Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Unloading
'The Big One'
Noun.
An accident involving 11 or more cars taking place at Daytona International Speedway, where NASCAR race cars run in massive packs of up to 40 3,200 pound machines separated by at times, inches of space. It is not a question as to whether or not 'The Big One' will occur, but a matter of when. Energy in the pack at the 31 degree angled slopes of Daytona builds like a tightly wound ball of rubber bands - one wrong move and -
Snap.
A hefty hand landed on Violet's shoulder, bringing the driver of the No. 6 Hound Motorsports Toyota back out of her pre-Daytona jitters. The pink-haired girl blinked, staring up at cool-and collected eyes. "Ready, kid? Season's not gonna start itself," he huffed with a smirk, his hand resting against the rear spoiler of Vi's car.
"10-4, old man," Vi chided back, playfully tapping the brim of Vander's Hound Motorsports cap, bearing a pair of twin snarling dogs over a red color scheme.
Vander let out a whistle with two fingers, and on command, the rear door to Hound's #6 hauler slid open, filling the dimly lit interior with blinding Florida daylight and the smell of Sunoco racing fuel. The pair put both hands on the back of their Daytona entry, a sleek red, black and gold flame-trimmed Camry bearing the logo of Jericho's Diner on the hood, and began to push. The father-daughter pair walked their car out into the the garage area, which was already teaming with activity in the early morning hour.
Brightly colored machines and equally colorful firesuits navigated the narrow passageways around their haulers, which were packed like sardines within Daytona's massive infield. The Daytona 500, the first and most important race of the season, was only two days away. Hundreds of drivers across all four series; ARCA, Trucks, Xfinity, and the Cup Series had gathered to compete and test their mettle at the 2.5 mile long, 200mph restrictor-plate drafting oval.
As they pushed the car out fully into the sunlight, a group of crew members came to push it the rest of the way to technical inspection, where a precise laser grid system would determine if their entry followed NASCAR's strict race protocols. Vander and Violet took in the sight for a few precious moments before properly getting to work. "Nothing like Speedweeks, eh?" The older man remarked, expecting another jab back from his daughter. Instead, he found her staring at the closed hauler trailer parked right next to theirs, the massive rear door emblazoned with the angular lines and keys of the Kiramman crest.
Vi bit the inside of her cheek. "God, that thing is gaudy. Did they seriously buy a new one during the off-season? Rich ass Pilties..." she huffed.
Vander folded his arms over his chest. "A gaudy hauler they likely afforded with sponsorship money. Money you'd probably get more of if you made more appearances in the press and turned some attitude around, hm?"
Vi could practically hear her own eye roll. "Vander, I'm here to race. Not to spend two hours in hair and makeup for Fox fucking Sports to give them a sob story. I'm not a rookie anymore, and I'm certainly not some media darling like Kiramman."
Vander patted the top of her head and ruffled pink locks. "That's right, you're not. But last I checked, you need more trophies in the case before you can start talking like that. Go through the motions with it. Talk to the press, let them make storylines. I know you can drive your tail off while you balance all that, too. You've got time before you start getting all grey and resentful," he smiled down at her, watching as her shoulders sagged in her firesuit's undershirt. "Chin up, kid. Take in the views, make sure we pass inspection, and take it easy until practice. I think your sister's starting her qualifying session here soon. Catch you trackside, then?"
Vi gave a half smile back, offering her adoptive father and crew chief a side hug. "Yeah. Yeah, sure thing, Dad. Give Pow my best?" She asked, which was met with a two fingered salute and wink as the older oaf of a man walked down towards pit lane, his com system and ear plugs swinging from his hand.
Vi, now alone, folded her arms over her undershirt, the rest of her unzipped firesuit dangling like an oversized hoodie beneath her hips. She watched the Kiramman hauler with a bit lip, a million thoughts running through her mind at once.
The Kiramman Racing #02, as much as she hated to admit it, was a stellar race team. In the season prior, they had made it all the way through the Round of Eight in the NASCAR playoffs, with a pair of well-earned victories in just their first year of Cup contention - a wildly impressive stat line for a rookie season.
The driver of the 02, however, the heiress to the Kiramman legacy, was an enigma for Vi. Part of her hated her. Caitlyn Kiramman was everything Vi wanted to be but wasn't, a successful young phenom, attractive with sponsors, and a clean racer. She could calculate the perfect line around a track like nobody else on the tour, and the number of top 5s and top 10s in the season prior showed for it.
Vi on the other hand, was a loose cannon. Never afraid to use the bumper, Vi's lone win of her rookie season came at the high banks of Bristol, a short track with a reputation for flaring tempers and bent fenders. She had thoroughly ruffled feathers the year prior by turning and spinning Maddie Nolen, another Kiramman Motorsports driver, on the last lap of the night race for the win. Violet excelled at short tracks and prioritized aggressive bursts of short run speed - which, needless to say, was the opposite set of skills needed to conquer Daytona.
But even with all her bump-happy behavior, and outright detestation for some of the richer teams, she couldn't ever find herself eager to trade paint with the 02, and especially not at some of the larger, faster tracks like Daytona. After all - this was the track that had nearly taken Vander's life when he tangled with Silco during the 500 two decades prior. It all but ended his career.
Not that she could ever admit it publicly, (or to herself, even) but Vi respected the hell out of Cait's career trajectory. They had come up together through the lower divisions, and now there they were - rocketing into their second year as the hottest young prospects in the NASCAR Cup Series garage. The thought of all of that potentially coming to an end with one stupid flick of the wheel made her freeze.
Admittedly, so did the lowering of the 02 trailer's rear door.
Viktor, the lead engineer of the 02 team, emerged first, his stalky frame flanked to his right by Jayce Talis, Cait's longtime crew chief and apparent best bud - despite a sizable enough age gap. The pair were walking backwards, wheeling the car itself onto the concrete - the bright, shiny Sirius XM sponsorship plastered over blue and white vinyl wrapping glinting in the Florida heat.
But that wasn't what froze Vi like a deer in headlights. No, that reaction came from the swinging of a dark ponytail over a matching white and blue firesuit, a helmet swaying from slender fingers - and a tooth gap that made her want to run through a brick wall at top speed. Oh, Vi loathed her - but she simultaneously couldn't help but stare with her mouth slightly agape.
Evidently, the sight of a gobsmacked driver and a gaudy paint scheme wasn't lost on Talis and Viktor.
"Really? Flames? In the year of our lord 2025?" Jayce guffawed, watching as the 6 car disappeared into the technical inspection tent.
Viktor shrugged. "Eh- A Zaunite respects the classics. A little on the nose, but... I quite like their wrap this year."
Jayce huffed, turning to look back at his driver. "Are you hearing this traitor talk?" He asked, pausing and blinking when he realized that Cait wasn't hearing him. She was staring down at a red firesuit, brow furrowed. "Uh, Earth to Sprout?" Jayce waved.
Cait's eyes were unmoved. "Why is she just... staring?" She asked to nobody in particular.
Jayce and Viktor exchanged a look, briefly glancing at Vi and Cait's tension-fueled expressions. Viktor spoke first. "Go and... ask her?"
Talis waved her off, wanting no part of that yearning bullshit two days before the biggest race of the season. "Just don't piss her off. Last thing we need is to wreck before we even pass inspection."
Wordlessly, Cait walked past her own car as it rolled towards the inspection tent, closing the distance between her and her rival.
Vi, to her credit, tried to salvage her credibility by changing her facial expression to something more intimidating, exchanging her slacked lower jaw for a tight lipped smirk.
"Wick," Cait glared, crossing her arms, her helmet now resting atop the roof of her car as Jayce and Viktor slowly rolled it by.
"Kiramman," Vi replied, mirroring her expression with a cocked head.
"Did you have something to say? Or were you just planning on gawking at me across the entire garage all morning?" The Piltie accused, eyeing the Zaunite up and trying (and failing) not to focus on the tight fit of Vi's white athletic undershirt, and the way her firesuit dangled just below the line of her abs.
Vi couldn't help herself. "Oh, the gawking part. Sounds a bit more fitting for Valentines Day, eh?" She added with a waggle of her eyebrows.
Valentine's Day, to many, was usually the least fun part of Speedweeks. The Daytona 500, for time immemorial, had always been on February 16th, a week after the Super Bowl. Meaning, February 14th, Valentines Day, always fell smack dab during Cup practice, Truck qualifying, Xfinity Series qualifying, the Truck race, and Cup Series technical inspection. Needless to say, drivers and their partners usually had to take a rain check and punt Valentine's Day further down the road, unless they wanted to have a steak dinner inside of an RV.
Cait fumed, and Vi could've sworn she saw smoke spewing out of her ears. "Can you not be crass for five seconds-"
"And where's the fun in that? You look great, by the way. Off-season treat you well? I know mine did, but I sure missed seeing your visor in the rear view mirror, Cupcake," the pink-haired flirt winked.
Jayce cleared his throat dramatically as they waited in line to push the 02 through the tent flap. "Reallyfuckinggay," he coughed, which was promptly ignored by the firey Kiramman.
"Will you get a new nickname, already? And if I recall correctly, I have one more win over you. And Rookie of the Year honors. And more laps led. And more top 5s... and 10s. Oh. And three less DNFs," Cait quipped back, elating in the way she saw Vi's brow twitch at the dig.
Vi leaned forward, huffing out a smoldering expression. "At least I don't look boring while doing it... or did you forget the entertainment part of the product during all that time in your fancy simulator? I bet the sim seat's monogrammed. Is it monogrammed? Tell me it is."
Cait's brow twitched right back, her finger raising to poke against Vi's shoulder. "Oh, you've got some nerve-"
"A couple really sensitive ones, actually," Vi interjected with a raised finger and another eyebrow raise. That seemed to send Cait the edge.
"You insufferable, perverted pillock-"
"Snooty mongoose-"
"Blundering oaf-"
"Piltie princess-"
By that point, Jayce had seen enough, and was desperately trying to hide his shit-eating grin as he stood in to separate the two. "Can you both please not fight like a married couple for like, five seconds? Can we save it for after practice?"
"We're not!" Both women yelled in unison.
"Right. Cait, the car got a pass from the officials. Vi, the 6 did as well. Not that I should be the one telling you but you both seemed to be... distracted," he continued, watching the both of them turn the color of Vi's car as they averted their gazes from one another.
It was only then that Violet checked her phone on instinct, and realized she was about to miss Powder's qualifying time slot. "Shit. Gotta run! Thanks, Talis! Bye, Cupcake!" She blurted, taking off at a jog from the garage area and towards pit road.
"Bye, Vi!" Jayce waved with a grin, delighting in the slow turn of Cait's head, paired with the absolute death glare she was staring up at him with. "Something wrong, Sprout?" He chided.
"I hate her."
"Keep telling yourself that," Viktor interjected, his tone as stone cold as always, handing her a clipboard with the 02's inspection results with the barest hint of an amused grin.
_____________________
By the late morning, the garage area just behind pit road was alive with crews, trucks, and NASCAR personnel preparing for the day's events. Vi ran like she was weaving through a minefield, avoiding brightly colored Truck Series entries entering and leaving the track for qualifying, dodging crew members carrying precarious stacks of Goodyear tires on hand trucks, and the occasional fan with a pit pass asking for an autograph; the latter of which the racer happily complied.
Despite the innumerable number of vehicles loitering around Daytona's trackside, Powder Wick's truck was by far the easiest to spot. The black matte paint scheme criss-crossed with neon blue and purple spray paint adorned the body of a Toyota Tacoma stock truck, it's unconventional design decorated from hood to tail with stenciled monkeys, explosions, and graffiti. Even the number, lucky #13, appeared to be in stenciled on by spray paint cans. How that genuine work of art passed inspection, Vi wouldn't even wager a guess. The only remotely 'normal' designs on the whole piece were the Truck Series logo below the window, a 'The Last Drop' logo along the hood and sides, and a pair of unmistakable yellow rookie stripes adorning the rear bumper.
The truck sat idled outside of the pit entry, its window net down as Mylo - Team Hound's lead engineer - retrieved an iPad containing setup data from his driver's gloved hands. The engine thrummed like a snare drum stuck on repeat, but that didn't stop Vi from sneaking her head into the cockpit and patting her sister on her equally spray painted helmet.
"Ready to kick some ass, Pow?" Vi shouted over the rumble, holding out her fist which her sibling enthusiastically bumped with her racing glove.
"As I'll ever be. How'd your date with the Piltie go?" Powder called back, her voice muffled by her helmet. Even with most of her face covered, Vi could sense the teasing grin in her sister's eyes.
Of course she'd heard. The entire garage probably had by that point.
The older sibling let out a dry, dramatic fake laugh, playfully flipping Powder's helmet visor down with the tips of her fingers. "Qualifying first, lost causes later. Are your belts tight? HANS clipped on? Radio functioning? Water bottle filled?" Vi asked hurriedly, the ever-so-obvious concern on her face readable from a mile away.
"Yeesh, sis. It's two laps. Contrary to popular belief, I do know how to drive a race car. Wipe that sappy worry-wort expression off - you're making me queasy in here," she called back, pulling her gloves tight over her wrists.
Vi went to work at clipping her driver's side window net on, ensuring the straps were tight enough to not come flying off at high speeds. "I know, I know. Just be careful, yeah?"
The older sister held a finger gun through the now-secured window net. "Shake?"
Powder rolled her eyes affectionately, brushing her own finger gun against Vi's in a swiping motion. "...and bake."
With that, the previous car on track returned, and it was time for the 13 to make its run. Vi patted the name rail above the door, her hand covering the pink, messy lettering of 'Jinx' - a working nickname for the young artist turned racer. The 13's engine emitted a menacing growl, as Powder kicked it into gear and steered it onto pit road.
Violet stepped away from the access road and joined her team along the pit wall, standing beside Vander, Mylo, and the somehow even more nervous, jittering green firesuit that was Ekko Lanes.
Vi raised an eyebrow, watching Ekko's shaking leg while he stared off at Jinx's rookie stripes growing smaller and smaller as she picked up speed down pit lane. At least she wasn't the only one worried.
"Yo, Little Man," Vi said with a half smile and a nudge to the shoulder to pull him out of his trance. "Relax. It's not like you're the one driving."
Ekko scoffed, his eyes returning to the blur of black, purple and blue that was beginning to climb onto the entry to Turn 1. "That's the problem."
Vander handed them both headsets, their dials already tuned to the Hound Motorsports coms channel. "Hey - both of you - can it. Powder's ready. She wouldn't be in the truck if she wasn't," he corrected with a reassuring nod - though, admittedly, any first-time qualifying attempt in a new series brought on the jitters. But Vander knew that like Vi, Powder had a natural talent for stock car racing. She was last season's ARCA Menards Series Champion, and though her driving at times was erratic and leaned towards the aggressive side of the scale, when she found speed, she was uncatchable.
Now, though, it was a new season. The competition was stiffer, the tracks were bigger, the races longer, and the experience of drivers far more varied. Not to mention - Powder had never driven anything as fast as a NASCAR truck before outside of a few laps of practice.
"How's the track look up there, Clag?" Vander spoke into the mic, his eyes steady as Powder's truck grabbed second gear and began to float up to the top of Turn 2.
High above, on the roof of the speedway, Claggor - Pow and Vi's spotter - keyed his mic while staring down at Powder's truck through a pair of binoculars. "Nice and clean, bossman."
"10-4," Vander chimed back. "Mylo, whose looking fast today?"
The skinnier mop of dark hair checked his iPad, scrolling through a list of the logged times from the current session. "Gert was two trucks before us, and she pulled a 50.576."
"Hmm. Top 10 speed. I think we can match that, right Pow?" Vander hummed in reply, keying in his driver as he listened for her to grab 3rd gear, the truck rocketing off the exit of 2 and down the back straightaway.
"Match that?" Powder's voice rang through with the garbled sound of a revving engine. "I'm gonna eat that time for lunch. 50.3 flat. Watch and learn, amigos," she chirped, as the gear approached the rev limiter, the engine reaching its highest pitch of song.
"Atta girl," Vander smirked.
Vi caught herself staring fondly, knowing that the radios had already been checked ages ago. Vander was just doing this to get that competitive rise out of her sister, the fire in her belly that he knew would get her focused. Her father had done that for her once, too, as she climbed the ranks from ARCA, Trucks, and Xfinity several years back. Given the Cup Series logo emblazoned on the top left shoulder of her dangling firesuit, the method had worked swimmingly.
"At least she isn't short shifting," Ekko remarked nervously under his breath, brushing his hand over his hair as his eyes turned to the big screen over pit lane - his view of Powder now obscured by the garage area in the track's center.
Powder finally yanked to fourth gear on the stick, beginning the agonizing climb to about 175 miles an hour down the backstretch.
Vi couldn't help but crane her neck up at the big screen in awe - the Fox Sports TV broadcast was displaying her baby sister, with the graphics package and labels and everything. A graphic with her speed, projected time, and name was plastered above the camera's view of the truck, with 'Powder "Jinx" Wick' labeled next to a small picture of her in the left hand side of the screen. Not that she hadn't been on TV before, but ARCA coverage was significantly lacking compared to the big 3 series ahead of it, given that it was the lowest division.
Now though, she was in the big show. And as much as that deeply frightened her, she couldn't help but feel a swell of pride as she watched on.
Vi brought the mic of her headset down over her face as Powder began to enter the slope of Turn 3, her truck still just feet from the outside wall. "Hey, Pow. You're doing great in there. Just know, when you turn down to the bottom of the track-"
"...It'll be loose as hell, I know. Mylo told me about the qualifying trim," the driver interjected, her voice strained from the 31 degrees of banking pushing her sideways against her belts and restraints.
The heads on pit road whipped to their right, as the 13 came screaming off of Turn 4 and back down the frontstretch. As practiced, Powder began to slowly float down the banking, attempting to line her left side tires up with the double yellow line snaking its way around the inside of the track surface.
Inside the cockpit, Powder fought the wheel over the bumps of the old track, having to correct repeatedly before finally settling down on the lowest part of the racing surface. "Mylo wasn't wrong, this bucket of bolts is looser than a granny's-"
"Powder," Vander warned with a bemused smile he was glad that his daughter couldn't see. "Give us a hot lap, will you, driver? Show 'em how bad you want those rookie stripes off."
Powder responded with a low, determined chuckle as the truck crossed the start-finish line, ending her warm up lap and beginning the real test; the qualifying lap. With her left side tires glued to the quickest way around the track, she would do her damndest to get as much speed as she could out of the rickety machine.
The crew present on the wall whipped their heads to the left, now, as the 13 roared by at full song. The Doppler effect provided that addicting, familiar nyooom that came with all single-car qualifying runs, something that got lost in the brilliant muddle of fourty engines at once on race days.
"That's it, driver. Hold a pretty wheel," Vander coached, his calm expression glued to the monitor above as Powder rounded Turns 1 and 2. Sure enough, she was, her hands gently rocking the wheel with only the occasional bobble to keep her angle as low as possible without hitting the apron below the double-yellow lines.
The inside of Vi's mouth felt like sandpaper, as the driver realized she had been staring up at the big screen with a bundle of nerves the entire lap. Every time Powder's truck bounced along the track surface, sparks flying from underneath the splitter on the nose, her heart lurched.
"Not a peep out of her for two whole corners," Ekko smirked, resting his arm on Vi's shoulder to knock her out of her stupor. "She's locked in," he remarked affectionately.
The broadcast booth had initiated one of their usual visual tricks, a live feed of the current car with a 3D overlay of the last fastest car on track, for comparison's sake. Gert's #38 truck manifested onscreen, the jittery 3D model now half a car length behind the live feed of Powder's truck.
"And take a look at this," Mel Medarda's voice from the TV broadcast came over the sizable loudspeakers scattered around the big screen. "Jinx is driving an absolute monster of lap. If this holds, I think we may have a new leader in this group's qualifying session."
"Yes, yes! Young Wick has surely been impressing for her first jaunt with the Truck Series, following her stellar performance at last year's ARCA Championship in Phoenix. We may be seeing a very fast, fierce truck during tonight's race under the lights. How exciting!" Heimerdinger chimed in, his shrill voice cutting over the noise of the garage.
Vi's mouth fell open in a proud grin as Powder rounded Turn 4, the noise of the truck picking up in volume as it began to rocket towards the front straightaway. All eyes were on her, now, including the other truck teams that were awaiting their turn to make a run.
Vander watched on with an unreadable expression, hand in his beard, unwilling to allow himself to celebrate before the time was official.
Heads whipped left again as the truck blasted across the start-finish line, the whine of the engine slowly dying down as Powder finally let off the gas. On the video monitor, the time quickly displayed on the graphic below the live shot of the decelerating #13.
50.363
"Well? How'd I do? I cant see the big screens," Powder asked, keying the radio as soon as the truck began to slow into Turn 1 for the cooldown lap.
Unbeknownst to her, Vi, Ekko, and Mylo were already jumping all over Vander like he just won the damn Super Bowl. "Excellent hustle there, driver. That's a fifty-point-three-six. Top of the board this round, sweetheart," he replied back, finally allowing himself a grin of his own.
"Way to go Pow!" Vi chimed in over her own headset.
"That was all Fishbones! Hell yeah!" Powder fist pumped into the air, steering precariously with one hand on the wheel. "Whose a good stock truck chassis? Whose a good stock truck chassis? You are! Yes you are!" She cooed, patting the dull, hollow metal of her dash with the palm of her hand. "Can I do a donut yet?" She chirped.
"Please, don't even think about it -" Claggor interrupted from Daytona's roof. "You might give Mylo a heart attack if he has to fix the engine before the actual race."
Ekko folded his arms over his Rolex firesuit, lowering the mic over his mouth as his eyes glued to the visual of Powder's truck on its cooldown. "That was one hell of a lap, Madness."
Powder breathed an airy chuckle out of her nose. "Couldn't have done it without you, Genius. I'll see you in the pits," she replied, her voice light with mirth.
Vi stepped away from the embrace on pit road, and stole a glance at the towering scoring pylon with her hands to her hips. The number 13 appeared on top, in slot one, and her smile remained. The broadcast became background noise, the rumble of trucks fell away, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt right in the world.
_____________________
Four hours later...
"...Monogrammed? My sim seat! Is she serious? How does she think she can just throw wild accusations around with that smug look on her face?" Cait seethed from the cockpit of her race car, parked in the garage stall they had been assigned by NASCAR.
Jayce dragged his hand down his face in dramatic fashion, letting Caitlyn's ramble continue into the background. Viktor walked towards the side of the car with a raised eyebrow, his tablet with the day's practice info held close to his chest. "How long has she been going at this?" He asked, eyes darting from Cait's angry, bobbing Kiramman-crest laden helmet to Jayce's slumped expression.
"Five minutes, give or take. Ever since I told her the list of cars going out for practice. That list just so happened to include the 6," he grumbled.
"Mm. Well, she's not going to like the news I'm about to give her, so perhaps it's best to eh, bring her back to her senses?" The engineer noted, watching as Jayce gave a reluctant nod.
"Caitlyn," he called, knowing her full name would likely pull her back to reality. Sure enough, her helmet stilled, and Jayce spotted a pair of wide cerulean eyes staring at him through the open lid of her helmet visor.
Viktor took the momentary silence to clear his throat and effectively shove the iPad into her gloves, which contained a slew of updates from NASCAR itself regarding the rules for Sunday. "It would appear that our lovely sanctioning body has taken it upon itself to change the rules again. According to preliminary testing prior to the season, our current aerodynamic package lends itself to favor tandem drafting on superspeedways. That means, two or three cars can link up and are often faster than a collective pack in a draft, and -"
Cait held her hand up to slow his rant. "Viktor, I know what tandem drafting is. What exactly is NASCAR changing so last minute?"
Vik folded his arms over his chest. "Proximity radio."
Cait's eyes blew to the size of saucers. The implications of that were massive. Back in the early 2010s, proximity radio made a brief but popular entry to the Cup Series superspeedway races at Daytona and Talladega. This enabled drivers to switch to a separate radio channel and speak to the cars around them, in order to better coordinate their drafting efforts. It was a fan favorite, but had vanished from the sport sometime before 2013 with the simultaneous ban on tandem drafting. For it to be brought back was a massive shift in direction - and meant that Cait would have to talk to the cars around her. A red number 6 and powder blue eyes darted around her brain like a supercharged eye floater.
"And if I were to have that radio channel turned off?" Cait asked cautiously, handing the iPad back to Viktor, who bore a frustratingly bemused expression on his angular face.
"Oh, just a seventy-five thousand dollar fine plus a healthy points reduction. If you'd like to be that deep in the hole at season's start, be my guest," he replied a bit too casually.
Jayce pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Let's not encourage that. Sprout, here's what we can do. I'll have Steb spot you around the 6 the whole session. You won't even see her, and we can link you up with another set of cars like Maddie or Loris. Deal?" He offered.
Cait's brow furrowed beneath her helmet at the attempted olive branch. "I don't need special treatment. I can drive around her cleanly just like I have since we started racing each other. Don't worry so much - both of you," she replied, tugging her racing gloves over her slender fingers. Caitlyn reached for the ignition switch on the dash and held it in place, the engine thrumming to life to kill off any chance of a retort.
Viktor and Jayce exchanged yet another knowing look, but nevertheless complied with the silent request. They walked to either end of the car, and began to push the 02 out of the garage and into the golden light of a Daytona nearing sunset.
_____________________
"Powder?"
"Powder?"
"Space cadet! Hello?"
Powder gasped out a "huh?" And promptly ceased her repeated spinning on a roller chair in Vi's garage stall, her unendingly long tails of blue hair swaying to rest. A pair of greyish eyes stared her down from under a red and black flamed helmet inside the car, a mixed look of concern and bemusement settling in them.
"Pow Pow, I can hear you thinking from all the way in here. I promise you, a fifth place qualifying result for your first ever race in a truck is fucking impressive. Don't beat yourself up," Vi assured her, watching as her sister tucked her slender knees under her chin and held them close.
"But... Ricky Bobby said 'if you're not first, you're last.'" She huffed quietly in a fake southern accent, half joking, half genuine. Despite Powder's impressive group qualifying performance, her final round with the other top scorers wasn't as fruitful. A bobble off of turn 4 shaved valuable fractions of a second off her time, resulting in a disappointing, but still massively impressive fifth place spot on the grid for the race that evening.
Violet rolled her eyes. "C'mere."
Her sister complied, lowering one slender leg of her firesuit to push her wheelie chair over to the side of the 6.
"Ricky Bobby is a fictional race car driver played by Will Ferrell, who in the same movie, stripped naked and rolled around in an imaginary fire after a crash. You, Powder Wick, are an actual race car driver with an entire career ahead of you and an already impressive resume. So cut it out," Vi assured her, reaching a hand through the driver's side window to tussle the top of Powder's head. The younger sibling harmlessly battered it away with the back of electric blue painted nails.
Powder scoffed fondly. "When did you start sounding like Dad? Oh! Before I forget-" she remarked, mood changing on a dime, as she reached into a Trader Joes tote bag that bad been pooling at the foot of her rolling chair since she had arrived. "I have some additions to make to the car!"
Violet eyed her suspiciously, but intriguingly nonetheless. "Additions? But... we already passed preliminary tech."
Powder flicked her wrist downwards dismissively as her other hand rifled through the bag. "Nothing technical, dummy. Don't get your Calvins in a clump. I'm not that crazy," she retorted, finally tugging a set of five vinyl stickers out of the bag. "Here we go!"
Powder took to showing off each one, proudly wielding the tool she would use to lay them flat to the body while she did, something akin to a paint scraper. "Okay, first-" she began, holding up a bright pink graffiti art of a monkey - one of Powder's signatures. "Got you one of these, since y'know. The black and the flames kinda date you. Need something a little more contemporary. Little more color. I'll put these on the side!" She grinned, earning a fond half smile from Vi.
"Date me? Rude. I mean, I won't turn down a Jinx original, but - I happen to like my flames just fine -"
"Next!" Powder interrupted, hoisting up a vinyl sticker of the NASA logo.
That one earned a confused blink. "Uh, you do know they don't actually sponsor me, right? I can't just throw that on the car."
"Didn'tcha do a NASA internship at one point? That counts, right?" Pow asked with a cocked head.
"It was a science camp at Ames when I was twelve. No, that doesn't count. But I appreciate the thought. What's the last one?" Vi asked back, straining against the helmet restraints to see what else her sister had in hand.
"What last one?" Powder asked with feigned innocence, dropping the fifth sticker into the tote below her under the horizon of Violet's view. Vi raised an eyebrow, but opted to not question it. With limited time before the 6 needed to depart for practice, Powder got to work, carefully laying the NASA and monkey stickers to the lower right corners of each side of the car, embedded in one of the long stretches of black flame. She used her tool to ensure they stayed on at the high speeds Vi would be driving, laying them as flat as they could possibly go.
A knock at the opened door to the garage drew their attention, as Vander peered in, his headset already over the top of his Team Hound hat. "We all set to go in here, kiddo? Best not to keep the track officials waiting, hm?" He asked, watching as his driver nodded in reply and hit down the ignition start. Powder bolted away from the side-mounted exhaust pipe, hoping to escape the blue-ish flick of flame that shot out the side upon engine start.
A pair of blue braids vanished behind the 6 car as it growled to life, the tote bag disappearing with them. Vander and Mylo entered the garage once the car had started, and walked to either side of the Goodyear logo near the front tires. After a few moments, Powder re-emerged, a grin on her face and the tote now over her shoulder. She joined her father and brother, and pushed the right rear side of the car out of the garage stall and into the line of machines headed trackside.
Inside the car, Violet tapped her visor of her helmet shut, taking a steadying breath as she adjusted her red gloved grip on the steering wheel. A familiar tap of a heavy fist on the roof her car snapped her attention to the left, where her father was smiling at her from the window net. "Just a few easy laps, don't burn your stuff up. We want to see how the car reacts in the draft and handles off the corners. Try out that new proximity radio feature too, will ya?" He asked.
"10-4. See you guys back home," she nodded over the coms, watching as Vander's hands left the car and she began to steer towards the pit entry under her own power. Mylo gave a quick slap of good luck just under the left headlight, where an identical 'VI' tattoo to the one on her face was painted. In the digital rear view mirror, Vi watched as Powder skipped away from the car, waving dramatically right at the rear-mounted camera. Instinctively, she waved back as the 6 puttered onto pit road.
What Vi didn't see was that Powder's gaze was locked on the bottom left corner of the rear bumper, where a vinyl sticker of an adorable grinning cupcake was enthusiastically slapped on at the last possible second. Pow dusted her hands off as if she'd just done hours of manual labor. "Let's see how the princess likes that."
Vi gently pressed the gas down to a steady 55 miles per hour - pit road's designated cruising speed. The towering grandstands across from her shaded much of the front straightaway, but in the distance, Turn 1 was bathed in the golden light of a Florida sunset. It beckoned, as if begging Violet to mash the gas and finally let loose after months of sitting and waiting.
The pink-haired driver fondly tapped a pair of miniature boxing gloves dangling from the digital rear view, a tradition she'd repeated every time she hopped in the car and mentally prepared to rocket to high speeds. NASCAR wasn't for everyone; the dangers, the risks, the lifestyle, the speed, but to Violet it felt like breathing. When the world whipped by at 200 miles an hour, the small things felt so insignificant compared to the gravity of what she and 40 of the world's best were attempting to accomplish.
When the 6 car finally crossed the yellow line signifying the end of the pits, Vi smirked under her helmet, and put the pedal to the floor. She shot through first gear, her head settling back against the restraints in her seat behind her. Her Cup Car let out its signature mechanical whine inside the cockpit, rocketing with acceleration as the growl of the engine kicked in. Vi grabbed second, then third, as she entered the sloped banking of Turn 1. Everything shifted to the left, her heart lurching with adrenaline as Violet returned to the place she belonged. The sunlight glinted on the hood of the car, the little cupcake in the back shining with the reflection of the Florida sun.
Down on the frontstretch, a pair of cerulean eyes stared through a helmet visor at the red glinting blur on the horizon, banking through Turn 2. "Alright Sprout," her radio rang. "One hour starts now. Make it count."
"Oh," Caitlyn replied, narrowing her gaze at the flash of red, the brief glimpse of a numerical tattoo, and of rippling muscles beneath a firesuit. "I will."
The driver of the 02 dropped a gear, slammed her foot to the gas, and the world around her disappeared.
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