[Ooc] man, this RP blows. How come Rayman gets laid, but I get the shit kicked out of me by a Marine?
Dude its all about the weed
[ooc] LOL vos, you poor guy. It’s all about timing and delivery, and luck. Rayyan happened to be in the right place, at the right time, and also have a shit ton of free weed. Though I have to say Rayman… I don’t really think I wanted to know just how much action they got…
Did you know writing celebrities into your story is really daunting???
Well i had to put emphasis on the action that they got
[ooc] I’m so going to penalise you in the story for that xD Karma has its way of balancing things out.
nooooooooooooo not karma
Im getting quite scared now
Shoulda Played Nice like many folks here…
now why would one play nice
Because Karma is a Bitch that’s why :3
I just realised how insanely boring my existence in this league is compared to most others… 
Considering everything, your existence is actually rather refreshing. I think the breakdown of characters here is approximately as follows:
Boy scouts: 5
A little bit loose: 13
Party animals: 8
Completely bonkers: 2
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I wonder who is completly bonkers
The most bonkers characters in the cast are probably Vos and Reece, who are in a class of their own. Several of the other characters, like Rayyan, 8bs, and Tesla are pretty kooky but Vos and Reece are just plain dangerous and To Be Avoided if you value your health
Disclaimer: A lot of the stuff that I’ve been posting has either been written or scripted by Cen. This first scene here was written entirely by Cen
**[size=200]K[/size]**ai paused and glanced at the door of the elderly lady that just buzzed him in. Something told him she was now glaring at him through the peephole, mostly because he could hear the very obvious shuffles from behind the door.
Oh well, if she wanted to spend her night being suspicious of him, she weren’t the first.
He gave the button to the door-bell a firm press and waited silently, hoisting his backpack up a bit higher on his shoulder.
There was noise from the apartment on the other side of the door, most noticeably something that sounded unmistakably like swearing, and the shuffles to the door.
Silence.
Then the door opened slowly, and Bianca stared at him, wide eyes and open mouth.
“Surprise!” He rasped as he raised his arms, shitty gas station flowers and likewise chocolate in hand, and gave her his best smile.
She stared at him for a moment longer, then tackled him with a laugh.
Kai put his arms around her as well, though Bianca was doing enough clinging for the both of them.
She was smelling so nice. Her hair was so soft. By god, had he missed her.
Bianca loosened her grip, and while he was about to make a complaining noise, he let her move back a step or two to look at him.
A smile on her face and a bit of confusion in her expression was all the warning he got before she hit him on the shoulder. “You bastard! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming!”
He grinned, rubbing his shoulder a bit with the hand holding the flowers. “That would have ruined the surprise! And I didn’t want to ask anyone to borrow a phone. But mostly, the thing with the surprise.”
Bianca put her hands on either side of his head, looked him deep in to his eyes and- “You are an idiot.” - kissed him.
If there was a way for a human being to melt from physical contact, that was what he was doing.
Sweet.
Wonder.
They were kicked back to reality by a very loud shuffle from the neighbouring door, and while Bianca stared at it confused, Kai tried not to laugh, when he remembered the snooping older lady that buzzed him in.
“Let’s go inside.” He nudged Bianca with his shoulder. “You wanted to show me your new apartment, right?”
She looked at his grin, and a smile snuck back on her face. “Among other things, yeah.”
And with that she pulled him inside and closed the door.
A little past seven in the morning on a brisk but clear British morning, and nearly everybody had assembled on the tarmac of the runway of Dunsfold Aerodrome. This was sacred ground, the site where the various Stigs, whoever they might be, had done countless thousands of laps throwing around the biggest names in cars. This was Top Gear turf, and one might wonder by what kind of special arrangement it was that they were all standing here. Hell, was this even legal?
Among the motley crew of the Barely Street Legal League, most of them appeared not to be in any condition to think about that, fighting the mother of all hangovers as the haze of green and booze faded along with any recollection of the past day. There was only the vague impression of people with oversized hammers herding them into buses, but that hardly seemed right, because there was only one person with a hammer here. Notably, there were a few fresh faces, among them, nearly-local boy Aaron Cottam, still jubilant from his football team’s win, Tom, who had arrived with Elena, Enry, who had also shifted his own crew, Niall, whose head was nodding as he still rocked out inside, and Seba Machado III, who had arrived sipping Yerba Mate, teacup in one hand, saucer in the other in typically British fashion. And Kai, who almost didn’t count on account of the sappy, vapid grin on his face, almost certainly due to the subcontinental girl who had fallen asleep, standing, head slumped on his shoulder. Nearly everybody else, however, was still shaking off the last vestiges of being completely shitfaced and its aftermath.
Hungover or not, ears pricked and heads jerked as through the gates of the aerodrome, three cars, followed by several vans rolled in. Looking more closely, the cars were an older Rolls Royce, a Porsche 911 that rode low with a body kit that looked suspiciously like GT3 trim… and a Volvo XC90. As speculating murmurs rippled through the crowd, Hannah planted her hands on her hips. “What, where the hell is his GT? I was going to slag him about it.”
“He sold it years ago because he couldn’t get it to work,” Noah informed her, and Hannah laughed. “Ha, figures.”
The convoy slowed to a stop in front of the stunned crowd, and sure enough, out pour several camera men with their cameras slung over their shoulders, and the hosts of the most watched show on Earth, Jezza, the Hamster, and Captain Slow.
“Hello! And welcome!” Jezza called out in his trademark show opening voice, before the three hosts were almost swamped by the crowd, hungovers forgotten in the wake of star power, and a united love for the car. The next few minutes were a blur of rapid questions, all shouted at once, possibly some solicitations to request that their next flagship be featured on the show, and finally, Captain Slow putting his hands up and calling a halt to the proceedings. “Right, everybody, we need to go about this properly.”
“You mean to say that most of you didn’t know that we would be coming?” the Hamster asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“That’s right.” Hannah stepped forward, proffering her hand to each of the three in turn, still a ways shorter than even the Hamster. “We wanted it to be a surprise for everybody.” Clearly, it had worked, for even Strop’s jaw was still unhinged. “But really, thank you for hosting us and coming out this way on such short notice.”
“Oh really now,” Jezza made a dismissive gesture. “When somebody showed us the blog about this crazy underground league doing an international tour, it did pique our curiosity, but we got really excited when we realised you were the real deal. I mean, knowing us, we would be mad to miss the opportunity to see some of the unofficially fastest cars in the world! Just look at all that power, that madness!” He rubbed his hands in glee.
Inside Strop’s mind, a few gears started grinding. Somebody had a blog running about the Barely Street Legal League that allowed them to figure out what they were doing? His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of screeching, as a white coupe charged through the gates. The cameras swung around and focused on the action as Rayyan’s HFF barrelled around Hammerhead, smoke pouring off the front wheels, and the car skidded to a stop, carrying more than a bit of shrubbery. The doors swung open and more smoke poured out, and a very groggy looking Rayyan emerged, but from the passenger side. From the driver’s side emerged the familiar Goldie head of Tesla, tongue lolling out, clothes a mess.
“Thanks man, you weren’t bad for a small guy I guess,” she punched Rayyan on the shoulder, before she turned and saw all the cameras, and waved. “HI MOM!”
Noah, Strop and Hannah all had their palms mashed into their faces. “Keeping classy, Tesla,” Noah groaned. “Promise me you won’t include this in any episode you may or may not be airing ever,” Hannah whispered to the hosts, staring at the latest arrivals, their hands partially raised in typically restrained British portrayal of shock and scandal.
“Wow,” Hamster was the first to recover. “So is anybody else arriving late?”
Right on cue, several high pitched whines were heard in the distance, the sound and pitch rising rapidly until it was a thunderous roar. The ground shook and several people toppled, covering their ears as several large black aircraft screamed directly overhead, a few seconds later followed by two Typhoon jets.
“Holy moly!” Captain Slow shouted over the din, as the black aircraft pitched sharply, braking hard and tilting until it pointed directly into the sky, then out of its base, several jets fired and it blasted in the reverse direction. Caught by surprise, the Typhoon jets completely overshot it and pulled up in a large loop to circle back. From the bottom of the black aircraft, a ramp lowered as the craft almost skimmed the surface of the runway. Everybody craned their necks to look at the unfolding action, as a car rolled down the ramp, then jumped off, hitting the runway at speed and barrelling down upon them, causing several people to scatter. At the last minute, it hit the brakes and slid sideways, coming to a halt directly next to the convoy, just as the black aircraft lifted up and rushed overhead, afterburners on and disappearing into the distance once more.
In the stunned silence that followed, the door of the blocky fastback coupe of the Normandy Kodiak opened, and out stepped Vos, cool as ice. “Ladies and gentlemen, the eagle has landed.”
Jezza laughed, face crinkling up with a mixture of shock and delight. “You guys, you guys are absolutely insane! I love it! The producers are going to absolutely kill us for letting you nutjobs in, but I don’t care, this is gold!”
“And while I’m at it,” Hannah slipped in as people started picking themselves off the ground, “Remember our deal. No airing any of this footage until at least next season.”
The mayhem of the dawn settled into a schedule of interviews, test drives with commentary for anybody interested in having their car sampled by any of the hosts, and, saving the best for last, the power lap once the track had warmed up as much as it would on this cool autumn day. All under the watchful eyes of the cameras, Jezza, the Hamster and Captain Slow had clearly done their research as they waxed lyrical or joshed with each other with that irreverent schoolboy humour as they had done for so many years.
“It so happens that most of the cars in this league, while street legal,” Jezza explained as some of the cars started some warm up laps in the background, and the familiar white helmeted figure of The Stig walked around the parked cars peering intently at unseen details (some say he has X-Ray vision and can communicate in the language of nuts and bolts.) “…are so powerful that they are nearly impossible to drive on the streets, except in the hands of the most hardened, experienced, and some would say crazy drivers. So it is no surprise that we have among us a number of professional racing drivers. Among them, Kai Kristensen, not a relative of the legendary Tom Kristensen, a former driver in that Australian Touring Car series nobody really cares about, and star of some of the most spectacular crashes we have ever seen in a race, hence his callsign Crash.” At this point Kai fixed Jezza with a slightly pointed stare, prompting Jezza to lean into the camera and whisper hoarsely: “I don’t think he likes that nickname.” Returning to normal presenting mode, he resumed: “We also have with us a mystery Italian driver whom his engineer, Rubik, assures us has a long illustrious professional track record in touring cars, but refused to remove his helmet today lest our heads explode, so we shall have to refer to him as The Italian Stig.” Italian Stig gave him a polite nod and wave before he moved on. “And here, we have…”
“Sebastien Machado the Third,” Seba’s face was a mask of barely controlled fury. “From Uruguay.” An instant frost descended upon the atmosphere, as the cameras continued rolling. Seba pointed a finger at Jezza. “You insulted my country, my people, and my cars with your jokes. We have pride, we have dignity, and we do not find such things funny. So I will race, yes, but I won’t talk to you, you disgusting pig of a man.” With that, he turned his nose up haughtily, spun around, and walked away to talk to Captain Slow about Argentinian piano sonatas instead.
“Wow,” Jezza managed, looking a bit sobered. “That was awkward. Maybe we should move onto the next segment.”
“I am a driving god!” Hamster screamed as he travelled, sideways, at a million miles an hour through Chicago. Several of the participants had consented to his trying out each of the rear wheel drive cars, hence he was currently hemmed in between several of the rear wheel drive cars, backs out and sliding in tandem, view obscured by huge clouds of tyre smoke. “This is pure power at the cost of everything else, economy, sensibility, even control, it’s all completely out the window!”
Back on the runway, and things straightened up enough for the Hamster to resume talking to the camera. “I’m sitting in the AMW Brimstone, a rear wheel drive hatch. Rear wheel drive hatches aren’t all that common these days, and we’ve previously driven some of the crazier ones, but those were pushing maybe three hundred brake horse power. This hellspawn, on the other hand, like most of the other cars here, pushes over eleven hundred. So I’m doing about seventy, in second right now. The engine’s chugging a bit because it’s trying to push against the massive turbos, so if I floor it…” The Brimstone grumbled as it worked its way up the power curve, sluggishly picking up speed. “Nothing much happens. That’s the turbo lag. But the moment I get to about five thousand revs,” There was an ominous whine and a surge, then the car’s rear wheels let go, the car spinning end over end. “Oh my god!”
Five minutes later, he picked up where he left off, sitting in another car. “This time, I’m in the Banks Debrauna Gumball Edition, named in homage to what inspired this Barely Street Legal League. It kind of reminds me of a Z4, except with a lot more holes in it. And a stonking big eleven liter naturally aspirated V8. This one has over thirteen hundred horses, but really, once you’re getting up to these kind of outputs, the numbers cease to matter. It’s one thing for the tuner guys in the shed to put together these crazy builds to impress the dyno crowd and to take on the skidpan, but to have this in a street car? These cars demand so much, every moment, it’s like a matter of life and death, but even so, they’re just kind of begging you to push them, just to see if they won’t kill you. Case in point, oh look, here’s a corner!” And with that, the car swung wide before pitching in, Hamster’s manic laughter lost in the sound of the engine and the tyres screaming bloody murder.
“It’s a well-known fact, I’ve always had a thing for the older car.” Captain Slow opened. “And the Barely Street Legal League also approves of them. But older engines are less efficient, more worn down, so to be competitive, either they make a Frankenstein monster out of it and assemble the car with a mix of parts from all over the place, like this,” he pointed to the dark figure of the BMW, “M3 E30, which somehow had an LS7 from a Chevrolet Corvette shoved into it, which makes me feel a bit queasy if I think about it too much. Or you could use one of the old American big blocks, flog the stuffing out of it, and hope it holds up, like…“ he walked over to the classic form of the Centauri Vindicator with its bobble headlights. “This beauty over here. Possibly the only American car with the grace and elegance matching the iconic Aston Martin DB5.” He hopped into the car, the cameraman following. “And the thing I like even more about this one, is that while the racing seats are a necessity, is that it doesn’t skimp on the trim at all. It even has a radio!” He reached down and switched the radio on, and the juddering, percussive strains of Iron Maiden blasted out. Captain Slow banged his head a few times, shaggy mop of a hairdo flying about, before he switched the radio off. “Actually, that’s the one thing I don’t like, the driver’s taste in music.”
Back in the impromptu outdoor interview stage, Jezza was talking to each of the drivers (the ones that actually wanted to speak to him) in turn, peppering them with awkward questions (“So, I’m sure you get this a lot, but what’s with the hammer?” was his opener with Jack Cossack), before moving onto cars, after which, with permission, he climbed (with much difficulty) into each car for a quick blast up the straight. Each driver was subsequently treated to his characteristic scream of “POWEEEEEEERRRRRRRRR!” as they took off down the runway, hitting speeds of over two hundred miles an hour. Unfortunately, it all came undone when he took a ride in Leonardo’s estate wagon, “What, how fast could an estate wagon be?” His derisive question was quickly answered as the car took off so violently that about five seconds later, he screamed, “STOP, STOP!” and, when the car did roll to a stop, he spilled out onto the runway, clutching his back as the medical crew, normally hidden away, rushed over. “Oh boy. That hurts. A lot.” The crew thought that while Jezza was getting his back checked out, it would be a good time to grab some lunch.
After lunch, it was time. A new power board was wheeled out with a cheer, and the Stig’s services were offered to squeeze the best out of any car whose driver either was still too shitfaced to drive, or wanted their car driven by The Stig. One by one the cars were lined up on the runway, and the air filled with the smoke and thunder of monster cars slithering, sliding and screeching around the Top Gear Test track.
I apologise for being unable to write everybody into this segment, then I thought hey, since I’ve already shamelessly inserted celebrities into this fiction, I’ll open the floor to you guys to see if you want to take a punt too haha. I’ll post the final results of the round later today/sometime tomorrow.
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Do I quality as boy scout or a little bit loose? Hmm I might have to tom cruise my way around gambon to lend some more crazy to my name.
I can’t imagine Niall being anything less than a little loose. I should ask people to self-rate on a Madness scale from 1-10 EDIT: here’s a working list, the numbers I’ve guessed but haven’t confirmed are highlighted.
Boy scout: 1-2 Slightly loose cannon: 3-5 Party animal: 6-9 Completely bonkers: 10+
Leonardo Baltazar: 1
Riley Banks: 1
Pleb: 2
Enry: 2
Matt (HighOctaneLove): 2
Kai: 2
Noah: 2
Strop: 3
Tom: 3
Niall: 3
Jack: 3
Hannah: 4
Seba: 4
Kristina: 5
Tesla: 7
8bs: 8
Rayyan: 9
Sam: 9
Vos: >9000
Reece: >9000
This of course relates to off-track behaviour, after all, when it comes to driving, everybody here is completely mad!
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I give FMU’s Heir a 4 it takes special people to make a Buckingham guard abandon his post and make him need a fresh set of trousers.
and was able to give Shithead Clarkson a Death Stare thet would terrify Luigi
I would probably rate myself 3
I think Reece and I both qualify for a solid >9000.