Jackson Storm, #20 Racer

Danny 'yo's at him again. He's been doing it every week.

"Remember when Ray bought a snack from that food truck?" Gale says, laughing to herself. She's facing a food truck that purports to be the Best Texas Barbecue From Oklahoma. "He left them the longest 1-star Yelp review I've ever seen!"

Storm glances at his crew chief box, then down at the ground again. He doesn't say anything.

"Sorry," Gale says quickly. "I didn't mean to - "

It's the Fourth of July. Everyone's acting more festive than usual. It's a big race. Everyone's happy about that. Ray's been dead for four months.

"Do whatever you want," says Storm. "And what do you want?" he asks, of a girl with a VIP pass hanging from her left mirror.

"Oh. My name's Clara," says Clara. "I just wanted to tell you hi."

"Okay," says Storm.

Clara keeps hanging around. Storm assumes a guard will usher her off to wherever she came from in due time.

Storm scans the team adjacent to them. Of course it's Dinoco again. And for the Fourth of July race, the 51's sporting a new crew chief. That Cal Weathers guy, with flashy metallic paint and gold decals to match his racer. Parked on the crew chief podium like that, he looks like an overgrown tinsel bow.

According to the official announcement, it's a test run for next season, as McQueen has recently announced his plans to step down as the 51's crew chief. Probably thinks he has better things to be doing, or whatever. Like restarting his oh-so-successful racing career. Storm rolls his eyes.

But maybe McQueen's planning to backseat drive this Cal guy's debut race, because he still shows up. The sound of that engine is unmistakable.

Then Storm hears McQueen call out his name from behind him. What Storm sees when he turns is an honest-to-god nightmare.

It's Lightning McQueen in a dark matte wrap, IGNTR emblazoned across his hood. Blue lightning down his sides, metallic storm clouds billowing out behind it.

No. Nonono.

"Blue's not your color. Why would you think black was?" is Storm's immediate response.

"Easy," says McQueen, pulsing forward slightly. "I'm just your crew chief for today. Provisionary contract."

"There's no way this is legal. Conflict of interest," objects Storm. His dread is palpable. IGNTR's pulled some crap with him before, but this is next-level.

McQueen shrugs. "IGNTR signed me. They seemed fine with it."

"You're going to sabotage me."

"If I do, you know who my lawyer is," McQueen offers. "But whatever happens in this race, I can tell you right now I'm here to win. Which means I'm here to help you win. Right, Cruz?"

Cruz grins at him, expression fierce. "And I'm ready to beat you, old man! Right, Cal?"

"I'm always ready to beat Lightning!" Cal replies. "And I wouldn't mind beating the Jackson Storm."

Storm slits his eyes. Could anything possibly be more obnoxious? It's like they take pleasure in shoving their friendship in everyone else's face.

Everything happens altogether too quickly after that, to the blaring pomp and circumstance of jet planes making shapes in the air and streamers and confetti in the air. Air horns, singing, Fourth of July spectacle and patriotism. Suddenly McQueen's taking up space in Storm's pit stall and not paying nearly enough attention to his darling Cruz. Instead he says, voice lowered conspiratorially, "Parallel straightaways - it's a good track for you. You can beat her on pure speed."

He acts as though his statement were a rarified nugget of wisdom. Of course Storm can outpace her, and of course it's his kind of track. Then again, it's probably the closest McQueen's ever gotten to badmouthing his golden costume girl. McQueen's probably pretty proud of himself for that - the finishing touch on his own game of dress up. Because that's what all of this is to him, isn't it. A game.

But none of this is a game. It's a coup. As McQueen lines up to ascend the crew chief podium - Ray's podium - Storm hisses, "You don't belong up there."

McQueen jolts.

And for the first time today, McQueen regards him seriously. Like this isn't all some kind of brutal cosmic joke. He says, quiet, "I know."

Except of course McQueen doesn't know. No one would have dared upsetting lovable, impressionable Lightning McQueen, and no one would have dared disrespect the Hudson Hornet like this. But what did anyone care about Ray Reverham, anyway. What did anyone know? (More than Storm does, a voice whispers at the back of his head. They know more than you will ever know.)

"I know I'm not Ray," McQueen admits. "I'm not trying to be. But your team want you to be alone. None of the rest of us do, either. Even if we're not the best at showing it sometimes."

"This isn't showing it," says Storm.

"Well. You're not alone. That's the main point," McQueen replies, visibly irked but also visibly 'trying not to be.'

"Yeah, I'm not alone. I'm inundated."

This isn't going to work.

"You know, I wouldn't have minded. If someone had gone up there and helped me after Doc died. Talked to me. Heck, just gone up and sat there and freaking done nothing at all. I'd have pissed and moaned about it, probably; I'd have sounded exactly like you. But no one did. No one," McQueen informs him, in a sudden, unexpected deluge. His engine sounds like it's ready to rip through space. "No one wanted to mess up, or overstep. Or admit that something might be wrong. So no one did anything."

McQueen's eyes snap up and he glares the full 360 degrees of the stadium.

"This place, everyone who's a part of this: They have no idea how to deal with death and it's been too many stupid years for them to still be bad at it. They - we - should be doing you better, and we're not. So I'm angry, and I'm - sorry, I guess."

He's sorry, and he's shaking, and Storm can see it all. And McQueen doesn't care if Storm sees him rattled or not.

"And yeah," McQueen continues. "This is gonna suck. And you're gonna hate me, and you're gonna resent every minute I'm up here not being Ray. But bottom line? We're all still here for you. We're the cars who can be. You're not alone, Storm."

You are not alone.

"I better be alone in that winner's circle. Give me any bush league advice, and I'm turning my radio off," is Storm's only reply.

You are not alone.

As he settles into his starting position and he and the rest of the field take their laps waiting for that green to drop, however, Storm scans the crowd. The media boxes. All the prim pit boxes lined with pitties on high alert. All the racers around him. McQueen's right. None of these guys has any idea how to handle death. Himself included. But none of them had even tried; they didn't have to.

Storm doesn't have that choice.

The radio stays silent.

Maybe McQueen bailed after all. McQueen's already delivered his long speech. Maybe that's as far as he'd thought this through. It's not like it'd be all that surprising if he bailed. It's what cars do.

"Green flag," tests Storm, when the flag drops and he surges forward and McQueen still hasn't said anything.

"Yeah. I figured you already knew what the flag meant," McQueen replies, radio static coughing to life. Then nothing again.

Some crew chief.

After a lap, however, McQueen says, "Let me know how that middle groove feels. Danny's looking pretty fast running the bottom."

McQueen's right. The bottom groove is better.

The entire race, McQueen doesn't say much. Storm knows that's not his usual style - he and Costume Girl take the 'chatter' part of 'radio chatter' literally. With Storm, McQueen makes sure anything he says is worth it.

"Kinda quiet, McQueen. First day jitters?" says Storm, on Lap 34.

"I can give you more direction if you want it," McQueen replies. It doesn't even sound sarcastic this time - which, Storm admits, is disappointing.

He's been waiting for McQueen to launch into some long sob story about why Storm's his charity case today. Maybe during the 100th lap lull. He's sure McQueen's got one, all gooey and touchy-feely and ready for its red carpet. It had taken him all of 30 seconds to mention Doc Hudson 50 laps ago; surely it's only a matter of time before the encore. But then it's 75 laps ago. 100. 150. McQueen doesn't say a thing, outside of commenting on Storm's tire strategy.

By Lap 200, Storm stops thinking about the travesty happening in his pit stall. McQueen's just information. Just a voice on the other end.

It's nice.

"Chase thinks he's got a run on the top. Shut him down," says McQueen.

Storm does.

"You've got a three-second cushion behind you now."

Storm takes the opportunity to go flat out. A lead like that, and you don't have to think about anything. Just charge towards the bumpers in front of you, go fast enough to terrify the lapped cars out of your way. Once upon a time, Storm got tapped for his strategy, not his speed - though of course he'd had that, too - but the only thing he wants right now is the surge of air over his body as he cuts through it, hugging asphalt and riding the force of the curve. Noise, smell, thought - it all goes away. Nothing matters.

"That feeling - that's mastery," Ray tells him, the day Storm set his 214 record.

"That isn't." Storm gestures towards the fishing rods Ray's been trying to untangle while he watched. He hasn't been successful.

"Fun, though," says Ray. "Gotta do stuff that keeps you hungry. You got any Wednesday plans?"

"Yes," Storm says.

Of course he doesn't, and Ray knows it.

"Too bad! Maybe next time." Ray slides the rods into his truckbed.

"10-4," Storm tells Ray. No, wait. Not Ray. "What did you just say?"

"Didn't you just 10-4 me?" McQueen replies. "Oh, never mind. I said - "

"I heard you. You just sounded like someone else."

"That's 'cause I learned it from him," says McQueen. He sounds like he's about to say more, but he stops himself. That's all that needs to be said.

Storm's fresher tires carry him smoothly past Ramirez.

"Do you feel like a mutineer?" Storm asks.

"I'm on your team," McQueen replies. "I was serious about that, Storm."

"Yeah. For a day."

"I'll stay as long as you want me to. Tell me to go, and I will."

"I already told you to."

"You actually didn't," McQueen points out.

Storm doesn't want McQueen up there. Doesn't want him in his ear. But he also doesn't want McQueen to leave.

Storm races until he can't feel anything but himself and the wind.

Danny Swervez still crosses the finish line first. Storm's second, but it's not much of a fight. Danny'd held his lead solid for the last three laps; it's his win through and through. Ramirez is third, and McQueen forgets to resist cheering.

Storm stares at Danny's back bumper. He might be okay with this.

"Do I have to congratulate him?" Storm asks. He hears McQueen inhale sharply over the radio.

What Storm wants, more than anything right now, is a reason to keep hating Lightning McQueen. He wants McQueen to say something that will light a fire in him, remind him that McQueen is useless and he is the enemy so that that, at least, can stay the same. He wants McQueen to say something stupid, and pushy, and overly idealistic. He's been waiting all this time.

"You don't have to," McQueen says instead. "You never have to, really. Most racers won't."

Storm doesn't reply back, and doesn't bother returning to pit row to reconvene with his 'team.' He's done with McQueen.

But he runs up beside Danny, who's just finishing his victory lap, checkered flag flying from his back window.

He takes a deep breath.

"Hey," Storm says. Danny's eyes widen.

Storm asks, "Do you know how to fish?"