Team Highway Hooligans
Race, Midnight to 4 AM
Trevor takes over at the midnight driver change, taking two shakedown laps to figure out how much of a rolling wreck he’d “inherited” from Cody’s spirited driving. Deciding the car was “good enough,” he puts the hammer down and lets their turbocharged I5 sing, tires squealing around every corner like a 1970’s cop chase movie.
About an hour in, Trevor’s decision to push the car harder leaves him riding the guardrail around one corner, and the ARVA does the same behind him, both cars managing to carry a little more speed through that corner than usual at the expense of the paint and the bodywork.
The engine roars as Trevor tries to make up some ground, tires squealing as the battered old heavyweight meant for hauling people around town instead has to haul ass around the track.
However, all good things must come to an end. When the DAW shunts itself into the left rear quarter panel of the Bricksley, Trevor knows the car’s already run the last lap it’ll do today. The sound of the driveshaft rubbing on the chassis tunnel is more than enough to let him know, even as the car rolls to a stop, that the frame is bent.
“Hey, jackass! Thanks for using my car as your brake. Assholes!” Trevor yells into the radio as the DAW retreats, exo-cage still intact. (@Djadania for the mention.)
As Trevor tries to get the poor I5 started again to limp the mortally wounded Bricksley into the pits, he gets sideswiped by the Torrento.
“For fuck’s sake, it’s not like our car is stealth-fucking-black!” (@UnderlovedGhost & @Leone )
Eventually, the tow truck hauls the bananaed Bricksley into the pit lane, and Jake, Cody, and a reluctant-but-sleepy Scott try to diagnose how to fix it.
Trevor calmly explains, “About the only way we’re going to be able to fix it would be to request Kasiya to come here and bend it back. The DAW torpedoed us, frame’s bent, we’re done.”
Scott growls and rummages through the toolbox, starting first by slinging wrenches at the DAW as it passes by the pit lane, trying to shatter the windshield to knock it out of the race, before grabbing the big sledgehammer and resting it on his shoulder as he walks over to the rest of their team.
“Which one of you drives next?” Scott demands, claws out and leaving scratches in the wooden handle of the hammer.
“Whoa, whoa whoa, hold up there, Scott,” Jake says, jogging over to defuse the situation as much as he can. “I’m sure that was just an accident.”
“Right… Because welding a cage around the car is an accident…” Scott growls.
“Dude, come on, you’re going to get us thrown out of the track,” Jake pleads. “First the wrenches, and now this…”
Scott whirls around and grabs Jake’s shoulder, then walks the two back over to the Bricksley. “Right. So what have I gotten to do, then? You brought me out here to race and yet the car is done, long before my time to shine. You brought me here because I had the most experience driving one of these in anger. So let me drive IN ANGER, damn it, because this car is not done yet!”
“Frame’s bent, Scott, and we can’t straighten it,” Trevor replies.
“I swear by the Half-Dead Sun, it’s drivable,” Scott retorts, looking at the damage for himself. When he sees the driveshaft, however, is touching the frame rail, his anger reignites.
“I’m going to kill them.”
“No, you’re going to stay right here and calm down,” Cody says. “Last time a Hooligan lost their temper like that, they got hard time in an Oregon jail. We don’t need to try dealing with getting you out of a Swedish jail.”
Scott growls, then slams the sledgehammer down on the roof of the Bricksley, caving in the section where the rear seats would go.
“FUCK!”
“Sorry to have wasted the trip, man,” Trevor says. “I thought we had it.”
And so ends the Highway Hooligans’ run.
Team interactions will still be available… But we’re definitely not racing anymore.