damn... three hours of waiting.
Mixon didn't exit his trailer, likely enjoying a snooze from the long journey. Chuck sucked in a breath through his bared teeth, exhaling the same. It was going to be a long day.
Crafty was a way to describe it, perhaps that adjective was boring compared to 'awesome', but Ray didn't stress youth lingo in his vocabulary. The track was just that, crafty, different from all the other speedway today. Newer, massive, and to some degree, sinister.
Ray used his toque to easily muscle himself up on his crew station in Pit Lane. Adjusting to the view, and settling on his tires, he parked on the brakes, and glimpsed to the wide oval ahead. Occupying the track were some Next-Gens, using the last few minutes of Conditioning to roll their axles, rev their engines, and clock in their high speed dashes.
Atop the action below, Darrell Cartrip watched a red and black racer line up down pit road. Beside him, his crew chief's mouth moved words of guidance, encouragement— hopefully. Reflecting in the harsh sunlight, the Re-Volting logo shined alongside "48". He speed in a series of smoking rubber down the stretch of asphalt, and entered the track at high speed.
"Your call, Darrell," the silver Saxon coupe murmured. Bob Cutlass gave the Monte Carlo a grin. In front of the pair, two operators began their countdown to film.
"… Here we are, LIVE from the most detailed speedway I've ever seen— ya' seen the nifty gadgets of the track Bob? Florida International Super— emphasis on that Super part— Speedway."
Bob grinned at his co-host's colorful drabble, Darrell was the icing of the Piston Cup Racing Series.
"No sign of Lightning McQueen for Qualifiers today, but we can expect a fair turn-out in today's line up," Cutlass announced in lucid articulacy. Focussing on the qualifier in question, Bob's line of sight followed the race car around the first turn, catching a good angle of his sponsor decals, and number.
"On the track first, we have number forty-eight, Aaron Clocker." the silver Saxon watched him round turn two with quick efficiency, his engine rumbling loudly.
Darrell didn't need to do his usual squint to the track below, watching comfortably from a wide screen adjacent, feeding LIVE footage from ground level.
"You know, that last name's gotta mean something big for the once-rookie," Cartrip theorized, "the whole season, he's been in the top ten, and if there's someone headed for the top three, Clocker's a car you can't miss!"
Adhering to the speed limit of Pit Lane, Aaron pulled into his pit stop with a slow edge of grace. Moments later, the high-pitch shrill of lug nuts being loosened and re-bolted followed. Within seconds, Clocker was high-tailing back to the track, a fresh smudge of tire tracks coated the once perfect street of asphalt.
Nearby, two IGNTR pities watched on their expressions neutral, "I got eighteen seconds, flat," Quincy remarked, observing the Re-Volting tug truck hoisting the used tires away.
Leon took a slip of some low-grade caffeinated oil can resting on his fork. He gave his fellow forklift a dazed look, "You know they also count the fraction of a second? It was more like Fifteen-point-nine seconds."
Quincy yawned, watching Aaron Clocker zip pass Dexter Hoover's waving checkered flag, "I ain't no calculator," he scoffed thinking the logistics over, "who has time to think that whole pit stop over?"
From the shaded box above, Darrell hooted in praise at the finishing run. Bob watched the Re-Volting racer slow down, making his last turn. He glanced to the impressive statistician in the Press box opposite the track, "Natalie?"
Certain didn't hesitate to boast, "A pit stop of 12.2 seconds, and overall," the statistician cleared her throat, "200 miles per hour and 49.91 seconds." She rolled her tongue, catching the attention of the veteran Buick beside her, "Better than his first lap."
Aaron listened to the analyst as he headed to the oil station to cool off. His eyes narrowed, mind gnawing on the bumptious tone. If he wasn't mistaken, that Hicks guy was up there too.
With record timing, Chick Hicks cackled an exaggerated toot of hurrah, "A fancy way to say Clocker's gonna have to get his alternator fixed!"
Through the channel, Bob listened straight faced as the veteran lampooned on in laughter, hearing the not-so-discreet piqued sigh from Natalie.
Darrell leaned in close, bumping his side on his co-host's rear view mirror, "I'm telling you," Cartrip whispered, "those two are a match made in the Manufacturing lands."
Cutlass raised a lid, "My microphone is still on Darrell." The veteran Monte Carlo
aired an awkward half-smile, shooting the cameras a headlight to headlight grin, "let's get back to racing!"
Darrell eyed the sparkling RSN reporter on the tarmac next to the Press tent, "Shannon, give us and the folks at home a break down for today!"
Transitioning to the fiery journalist, Shannon cued her moment, "Thanks Darrell!" the coupe glittered, a natural on camera, "The weather is great, the track itself is a high-tech advancement for these Next-Gens, in fact, their pit speeds will likely surpass team Rusteze's record winning spe—"
Tires squealed behind the interrupted reporter, followed by loud bickering on the pit road. Shannon reversed from the camera's obstruction, seeing the Tow Cap racer's skid marks passing the designated pit lot. His crew chief complained a colorful array of 'encouragement' as J.D McPillar reversed with a hefty rev, stopping for his waiting pities.
"Dang!" Darrell called on, "you gotta pay attention to your speed on in the pits, I haven't seen a miss like that in years!"
Chick gazed to mess below with a cheeky grin, "That's screws his time up BAD—"
"Ahem! twenty-two seconds to change tires," Natalie ignored Hick's ogling at her, and watched the racer speed onto the track, "He could probably fix that with his last lap."
Shannon nodded her hood, "That is true, Natalie," the footage panned to McPillar racing around turn two, "It's crucial to know that a pit stop can happen on any lap, granted, the racer decides to."
Hicks scoffed, rolling his eyes in a pitiful play, "I know thaat."
With a wave of the checkered flag, signalling the end of McPillar's round, the racer was quick to scold his crew chief. The Tow Cap racer shoved a small gas can over with an angry tire. His green glare pierced frustration as one of his pities offered him 'gems', a pair of sun shades and a cooled quart of Liquid Adrenaline. Sipping his woes away, and planting the sunglasses on, J.D left his chief dumbfounded as he headed to his trailer piqued.
Witnessing the exchange, Ray felt his circuits ping some relief. He hadn't dealt with flack like that in months— scratch that, nearly a year. He noticed a livery mass pulling up to the edge of rubble strip. Rolling to a stop, Storm observed the track silently. His eyes analyzed the wide turns, likely picturing himself maneuvering through each token the simulator prepared. In due time, his grey ominous panning followed down the pit lane, and down the stations. He was far from nervous, seemingly hardly impressed either. No doubt, he was definitely well prepared.
To be properly honest, Ray was surprised to see him venture into the public's attention at all. He settled for small talk instead of prying.
"All set to win that seat?" Reverham asked, looming over the champion on his perch above.
"All set," Storm replied simply, keeping his focus on the Speedway in front.
Darting around Piston Cup staff, the modern diesel engine braked in the distance, "STORM!"
Attuned to the familiar voice, Jackson reversed, cuing a soft rev on his engine. He raised a lid, and glanced to his hauler, giving her his undivided attention.
"You've got a call waiting in the trailer!" Gale announced, gesturing her tire in its direction. Ray watched Storm silently deconstruct the sentence. He blinked his listening face away, and returned to his neutral half-closed relaxation. Storm finished his perfect three-point-turn, and cruised off without words.
Reaching the sleek black trailer, Storm opened the hatch, reading the caller ID as the door cranked down slowly. T. Rodrigez- Agent. Reversing inside, he closed the door, taking a minute to contemplate answering the call at all. What did he have to lose? Jackson unmute the speaker with the tap of his tire on the touch screen, letting his eyes roam freely around the mostly barren space.
Storm exhaled, his voice filling the trailer, "What'd you want?"
On the other end, a muffled speaker in the background could be heard. The Rhode Island accent grew louder, "... Jus' let 'em know all I can do is ask... none of that magic stuff— alright, alright, I gotta take this call."
Noting his star client, Rodrigez checked in, "Hey, Storm-chaser! Look, I know you're busy— I was jus' checking up on you, how's it going over there?"
"It's fine, what else is new?" Storm answered, watching the sun rays scatter in sparkling shades against the dim blue interior.
"Ah come on, don't act like you don't know it. That rep of yours is finally jetting to the moon."
Jackson blinked slow, "What are you talking about now? You mean that sappy stuff you made me do the other day?" he scoffed.
"You know we didn't force you into it, but you took my brilliant advice anyway, so good!" Rodrigez could hear the racer grumbling low as he chuckled, "Who knew you could be such a softy, embracing and all that cuddling stuff..."
Storm curled his mouth incredulous, now looking directly at the phone, "Put a nozzle in it. I'm not a hundred percent in on these ideas."
"But ya still took the opportunity and cooked it up real nice. In fact, you did more than you needed," Rodrigez snorted a chuckle at the teasing comment, "Everyone's enjoying their cake. You, the media, and that sweet fan of yours. Feelin' like one million dollars."
Jackson gritted his teeth, exhaling sharply through. He didn't need to be reminded about it all the time.
"Are you done? I've got things to do."
"Yeah," Rodrigez flattened, "I'm finished. You got your snuggles, and you got your rep fixed. How about them apples?"
The racer didn't budge a word or sound through the call.
Rodrigez sighed, "I'm doin' great, thanks for askin'. Look, more interviews and deals are lining up for you, I'll email you the shots, let me know when to fire 'em. Anyway, I gotta run; later." Jackson's grey eyes looked about the phone with slight movement, still disgusted. Dial tone echoed through the space, and he pushed his tread against the red phone icon, ending the call.
Frustration poured in, and Storm's axles stiffened from their usual relaxation. He glanced to the heavy tinted windows, hearing a P.A announcement for the next guy to head to the track, that eased the air a bit. His RPM's were picking up, he was ready up for his run. It would be a piece of cake, no doubt. The once razor-edge anxiety of getting into the big leagues was long gone. He dropped that annoyed face, settling instead for a straight emotionless one. He didn't need to waste his time chatting with irksome camera cars either.
Ray had to be content with him. He was the first racer who didn't need to rev his engine on every lasting appearance. Storms were unpredictable, mysterious even, but to the car himself parked silently in his trailer, loud thunder was an accusation to be battled. The chief could vividly remember the once-rookie being the ghostly entity in the room. His cab was built full of celerity, competence that was already tuned when he cruised into the academy track.
But, the guy—the Champion in question was far from noise and gluttony youngsters in the Cup lived for. Storm could rip apart the track with rumbling quakes, and then pass at a responsible level of street driving in your rear-mirror with nothing frightening past a soft idle of his precision engine. If you were lucky, he would give second glance when he was specific to acknowledge you were in his space cushion.
Jackson toggled his trailer's digital settings with a tire on the wall touch screen. He paused for a moment, scrutinizing the home page's dull, default factory set. Phones were nice, home systems were nicer— but he didn't have time for that.
At least, not usually... unlike right now. Storm pushed the settings button, toggling the menu array.
Tim Treadless didn't expect to arrive late, but peering outside the warmed trailer's windows, he guessed it was a better option. RSN crew were littered all over the premises, and if Treadless was certain of one thing, they would be after the closest race car they could hound for camera time.
Tim sniffed, yawning till his sinuses caught him, and he sneezed, releasing a rev and flicker of his high beam lights. The racer released his brakes, allowing his gear to roll in neutral about the trailer. Temperature inside remained a sticky humid, and the Nitroade racer sniffed once more, reversing onto to the comfort of a large heated cushion. Tim extended out his axles, letting the heat circulate his chilly undercarriage.
Qualifiers were scheduled on the worst day. A cold, seriously? Tim coughed, feeling the snotty phlem of sticky oil leaking through his grille. He grimaced, feeling another messy sneeze creeping in.
Noise outside the parked moving van alerted him for a second, and the racer glimpsed into the stinging glare of sunlight to see his hauler and pit crew chatting. One of his the tugs approached the trailer door, disappearing out of Tim's line of sight. The racer looked ahead, hearing a heavy series of knocks on the door that strained his cabache further.
The team watched as the door opened in record time, and Treadless loomed over, his entire existence weary and slumped. He blinked slowly under the heavy sun rays emphasizing the reddening on each end of his windshield. He sniffed again.
"Can't we just reschedule this?" Treadless asked, voice nasally.
The team exchanged glances, and collectively rested their sights on the crew chief, "Not this time, Tim." the Chevrolet pick-up glanced inside the trailer, soon looking back to Tim, his eyes closing from fatigue.
"You're gonna just have to drink the Robatane syrup for now, take ten minutes, Octane Gain isn't even out on the track yet, you've got time."
Tim's closed lids raised in a drowsy state of acknowledgement, and he reversed inside, closing the hatch.
When the homely mood settled in once more, Tim slumped on his chassis, snorting down phlegm he refused to loogie all over his trailer. This had to be all over with soon, but he wasn't sure he was prepared to speed with a leaky air filter. Tim grumbled, shielding stray sunlight from his windshield with his tread. The day couldn't move any slower than he would on the track.
Press Box two was the life of the party, at least, as far of Chick Hicks was concerned. He grinned, watching the stunning statistician call out her numbers in a radiant confidence he was sure he wouldn't find in any car but himself. Plus, Natalie was that slinky maroon color cars rarely wore. She loved playing hard to get, but Hicks was sure she'd give in sooner or later. He had a Piston Cup under his treads, won against the old man Weathers and "Ka-Lose". Come on now, did she want roses that matched the shine of her rims? Women were too difficult, but McQueen had one didn't he? Chick rolled his tongue in thought, checking Certain out as she glanced his way during her nonchalant mathematical drabble. His girl was a Porsche too— spoiled cars. Likely had him wrapped around her tire as McQueen showered her in expensive affection, yeah right...
Cartrip and Cutlass looked way too excited on the other end of the speedway.
"Hold onto your horsepower, folks," Darrell brightened, staring down the racer lining himself up on Pit Road, "this is the moment all of us are waiting to see!"
Ray adjusted his headset, watching Jackson line his glowing tires to an inference line of bravado. Network crew chattered lightly, marvelling at the car feet away from their parking on the infield. For a moment, Jackson's enigmatic nature turned ever so slightly their way, and Chuck made eye contact with those grey orbs, expressionless hood. Something about this guy was intimidating, but far from eerie— mysterious was the right word. Storm's eyes scanned the cars with subtle movement, and some of their cameras stopped flashing in the cloudy stare. Moments later, his smirk grew, and the journalists grinned in glee, resuming their antics. Jackson chuckled smoothly, turning his attention back to the track.
"Storm are you at all nervous!?" a voice in the crowd called over the unison of chatter.
"Look how shiny he is..." another whispered loudly.
Ray's tone came through, "Alright, you know what to do. Good luck."
Storm's eyes turned to his chief parked to his right above, "Yeah, the usual," the racer gave him a half-smile, "Thanks."
The ground trembled, and the regular cars around reversed, startled as Storm ignited his engine, revving loudly with as little as a blink of his eyes. His smirk returned as the cars cheered, huddling for the best shot.
Within seconds, he raced down the stretch, his engine becoming a musical echo as Storm rocketed around the track.
"I don't think I've ever seen a car catch a line that fast!" Darrell's eyes followed Jackson around turn one, "Bob! Are you seein' this?" Across, Chick and Natalie watched in silent awe.
Tim readily decided this was— once again, the worst time to exit his trailer. Besides some cars sneaking into the stadium gates near the back lots, there was noise and chatting everywhere. There was Storm on the jumbotron, going... faster...
Treadless pulled up to his crew, too transfixed on the sensational track star to notice him. Storm was headed to the pits. The whizzing of his engine grew louder as he pulled into IGNTR's pit stop. He waited patiently as the changed his tires, filled his tank. The tugs were out of his way before he raced off, already faster than eighty miles as the black blur trailed a gust of track marbles over the Pit barrier. Treadless sneezed, groaning in annoyance of the dust.
"Hey! You're awake," his chief called, smiling. The Nitroade crew laughed as Tim grimaced in the dust, uninterested in the attention on him.
Natalie stared at her previous data on Jackson Storm, intently interested in her figures, she exchanged a headlight-to-headlight grin with Chick, "211, 12.9 seconds to pit."
Tim watched two IGNTR tugs club their forks together in shared praise. Two-hundred and eleven? Was Storm on high-grade? Treadless hid his scorn as he reversed his front end out of view.
"You're doing great!" Ray called, eyeing Storm's travel into the second lap.
"I know," Jackson commented, eyes following the road. His threshold changed, and he seemed to go faster. Concentration and liberty took over, and Storm didn't have to say anything else.
"Turn two is known to be a tight spot when racers occupy the track together," Shannon reversed from her place in front of the camera, revealing Jackson Storm speeding in the distance, "but watch as racer number twenty, Jackson Storm makes the entire run, look like a drive in the park, as he takes on each turn going over 202— the average Next-Gen speed."
Darrell hooted in the heat of excitement, "Look at him go, and the line is just perfect like most Next-Generation race cars."
"Definitely a precise ability of Jackson Storm, and here he comes to the checkered flag," Bob remarked impressed.
Dexter Hoover's raised tire, flag in rim looked reasonably dettered in the moment. His podium rumbled as the racer approached at high speed, his expression a twine of neutrality and determination. With a second to zip by, the pick-up truck launched his flag down, signalling the end of Storm's run.
"Hoo-wee! That was one hell'uva rush!" Darrell cheered he watched Storm slow down on a third lap around, "Natalie, wanna give us those scores?"
"You could say the other guys might as well go home till the 500," Chick joked, "Stormy-Boy's shredded the track again!"
Natalie nodded in agreement, "An excellent score! In fact Jackson Storm just set a new Piston Cup record today," she watched him slow down on Pit Road, his smirk growing as the RSN flashes followed him down the road, some cars traversing over the safe barrier to get closer.
"25.7 seconds, and 213 miles per hour, the fastest lap ever recorded!"
"Wow," Bob said, astonished. Darrell spun on his tires, continuous hoots of praise.
Trackside, Storm wasted little time heading towards the score tent, wanting to see his data himself whilst basting in the praise. Hot on the racers rear were cars all over his space cushion, he ignored them swiftly until otherwise needed.
Entering the tent, a red Versa was startled when his camera tipped over its propped tripod. He accelerated forward to reach it, bumping his right headlight into Jackson Storm's fender. Horror and embarrassment filled the sedan's hood as Storm made swift eye-contact with the car.
"I am so sorry!" the Versa's tone resonated stiffness as he reversed to inspect any visible damage, "It won't happen again!"
"Yeah," Storm maneuvered around him, uncaring for any damages in the moment, "Just watch it. Next time."
The sedan nodded, surprised his hood wasn't in the nearest junkyard.
Shannon squeezed her way through, honking when the tight space almost led to a collision into her. Making her way around, she found Storm grinning for the cameras.
"Jackson! How would you say that last lap went?" she came closer as a boom mic loomed overhead.
The racer looked the camera head-on, turning on his tires, "Exactly as planned," he replied, husk slight in his confident tone. Shannon pinned in, lining up beside Jackson Storm taking little notice in her.
"So Jackson, your fan base wants to know," she glance to the camera with a grin, "How do you go so damn fast!?"
the small audience laughed in unison, and the racer chortled in, allowing the crowd to cool down, "What can I say? it's just the way I am."
"Raw talent!" Chuck churned behind his camera, as the cars chattered once more.
"So the last thing on all our minds is— now that poles are advancing, and you more than likely have the sitter won, What is your outlook for McQueen at the upcoming 500?"
The boom mics came in closer, and Storm's unique dumbfounded expression was hard to miss. He wasn't ready for that one. McQueen was coming back? Since when…
"Uh..." he shook his hood in dissonance, "Well good luck to him, he was here for a long time before us, track master and all that..."
Shannon nodded collectively with the cars, watching the racer make his exit. She smiled to the LIVE film, "Jackson Storm, still setting records a year over, LIVE from Florida S.S."
Leaving the coolant tent, Barry Depedal watched Storm pass, camera in pursuit after him and his following crew. Security trucks merged in line with the racer's blind spots as he bee-lined to his trailer.
Adjacent, Depedal watched as some teenagers scaled an opened break in the stadium's back gate. One of them, a young coupe with a lavender paint scheme, and an abstract design of livery color on her hood. Her over-reacting screech as the fence's jagged edges scratched her metal pierced his hearing, and the RPM racer squinted in grimace. He reversed out of sight, Storm was headed her way, and she was speeding down the trail of grass, bouncing giddily on her hydraulics as she caught sight of her idol. The antenna ball matched Storm's decals... oh, this was gonna be good. Barry grinned, watching the show commence.
She nearly ran into him, and Jackson Storm was quick on his tires, his reaction time was spot on when he braked curving around her without so much as a glimpse to the bomb on her roof. She hardly reversed to give the security trucks room, and she squealed a shrill that was annoying from the distance away.
"Chrysler! I just got here— oh my gosh!" her pre-teen galore was hefty as she followed, swiftly being shoved away by the menacing SUV.
"Storm! JAACKSOON!"
Jackson didn't budge, hardly interested in more talk. His tires kept rolling as if she wasn't there.
She panted, soon catching up the the racer.
"STOOORRM, I WANT AN AUTOGRAPH! RIGHT NOW!"
He didn't really care, or maybe he didn't hear those wild primitive screeches. Storm was turning into the parking lot when she arrived at his side again, her quick horsepower outmatching the larger vehicles.
"Hey! My mom said you have to give me an autograph!" she shoved a sheet of blank Bristol board near Storm's left fender, "Right here!"
"Yeah, well she's wrong," Storm replied bold, locating his trailer as his team followed, "I've got places to be." he rolled off just as security held her in place with a brake check in front, another sedan cruiser blocked her left exit to follow.
"He ain't giving autographs right now," the older Explorer lectured, "Come back during the Florida 500."
She gave him an incredulous look, "No! I came all the way over here!" she gestured her trespassing entrance, "Its no big deal he can just sign it!" she cut around the left side, crossing the SUV's rear. For a moment, she could have dashed after Storm, and his crew chief loomed nearby, knowing it from her reckless movement.
"Get her out," the cruiser growled, "you shouldn't even be in here!"
Depedal miffed at the tone of her whines as security gave her a rear-end push out of the lot. The RPM racer decided to head over.
"Hey!" Barry called, seeing her look him up and down, "I'll give you my autograph, how 'bout it?"
The tyke paused a moment, looking him over with that same pitiful face, "Who are you!? I want a Jackson Storm autograph!" The security cruiser rolled his eyes. Barry's lower lid twitched, lucky to not be on RSN cameras.
"Okay," Depedal shrugged his fenders, "Then, go I guess..."
She wasn't listening, still trying to reverse while the SUV easily pushed her skidding tires kicking up dust and gravel.
Chrysler, these kids...