So there he was, hyperventilating in a loo stall. Almost like a regular car about to be sentenced to death.

Well, he wasn't sure he'd get a death sentence, but even removal from the field would feel like one. And he already felt half-dead from the overnight flight back to HQ; they'd made him fly commercial, so he was almost assassinated about five times. Between those attempted assassinations, he ruminated on his regrets.

At least there weren't any new regrets. No, he had already made an exhaustive list about what went wrong during the WGP while he was on bed rest. He'd tried to put it out of mind, but ever since the Committee visited him, anxiety had loomed in his engine. He was no stranger to collateral damage, but there had never been a task force dedicated to cleaning up after his screw-ups. After the last major infraction (the Great Flamingo Disaster of Jersey City, it still sent a shudder through his frame), he was informed that he was at risk of being "Instructed." As in, being made an instructor at the Agent Academy.

Oh, how he hated the Academy. The trainees were sharks. They had to be; the instructors were all forcibly retired Agents, bitter toward the handlers and too willing to channel their frustration into criticizing the students. And while he hoped he could be one of the uplifting instructors, he suspected he'd eventually end up one of the resentful ones. He'd only had one instructor who actually liked their job— his martial arts instructor, probably the only reason he even stayed to graduate.

(He'd also excelled in his language classes, but only because he wanted to prove his instructors wrong when they said he "probably couldn't handle more than five languages.")

You know, maybe a death sentence wouldn't be so bad. Death was inevitable, after all— there wasn't any shame in it. And he'd killed plenty of cars, directly and indirectly, so it only made sense that he wouldn't get a peaceful demise—

The restroom door's slow, deliberate crrrrreeeeeaaaak sent his RPM skyrocketing. A low hum grew louder as someone entered. "Finn? Are you in here?"

Holley. Dash it all. He instinctively froze in place, hoping against hope that she would leave. He'd suspected she might come after him— she'd tried to talk to him when he first rolled into the lobby, before he slipped away and holed up in the loo.

It wasn't that he specifically wanted to avoid her, but she just happened to be around cars he did want to avoid. Like several vehicles that bore the insignia of C.H.R.O.M.E.'s investigative branch. Or his handler. Or those beady-eyed blokes from Accounting, who had probably drafted his redundancy package by now.

Despite his best efforts to phase through the floor, Holley's purple-tinged shadow stopped directly in front of his stall. "I saw you come in here… half an hour ago… Are you sick? Or did your suspension break again?"

Only a heartless terrorist would refuse to respond to such a worried plea. And Finn wasn't a heartless terrorist (at least, not on purpose). So he forced a chuckle loud enough for her to hear (but not so loud that it sounded fake). "Seems like I finally got you in the men's loo, Miss Shiftwell."

"Y-Yes, I suppose. It's lovely. Anyway, they're about to start. You should be there."

"The investigation team has already made a verdict. It doesn't matter if I'm in the room or not. Tell me how it goes."

"Finn, I think our handler is here— I don't know what they look like, but—"

"And I'm almost certain our handler has me on a tracker, if they care to find me."

"Don't you want to say something to Siddeley? I'll have him on a video call, since he can't fit in the meeting room. He probably won't talk much."

Lucky chap. "You can give him my regards."

Holley was silent for a few moments. Her tire squeaked on the floor, like she was rubbing it back and forth. "I know it sounds childish… but I don't want to be in there alone. And I know it's a hundred times harder for you, in front of cars you've probably known for years… But if we're both going down, we might as well do it together."

It was understandable. She didn't deserve the stress and humiliation of an investigation, so early in her career. But… "Why would you get fired? You didn't do anything wrong— at least, nothing without my direct orders."

"...I might have insulted one of the Committee members."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I… After he interrogated me, I was irritated, and I asked him something that was… out of line." The thought brought a small smile to Finn's face. But Holley rambled on, sounding not at all amused. "And even during the meeting, I deflected and downplayed certain things… That's lying by omission, right? I'm not sure if they know, they haven't contacted me for clarification— But yes. Yes, I am worried about being fired, too."

"Oh." He didn't want to make her feel worse, but it was hard to hide things from C.H.R.O.M.E. for very long, particularly on a case like this. They always did their research and uncovered every single secret.

Well, almost always.

So they were indeed doomed. And she had a point. He hadn't come all this way just to be a coward now. They wanted him to never dare show his face. Well, he'd show them.

And also, a thought had just popped into his mind, and he needed to confront Holley face-to-face about it.

He unlocked the stall. As soon as he rolled out, he spotted Holley parked at the sinks. She was gnawing her bottom lip, but paused when she saw him. It was like she couldn't believe it had been that easy to draw him out. To be honest, he couldn't believe it, either.

She began to say something, but he beat her to it. "Did you complete that task I gave you?"

"What?"

"You know. The… errand."

"Oh, right. Yes, of course I did."

"What country did you go to?"

"Canada. Like you told me. Why?"

Finn examined her expression. She seemed to be telling the truth. And really, she had no reason to lie to him. "That's what I thought. Don't worry about it, but I was told you went to Montreux. In Switzerland. I figured it was a lie, but I wanted to make sure."

"Of course, I understand. Especially with something so important. I'm… I'm honored that you trusted me with it."

A flush rang out. Finn and Holley froze, staring at each other before looking toward the source of the sound. The door of the stall next to Finn's opened slowly, revealing a dark blue SUV. He drove up to the sink as if they weren't there, sliding his tires under the soap dispenser.

Very strong swears popped into Finn's mind. He glanced at Holley, who squinted at the SUV for a full five seconds before recognition flickered in her eyes.

The SUV finished rinsing his tires, finally glancing up at the agents. "Big day, innit?"

Finn restrained himself from holding the bloke at gunpoint. He definitely hadn't heard the car— David, was it? — come in. "How long have you been in there?"

"An hour. You wouldn't be the first spies to have a secret meeting in the restroom without checking the stalls." He headed for the door, then paused. "They just installed new cameras by the water fountains. I suggest you both come to the meeting room before Security investigates a lady who entered the men's loo. Nobody needs that scandal."

He left without waiting for a response. Not that either of them had an appropriate one.

For security, the meeting hall had no windows. Whispers filled the ten-degrees-too-cold-for-comfort air, though Holley was at least grateful not all the gossip was accompanied by stares toward her and Finn. Clustered around a table in the far corner were eight black Bentleys, a mix of Mulsannes and Continentals, muttering amongst themselves. Several armored vehicles stood guard at the door.

"Our handler is one of the Bentleys," Finn said suddenly, startling Holley. She tore her eyes away from her HUD to give him a quizzical look. He scanned the rest of the audience, making a sound that could have been a chuckle but ended up sounding like a cough. "If this is what they call a 'restricted' audience, I'd like to see how many bogeys would come out of the woodwork if it were public. They might even pay for admission. I don't even know any of these others. I suppose most of my coworkers are retired by now. Or dead."

"Oh." She wasn't trying to tune him out, but just didn't have anything to say. Instead, she focused her attention on reloading C.H.R.O.M.E.'s slightly-buggy version of Skype. Sid frantically messaged her that he needed a new link. She didn't see why there would be a problem with the original one, but she sent him a new one anyway.

"I'm very curious," Finn continued, "why Mater wasn't invited to this little proceeding."

"They're not investigating any charges on him. He did the best he could— any mistakes were simply ignorance and inexperience."

"That's fair. He did our job without even trying. Imagine what he could do with proper training. Though, I suppose training didn't help us much… Have you heard from him?"

"Not since the knighting. He tried to get my number before he returned to the States, but I didn't think it was allowed."

"It's not. But he fancied you."

"I know. And the more I think about it, I've realized that I like him, too. He's a great person, but… well, you said it yourself. Friendships are dangerous."

"You should know by now that I say a lot of things, with varying degrees of accuracy. And if we lose our jobs, we won't have to worry about the distance or the enemies—"

"I'd need another job, regardless. I just wouldn't feel right without one, you know? And… he owns a scrapyard."

"I vaguely remember him mentioning that. Hopefully someone threw away a pram."

Her screen flashed and distracted her before she could snap about how she should have just left him in that pathetic stall (though if he was ribbing her that mercilessly, at least he seemed to be feeling better). In the video call, her own lonely reflection was replaced by a ginormous hazel iris. "What— I can't see myself! Where— I think the screen's frozen. Mandi, it's not working—"

"You're online, Sid," Holley said, hoping to end his misery. "Coming in loud and clear."

"Oh, thank goodness. This thing's harder to stay on than an F-15." Sid's face moved back enough so that the tip of his nose was visible. "Okay, I see you now. Yes. Hi. How are you today?"

"Nothing to report. Except possibly Finn, to Employee Resources."

Finn gasped in mock betrayal. (Though at worst, the pram comment could have gotten him a day or two of sensitivity training.)

"He's there?" Siddeley squeaked.

Holley nodded and angled herself so Finn appeared on-camera. He briefly froze like a tractor in headlights. "Hello, Siddeley. Long time no see."

"Hey, Finn. Did you get my messages?"

"I don't answer emails that sound like your helicopter friend ghostwrote them."

"That was one time!"

They probably could have gone on with that conversation, but one of the black Bentleys moved to the center of the room and honked. "Attention! We'll begin the presentation of the findings shortly!"

Everyone fell silent at the same surreal moment. Holley dimmed her screen while Sid muted himself. And Finn went back to looking like a convict on death row.

The members of the Committee sat at the same table. While the handler returned to his spot, the blue SUV (Dave? Yes, that sounded right) took his place. The forklift, whom Holley hadn't interacted with enough to learn her name, distributed a stack of memos to the handlers.

"Good morning," Dave began, though it was anything but. Even now, the faint rumble of rain could be heard through the ceiling. "The World Grand Prix Collateral Committee would firstly like to acknowledge the Board of Executives, as well as the Directors of our Tokyo and London branches for their cooperation and support."

He paused like he expected applause. No one gave any, so he continued on. "As our name indicates, we were assembled immediately following the World Grand Prix to preserve C.H.R.O.M.E.'s secrecy and catalog the collateral damages— physical, emotional, and mental— to all individuals involved. This does not just encompass the obvious criminal acts perpetrated by Miles Axlerod and the Lemon mafia families— it also includes a review of agent conduct during the mission. Never again do we plan to allow such a catastrophic plot to go so dangerously far. We believe there were many points at which it could have been stopped, or at least delayed beyond the scope of the race, sparing civilians and agents alike from harm."

Holley looked around the room for a clock, before remembering there was one on her computer. She shrank the video call for a split second, only to find that just one minute had passed. This will be excruciating.

"That said," Dave continued, "we would like to classify this mission as a success. The whole world would be paying for Lemon banquets, if not for C.H.R.O.M.E.'s involvement, in loose collaboration with the Central Intelligence Agency. That is a success owed to many fine agents."

Huh. This part isn't so bad.

"However, as previously mentioned, there is room for improvement. The mission, though a success, was quite costly. We lost one of our best agents, codename 'Turbo.' A CIA operative was gravely injured. The total damages to private property amount to…"

(In the corner of her eye, Holley caught Finn mouthing the phrase to himself: Gravely injured. It made him look even more sick to his tank. She took it to mean the American agent was alive, which was a good thing. Right?)

"We advise C.H.R.O.M.E. to pay back losses incurred by Tokyo International Airport and the establishments in Porto Corsa and London, as referenced in the full report."

The Committee must have missed the property damages in downtown Tokyo that occurred during the race. Holley guessed that area had finished the necessary repairs before the Committee investigated it. Either way, it was for the better, since the spymasters bristled at the mention.

"We shall continue to collaborate with other agencies— the FBI, CIA, Interpol— to incarcerate the apprehended Lemons, while locating the other collaborators through airports, traffic monitoring, and online tracking."

The spymasters seemed to like this better, leaning in just a bit.

"We'll also support Her Majesty's personal request that Sir Tow Mater be sought for official espionage service. His intellect, enthusiasm, compassion, and loyalty is something even our top-notch agents could learn from. We are very fortunate to have come across him."

Of course, opposing the Queen's request was a non-option, but the gesture still warmed Holley's engine. The Bentleys shared hesitant looks. Dave, either oblivious to these reactions or just ignoring them, continued:

"As for our own agents, the Committee has determined that Air Agent Hawker be fined for a pilot deviation, outlined in detail on our report, and undergo ten hours of remedial training."

"What?!" Siddeley shouted from the computer. "But Finn made me do it! What the he— Wait, is this on?"

In his rush to mute himself, he accidentally disconnected. Flushed with second-hand embarrassment, Holley closed her screen and stared at the ceiling to avoid the eyes of every car in the room.

The swiftest smug smile flashed across Dave's face, though he regained his stoic demeanor before the handlers looked back at him. "We have also determined that Agent Shiftwell's recent field clearance should be honored, due to her competence and eagerness to assist. Under the circumstances, her performance was impressive."

Holley sighed in relief. Finn nodded toward her— a told you so type of expression— though most of his attention was on the Bentleys. About three of them looked pleased with this decision, which was two more than she expected. Hopefully one of them was her handler.

"Agent McMissile was the de facto lead on this mission, after Agent Turbo's untimely demise. Considering that, the Committee has proposed a mandatory sabbatical for one year, during which McMissile would serve one of our overseas offices."

(If the room were full of young children, there would have been a collective, "OoooooOOOOooooohhhhh!")

"The Committee now hands it to the Executives to review the motions set forth." With that, Dave went back to the table with the other Committee members. Though he received many approving nods, even a couple tire bumps, he just looked relieved it was over.

Meanwhile, the Bentleys whispered to each other. Some vehicles from other tables came over— probably representatives from Employee Resources and the financial divisions. Holley tried to eavesdrop by reading their lips; she wasn't very good at it, since the word "milkshake" seemed to pop up a lot. Overall, one of the Bentleys seemed to receive more messages than the others. And after a few minutes, it was this one that spoke: "The board approves all motions proposed. Case closed."

They made their exit one by one.

As soon as he could slip away, Dave went to get fresh air. Rain poured from the sky, but even the humidity felt better than that hostile meeting room. He sat under the overhang, breathing deeply in an attempt to bring his RPM back down to normal. He hadn't gotten any pleasure from the congratulatory comments his coworkers sent his way. Public speaking wasn't intimidating— not more so than one-on-one interrogations— but the weight of the stakes was draining.

He heard the door slide open behind him. "David!"

Dave turned toward the voice, refraining from rolling his eyes. "It's Dave. Just Dave."

McMissile screeched to a stop, angled himself so Dave could see his rearview mirrors. "What is this?"

Dave looked at the mirror. "It's the details for your probationary period. You'll be on desk work with local law enforcement. Consider yourself a contractor."

"In Ottawa."

"Yes. I hear it's quite nice this time of year. But by December, it will be intolerably frigid. So stock up on antifreeze."

"Why there? You could have sent me to the Sahara."

"Is that a request, Agent McMissile?"

"No, not at all." McMissile took a short, barely perceivable moment to regain his composure. "I simply want to know why that particular city."

His unamused stare bore into Dave's dark soul. Dave knew they were at a stalemate. He sighed, long and loud, to draw out the suspense. "McMissile, I personally believe you'd benefit from spending time there. Who knows? You may find yourself enjoying the time out of the field."

(Because he definitely wasn't going to explain how he knew Agent Shiftwell had gone to tell McMissile's secret wife that he was still alive, but with an even bigger target on his hood and had to lay low for a while.)

McMissile studied him for a few seconds, then looked out at the streetlights. "I doubt that. The field is where I best serve C.H.R.O.M.E. and the world at large."

"Well, there are other things to live for besides this agency. Besides, you will return— by then, the world will have bred even more chaos for you to clean up."

"Is that why you didn't recommend I be retired? I haven't outlived my usefulness?"

Dave couldn't help but chuckle wryly. "That's part of it. Your handler wouldn't let that stand… But usefulness isn't a fixed quantity. Over the course of my investigation, I've tried to get into vehicles' minds. What were they thinking, what makes them tick, what are they hiding, et cetera. And I've seen that sometimes, as I learn about people, I learn from them. No one is perfect, but that doesn't mean we write each other off. That just creates more Lemons. And though you made many, many mistakes, it wasn't all bad— we now have Sir Mater as an ally, and Agent Shiftwell got a chance to prove herself. You had the right intentions, and I suspect that with some time to refocus, you'll return to the field better than before."

He hated himself the instant he finished that monologue. Vivian would probably laugh at him if she ever heard it. Why did he say all that? Why was he out here, in the rain, explaining his midnight musings to some agent he'd probably never have to talk to again—

McMissile hummed thoughtfully. "That's a fair assessment. So, all's well that ends well."

Why didn't I just say that? "Yes."

"Well, that's good, then."

"...Yes."

They stared at each other for a few seconds, then out at the rain. It was almost as uncomfortable as delivering a speech to C.H.R.O.M.E.'s top spymasters.

Dave was actually grateful when the door slid open again. Shiftwell hurried out. "Finn, do you want to come with— Oh, I'm sorry, you were talking—"

"It's fine," Dave said, "he was just about to leave."

"Yes, I was," McMissile chimed in. He nodded at Dave, who returned the gesture, then followed Shiftwell. "What is it?"

"Our handler said I could pass on the recruitment request to Mater! And guess what, they're hosting a makeup race in Radiator Springs—"

The door shut. Dave let out a sigh and soaked in the silence. He was suddenly overcome with the urge to speed through the puddles on the quad.

Instead, with a shudder, he went inside.