**[size=200]N[/size]**ine o’clock at night, and the fluorescent lights buzzed in the underground car park of an undisclosed hotel in Cologne, Germany. One day in the arts and cultural hub of Germany, and nobody had gone to any museums or galleries. One sleep left until their date with destiny, and nobody was sleeping. Except maybe Tesla, or she could have just as easily been in a post-sugar coma, but nobody had thought to check. Having caved to the pressure of constant whining, Strop finally relented on Sam’s stimulants embargo, and gave him an instant coffee, so now he was bouncing off the walls again. Strop’s response had been to pop an extra temazepam, but it had yet to kick in and his tolerance for Nine Hundred and Ninety Nine Bottles On the Wall was rapidly wearing thin.
Into the carpark sauntered Kai, hands in pockets, casually whistling to himself some Danish folk song. Feet slipping by almost silently, he drew alongside the row of unusual cars parked in the bays, Peapod, Sleipnir, his beloved Mephisto, and of course, the new GG van. It was in the van that his goal lay. He glanced around once, and then slipped around to the rear.
Sitting in the rear cargo bay, tinkering with the toolkit, was Hannah.
Damn.
The sudden peaking of his whistled tune had Hannah glance up from her pneumatic drill. “Oh, Kai. What are you up to?” her eyes narrowed as she studied him askew.
“Oh… nothing,” Kai said, scuffing his foot, prompting further suspicion. This was off to as fine a start as he envisaged (not), so he thought he might as well just dive in. “May I borrow the toolkit?”
Hannah’s eyes were now at almost slit-like narrowness. “And what do you need it for?”
Kai twiddled his fingers together. “Well, you see, I was hoping to do some last minute maintenance. On Mephisto.”
Hannah’s eyes resumed normal openness. “Oh. That’s fine. Sure, here you go.” Kai moved to take the box, when Hannah placed her foot on the lid of the box, blocking him. “On one condition.”
Oh, here we go, Kai thought with a gulp. “And that is?”
“You also do maintenance on Peapod and Sleipnir.”
“But they’re not even my cars!” Kai instantly protested.
“As you know,” Hannah stared down at him, something she was for once actually able to do despite her naturally diminutive stature, since she was standing in the cargo hold of the van, “The tool bitch,” (nobody was allowed to call Tesla this to her face, but since it fit, it was still popular behind her back…) "…is out of commission. Thanks to you.”
“How was that my fault!” Kai jabbed a finger at Hannah in counterargument, “It was her idea to play B-Grade European Movie trope bingo!”
But Hannah wouldn’t be swayed. “Don’t change the subject, if you wanna play with the tools, you get to be the tool bitch.”
“Ngh.” Kai muttered to himself. “This sucks.”
“Too bad so sad,” Hannah simpered with a grin and a shrug. “I knew you’d understand.” Kai momentarily considered trying to tinker with the Mephisto’s overcrowded engine bay with his bare hands just to rub it in Hannah’s face when he scored even more bandaids on his fingers, but given his hands already kind of hurt driving Mephisto at anything above civilian everyday mode driving, he decided he’d just have to lump it. He sourly lugged the toolkit out of the van’s cargo hold, and got to work, while Hannah took out another crate and started tinkering with what looked suspiciously like a submachinegun.
Some minutes later, they were interrupted by the arrival of another van, one with the letters SIEMENS painted on the side. It stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare, and out stepped a guy wearing a jumper and bandana with so many white and blue checks it made Kai go cross-eyed.
“These are not the cars you are looking for,” Hannah pre-emptively shot without skipping a beat.
“Actually, they are,” the Bavarian nut replied, brandishing an ID with a suspiciously familiar badge. While Kai pretended not to be there, Hannah eyed it. “Der Bayer… Von Awesome. Right. You with Jack?”
“Yes. I’m from the mod squad, and we have been briefed on your situation. You are from Gryphon Gear, correct?”
“That would be us, yes,” Hannah was still eyeing Der Bayer warily, not least because of his name. It was familiar, but she was sure the Von Awesome wasn’t part of it.
“Good. We need to coordinate our defensive efforts, so I have been sent to request that I ride with one of the forerunners in the race.” He glanced down at Kai, who was futilely trying to conceal himself under the hood of Mephisto. “Kai Kristensen?”
“Really, I’d rather not, I’m just here to race,” Kai mumbled, failing to make eye contact with Der Bayer. Der Bayer frowned. “Oh. Where’s Sam? Could I ask him then?”
“You don’t want to ride with Sam.” A new voice rang through the carpark. It was Strop, horsey mouth gaping wide in a giant yawn as he strolled towards them. “Sorry. Sleeping tablets. Why would you want to ride with him anyway? He also peered at Der Bayer’s badge, this time recognising the name. “Oh! Fancy that, weren’t you’re the patron of the Bavarian Rally Challenge. How nice to meet you.” He extended his hand, which Der Bayer, mildly bemused, shook.
“Yes, we know you and your company well, Stroppy McHorseguy. Which is why I was sent to you, because I need to act from the front of the race. Where, undoubtedly, your cars will be.”
“Hmm.” Strop scratched his chin. “That being said I very much doubt you’d be able to do anything from Mephisto or Sleipnir, or even my car, for that matter. We already found none of our cars can be rigged to defend against anything, much less an EMP. We’re going to simply have to try and outpace anything that comes our way.”
“That’s very risky,” Der Bayer countered. “After all, Nordschleife is a closed track, there’s not many ways out of it, and we are fairly certain that those from the Hasira group are not going to be the only agency there. Most likely we should expect some interference from the local police, yes, but also CIA and possibly GRU Spetsnaz.”
“Wait, what?” Strop gaped, “What do the Russians have to do with this?”
“You didn’t know?” Der Bayer informed Strop: “One of the BSLL participants allegedly launched a long range projectile with US markings on it towards Moscow. It was intercepted the moment it reached Russian airspace, but has caused quite the diplomatic crisis. The missile itself was traced via a video message, which was received by a certain splinter cell within Interpol. I would expect a severe security backlash.”
Strop just stood there with his mouth still unhinged. Then he exploded: “That fucking moron! I bet you Vos did it!” He trailed off muttering something about how he clearly should have vetted the participants based on their criminal history and psychiatric profile as well as their cars.
“Either way Strop, you’ll need all the help you can get.” Der Bayer folded his arms. “So it would be best if we could work out where I’ll be riding.”
Strop looked at Kai, who was subtly shaking his head. Then he looked at Hannah, who cocked an eyebrow at him. Then he looked at Der Bayer. “Remind me, you also drove in the BRC, didn’t you.”
Der Bayer nodded. “Yes. With a handicap, of course.” Strop remembered this well, despite that handicap, Der Bayer’s team, in partnership with somebody whom he had later partnered with himself, to storm to a commanding lockout of the Automation Endurance Challenge, had run an impressive placing despite lugging an extra hundred kilograms in each car. So his skill was not at all in question. Good.
Strop’s lips crooked into a twisted smile, immediately worrying Hannah. “In that case, I have a vehicle I think you will find surprisingly fast. Almost the fastest, even.”
BRACE YOURSELVES FOR THE GRAND FINALE
Morning. D-Day. Time for a date with destiny. No place for hesitation, sleepiness, fatigue, aches, pains or panic attacks. Sit down at the table and slam down the breakfast of motherfucking champions, with a good side dose of courage, get out there and go to war.
This was madness, no, this was Nordschleife. And the Barely Street Legal League, which was fast resembling the plot of the entire Fast and Furious franchise, except with a lot less heisting and a lot more international threats to security. So in a word, madness. It reminded Strop of a wild, unbridled life lived in his yesteryear, one he had left far behind, stamping it under adulthood and adulthood sensibilities and becoming a cog in the wheel of a system that swallowed all those who sought the frustrating stability of a steady income. After all, to quote a certain C S Lewis:
No. That was not how it went at all, and his sense of being, beaten into the corner, rebelled and lashed out, breaking from its cage and seeking something beyond meaning and productivity. After all, how did it really go?
Years ago now, at the end of his previous life, Strop had put away his hero costume, referencing it slyly only in obscure team names. Part of him had always hoped that he would bring it out again, but the rest of him never knew when that time might ever come. But the time was now.
That was the train of thought that led to Strop dusting off his form-fitting, skin-tight black one piece morph suit with the slit eyehole and the holes for his ears. Complete with white wraps for his forearms and his legs down from the bottom of his shins. His ninja suit. It was a return of Strop the ninja horse, semi-retired moderator of ArmorLand, Warrior of Great Justice, the patron saint of the Gods of Cartoon Physics and follower of the way, and infamously, Way of Moderation.
[size=85](If you’re curious to see what this looks like, and what bygone life I am referring to, here’s a quick reference, and here’s the previous life. Be warned, you’ll be going down the rabbit hole!)[/size]
The sense of nostalgic heroism that washed over him as he gazed at himself in the mirror, was not quite as matched as he strode into the hotel dining room at six in the morning. People stared. His own crewmates averted their gaze, covering their faces and generally pretended not to know him, but he sat down at their table anyway.
“By Dog, put that abomination away and put some clothes on,” Noah hissed at him, still refusing to look even vaguely in his direction.
“Cold much?” Hannah asked him, smirking, but also trying not to look at him. Yes, it was a cold day indeed and not even his long johns and thermal shirt could quite alleviate the briskness, a fact not lost on the far less shy Tesla.
“You could poke an eye out with these!” She barked, brazenly tweaking his nipples. Strop whinnied and pulled away, covering his chest like a girl who had been walked in on in the shower. “For goodness sake! Show the ninja suit a little respect!”
“That’s a ninja suit?” Sam, once again decked in every single spare jacket he could get his hands on, wiped the bleary from his eyes as he waited for his second cup of coffee for the morning to kick in. “I thought you were about to take an eighties aerobics class what with that getup. Which is kind of cool. If you’re homosexual,” he giggled.
“It’s still not cool if you’re homosexual,” Noah snapped. “If anything it’s even worse. Trust me. I would know.” Suitably chastised, Sam pulled a face and went back to nursing his coffee.
“Okay, so you wouldn’t know just how much history this suit has,” Strop pouted, saddened by the lack of desired impact his getup had. “But surely you recognise this from the Team Ninja Horse logo. That Ninja Horse was me. This suit and I have seen some real battles, some epic feats. Wearing this suit is history.”
“Hang on hang on, before that, you’re completely skipping the most important part, and that is, you actually went out in public in that thing?” Kai laughed. “And you said I had no sense of fashion.”
“Fine! Fuck you guys, this is a fantastic idea and it’s totally going to help me not die or get arrested because nobody can identify me behind this mask. Did you ever think of that?”
In response, everybody simultaneously zipped up their hoodies as far as they would go, effectively concealing their heads. Deflated, Strop muttered, “Whatever.” Followed by, “I don’t suppose I could have my duck down jacket back, Sam?”
“No!” Sam pulled his arms tight around himself. “I need this! And if you’re going to prance around in that, clearly you don’t!”
Breakfast rapidly winding up, they Gryphon Gear crew hastily beat a retreat to the car park before Strop could cause them any further embarrassment simply by being seen with them. Der Bayer, patiently waiting by the van, did a small doubletake when he saw Strop’s outfit, but being Bavarian, ignored it in favour of the business at hand. “Are we ready?”
Everybody looked at each other and nodded. “Yeah.” Strop held up his hand, “Just one thing. This may be… well let us just do the traditional huddle for a moment.”
Linking arms over shoulders, they bowed their heads in, as they had become accustomed to doing in the pitlanes before each race over the past two years. “We, of Gryphon Gear, give thanks for each day and each race. May we have more horses than kilos, and may our DOT approved semi slicks rubber in quickly. Let us thread the fine line between grip and slip, between understeer and oversteer, and let us not fly through the Pearly Gates backwards, on fire. In the Gods of Cartoon Physics we trust.” And everybody shouted, “HEAVEN OR HELL, LET’S ROCK!”
The echoes of the prayer still rung through the car park as doors opened and slammed, and engines coughed to life. In the chilly four degrees Celcius, minus several more in the un-airconditioned, uninsulated cabin of Peapod, Strop, shivering his buns off, had to finally admit that yes, wearing his old ninja suit was a terrible idea.
Never mind. The day, laced with frost and snow as it was, promised to get plenty hot enough. Into the jaws of the Green Hell they rode.
NEXT UP: What awaits at Nordschleife?
