Tuesday, February Twenty Seventh. Jackie checked the date, and then herself, doing a short twirl in front of her full length mirror in her room. Fine as frog hair, her hair pulled back in a sassy ponytail, perfect black wings painted over lush black lashes and hot green eyes. Pristine pink lip gloss. An Alice in Wonderland dress, knee highs and flats. She looked about as dangerous as a Disney Princess out for a stroll in wonderland.

She grabbed her red Hello Kitty helmet and ran downstairs for her car.

It was a wicked little beast, the 1967 Mark II Tiger Sunbeam, one of Carroll Shelby's adventures in tiny European cars with enormous American engines. Like most of the Tigers that survived past the turn of the century, Jackie's had been extensively altered for safety, handling, and speed.

Otherwise, it looked just like a cute little English sports car, racing red, and probably should have eyelashes on the headlights.

The first of the races were getting underway as Jackie sedately motored to the intersection of Stellar and Minsk streets. She slid into a tiny slice of parking and bopped to a table set up to take names and assign races. A large sound vehicle pumped thumping bass and over the top pop while a few food trucks sold tacos, bratwursts, and shish kebabs.

Everywhere cars roared and simmered, waiting their chance for the road. Jackie bounced to sign in and get her heat number.

The little Tiger got a lot of laughs and sneers, moreso as Jackie returned to the little sports car and cheerfully did a few pin up girl poses for the photographers in the crowd.

"Oh, come on, little girl, the only thing this is good for is holding your pretty ass up for pictures," a big grinning brunette woman chortled, "I could hang this thing off of my necklace!"

"You're not afraid of a little old English street car, are you?" Jackie retorted, all sweetness and light. She wasn't opening her hood, and no one asked, because car badges never lied and cute girls always drove stock dogs.

And technically, there was still a V8 under the hood.

"Yeah, when cupcakes like you start talking smack about cars, I gotta figure you've got your little brother waiting to take the wheel for you," the woman scoffed, "Oh and nitrous. Lots of nitrous."

"My little brother doesn't have his license yet, and my older brother couldn't drive if you paid him," Jackie retorted with a giggle, making sure to pick just that moment to whip out her adorable little pocket mirror and lip gloss to make sure she was perfection.

"But plenty of nitrous, if that makes the car go faster," she added with a dubious pout.

"Oh Gawd," the woman laughed, derisively, "Alright, Cupcake, you bring that four wheeled scooter to the line and we'll get you out of the way so you can get back to posing for the cameras. Mark II to Mark II."

"Oh is my first race against you? You have a Tiger, too?" Jackie inquired sweetly, glancing at her race slip, "Bonnie."

"No, I have a Mustang, thank you very much," Bonnie scoffed, "Jackie."

Two hot chicks in red sports cars was one hell of a opening race, and the crowd hooted and hollered as the Mustang and Sunbeam rolled into position. Jackie snapped down the passenger seat and rear deck cover and grabbed her helmet. Bonnie sneered a kissy face over to the younger woman.

"You aint gonna need that, Cupcake!"

"Daddy always says to wear a helmet when racing," Jackie retorted, batting her eyes. Then she flipped down the face shield. She buckled in and grinned at the smoking hot fae boy sent out to start the race.

Bonnie revved her engine, glancing sidelong at Jackie, but couldn't see through the dark face plate. Jackie flexed her fingers over the leather wrapped steering wheel, waiting. The boy raised his arms, then dropped them to his sides, yelling 'GO!'

The Mustang was heavier and should have had the little Sunbeam on the short straight track, but the only thing truly vintage about Jackie's car was the shell. The small block Ford 289 roared as it lit off the line, sleek and low to the wind stream of its own making. Jackie minded the shifts keenly, grinning like mad. The Sunbeam sailed past the finish line a half length ahead of its big sister and came to a spinning halt, still rumbling ominously.

The crowd howled but Bonnie howled louder as she banged out of her Mustang.

"What the hell you got under that dinky little hood"!" she bellowed. Jackie grinned as she peeled off her helmet and popped the bonnet for Bonnie. The woman stared, astonished, at the matte finish monster.

"That aint stock!" Bonnie laughed, outraged. Jackie waved her race slip at the woman.

"Isn't a stock race," she purred.

http://i.imgur.com/c4kOOV2.jpg

Tuesday, 27 February.

Hector leaned heavily against the retaining wall placed for the races. He took another bite of the grilled cheese, finishing it and wiping the grease on his jeans. Kenny watched in mock disgust.

"What?" Hector asked.

"How do you eat that junk" Then the greasy leftovers all on your hands, you know we have rides to clean for the race tonight."

"They are racing now, Ken." Hector waved his hand at the staging GTR and Stingray. "Why we are waiting til tonight?"

"Night air is cooler and more dense," Kenny said as the engines revved, the hands dropped and tires smoked and screamed for traction. "Makes us run better. Lotta these are set for the day race. Mixture will be too rich for the night race." He lifted the Corona to his lips and watched as the pair slid around the first corner and disappeared from sight.

"You see the Tiger" I ain't seen one of those since we went to that big show up in Pennsylvania."

"I saw the driver," Kenny said with a smirk. "Helmet and all the way down. The other chick was kinda pissed. Hot though."

"Dude, focus on the race," Hector said as he watched a pair of girls walk by in short skirts and baby tees. "Damn..."

"Yeah, the race. You think we should bring the WRX" All wheel drive might be good for these streets."

Hector's head snapped back to his friend and shook violently. "You know if someone sees that ride they ain't racing."

"So, the Mustang is better?"

"I told you not to paint it that bright ass green. Hombre's gonna be the only way we are making bank on any of these races." He gave a confident nod, and Kenny laughed.

"Lets go get another beer, and you tell me how that damn Civic is going to run anywhere near as good as the '67 tonight."

This is one of those moments that usually has a `You're probably wondering how I ended up in this situation` attached to it. Sadly this wasn't a movie and she didn't exactly have the time to narrate to herself.

Her brain buzzed with multiple things, but not the pole that her Skyline would be wrapping itself around so soon after she lost control. Her bad, her bad. Blame it on the cobblestones, blame it on clipping the sidewalk and a bench, or could just put all of it on the shoulders of the New Haven pretty boy who challenged her to a race. Right " he's the one that didn't give her much space. Seaside streets, that hairpin turn; what a killer. Seriously, it might very well be.

There's smoke " and where there's smoke" There's fire. Right on cue. Kiyomi weakly tried to unstrap herself as a whistle-like wheeze sounded from deep down her throat. Yells for a healer, screams from a familiar voice echoing her name. What's that smell" Right. The fire. Still somehow awake but left to caught as smoke filled the wrecked Skyline. She finally got herself loose and collapsed fully against the door. Hands were reaching through broken window after they tried to rip open the door to no avail. Being dragged from a burning money-sink is a new experience that she can write off her bucket list.

Saturday night was supposed to be the big bang of an ending of a whole week of excitement ? all to be capped off by the final day of the car show on Sunday. There went her Disney money. Not only that, but she didn't need to see the full damage to know that the Skyline was DOA. Five races, five wins, and she put all of it on the line for this final one. She hadn't expected a pretty boy with perfect pearly whites and daddy's money to be so good. Add that to another thing she could blame the wreck on: how stunning and easy he took the curve. If her heart hadn't already been taken then she might have lost it there.

Silly things like love and hearts didn't need to be worried about. It's March, dammit. And the whole needing to worry about keeping that heart beating. With the way her body felt right now all she could do is groan in pain while trying not to fall unconscious. "Bring her here! Over here!" came a louder voice among the rest. That's one thing good about this city, there's always some sort of healer on every block.

Maybe they'd have something for crushed pride to go along with a punctured lung.

"Those streets are looking damp, Kenny." Hector leaned down to touch and confirm his suspicions. "Man, you waited 'til tonight and we gotta run on wet streets."

Kenny looked up from under the hood of the '67, then down at the asphalt. "I heard a Skyline wrapped around a pole. Driver is alive, but banged up."

"Man, you ain't listenin'," Hector started in again. "Wet streets."

"Damp streets, meaning the night is perfect for a race." Kenny interrupted as he opened the door of that low, sleek Mustang and pushed the start button. The engine roared to life, then came the low whistle of the supercharger. The exhaust note all but drowned out Hector's complaints.

"Sounds good, damn good. But..." The engine revved, again cutting off complaints. "That ain't funny." Another rev before he hit the switch again, engulfing them in silence.

Hector's mouth started to open and Kenny put his hand over it. "We have a new sponsor. We are gonna be fine on these streets. Goodyear came through."

Hector's eyes widened. He always liked new sponsors. It meant new things to play with.

"Tires?"

"G-18 Eagle. Open tread for full wet conditions." Kenny answered with the line straight from the rep. "Even fit on those big, green rims. So, I'm sure we can find some baby ones for your Civic."

"Man, I got a race in a half-hour," Hector checked the screen on his phone.

"Then you best get busy. Yours are on the back of the trailer." Kenny stuck his hand down to make some adjustments.

"You ain't gonna help me, Homes?" Hector looked incredulous.

"You didn't help me, and my race is before yours," Kenny shook his head. "Wanna kiss me for luck?"

"Yo man, that ain't funny. Someone is gonna hear you talkin' like that, and I ain't gonna get any play from the chicks."

"My type isn't short, wide and mustached. You're lucky." Kenny laughed as he eased the hood down and closed it with a gentle push.

"What about that chick....the one from Tulsa?" Hector inquired with a devilish grin.

"It wasn't a mustache."

Then, Hector walked away happy to have the last laugh.

3-3-17

The crowd parted for us like we had an invisible three foot buffer they could not penetrate. Rather, they parted for him. We were dressed in thin, black body armor that hugged every line and curve, yet effectively managed to disguise our identities. Connie's shiny, metallic gold helmet and opaque, black visor earned more stares, gasps, and conspicuous pointing than the silver twin he'd lent to me. The sudden excited tension of the crowd was palpable. Connie looked over his shoulder at me, and though I couldn't see his face through the visor, I knew he was smiling.

I've been to these races before. Not a swoop bike race specifically, but street races in general. Spencer had a thing for cars and until recently, I went wherever she did. Cars weren't exactly my thing though, and until I'd gotten into pod racing, didn't much care for the hype. Now I couldn't get enough of it.

We'd watched a few swoop races about an hour earlier from the mouth of an alley, our faces obscured by bandanas and sunglasses, wearing coats and hats that wouldn't draw attention. Connie explained that he'd always been a part of the racing scene ever since he was little. It started out with go-karts and the like, but it wasn't long before he'd moved on to more dangerous vehicles, like the ones with repulsor-lift engines. For about a year before he'd been picked up by Cryptech to race for Bluestar, he'd built up quite the name for himself on the streets.

Street races were not allowed, as per Ellington's orders. It meant suspension, among other things, if caught, which was why Connie had started racing anonymously. No one knew the face beneath the Gold Helmet. He never raised his visor, he never spoke to anyone. All communication was handled discretely, through written instruction. It was difficult to attend very many races with the schedule we keep as professional pilots, but that only added to Phantasm's intrigue. That's what they called him: Phantasm. He hated it, but the crowd had named him before he could do anything about it. Phantasm never lost and he only ever raced for pink slips. Naturally, that narrowed the pool quite a bit. Very few racers wanted to go up against him.

While Connie got ready for his race, I waited for him at the far end of the corridor. How they'd managed to close down such a long section of the roads, I'd never know. Paranoia had me on high alert, constantly looking around for the Watch or someone else who might somehow recognize me. Never mind the darkened visor that shielded my face from view. I thought about what my secret call sign might be if I ever decided to do something like this, like Connie, and couldn't for the life of me come up with anything. Not that I had much time to think about it regardless.

Despite the mile long stretch of crowd-lined street, the race was done with in less than twelve seconds. Connie beat his competitor by a full second. Even through the buffer my helmet provided, the roar of the crowd was tumultuous. I ran over to Connie as the crowd started chanting his name. They pressed in around us; I felt fingers touching me all over, just as they were all pawing at Connie. A pretty woman got hold of one of my shoulders, yanked me around to face her, then grabbed my helmet in both hands and left the stain of her lipstick on the visor. She couldn't see it, but I blushed.

Then Connie smacked the side of my helmet and pressed a piece of paper to the visor. I took it from him and stared down at the pink slip belonging to the swoop bike he'd just won. He pointed at the slip of paper, then at me, then made the universal hand sign for OK. I shook the piece of paper in disbelief. He was giving it to me"! It looked like he was laughing when he gave me two thumbs up.

Maybe I'd need to think about my secret call sign some more after all.