Chapter Text
The fluorescent lights of the garage flickered overhead, the scent of burning rubber and gasoline thick in the air. Lightning McQueen stood hunched over the sink, gripping the edges so tightly his knuckles turned white. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, his golden-red hair slightly damp from sweat. He could see the stubborn strands curling at the edges, fading at the roots where his natural color threatened to break through.
He ignored it. It wasn’t time to think about that.
Instead, he locked eyes with himself and muttered under his breath, "I am speed."
A smirk curled at the corner of his lips. "Faster than fast. Quicker than quick."
This was his moment. He could taste victory, feel it in the charge of the air, in the roar of the engines outside the garage. Tonight, he wasn’t just another driver—he was the future NASCAR Cup Series Champion.
A sharp knock rattled the door, breaking his focus.
“McQueen!” His race engineer, Levin, shouted from the other side. “Get your ass out here! The grid’s filling up.”
“Coming!” Lightning called back. He inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and shot himself one last cocky wink in the mirror.
Born ready.
The second he stepped into the paddock, the atmosphere shifted. The air was electric, charged with the anticipation of thousands of fans, their voices blending into a deafening roar.
Cameras flashed. Reporters jostled for a closer shot. His name was everywhere.
“McQueen! Over here!”
“Lightning, how does it feel to be in the biggest race of your career?”
“Any last words before you take the grid?”
He threw on his sunglasses and strode past them, smirking. He didn’t need to answer. The whole world already knew the truth.
He was winning tonight.
The crowd’s excitement surged as he made his way to the McLaren-NASCAR garage, where mechanics buzzed around his car like a pit crew of bees. The sleek red and orange machine gleamed under the floodlights, its Rust-eze sponsorship decals shining like a trophy in itself.
He ran a hand over the hood, his fingers brushing against the faint streaks of dust. A speck of dirt. Unacceptable. Lightning snatched a rag from a passing mechanic and wiped the spot clean.
“Seriously, dude?” Levin appeared at his side, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.
“What?” Lightning tossed the rag away. “I can’t race in a dirty car.”
Levin exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Your priorities are so out of whack.”
Before Lightning could retort, another voice cut through the noise.
“Look who finally decided to show up.”
Lightning turned to see Chick Hicks, leaning against the adjacent pit wall with that smug, blocky grin. His green and black racing suit looked freshly pressed, his sponsor’s logos lined up like a cheap billboard.
“Oh, hey there, Thunder,” Lightning called out, grinning. “Didn’t see you down there.”
Chick’s eye twitched. “It’s Chick, McQueen.”
Lightning waved a dismissive hand. “Sure, sure. Let’s just hope you can keep up, Thunder.”
Before Chick could snap back, another figure approached—the legendary Strip Weathers, a.k.a. The King. The older driver’s presence was enough to silence the entire paddock for a brief moment. Even Lightning felt his smirk falter.
"McQueen," The King greeted, nodding. "You ready for this?"
Lightning puffed out his chest. "Born ready."
The King chuckled knowingly. "We'll see about that."
With that, the veteran turned and headed toward his own crew, leaving Lightning standing there with a lump in his throat. The King wasn’t an easy man to impress.
But that was fine.
By the end of the night, he’d have no choice.
Engines rumbled as the drivers took their places on the starting grid. The stadium vibrated with excitement.
Lightning eased into his car, zipping up his suit before slipping on his helmet. The world outside became muffled, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
This was it.
His hands gripped the wheel as the formation lap began. The red lights above the track flickered on—one by one—counting down the moments before all hell broke loose.
Next to him, Chick Hicks revved his engine.
Lightning smirked, raising a hand and giving him a cocky wave.
"See you at the finish line, Thunder!"
Confusion flickered across Chick's face for a split second.
Lights out.
The tires screeched against the asphalt as the cars shot forward like bullets from a gun. Lightning’s reflexes were instant—he floored it, his car surging ahead, but the pack was ruthless.
Drivers jostled for position, side panels grazing against each other as they entered the first turn.
Chick Hicks and The King led the charge.
Lightning dived inside the curve, squeezing past two cars before slotting into third place behind them. His radio crackled to life.
“McQueen, P3. Stick to the strategy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He barely heard Levin over the adrenaline pounding in his veins.
Ahead, The King and Chick fought for dominance, their cars inches apart as they roared down the straight. Lightning saw his opening.
He pushed the throttle, forcing his way between them. Chick nudged his rear bumper—a dirty move—but Lightning held steady.
"McQueen, don't let Hicks bait you!" Levin warned.
But Lightning wasn’t just any driver. He was Lightning McQueen.
He didn’t play the game. He owned it.
Lap after lap, the race intensified. Pit stops came and went, strategies unfolded. The final three laps approached, and Lightning was in the lead.
This was it.
His tires were worn, but he refused to pit. He had ten seconds on the pack. He could make it.
“McQueen, you NEED fresh tires!” Levin’s voice was frantic in his ear.
“No time,” Lightning shot back, pushing harder.
Levin cursed, but Lightning barely heard him.
Two corners left.
One straight.
This was his championship.
He exhaled sharply.
I'm the winner.
And then—
BANG.
His left rear tire exploded.
Time slowed.
His car snapped sideways, skidding violently toward the wall.
“NO—!” He fought the wheel, desperately trying to regain control.
The crowd gasped as Chick and The King surged past him, crossing the line just as he limped through.
Silence.
The stadium was a blur of noise, but Lightning couldn't process it.
His radio was dead silent.
His car rolled to a stop.
He had no idea who had won.
But he already knew one thing.
His hands trembled against the wheel as reality sank in.
He hadn’t won.
And nothing had ever burned more.