#bec props blah blah blah

[godthatfeltgood]

Because if Mad is one thing, she is theatric

[littlemisspascal]

Fast Cars and Lightning Bolts Part 2

Pairing: Din x Female Reader

Word Count: 2100+

Rating: T for whole series

Summary: “I’m here on behalf of Boba Fett. Suppose, hypothetically speaking, he wanted his company to win the Boonta Eve Classic. You’re one of the only racers still alive who’s done that. So I came to ask you,” she takes a breath, spreads her palms out with an air of frankness, “what does it take?”

Warnings: Racing AU, heavily inspired by the film Ford v Ferrari, dialogue heavy, language, angst, references of death but no graphic details, worldbuilding, Reader and Din are exes, No physical characteristics of Reader described except for having hair + a heart condition (I’m not a doctor, all medical details are fictional)

Author Note: Decided to officially declare this a series. A very relaxed, sporadically updated series--but still a series. Hope someone out there enjoys this 😊 All likes, comments, and reblogs super appreciated 💗

Also please note Part 3 is the original one-shot I posted, but it is now updated to better flow with the events of Part 1 and 2.

PART 1 / PART 3

The sales floor is swamped with customers and staff. Peli’s darting around each of the four corners, finalizing sales and answering questions, returning to your side every ten minutes with a new clipboard of documents needing your signature.

Sunlight filters in through the open windows of the building, a cool breeze toying with your hair, and at Ahsoka’s workstation a radio blares an upbeat tune by The Max Rebo Band. Unlike most car dealerships where employees are expected to wear fancy suits and fake smiles, you prefer a casual work environment full of car enthusiasts like yourself, unafraid to get motor oil on their hands and know the difference between a crankshaft and a camshaft without having to look on the HoloNet.

“Got a Trandoshan interested in Canary Classic and some senator’s son chomping at the bit to test drive our only Canary Moonlight out on the street,” Peli tells you, popping up at your side midwalk around the sales floor. 

“Does the kid have a license?”

“I asked and you know what the little punk told me?” Peli nudges you to a halt, propping a hand on her hip with an exasperated expression that has you smirking even before she says, “He doesn’t have to show me a license because he’s Senator Blah Blah’s son. I should recognize him by his looks alone.”

You snort. “Yeah, no. Tell Senator Blah Blah’s son he either shows a license or he’s got to find somewhere else to make dumbass demands.”

Peli nods and turns to leave, only to freeze in place as a Zephyr-J motorbike pulls up outside the entrance. You watch as the rider removes their helmet, revealing a woman dressed in a black jacket with orange stripes and dark braided hair, exuding grace and strength with every movement. When you approach to meet her at the doorway, she isn’t subtle in observing you from head to toe with a quick once-over. 

“Lightning Bolt?” She says it like a question, but the way her lips curl at the edges into a small grin gives you the impression this stranger knows exactly who you are.

“Depends who’s asking,” you reply, returning the smile with a cautiously friendly one of your own.

“Fennec Shand.” Her handshake is firm, professional. “Fett Motor Company.”

There’s a beat which follows the announcement, as though she expects you to have a reaction of some kind. It’s only because of your racing background you maintain your neutral expression, remembering what it was like to hide your true emotions from the press and their constantly recording cameras.

Internally, you’re about as calm as a leaf in the wind. 

The thing about Fett Motor Company is that, not only is it run out of the desert city Mos Espa where the BEC is held annually, it is also owned by Boba Fett who changed his career from bounty hunter to crime lord three years ago after he murdered the previous Daimyo. You haven’t been to Mos Espa in over a year, but you’ve heard of the positive changes and improvements made to the city under Fett’s control. You’ve also heard some not-so-positive remarks about Fett cars. Their engines are powerful, almost unbelievably so considering the company’s youth, but the heavy weight and clunky shape of their vehicles makes steering a challenge and average speed on the low end compared to other cars in the galaxy. 

Let’s just say, it wouldn’t be egotistical of you to claim your Canary could go around a track several laps before a Fett Rancor ever finished its first.

But even though Fett’s cars may not have much of a solid reputation, the Daimyo himself is not one to be trifled with. And the last thing you want is trouble with the crime lord, so despite your uneasiness, you direct Fennec to your office upstairs where you conduct all your important meetings. 

If she does catch a glimpse of your anxiety peeking out of your mask, she politely doesn’t comment on it. Still, you linger on the sales floor after she’s left, signing a few more documents for Peli while also using the spare minutes to ready yourself for whatever it is Fennec wants to discuss. You have the distinct feeling it’s going to be a strange ordeal.

Upstairs, you find the woman observing the contents of your shelves. Old trophies and awards Peli insisted needed to be displayed so any potential business investors could see how well-established you are in the racing community. But Fennec isn’t looking at any of them, you realize upon a second glance. She’s found the only thing up there that’s of sentimental value rather than monetary.

“A pink carnation?” she inquires, studying the flower carefully preserved in a glass frame, as beautiful and vibrant as the day it was given to you what feels like a whole lifetime ago.

And that day, just like the flower, will always be preserved in your memory like this: summer heat, first anniversary, a drive down the coast, shy smiles, fingers grazing during the exchange of the pink bloom. So you won’t forget about me when you’re rich and famous. 

“Long story,” you explain with a dismissive gesture, pushing thoughts of brown eyes out of your head. You then perch yourself on the edge of your desk. “Now, what brings you all the way from Mos Espa to see me, Ms. Shand?”

“Fennec, please,” she corrects, turning to face you. “I’m here on behalf of Boba Fett. Suppose, hypothetically speaking, he wanted his company to win the Boonta Eve Classic. You’re one of the only racers still alive who’s done that. So I came to ask you,” she takes a breath, spreads her palms out with an air of frankness, “what does it take?”

You lean further back on your desk a little, unable to keep your eyebrows from rising with surprise. Fennec just stares back at you. Not critically like the Twi’leks had done back at Galma, but calmly and patiently. Waiting for you to find your words on your own time.

“Well, hypothetically speaking, it takes something credits can’t buy,” you declare at last.

“Credits can buy speed,” Fennec counters.

“It’s not about speed.” You shake your head because she doesn’t understand, can’t understand unless she’s driven the BEC herself. “This isn’t like other races where all you have to do is turn left and go in circles for a couple of hours. To win the BEC, you need a car that is lightweight enough to reach 200 on the straightaways, but also strong enough to endure thousands of miles across sand and rock with limited breaks. This car has to be the best you’ve ever made and be ten times better than whatever Moff Gideon’s team shows up with that year. And if you’re lucky, that’s just what gets you to the starting line. Then your real problems start.”

Fennec tilts her head in acknowledgment, but her voice comes out a little wry around the edges. “So, you’re saying it’s challenging?”

“It’s not even a track, Fennec,” you say with thinly veiled frustration, and the woman blinks with surprise as your carefully composed mask begins cracking around the edges. “The circuit for the Boonta Eve Classic is made up of large stretches of desert plains, narrow canyons full of twists and turns, and part of the Laguna Caves underground. There are no paved roads. No safety rails. And you have to keep driving for twenty-four hours with an average speed of 130 if you wanna be a serious contender. Twenty-four hours.”

You tap your fingernail on your desk for emphasis, drilling the words into the wood. The Boonta Eve Classic was designed first and foremost as a test of endurance, separating it from all other races in the galaxy where the main goal was simply to have the fastest time. For the BEC, it’s the number of laps a car (and its driver) can handle without falling apart which determines the winner. 

“It’s in the middle of summer so heatstroke and dehydration are serious risks. And then once the sun sets, half the race is in darkness. Cars and giant rocks coming up out of nowhere. An explosion of fire if the two collide. A driver stumbling out of the wreckage, bleeding buckets. Maybe they’re on fire too. Maybe they’re your friend.”

Your physical body might remain in your office, but your mind drifts back in time to the scariest, most exhilarating twenty-four hours of your whole life. The stench of sweat and gasoline fills your nostrils, a current of electric adrenaline flowing through your muscles, and your eyes burn from a combination of exhaustion and smoke billowing out from flaming vehicles. One of your closest friends, Omera Jones, experienced brake failure during her 156th lap, crashing straight into the side of a canyon. Doctors said it was a miracle she lived through it with only a broken arm as her worst injury. The fates of three other drivers weren’t so fortunate. Their deaths were bloody and horrific, and their faces, despite being total strangers to you, are forever etched into a corner of your brain.  

“Either way,” your voice is quieter now, softer, weighted down with nostalgia and just a hint of trauma, “you have to keep going, hour after hour, until dawn breaks. You’re exhausted as hell, starving, can barely remember your own name or why any of this matters. And then you realize you’re flying by the Dune Sea at nearly 200 miles an hour. Anything goes wrong—blow a gasket or a tire or even a tiny five credit washer—and that’s it. You’re done. The Imperials win again. Like they won last year and the year before that and the year before that.”

You blink once, twice, three times before coming back to the present with a quiet inhale of breath. There are two sides to the BEC in your memories—-one bloodcurdling and perilous, responsible for your deteriorating health. The other extraordinary and invigorating, responsible for your golden reputation. Simply put, the BEC is as deeply interwoven with your identity as your own flesh and bones.

Fennec looks thoughtful, maybe a little thrown off balance, but at least she seems to be seriously absorbing all you said.

 “So, yeah,” you tell her, offering a crooked grin. “It’s challenging.”

The corner of Fennec’s mouth twitches. “What I’m hearing is you don’t think Fett Motor Company can build the greatest race car the galaxy’s ever seen? You don’t think we’re capable of winning an event like that?” She steps closer, not unlike a Loth Wolf hoping to corner its prey. “Even if we had the best and brightest partner? Even if we wrote a blank check?”

You meet her stare evenly. “Credits can’t buy first place, Fennec. But maybe,” your crooked grin turns sincere, perhaps a little wider than usual with tentative excitement. “Maybe they can buy the woman who’ll get you your closest shot.”

~~

Later that night, after Fennec’s long gone and your staff have returned to their homes, including Peli who’s already devising several hundred plans for Fett’s future race car, you sit behind your desk holding a torn piece of paper. It’s a bit crinkled from months spent stashed away in the back of your desk’s drawer, but the number scribbled in neat handwriting is still readable. Still makes something in your chest sting worse than a bug bite.

You rub at your forehead, declare yourself an idiot, and then punch the numbers into your comlink. 

He picks up on the second ring, saying your name. His voice is marred by the crackling of static, but the familiarity of it freezes you in place. He repeats your name again in the same incredulous way, and you can picture him in his garage, oil stains on his clothes, that little crease between his eyebrows as he tries to figure out why the hell you’re calling him when you swore you’d never do it again.

“Alright, I’m going to hang up now,” Din says.

Startling back to awareness, your grip on the comlink tightens. “No, wait, please!”

He heaves a sigh, but does stay connected. You think of that bond of loyalty again, wonder if maybe you’re not the only one who still feels it. And suddenly there’s all these words bubbling in your throat you want to say to him, but the timing isn’t right, the moment too unsteady.

Choking down the words, you instead tell him, “I need to talk to you. It’s about the BEC.”

A long enough pause of silence follows you think he’s hung up, and then—

“Fine. But you’re buying me dinner.”