#poor cruz is coming across really poorly in this section too because lightning's POV today isn't really giving her a chance

[whipplefilter]

fan fic: The Curve 3/?

As the 2017 racing season wears on, Daytona’s spontaneous magic reveals itself to have been, well, spontaneous magic. Cruz discovers that while she definitely knows how to drive, she might not yet know how to race; and Lightning realizes that even if he knows how to race, he has no idea how to be a crew chief. they Need to figure out how to pull it together before their hot mess gets any hotter.

This chapter: Project Spontaneous Magic gets off to a rocky start. It’s difficult to tell whose fault it is. At least as far as Lightning’s concerned.

[ Link to Part 1 | Part 2 ]

Lightning oversleeps. The last thing he remembers is sunrise and her last forty laps, shoulda added wedge. When he wakes, the TV's hissing static and the sun is bright. 15 races and too many hours of footage later, all he's learned is what Tex already told him: His mistakes.

Lightning shambles his way to the track in a series of frenetic, bleary-eyed wrong turns, feeling stupid because with the exception of, uh, several very important races, he's never late to anything, ever--and yet here he is, the world's least professional crew chief ever, because from the first day his tires hit pavement the one thing he's always known is that you absolutely cannot be late for a 5:30 track appointment. And yet, and yet--

Cruz isn't there.

His gaze flicks up to the track clock, and it's barely seven. He’s not that late. They have the track until nine. And if there's one thing Lightning's absolutely certain Cruz is capable of doing on her own, it's run a training session.

Exhaustion simmers into anger, which Lightning then tries to pull back into self-restraint, because being angry with Cruz has never solved anything, and it's too early in the morning for this. But self-restraint topples into self-loathing topples into resentment, and bottom line? Cruz should be here, with or without him. She knows that. They discussed that. And if she's not going to listen, then Lightning's not sure what the point is.

This isn't traffic school. This is racing--real racing.

That's your job, McQueen, Lightning tells himself. Get her ready for her first road course at OKC. That's all.

He's not her alarm clock cum stopwatch. That's on her.

"Cruz!" Lightning shouts experimentally, and gets only his echo in return.

He reverses back into the center and stalks the halls. Wind tunnel--nope. VR--definitely not. Simulator, no. And then--of course, treadmills. There she is.

Of course.

"Hey, Lightning! Long time no see!"

Lightning jumps, and suddenly Cal is cruising beside him, talking about Dinoco this, Mr. Tex asked him to come by and stop something by legal that, talk to the trainees, blah blah blah, et cetera.

"I've missed--"

"Not right now, Cal." Lightning zips past him, without taking his gaze from his truant yellow friend in the distance.

"So it works better if you--" Cruz is explaining to a lime-green Fiesta Lightning doesn't recognize. She's sporting a Dinoco Training Center logo on her side panel, though, so he can only assume she's the new Cruz.

"Cruz! What are you doing in here? And why aren't you dressed? Where are your racing tires?"

Cruz turns away from the Fiesta. "Mr. McQueen! There you are! You didn't show up this morning!"

"Where are your racing tires?" Lightning repeats. "Why aren't you--"

"Well, I went to the garage, but they said you didn't put in the order--"

"Order--?!"

"And then they said you needed to sign off on it--"

"What--"

"--And something about keeping track of inventory--"

"I think it's obvious who you are. I don't see why they couldn't have just given you the tires," Lightning snaps. Because somehow this is also his fault.

Cruz shrugs. "That's what I said. But they really just wanted to talk to you. But then you didn't show, and I didn't know where you were, so--"

"--So you figured you'd take the morning off?"

"So anyway, Lesly, like I was saying: The treadmills aren't some recreational spin class in Malibu. You have to tailor each experience to the racer. Which is actually my favorite part about--"

"Cruz! Stop telling her how to do her job!" Lightning interjects.

"But what she's doing would be so much more helpful if--"

"That's not your problem any more! It's hers! Focus! Because right now, you have 99 problems and all she's got is the one. You."

Cruz reverses abruptly. "Wow, Mr. McQueen. You don't get to call me that."

Lightning feels like the entire Center has its eyes on him. Lesly the Trainer looks like she wants to set both him and Cruz on fire. Cal apparently followed him here, is still hanging around. The speed of each and every treadmill regresses to zero and the room goes still and quiet.

"Call you… what?" Lightning ventures.

"It's a song, bro," says one of the rookie racers--the bug guy.

"What's a song?" asks Lightning, still bewildered.

"Oh, I know that song!" offers Cal. "By Jag-Z."

Lightning just stares at him.

"Jaguar… Z-Type? Jag-Z?" Cal continues.

Lightning closes his eyes and squeaks his tires against the polished floor. He counts to three. "Okay, look. I'm sorry. I'm sleep-deprived. I have no idea what you're talking about. Lesly, nice to meet you. And nice to see you again, uh--you three. And Cruz! Good morning/fine, thanks/and you?/glad to hear it. Now can we let Lesly do her job, figure out this tire situation, and try to get back on track here?"

Finally, Lightning turns to Cal. "Cal, I'm sorry, it's great to see you, too."

"No problem, Lightning," Cal says brightly. "I can help with the tire thing. If you set up a recurring appointment in the system--"

"Okay, great. Let's roll."

--

"Mr. McQueen, what drill are we running right now?" Cruz asks, about forty laps in. "Because OKC is a road course, isn't it? And you wanted"--she's loose on the turn--"to go over multiple-corners--"

In the next turn, they both go high, and Lightning can feel the force of her, mere inches away. Radiant energy cutting through wind and that shoots out in a gale behind them.

"This is just a short track, so I don't really see how this--"

"It's the drill where we drive," Lightning answers.

It's the drill where they drive, let the asphalt bubble up under the heat of their speed. Let it claim rubber. Where they find the groove, stick tires to pavement even as their wheels spin faster, faster, faster. Where the centrifugal force around the corners bears down and you snap right back, and the track beneath you changes like a wild thing and each lap is never quite the same but one comes always, always after the next until you're not thinking about anything but the turn in front of you because nothing else matters.

It's the drill where you let everything fall away, you throw it away, and it's just you and the track and nothing else matters.

To be continued...