It was instant. Quick and painless. Like falling asleep, as the pathologist so eloquently put it. One minute, Ray Reverham was alive and kicking, and the next, well… Storm preferred not to think about it. Luckily, he didn't feel a thing. So they said. Lucky, huh. Storm didn't think so. Having someone pummel into you at over 100 miles per hour did not fall under his definition of lucky.

Storm had been waiting at the Los Angeles International Speedway before one of the races. His crew was getting set up and situated. His crew chief was not. He was absent, engaged with some errands, and as such, would be arriving later. Trouble was, though, that he never arrived. What arrived in his place was a message. This message? A fatal collision. Some car who had more than a little too much to drink was speeding twice past the limit. To make matters worse, they were going the wrong way. They drove head-on into one other vehicle. That speeder didn't make it. The pick-up truck never made it either.

He didn't react initially. Storm would have rather died himself than allowed people to discover that yes, Jackson Storm had feelings, and yes, they weren't always pride-filled ones. When he first heard the news, a thud to his insides, the likes of which he had never experienced before, overcame him. It was as if he was plummeting down an infinite number of stories, never quite making contact with the physical world. Maybe he never would.

At first, he refused to believe it. Ray Reverham dead? The Ray Reverham? The guy who was crew chief to not one, but now two Piston Cup champions? No, Storm wouldn't buy it. For the next couple days, Storm clung to the notion that Ray was still cruising around somewhere, better than ever. Of course, they had asked him if he wanted to see the… body. Storm rejected the offer. "It's not going to be him," he had told the morticians. But he still avoided seeing the remains anyway.

It wasn't long before Storm figured that Ray wasn't actually coming back. He wasn't the type to stay in denial for too long. It passed him like a wave. But instead of feeling refreshed when he bobbed back up to the surface, the tide had swept away all semblance of feeling. All he was left with was nothingness.

He was more listless than usual, if that was even possible.

He didn't outwardly show any emotion or reaction, which was troubling to say the least. Storm was known for bottling up his emotions for as long as he could until the pressure was too much to handle and he exploded. Gale had tried to coax him into talking about it to her—to ANYONE, but she knew before she had even opened her mouth that Storm would refuse. And she didn't know what else she could do at that point. Wait for him to explode?...

Unfortunately, that was what had ended up happening.

It wasn't even a big thing that set him off.

It was a statue.

It was one of the last things left in Ray's office. A crew of pitties was clearing out the remainder of miscellaneous belongings in the room. His desk, various knickknacks, and some scrap paper were all that remained. And the statue.

It was a small, clear glass statue in the shape of a tire mounted on a base. The words "#20 Crew Chief" were etched into it.

"Get it? It's like '#1 Crew Chief', except we race for the number 20, so it's 20. It's funny, isn't it?"

Except Storm didn't think it was funny. He thought it was stupid.

"It's stupid," he had said. "It makes us sound like the 20th best team instead of the first best. Which we are. The first, that is."

Ray's sense of humor was always a hit-or-miss for Storm. Some instances, such as when he had inserted Lightning McQueen into his simulator, were humorous to him. Other times, such as when he told stupid dad jokes—not so much. Storm couldn't even tell if Ray found those jokes genuinely funny, or he just told them to irritate him. One thing was for sure, Storm found the statue irritating.

It wasn't his fault. The thing was so fragile—practically teetering on the edge of Ray's desk. So it didn't come as much of a surprise when one time, while Storm was talking with Ray in his office, he got bored (as was typical for him to get during another one of Ray's lectures). He fiddled around with some of the things on his desk, and lo and behold, Storm managed to accidentally knock the statue off the top of the table.

Crash.

Fortunately, it didn't shatter into a billion pieces. Only three. Storm had to glue the tire back together, and while the fractures were still visible, it didn't look too bad. And Ray only took away three hours of his simulator time. The statue wasn't of too much sentimental value to Ray anyway.

The same couldn't be said for Storm.

The pitties, they were being careless. And the statue was trembling over the edge again. Storm was beginning to think that they'd make the same mistake that he made and bump the thing off the table. But for some reason, the idea of warning them wasn't completely a possibility for him. It was as if some sick part of him wanted them to break it—wanted them to shatter the glass tire into three pieces again. As if re-enacting the same scene would somehow how poof Ray back into the office, where he would deduct another three hours of his simulator time. Even if he wasn't the one who damaged it. He didn't need those simulator hours anyway.

Crash.

It clattered to the floor. And wouldn't you know it, the statue split into those same three sections again. Arts and crafts weren't Storm's strong suit anyway.

But it was all their fault, somehow. The pitties'.

Storm advanced toward them in one swift movement, revving his engine so loud that the office shuddered and the pitties did too. They had heard rumors he was a bomb ready to detonate at a moment's notice.

"What the hell is wrong with you?! Didn't you see that glass tire there?! What are you—blind? Stupid?"

The ill-fated pitty reversed away slowly from the fuming racecar, fearing for his life.

"S-sorry boss. I didn't know it was there."

Those were the words that set him off. His emotions didn't simply bubble to the surface, they erupted after being bottled up inside for so long.

"You didn't know? I didn't know either!"

The shaken pitty glanced at his buddies, searching for a way out. They didn't have one.

Storm was acutely aware that he was being irrational, and quite frankly, embarrassing himself, but that didn't stop him.

"I didn't know this would happen! How would I know? Things like this just don't happen! Not to me! Not to me, of all people! Of all people! Why me? Why me?"

"Jackson."

Storm whirled around to see Gale parked in the doorway. It was at this point that Storm realized his engine was whirring under the stress of his emotions, and his temperature was through the roof. Gale was gazing at him with an expression of pity. But she was also gently stern, in that way that she always was with him. The pitties were just thankful that someone had come to their rescue.

"Jackson… let's go outside."

Storm and Gale were situated in front of the IGNTR Racing Centre, secluded off to a corner, where they could observe the luscious, decorated quad away from the eye of the public. The grass was primly cut. Verdant and full of life. An enormous fountain adorned the center of the plaza. Its clear, rushing waterfalls crashed down endlessly into the basin. The sound was muffled due to the distance that the two grey vehicles were away from it.

Neither of them spoke. All that filled the air was the patter of the waterfall. At this point, Storm had cooled down quite a bit, but he was still somewhat on edge and unwilling to divulge his thoughts. He was notorious for his competitiveness, but in this case, Gale wasn't going to admit defeat. Come hell or high water, Storm was going to talk first.

He relented, with a huff of his breath. "Well? Aren't you going to scold me or something?"

"No."

Storm cast her a suspicious glance. "Well, what then?"

Gale returned his look with a level gaze. "You know what."

Storm opened his mouth to retort, but he knew it was futile. Regardless, he was going to drag this out as much as possible. Like a stubborn child shuffling his tires.

He shuffled his right tire against the ground. "I… I just thought it was stupid. That it'd happen to him. Stupid… and unfair…"

"These things can happen to anyone. Even to you, Jackson."

Storm shook his hood, tossing his tires into the air. "It doesn't make sense though! I'm Jackson Storm."

He turned to Gale, turning out his wheels for emphasis. "These things don't happen to someone like me! To my crew chief…"

Gale met him with softened eyes. "You're not invincible, Jackson. And neither was Ray." She paused, her words taking on a different connotation. "People make mistakes… Lose control of themselves. Accidents happen."

Storm scoffed and whipped his hood back toward the fountain. "Okay. Tell that pitty I'm sorry then. It's just a statue. Accidents happen."

His hauler's lids creased. "That's not what I meant, Jackson."

The grey racer seemed aware of this. But stubborn is as stubborn does. In some ways, his stubbornness was useful. It enabled him to persevere in the face of diversity or competition. His willingness to prove others wrong was compelling. But in this situation, it wasn't. Not when it took weeks for Gale to get Storm to confront his feelings on the whole Ray matter. The more he tried to ignore it, the more he kept his unresolved sentiments buried away, the more it started to fester and alter him. It was only a matter of time. And now was the time.

That weight on his cab. The reality of the situation weighed heavier and heavier on him the longer the silence went on. It was beginning to crush him. A million thoughts flashed across his eyes, it overwhelmed him. What to settle on…

"Ray… definitely thought that," he finally said. "That I wasn't perfect, I mean. He definitely thought I was a pain." But there was a trace of fondness in his recollection. "He was always on my case about fixing my 'attitude problem'."

A ghost of a smile traced his lips. A coping mechanism? Perhaps.

Gale directed this topic to its core. "But he still thought you were a talented racer."

Storm's grin faded. Had Gale misspoke?

The racecar returned his gaze to the fountain. The glittering waves danced off his grey eyes, which bounced back anything and everything.

"Yeah… that's what I was… his… best racer…" But these words fell flat from his lips. They had no color—they were lifeless. He didn't hold them close to his heart. Even after he had worked so hard to earn that title. It sounded meaningless in this context.

Gale studied Storm's expression, his eyes which looked off past the fountain and at… some place.

"He was just my crew chief," Storm said, but he sounded like he was trying to convince himself of this fact. "That's all he was to me..."

But he couldn't pretend. Not anymore.

Storm drew his gaze back from where it had wandered off. Closer, and closer to him, until it landed on the ground in front of him. He focused hard, the way he would every so often when he was trying to beat his own record on the simulator. Trying to beat away some ghost of his past self. Some part of himself, at least.

"But now that he's…" He had to wrench the words out from under his own tires. "...gone. It feels like…" And he paused an unordinary amount of time. He had to prepare himself. "I lost more than just a crew chief…"

Gale tilted her hood down at him, proud of his ability to admit this, but also sad that he had to reopen cracks in his exterior that he never completely repaired.

Storm slowly brought his eyes back up to Gale, as if they weighed a thousand pounds, and she was somewhat surprised to find that they looked solemn and pensive. But restrained.

"It's just that…" Storm couldn't even keep his gaze on his hauler for more than a second. His eyes shot back away again. "I've never had…" His voice grew quiet, and it almost startled Gale. "Someone like him."

"What do you mean?" But Gale knew exactly what he meant. Maybe he didn't, though.

"I dunno."

"A family?"

Storm started at this word, as if it had physically pierced him. Now that it was in the air, it sounded so foreign to him. Ugly, almost. He had dreaded to see it, and all this time, he had tried avoiding it. Pretending it didn't exist. But it had. All this time.

Jackson's expression hardened, and he was a thousand miles away again. Braving against a tumultuous storm on the edge of a precipice. Peering down at the waves crashing up against the rocky side. He looked, off into the water crashing down from the fountain.

"Family doesn't mean anything to someone who's built to be the fastest racecar out there." He spoke as if the person of discussion was someone other than himself. "Racing is the only thing that means something to someone like that."

Gale furrowed her lids in concern. "Can't you have both?"

Storm glanced up, and for a split second, she could have sworn she saw a child staring back up at her. "Do I have both?"

Gale gave him a soft smile. "Yes, you do."

Storm diverted his gaze again, and this time, he made sure that Gale couldn't see his eyes.

"Ray always saw you as something more than that," Gale continued, rolling closer to Storm. "It may not have been obvious, since he was always reserved with those kind of emotions." She smiled and glanced over at the racer beside her. "Just like you."

Jackson tensed up. He could predict what she was going to say next, the way an impending storm would portend its arrival, seconds before—

"But I know for a fact that he thought of you like a son."

—lightning struck and the clouds burst open. The storm within Jackson unleashed itself, washing through him with a frigidity that shook him to his core.

This was something he knew all along, but could never put it into words. Or it was something in the back of his mind, and never really occurred to him. Or maybe he just didn't want to acknowledge it. It was something too tender and sentimental to think about. And those things didn't pair well with Jackson Storm—someone who lived in the moment and never thought about the next day. He only wanted to work with the things he knew best, and not the unfamiliar, the unknown.

He never thought about what could happen, since accidents never happened to Jackson Storm. That's what he trained himself to believe.

But now he was forced to think about it. And it wasn't as simple as an accident happening, or a glass statue breaking. It was realizing he had lost so much more than he originally thought he lost.

Gale was beginning to become unsettled by Storm's lack of response, but then she quickly realized why.

The waves coming down from the foundation glinted off the drops sliding down Storm's sides.

"Why?" He had tried to remain calm, but it was hard to keep his voice steady.

"Why me?" But this time, he wasn't talking about the crash.

"What did I do to deserve that?"

Gale moved up against Storm, giving him a gentle nudge of the fender. She could feel the damp residual of the condensation dripping down Storm's side.

"It's because he believed in you. Remember?" She gave him a supportive tap of the tire. "He believed you were a capable racer, even when other people didn't. And he believed you were a good kid at heart..."

Gale turned Storm around to face her, because she needed him to hear this last part. Storm's windshield was still misty. He was reluctant to look up at her, but he did nevertheless. Because at this point, he was willing to accept that he wasn't perfect, and he sometimes let his emotions get the best of him. And he knew that all wasn't completely lost and he wasn't completely alone.

"He believed that… just as I do."

In the corner of the interior of Storm's nearly pitch black trailer is a glimmer. At first glance, it appears to be a prism refracting the light that does manage to exist in that den.

The trailer door opens, light pervading the darkness. A glass tire shines on the shelf, the light filtering through it. Three cracks permeate its delicate form. Glittering. The inscription reads: "#20 Crew Chief."

(Author's Note) Disclaimer: I know that the term "accident" can describe something which happened that could not have been prevented in any way. In the case of this crash, it obviously could have been prevented. So I don't mean to use the word "accident" in that sense. I've heard that people are discouraged from using the word accident when referring to such cases, but instead, encouraged to use words like "crash," since they're more accurate. I've opted to use "accident" since it fits the theme I was going for better. The title isn't to make light of the crash, but rather, to take on a more serious connotation in that case, while the pitty knocking over the statue is the sort of trivial accident that phrase typically entails.