Pre-Race
Chicago, Illinois, O’Hare International Airport
“Hurry the fuck up, we’re going to be late!” Trevor yelled as he dragged his wheeled luggage behind him, jogging for the gate with Cody slightly lagging behind.
“I ain’t built to run like this, man!” Cody shoots back, straining under the weight of a backpack full of clothes.
“Just think, it’s 6 hours of rest after running your ass off, so hurry up!”
After the two boarded the plane and found their seats, it became quite clear that this was going to be the flight from hell.
“Dude, why does it already stink in here?” Cody mumbles to Trevor.
“Someone needs to wash their fucking socks…”
As the plane takes off, two babies start crying. The 8 year old behind Cody’s seat decides to throw a temper tantrum with much aggressive seat kicking added in. The smell of shit spreads throughout the plane as one of the screaming babies is carried to the bathroom for a diaper change. The cramped economy seating doesn’t do much in the way of favors for anyone’s mood, and the flight attendant has to stop an elderly gentleman from lighting up a cigarette on the flight, because this isn’t the '60s anymore, there is no smoking on the airplane.
Trevor just looks over at Cody, who already looks miserable. “Well, it’s only six hours to go.”
“That’s…” Kick. Kick. “…Easy for you…” Kick. Kick. “…To endure.”
7 hours, 30 minutes later, Harry Reid International Airport, Las Vegas, Nevada.
After an awful 6 hour flight, plus 30 minutes in a holding pattern waiting for their plane to land, and then another hour waiting on Trevor’s “overweight” luggage that had to be checked instead of carried on, Cody and Trevor finally stepped out into the warmth of Nevada.
Trevor looks around at the cars, spotting an intensely green Bricksley Catalyst parked up nearby.
“There’s our ride.”
Cody looks at the green car, then back to Trevor. “How can you be so sure?”
“You know any other leopards who drive neon-fucking-green cars who live in Nevada?”
Cody squints in the sunlight and spots Scott, waving them over from behind the wheel. “Oh. Right.”
The two of them drop their bags in the trunk, then get in, the “cramped” rear seat seeming luxurious compared to the airplane they’d been on.
“Now, I’ve got instructions to bring you down to Twin Suns Aerodrome,” Scott says, glancing at the two of them. “Apparently, Jake arranged our flight out to Sweden with his boss, and we’re borrowing a plane.”
“Please fucking tell me it’s a private jet…” Cody groans.
“He just spent six-and-a-half hours getting his seat bludgeoned by a tantrum-throwing 8 year old, while already suffering from screaming babies, stinky feet, and someone who decided to smoke in the airplane toilet,” Trevor explains.
“Oh, it’s private. I think it’s jet-like, but I don’t know exactly how it all works,” Scott replies, before outright melting the tires as he leaves the airport.
“How long’s the drive?” Trevor asks.
“An hour, if I do the speed limit,” Scott answers, giving a smirk.
45 minutes later, Twin Suns Towing, Garage, and Aerodrome
Scott hurtles into the parking lot where Jake is already waiting, leaning on Rowan’s truck and chatting with the 6’9" tall black panther who owns it.
“The Hooligans are together at last!” Cody yells from the back seat. He watches as Jake hugs Rowan, grabs a bag out of the truck, and jogs over to the car.
“Damn, dude, you look… Thinner,” Cody says in astonishment.
Jake shrugs. “Haven’t lost much weight, but Rowan keeps encouraging me to work out… And to eat a lot better. I’m still fuckin’ chunky, but I feel better.”
“God, you’ve changed so much since you left Storm Automotive,” Trevor adds. “You used to look miserable all the time. What do you do now?”
“Same shit, much bigger scale. Diesel engines, but for trains. Job’s got some perks to it, too - like being able to call the boss and ask to borrow his private supersonic jet for a group of four out to Sweden.” Jake replies.
“Wait… Supersonic jet?” Cody asks.
Jake nods. “Won’t get much time above the speed of sound - they’re not allowed to do supersonic over land - but we’ll get to Sweden in… Well, the pilots said it’d be about 8 hours from ground to ground, adding up all the possible delays.”
The crew head out to the aerodrome and board the sleek, futuristic-looking jet plane, settling down into the large, plush seats.
“Holy crap! This is so fucking comfortable,” Cody blurts out.
Jake shrugs. “When you’ve got a couple million in the bank, you… tend to have nice things. He just happens to be nice enough to let us borrow his jet so we’re not flying 11 hours in economy-class seating with 5 filled diapers, someone who believes soap is an invention of the devil, kids that don’t understand it’s an airplane, not a jungle gym, at least one seat-kicker, and no in-flight entertainment because someone broke the headphones.”
Trevor nods. “Cody’s been asking if I need some help at the junkyard because his supervisor is an asshole.”
“Clean faster! Clean quieter! That’s still dirty! Hurry up! You missed a spot!” Cody grumbles. “People like him are why people bring guns to work and shoot their bosses in the fucking face.”
Jake shrugs. “Ever since my mother left Storm Automotive, the workplace culture there went right down the shitter, through the sewers, managed to get through untreated at the waste management plant, and is now making people sick. You really ought to work for Trevor - At least there, you’d have a decent boss.”
“So, how about you, Scott?” Trevor inquires. “What do you do?”
“Didn’t do anything for a while - had to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Helped that I got in bed with a hot cop, so… I wasn’t shit-outta-luck working fucking retail until my will to live was wiped out. Signed on with Rukari at Twin Hearts Racing, that little tuning shop. Kinda boring most days, but… It’s better than dealing with the general public.”
As they continue their chatter, the plane taxis to the runway, then takes off.
8 hours later, Gothenburg-Landvetter Airport, Gothenburg, Sweden
With stamped passports and luggage in tow, the four Hooligans step out of the airport and get into their rental van.
“Didya have to get a van, Trev?” Cody asks.
“It was cheap, guaranteed it fits four plus four large travel bags, and it’s got enough headroom for 6’4” Scott to be comfortable. Besides…" Trevor says, starting the engine and giving it a hearty rev, “It’s a turbo-diesel.”
Scott yawns. “So, what’s the plan?”
“Hotel, food, bed, go to the track in the mornin’ and meet up with our car,” Jake replies.
Cody, while yawning, admits, “That sounds like a good idea.”
The Next Day, Höljes, At the Track.
Trevor rocks up with the crew in the van, the poor turbo-diesel roaring moments before the tires screech and the engine goes quiet in a parking spot.
“We made it!” Trevor exclaims.
Jake chimes in with, “This… Is gonna be fun!”
“Let’s go meet the teams, see who’s all here,” Scott says, avoiding the hype train for the moment.
“What’s up, bitches! The Highway Hooligans are here!”
The other three look over at Cody and just shake their heads.
“So much for first impressions,” Scott grumbles.
“Oh, that’s normal,” Trevor admits.
“Pretty much all the time,” Jake agrees. “You just get used to it.”
“So, let’s go collect our victim, then, and thank some friends,” Scott mentions, sliding the door open on the van.
Valentin was already present, somehow having managed to unload the Bricksley Grand Warden from the trailer, leaving another, unrelated Globus Grand Cruiser behind. Having spent the better part of two hours waiting and eating copious amounts of various chocolate and snack bars, until a rather flamboyantly-driven Van enters the lot.
" 
Bunch of dickheads…“, he mumbles, after which he realizes who they are, courtesy of the rather… obvious announcement, " Still dickheads…”
For now, he leaves them be and remains seated on the now vacant space on the trailer. After all, he is stuck here for the better part of a day and they need to sign the arrival papers.
As Cody, Trevor, and Scott swarm toward the car, Jake heads over to Val.
“I’ll get the paperwork taken care of. Thank you, by the way, for letting us use the jet,” Jake says.
Valentin heads up front to fetch said paperwork, handing it over for Jake to sign.
“No issues there. I rarely have a use for them anyways, so I might as well have others make use of it,” Valentin shrugs, returning to his spot on the trailer.
Jake nods, signing his name on the sheet.
“Hopefully your day gets better. Sorry - Got kinda good at reading expressions thanks to Rowan. Not sure whether that’s “perpetually worried,” or slightly annoyed.”
He looks to the other three, then sighs.
“Hey! Instead of actin’ like a bunch of monkeys with bananas up their asses, hootin’ and hollerin’ about the fact that we’re here, get the clunker running and get us a pit spot before we end up with the worst one!” Jake snaps.
“Sorry!” Scott yells back.
Cody makes a handful of monkey noises, causing Trevor to laugh as Scott opens the door, crawls in, and starts the surprisingly quiet I5 shitbox. Scott puts the car in drive and steps on the gas, causing Trevor to yell and fall on his ass because he was leaning on the trunk-lid of the car.
“I guess I better get ready to start herding these two idiots…” Jake grumbles.
“Well the earth keeps spinning, I suppose… You have fun over here. I am waiting for another group to arrive.”, Valentin remarks, returning most of the paperwork to the glovebox, leaving a copy of the delivery confirmation for Jake to keep.
Jake tucks the copy into a pocket, then heads over to where Cody and Trevor are. “Get your asses up and go help Scott unload the trunk.”
“Hey, no one told me he was going to take off like that!” Trevor grumbled.
“I told you when I told him to find a good pit spot,” Jake retorts.
The group wanders over to the car, with Cody making monkey noises part of the way there until Jake flicks him on the nose, drawing out some swear words instead. There, they unload a toolbox from the car, shut the engine down, and get ready to meet the other teams.
