Tim was a talker, rarely taking a risk even if he could spell victory with skid marks. His tank always advised him against it, a gut feeling if you will. His father called it "Stupid Risks Win Miserable Dents", and damn was that line true. He still wore his artificial win against the infamous Dickson when they were rookies pridefully, but something was wrong with the scene directly in front of him.

Situated outside a closed bar in the Floridian city night, Barry Depedal was beside him… doing a trick with an empty can. Tim had gotten the invite from him to chill. H.J Hollis was also here, currently taking his turn on the weeds. Treadless had eagerly inhaled the herb only moments ago and it's effects were infectious. His air filter was rejecting the heat in his system, expelling several coughs from the racer. Tim was loathing himself again, stupid risks got him stupid dents, all because of one thing... Jackass Storm. He was here too, parked opposite and socially secluded, the customary. Tim hadn't a clue how he managed to be civil the past twenty minutes in his vicinity. At some point, Treadless narrowed his illusioned vision, regarding the blue and black car as nothing more than a distorted blob with abnormal eye sizes. Cars don't have eight tires and two spoilers either… or do they?

Eight tires, four eyes, one bigger than the other… Tim had a toothy grin, he giggled. What an image…

"You've gotta take it easy," Barry kicked the aluminum can free from his space. He watched Tim slump forward, treads digging into the asphalt, his rear end up in the air. Tim looked like an idiot and it didn't stop the RPM-sponsored race car from cackling.

The Nitroade racer blinked his sticky eyes, the motion furious in his mind yet weak in reality. He knew Barry was laughing at him and if it were anywhere else, and he didn't feel like he was driving on fading sunshine, Tim would give him a piece of his mind. Parked adjacent, Hollis exhaled a puff of his drag. The intoxicated air filled the deck, engulfing the cars enjoying its odd sweetness.

Hollis closed his mouth, the remnant cloud escaped through his grille. He grinned then whistled a content tone, "I know its good 'ish, but only a girl should be in that kind of position."

"… It's my first time," Tim slurred, making eye contact. He couldn't even tell who said that. Barry was laughing about something else, or still at him. The sudden noise of his heavy chortles had startled Tim and he tried to shake the numbness off his axles. This green stuff made his parts feel like noodles. He also felt vulnerable, Storm better not try anything…

"I can tell," Jackson deadpanned, his eyes wandering off, finding scarce interest in nearby garden solar lights.

Storm was silent the whole time up until now. He was easing into the void at two miles an hour. Not a lightweight like Tim, but it had been a while since he took a social puff, perhaps a year.

Those days spelled pity washed away with the hit of a bong weekly. He'd made 'friends' there, at least in the conventional sense. Downtown L.A had a lot to do, but no substantial gain. The arcade was dumb, they never pulled decent money like the inner city clubs did. The environment itself was a mix of cringe 9-bit jingles from particular entertainment systems, uneven strobe lights that otherwise belonged in a strip joint. The arcade was empty on a daily basis regardless of the clement Californian weather, contrasting the noise of 7th Street just outside.

Jackson exhaled deeply, eyes wandering the edges of skyscrapers on the horizon. His mind begun exploring a past he nearly forgot about, intoxication was weird like that. As far as he was concerned, this ride was all his. He hadn't a clue why he even decided to accept the invite to pass a joint around and get baked, get to know cars he didn't give an ounce of care about. Those spot lights in the distance of Beach Shores reminded him of that shitty arcade all over again. He forgot about it only ten seconds ago.

Yeah, there were racing games, one mimicking his entire career with surprising accuracy. Super Corsa 1 was decommissioned, Super Corsa 2 was broken. Storm would opt to play in numerical order, but life said otherwise. The music on the system wasn't a loop of annoying jingles, instead, a genre between alternative rock and dubstep. The design of the machine didn't beg for attention, but it was different from the claw machines and mock poker tables.

An entire treadmill sat in front of the elevated flat screen menu. He could do more than park himself and dangle his treads over controllers like an imbecile. It was situated at the back of the arcade too, leaving him undisturbed from prying eyes.

Only a few days presented him as a certified game addict. Online multiplayer gave him individuality to create a car of his own, of course it looked like him, uglier and more stock-like though. It would take a while before he found it acceptable to use his real name on the system.

Storm kept the smoke in his lungs, letting as much of the dope enter his system as he could take. A slow blow out followed. He heard Barry mumbling lyrics from one of those new songs everyone was fawning over. His eyes were bloodshot at the corners, clearly content with his actual on-key rapping. It was short and he stopped after thirty seconds, thankfully.

Two cars; an Insight, blue fibreglass and wearing adult braces. The other was electric, red paint and obviously lost in the world. Storm knew that all too well, except he wasn't a loser.

These guys had seen him on the leaderboard start screen several times over, searching the empty arcade during evenings for the legend known in default as "Player_1".

When they met Storm, he was ignorant of their presence. He didn't have mirrors, but sensed eyes on him. The purple winner cup spun on screen, another day, another victory. At the same time, Storm exited the system, content, but growing bored. The Honda crashed into his electric companion as they were caught. Storm drove past their confusion, hiding his inner discouragement. He didn't like an audience, yet.

The hemp was really hitting him now, his wheels could grow wings. Storm blinked slow, why did he travel that far in downtown just to play a game? Well it was only getting better. Those guys spread word that he was dominating, online boards suggested he was the top player. Storm barely spoke to the cars, they weren't his friends no matter how hard they tried. They were fans, admiring his own ability. That ignited a spark, something like the short bliss he had with this hang out, meeting or whatever it was called when you smoked with cars you didn't know. Fans had a longer satisfaction meter, more forgiving too.

Ten, then twenty cars would crowd around, watching him make artificial bank. Each score rivaled the last, only Storm could beat his last record. He exited the machine later than usual one night to find awe in the eyes of several vehicles. They had to reverse out of the way to let the bored race car through, thumping him lovingly and dabbing tires in approval. He hardly gave them the time of day, but grew to appreciate the comments of praise he heard while racing. He was greater than he thought, these cars, nobodies they may be, made his image possible.

Eventually, the Insight convinced Storm to use a screen name, make an image for himself. He used his real name of course, no one else had one better.

Late nights with the fans from the arcade involved unnecessary boasting. The guys would start every pick-up line with, "Do you know who this guy is!? You gotta know!" Storm would experience insufferable bromance from the arcade dweebs, not that he hated it, simply put, it clouded him for a time, keeping him from reaching the real goal he hadn't yet conceptualised.

Greens were okay, when he wanted it. The stuff didn't help with racing performance and was associated with low-lives. Storm never had it in him to dip off the deep end in life— he wasn't a raging idiot.

Barry leaned into Treadless' side, his chuckle ongoing, "Don't ever say that again, man, you're makin' this weird as hell."

Barry blew another cloud, he was on a roll, "Tim's getting baked!" he turned his tires, rolling closer to Storm, "tell his crew chief, let's watch 'em get high together!"

Laughter ensured from the two men, Tim snorted a grumble.

Hollis sniffed, wiping his inner tread across his grille, the effects made him emotional and prone to overthinking, "That girl I met the other… uh…"

Storm frowned, watching him try to remember. He hadn't a care in the world for others' stories, nothing was as interesting as his breakthrough career. Today, right now, he was finding the typical ability to ignore fleeting.

Hollis was mumbling nonsense—was that his name? He didn't even know the guy or why he was here, probably invited by Depedal, or Barry. He wanted to do something, 'chill and stuff'. He invited Storm out, much to the racer's chargin. Jackson didn't do friendships with tailpipe kissers, and Barry Depedal was a professional annoyance, but the guy was also on good terms with him. Barry nagged him to attend insensitively, painting a picture that suggested Storm was weak if he opted otherwise. He must've forgotten Treadless was here.

"… she came back to the motel with me," Hollis begun giggling, he covered his mouth with a tread, "Yo, she's been a McQueen fan for years, I think I changed that… "

Barry raised a lid, chassis flat on the ground, "Ah… was she old?"

"Nah. A hot little Miata."

Tim's front wheel rolled forward slowly, he made a smiley face, trying to get his brakes to work, "Whoa, it's gonna fall."

"Put it in park," Storm stretched his axles, loosening any built up tension. Right now, he and Barry were holding up better than the other two and he wouldn't like it any other way. These guys were competitors and nothing more, yet Jackson found himself actually enjoying the chatter. Maybe it was the infused air helping him cope,** or Ray was right about friends and loyalty. His center shuddered, the very thought came with almost laughable patronization, who would befriend their own competitors?

Storm glanced, unimpressed by Treadless' attempt at reaching for a quart canister. The can begun rolling away on its side, "It's empty, who cares?"

"Where'd it go?"

"In front of you."

Tim loomed in search, turning on his high beams. He aimed for the ground squinting. Storm scoffed a low snicker, closing his eyes and shaking his hood. This was ridiculous.

"That's it right there? Watch me get it this time," Tim focussed his lights on the aluminum cylinder.

"Go for it," Jackson shrugged.

Barry was immersed in Hollis' story. The RPM racer's mouth hung open as the N20 race car dived into dirty details of his encounter.

"She said she did the same thing with her sister and McQueen. The guy had bare chicks on his wheels… but I don't even believe it."

Barry drooled, nearly jumping when Tim bumped into his quarter panel upon failing his reverse. He was searching for the canister again, losing it under his tires.

"Now they're all over Storm, lookin' for a good time," Hollis laughed a little too loud. Storm shared a smirk with him. Groupies were nothing new, nubile, confident and desperate, every guy's wet dream that took them straight down the drain.

"I'm falling… " Tim murmured again, eyes succumbing to sleep. He was in another universe.

Hollis exhaled through his grille, "I got her out of sight by morning. She was talking about him too much."

Barry zoned in on Tim, hearing his loud, buzzing snores, he grinned, "Tim's knocked out! Jackson owes me six cans of… hehe... Guava flavored Liquid Adrenaline."

"We made a bet? Since when? And does that flavor even exist?" Storm's hood was in the clouds.

"I dunno, but I want it," Barry tried to remember what he was talking about.

"What the hell is a guava?" Storm muttered. His grey eyes narrowed on Tim's sleeping cab, threatening to roll near him.

Hollis sniffled, tears suddenly falling down his windshield, "I'm such a dick, that was a dick move, man. She wanted my phone number and everything. She left one of her hubcaps in my room too."

"What'd it just fall off?" Barry snorted some giggles, "Ah… oh…kay she was a wild ride. Hmm?"

Storm was indifferent, mellow and crass, "It's called dip and skip, pump and dump. She wanted a hookup, you wanted a hookup, both of you got it. This guy's over here crying about it."

Barry looked for a creative sentence upon hearing Jackson's comment, "And Storm would know. Convertibles are sweet, they have that legal loli thing goin' on." He snickered, looking for Storm's affirming smirk. The IGNTR-sponsored race car was hardly interested in lame attempts of humor. If he even heard the joke, he didn't care to entertain it. This was down time, and he'd use his wisely for himself.

Hollis buried his sorrowful hood in his tires, "I'm done with her anyway, too much baggage. I gotta focus on the race coming up, and I'm gonna have to see McQueen knowing I got his sloppy seconds."

Jackson shrugged, "Trash values attract trash cars."

"Oh so you're saying she's trash, huh?" Barry pryed, he snorted a laugh.

"What?" Hollis sniffled confused.

Barry grinned, gesturing to Jackson,* "Not you, the convertible he knows."

"When you decide to place higher than fifth in every race, hit me up," Storm made steady eye contact with Depedal, "At least you'll know what it's like to be out of that last place cesspool you're in."

Hollis snorted, cackles erupted. Cesspool? This guy said cesspool…

If the moment spared Barry a chance, he would've found a good comeback. It was a joke, and whether or not Storm was serious became too important. Depedal was consistently ending each race in the middle of the top ten. He'd never seen a glimpse of the three major poles: Swervez, Racelott, Storm. Barry just couldn't catch up. With an engine built for high pressure and heavy G's, it was irksome to say the least. Even Tim was doing better, and Nitroade would keep him around, he had personality— the nice guy, so to speak. RPM hadn't announced the inevitable, they left the speaking to the crew chief. He was a rough as nails Chevrolet truck with no chance of outpacing a Next-Gen. That didn't take away his tough love training techniques and belittling critique. The guy drove Depedal nuts. Who was he to say Barry's stats weren't up to average when he was placing fifth and forth ever other race? Barry could fire him… or perhaps ice cold coaching had in fact paid off.

Barry settled down, he thumped his tire to the pavement twice, it seemed far away from him. His mind was muddled and satisfied, a mix otherwise unsavoury for the sober folk or bustle of the racetrack. Confusion usually lead to frustration, not bliss. His crew chief would bust his rear anyday for getting high. Tonight, Barry ought to be training, but he wanted to see Storm, maybe learn a trick or two. Save his career before RPM decided to drop him.

He shook his hood, "We're the closest thing on the track since you lost your friend McQueen, 'member that?"

Storm shifted his weight on his left tire, his eyes lowered placidly, "The guy that's old and retired, but still places higher than you? Yeah, I 'member him."

Hollis raised his lids in surprise, glancing silently amused between the two vehicles, listening to the duo bicker. He'd defeated his earlier emotional breakdown, quickly finding himself in the midst of a showdown. H.J never missed a knock-down drag out fight, never.

"Aw, it's deeper than racing, it's gettin' personal!"

"We aren't just chilling here?" Storm confirmed his mutual banter, "McQueen and I are on good terms, you know? I'm set to bargain a case of Rust-Eze Mud flaps before they're sold out."

The guys laughed, Tim stirred, leveling his chassis groggily. Barry caught sight of the subtle eye movement.

"Good morning, dumpling," Barry's tone swooned, checking out Tim overtly, the latter stared, blinking in blissful wonder, "Would you like your eggs done over easy?"

Tim bent over his treads, resting his front bumper on them. He looked right at Barry, eyes bloodshot and hardly open, he was in another world, "Yeah mum… Can you brew some Mobil too?"

Hollis and Barry laughed harder.

Tim was drifting off again, contently unaware of the world around him.

"Tim, you've lost it! He baked too good! He's overdone!" Hollis doubled over and began coughing. Storm's mouth lay slightly parted in the most minimal expression of incredulous disdain for the drooling race car.

Barry looked thoughtful, "How deep is your mom's voice, though?"

"He's in the void," Storm observed Treadless nodding off again, "just let him sleep."

Minutes of peace and quiet accompanied by an occasional snore from Treadless passed the night. Still stoned, Hollis had quieted down, matching Jackson's tranquility. Barry was telling them a story, only realising after five minutes that it was all in his head.

"I saw those Rust-Eze, McQueen brand mud flaps on Instagram. Are those real?"

Storm looked at Barry with half-closed eyes, shrugging his axles some, "I don't know."

Hollis studied Tim's sleeping form, finding the image of bright red splash guards heinous, "Who even uses rubber mud flaps anymore? The last time I saw those was when I went to Portugal. Old Alters were still using 'em."

Barry looked interested, "That's your background?"

Hollis nodded, exchanging a glance, "Yeah, grew up in Seattle though."

Eyes looking between the two, Barry grinned, "My Pop's from there. I'm from Jersey. Lived there my whole life till I was too fast for the roads. What about you, Storm?"

Jackson opened a lid, his disposition clearly impassive, "Grew up in Calabasas, nothing special."

Barry nodded slow, "Alright… alright…" he felt a dizzy sensation lift him. Storm was closing his eyes again. He said that like it meant nothing. Calabasas? There are some nice houses in that part of Cali…

The conversations were flat, a good medium while intoxicated. Barry had the moment all to himself.

"YO! TIM!"

"Uhu... "

"You barely took a hit and you're still in the clouds, man," Depedal creeped forward, thumping the deep brown race car on his hood.

"Knock-knock," Barry teased, "I'm looking for a guy named Timmy Training-wheels."

Hollis begun snickering once more as Tim cringed, puking on the asphalt. The monolith of Treadless' social reputation was becoming a running gag. Still, he had to admit 'Training Wheels' was funnier than it should be, the ring was perfect.

Storm flexed his jaw, vision fixed absently on those same search lights in the distance. He could hear the noise, the cackling cars beside him. He endured this materialistic friendship for far too long. IGNTR wasn't paying him to listen in on the conversations of guys that were professionally below his skill level. The life of a well-known race car meant praise, and Jackson loved his when it was due, specifically trackside with an excellent camera view of his decals.

Fans also tried too hard to impress him. Tailpipe tattoos were the worst, rivalling beside them had to be comparisons to Lightning McQueen, and creating awfully inaccurate, cheap replicas of IGNTR's distinctly sharp logo. What was that dressing up thing called? Cosplay?

Those cars were the rain on his parade. The trailer kept him away from answering racy questions self-proclaimed number one fans had. Scractch that— ridiculous questions and 'cool things' they wanted to show him. Surely, the paintjobs to mimic him showed dedication, but only one car truly looked supreme in sleek black with electric blue patterning.

Gale caught on quickly to Storm's otherwise unfriendly approach to invasive admiration. She was the only one prepared to talk about it. Storm had exited the trailer that evening, bee-lining his way through RSN journalists and track crew at Virginia Speedway. Undisrupted most of the way, Storm was obviously ambushed by a hatchback with salvaged parts. The vehicle in question was eager to show the already ire race car his tongue tattoo. How he managed to make it past security was a question on its own. Answered swiftly, dust was all Storm left behind in a wake of repulsion. His fan was bothered, confused of the twist in events. Storm was confronted shortly there after by racing journalists ready to catch an interview in his spare time. Surprisingly calm, he addressed the audience at home about his thoughts with resilience. They'd never guess he was out of mood before, a lifestyle she could never imagine maintaining herself.

Storm could feel sleep tugging at his eyelids. The effects were wearing off.

Gale called those kinds of fans who had a story to tell him 'The Child Who Survived Adulthood.' Storm rebuffed her positivity, faithfully labelling them as 'The Children Who Couldn't Survive Adulthood' respectively. Who gets their tongue tattooed?

Right now the unrelated blasé was reaching its peak, with Barry. Storm was getting tired of his half-assed attempts to overawe him.

"You're trying too hard."

Barry's grin fell slow, he exchanged an awkward glance with Hollis, the latter curled his lips, dipping his hood low. H.J kept his amusement to himself.

"What?"

Storm loomed, his decals ominous and luminous with a growing glower. He didn't like repeating what was obviously heard, "He's a first timer," His glance grazing over Tim's pathetic inability to control his bowls, "It's disgusting, but none of it's on you, relax."

Barry's lower lids arched under his eyes, he looked like he had been caught with his tires in slick oil. His cheeks got hot, whether it was anger or embarrassment was anyone's guess.

"I'm not tryin' anything," Barry gestured to Treadless twitching in his sleep, "he's effed up and its funny."

He'd heard Storm could be jerk. The change of the livery racer's tone was now a fresh wound. Barry had not planned for that reaction, even how solemnly given it was. Storm had limited words, but when he spoke it typically stung. Depedal wanted to be different, he wanted to be accepted, Jackson Storm was rapidly becoming a world-class name so why did he care about the light hearted jabs anyway?

To actually be sticky about Tim's chunks and roof'ied at the club demeanour spelled out a buzz kill for Depedal, Storm was so serious all the time. Tim was drooling a bead now, dosing off again. Barry thought they could draw stuff on his hood come later on, perhaps steal his tires and set him afloat on Daytona beach. There would be nothing more than a mattress for his chassis to lay on.

Barry's grin didn't want to return despite the image, Storm's placid remarks with a cooled edge of justified means had too much of an impact. Barry searched his unbothered, tired grey eyes from the circle, Storm's 'diss and drop it' mentality spelled 'I'm a raging dick' clearly. It did not help that Jackson kept composure, unthreatened by rival opinions. Chilled down, he looked more reasonable, making the other party crazy for retaliating.

"How am I getting hate?" Barry appeared stupefied, ignoring the burning rage brimming his psyche. Somewhere in his mind he knew exactly why this argument was starting. He couldn't keep his mouth shut.

Storm turned his tires to face Barry, annoyance brewing, "You got a problem with the truth?"

"What!? My jokes are funny as hell!" Barry retorted, his eyes shifted between the cars, he had only invited Treadless to be the third-wheel. If Storm was difficult to impress, Tim was easy to shoot down for the gratification. Depedal wasn't whipped, but he would use the resources available to complete a goal.

Silence ensured, club music reverbed, echoing in the night's distance. Barry swallowed hard, Jackson was really ripping on him over that? A slobbery mess of a grown vehicle that couldn't handle a small dose of herbs.

Barry shook his hood aggressively, snapping out of thoughts that would become regrets later, "Hollis! What did I do!?" his eyes shifted quickly to Storm's tires rolling halfway forward before halting, eyes transfixed in pale annoyance. H.J's amusement never missed a beat, he was trying to wake Tim before they missed the match.

"This is pathetic," Storm stated, he looked Depedal down like he was roadkill, "If you want to settle this, race me to that dirty beach outside the stadium."

Barry opened his mouth to sputter some excuses, genuine reasons. He was quickly disrupted by Storm's sudden relaxed sly tone, "Yeah, let's do this."

Hollis raised a lid, finding the creativity in Storm's offer a treat and a curse for Barry at the same time. Race cars loved to push the limits, but how did they go from chilling to literally two-hundred miles an hour in argument?

"ALRIGHT, FUCK IT, LETS DO THIS SHIT!" Barry caved in gritting his teeth and revving twice, his insecurity taunting him as he sped down the road in a squeal of smoke and swerving tires. Tim awoke in a frenzy, burying his drooling grille in his inner treads. He groaned noisily, the intoxication still felt like crap.

Hollis blinked through the searing nylon cloud, hearing Barry's decreasingly sonorous engine traversing the distance. It took Hollis a few seconds to realize Storm was still next to him, his grey eyes focussed nonchalantly on a red light down the street. He tapped a tire repeatedly to the asphalt below, listlessness was his speciality, even without ample racing slicks.

"Uh, was that to get him to go away or something?" H.J knew this wouldn't end well if Storm was back here in park while Depedal was cruising at light speed through downtown Daytona.

"Nah," Jackson blinked, watching the light become green, "He wants a head start it, so he got it, no big deal."

Tim peeked from his slobbery treads to the sound of a high performance, V8 engine increasing power after ignition. Storm dropped eye contact with Hollis apathetically. He pulled out in a left turn, straightening with equally supine precision. H.J didn't mention it, but what Jackson couldn't make up for in his otherwise perfunctory attitude was adept efficiency in his driving. He was too calm for the title 'World's Fastest Car'.

Storm's acceleration increased as he travelled down the road, disappearing being the structures. Eighty… one hundred twenty… one hundred ninety... performance akin to a bullet. Within seconds his engine, a distinctly different hum to its semi-electrical nature, thundered through the night.

Tim rubbed his fenders, attempts to ease a growing hood ache. His voice was gravelling and unwell, "What're they running after?"

The N20-sponsored racer didn't reply or turn to Treadless. His headlights flashed on, and he departed quick, following the racing duo. Tim frowned, burying his hood under his tires again. He felt repulsive symptoms pulling at his body, just a glimpse of the artificial street lights made Tim gag. His stomach twisted in knots his tank would expell painfully later. Dead-set on it, he would never try weed, or hang out with these cars again.

Barry honestly didn't know how street racers did it— navigating through the very real threat of an accident in road traffic. A grin of concentration on his front, the deep purple race car sped through a record of nine red lights, ignoring horns of stray vehicles passing horizontally through each intersection.

Without rear-view mirrors he couldn't tell where Storm was behind him, or how far Daytona beach was from his own location. Barry squinted through the tall apartments lining the avenues, catching an usually dark skyline on the horizon. Those city searchlights were rhythmically passing over the deep hue in three second phases. Each time, the horizon's ominous black hole like appearance didn't reflect light. Only one place induced an unconscious feeling of thalassophobia, the ocean.

Depedal decreased speed, still well above the posted limit of thirty-five miles per hour, cops couldn't stop him anyway. Streetlights danced glints of white light across the orange tint on the tip of his hood, Barry inhaled clean, cooled air through his grille, a contrast to the typical temperamental heat of closed quarters driving on a speedway. Besides the absence of more driving space and nearly tearing down stop signs on some turns, street racing was a breath of fresh air.

He also won the race, the shore was only getting closer. Storm should've kept his trap shut, all of this effort over a joke.

Barry took a right turn on Atlantic Avenue. He picked up speed along the long stretch of quiet road, frowning as the sound of an abled racing engine closed the space between them in short time. Depedal's eyes widened as the sleek green N20 Cola Next-Gen arrived at his side, they matched each others speed, palpable competition.

"Bro can't believe I caught up to you!" Hollis laughed, watching Barry's mouth curl into a devious grin, "You guys are actually racing, it's cracking me up!"

Barry's grin couldn't get any sharper, "Where is he?"

Hollis' glance shifted to the street behind him before looking at Barry again, "Who? Tim? I left him behind at the parking lot—"

The deep purple racer shook his hood his smile wiped clear with annoyance, "No! Storm! Where is HE!?"

H.J watched where he was going for a second before shrugging his tires, "I dunno! I just came to see who wins."

Barry turned his attention back to the road, at one hundred ninty-five miles per hour, he was nearly there, the beach entrance was just two lights away.

Anxiety peaked with rumbling to the right lane of the avenue, currently unoccupied. Depedal looked up to see a passenger plane flying low, to be expected MIA was a few miles away, his relief gave in some.

"Uh oh," Hollis looked over Barry, fixed on the vehicle catching up quickly. Barry wore an incredulous expression as he noticed those ominous glowing blue decals across the street island.

He could make out Storm's easy half-smile as he watched the way ahead, "Hey," the IGNTR race car called once he was cruising with them, "You finished your warm up yet?"

Barry gritted his teeth, speeding past the two Next-Gens. Storm watched him silently, ignoring Hollis on the left side of the two opposite travelling lanes. He was as phlegmatic as possible when he switched to the oncoming lane in the break of the avenue island, Hollis sped up after them, finding it increasingly difficult to match Storm's speed. He was going too fast, eventually right beside Barry again. The RPM racer shot him a tangent of slurs, Barry's face suggesting he was at war. The two were nearing the tight squeeze of sand riddled road merging from the Daytona beach.

Depedal and Storm barrelled through the one-way curve at the same time, otherwise surprising Hollis who had slowed down considerably in the wake of danger. A dust storm formed as engines hissed to the change in surface. Hollis just reached the chevron-marked curve to be pelted with kicked up sand. Storm's engine roared under the grubby beach, his speed sending him in disorganized figure eights. Barry was stalled, his front tires caked in wet sand.

His back tires accelerated in hopes of freeing him, launching sludge on Storm's hood. The race car was immediately angered, "Watch where you're driving!"

Hollis was slow on the sand, the surface was foreign to many cars' footing. It was weird and uneven.

"I WON THIS!" Barry snarled, he teeter-tottered into the sand grille first. A muffled squeal followed.

"YOU CRASHED INTO ME! You drive like a tyke!" Storm bellowed, his own tires now stuck. He looked disgusted with his surrounding.

Hollis watched the two bicker, Barry made an ultimatum, and Storm rejected it. H.J began wiping a tear from his quarter panel as he laughed uncontrollably. He would never forget this night.

Storm was shaking mud off his freed treads, annoyance wild, "… FINE! YOU WANNA DO THIS VIRTUALLY BECAUSE YOU LOST!? THAT IT—"

Barry yelled louder, nearby houses turned on their lights, "I WON THIS SHIT! AND I'LL WIN THAT TOO!"

The sound of water swelled by the shore, the tide came crashing in and both cars quieted down. Barry hissed, jumping away on his springs as the water level reached half their rims height. Storm groaned, crawling.

Of course Hollis doubled over, a pain in his circuits— maybe a wire came loose. He hadn't laughed this hard in years. Jackson and Barry were still struggling as the current pulled back into the sea.

"Hey guys!" Hollis called, waving a tire to catch their attention. Barry frowned, looking away to try and free his tires with strength, Storm looked like an embarrassed little boy, his star struck look fading into annoyance quickly.

"Should I call a tow truck?"

"NO!" the two answered quickly.

Hollis snickered, "Hey guys!" Jackson fought the urge to shoot him a death glare. They didn't look or answer him this time.

"There's another wave comin' in! It's a big one!"