Chapter Text
Dale had significantly lowered his standards for a 'good' day since running away with nothing but his wallet and a most-definitely-crazed racecar. Today started out as a pretty good day; while attempting to work and steal for funds to buy jumper cables and a spare battery, he'd fallen in with a group of friendly locals. One, a mechanic his age named Marcus, even offered to shout lunch, and as Dale had had nothing but canned chicken for the last week, he simply forgot to think twice about accepting the offer.
Lunch meant it was a good day. Unfortunately, good things never last, and this time it was Dale's own idiocy that ruined the moment. He'd indulged in hanging out with humans for just a little too long, and his paranoid charge had somehow summoned the idea to find him.
Since Dale was the type of person to think positive, he was at least thankful that Chick had waited until after lunch to reveal himself. In fact, the ex-racer was waiting in the shadowy scrub just outside the diner that Dale and his companions had been in, and came out of the trampled garden to nudge against Dale's leg with a low rumbling purr, seemingly uncaring of the other humans and cars. Of course, to Chick, all that mattered was that Dale stayed safe.
Dale was not quite as happy about being found as Chick was about finding him, but he made himself smile for the car's sake, leaning against his hood slightly to steady himself and keep the car calm.
"Hey, buddy. What are you doing out in the open?" He murmured, glancing over to the group to see if anyone was a source of suspicion. Marcus, the one that had so kindly bought him lunch, was too busy calling his ute from the parking lot, tapping his foot impatiently as the giant Dodge extricated herself and rolled slowly over. Most of the others were walking away, their own cars not well-trained enough to be left free roam.
One guy was looking his way, though. Hammond, a thin bespectacled man with a tendency to twitch his nose rather rattily. He was some kind of accountant, but just as much of a motor nut as the rest of the group. He was staring at Chick from the corner of his eye, and when he noticed Dale had noticed him, he winked.
"Wow, your car looks pretty fucked, man," Hammond interrupted himself to whistle, gesturing with one hand for a faded pink Torana to come hither, his other hand fishing for a cig.
"We've all got our issues," Dale replied delicately. He gently pet Chick's hood when the car made a low rumble of nervousness, silently pleading that Chick would keep calm. The very last thing they needed was a scene.
Hammond took a long drag of his cigarette as the Torana rolled up next to him, not quite close enough to nudge him. Perfectly trained.
"He get in trouble a lot, eh?" He blew out smoke. The car by his side made the slightest twitch when he lowered his hand, watching the burning cigarette warily.
"Every now and then, yeah. He's spirited." Dale hated this part. The part where he acted like Chick wasn't there, wasn't smart enough to understand every word he forced out of his mouth. Beside Hammond, the Torana's gaze flickered up and caught on Chick for the first time, giving him a surprised quick once-over and a flirtatious wink to follow.
The Torana was distracted again by Hammond's cigarette coming a little too close to their paint for comfort as the human stepped back to get in their cab.
"Fair enough, fair enough," Hammond nodded, opening the car's door and sliding in. He practically slammed it shut, leaning out the window with one hand on the wheel.
"Hey, Dale, it was cool hanging out with ya. I hope to see you stickin' around."
The Torana gave Chick one last enamoured glance as they swung out onto the main road, speeding away. Dale let himself relax a little, the first crisis averted.
As he'd been 'chatting' with Hammond, most of the group had dispersed. Only Marcus and his Dodge remained, both eyeing Dale and his agitated companion with faint disgust.
"Your car's lookin' mighty beat up, Dale. Thought you were a better guy'n that."
Dale glanced between the mechanic, who was near glowering, and the Dodge, who seemed to have quickly lost interest and was lazily chewing her cud. He took a breath, took a risk, some part of him too human to leave without redeeming himself in Marcus's opinion.
"I didn't do this. I've repaired him, actually, as best I could. He'd been in a terrible state before I found him."
That got the Dodge's attention again, and she narrowed her eyes at Chick, looking at him more closely, before giving a little jump.
"That's Chick Hicks," She blurted, then shut her mouth with a low
click
, grimacing against her own stupidity.
The four of them were dead silent for a moment. Dale was frozen, icy fear spreading all through his limbs, a sour mix to the crushed sense of peace in his chest. Beneath his hands, Chick's engine ticked over into a low growl of warning.
The two humans stared across the patch of cement between them. Marcus took a deep breath, speaking with sympathetic care.
"I have to report this, you know."
Dale shook his head, tone pleading, despite knowing it was useless.
"Please, don't. They'll kill him."
Everyone involved knew there was no point. Even if the chance of Marcus' blind eye being discovered was low - which it most certainly was not - the punishment for aiding a runaway vehicle was far too high. It wasn't worth any risk, not even to close family, let alone a stranger.
Which was why Dale was backing away, toward Chick's passenger door, and why Marcus was pulling a phone out of his pocket with a pained wince.
Neither Marcus nor his Dodge tried to stop Chick from escape, though they both watched him veer out onto the road.
As the boxcar sped away, the Dodge frowned.
"Did he just go further into town?" She asked.
"…Yes. Yes he did. Call Dell, tell him there's a green runaway in need of help."
"On it."
Marcus sighed the sigh of the trapped, and dialled a far less merciful number.
``
"Chick, our best option is to get back into the forest," Dale kept his voice as devoid of panic as he could, but it was hard with other cars and buildings beginning to crowd in around them. With each passing second, he was more certain that Chick had taken the wrong turn.
He tried his very hardest not to blame the poor racecar. It wasn't his fault.
"I need you to turn when I tell you," Chick made no attempt at words, being far too panicked, but a change in engine pitch indicated that he was listening. Dale made himself as calm as he could, breathing deep, and did his best to predict where the roads were going.
"Left."
The car's left indicator chock 'ed down. A small part of Dale wondered why Chick had indicators, as he'd never been on commercial roads before escaping. It was useful, though; just one less worry about being spotted as an outlier on the road.
The street was emptier around this corner, a broad road of lesser frequented shops. Dale blew out his breath, stared at every sleepy car and impatient human for signs of interest.
"Left again." He murmured, sure that it would take them parallel to the road they'd come in on, thereby close to the exit. Chick grumbled, a mix of confused exasperation, but still obeyed.
Dale realised he was gripping the door handle so tight his knuckles had turned white, and relaxed.
Hopefully, there'd be an easy turn back out and they'd escape without a second glance.
"Alright, turn left again. That'll take us around and out of town, okay?"
Chick bobbed slightly on his suspension as a nod. That was good. He was listening. They were going to get out and hide in the forest, and be safe. All safe.
A cop car pulled out of a small hidden driveway, directly in front of them, and Chick lost his tenuous cool.
Dale shouted as Chick veered rapidly to the left, practically drifting into an alleyway, finding a corner and swinging around it, out of sight of the main road. There he stopped, engine panting with fear.
Dale unplastered himself from the seat and ran a gentle hand along Chick's dash, knowing that first and foremost the car had to calm, muttering soothing words as he strained his ears for any sign of the cop. His voice died as a small rumbling engine approached.
Chick shut off his own engine, including the vent system, and the cabin began to heat up. Dale's breathing seemed suddenly loud and clumsy in the silence. He could feel sweat trickling down his neck as they heard the engine get closer, the very smallest sliver of a white nose peeking around the bend.
We're done for , Dale thought dully, tensed and trying to find an escape route.
"Hey, Richie! Whattaya doin'?" The bonnet stopped, the police car reversing away at the sound of his humans' voice, and Dale had to bless the impatience of his kind.
Chick turned his cooling on, unlocked his doors to let the hot air out, and the two sat there for a solid minute to calm their racing hearts.
Chick began rolling out, to continue their escape, but a shape blocked their way without warning. It was a car, a boxy older model that Dale barely recognised, and it twitched and jittered on its tires as it blocked their path. Small, sharp tusks glinted as it snarled at them to stay back. Chick made an aggravated growl, managed to form a word.
"
Move
."
The stranger seemed to shake his hood, then the rest of his body, metal clanking and rattling like a snake. As Chick made to move forward again, the stranger's engine ticked over, growling and roaring.
Dale got out of the car, quickly backing toward the wall as Chick faced off against the stranger. It looked more and more like the two cars were going to get in a fight, and Dale didn't want to be anywhere near them if that happened.
The stranger jerked forward, and Chick scrambled back with a pneumatic hiss, brow furrowed and teeth bared. Dale looked closer at the stranger, noticed long lines of ripped paint, a thousand dents that would never be buffed out, and his blood ran cold.
If there was a sport worse than racing, it was fighting. The cars in that sport were broken to be as insane as Chick, but infinitely more violent. If his guess was right (and Dale was rarely wrong), the car trapping them would never back down, and Chick's chance of winning was below minimal.
"Now, what is all this?" A voice behind Dale - behind all of them, old and smooth as warn pavement, warm in the tired way old men are always warm.
Dale whipped around, expecting the owner of the fighter, and found himself face-to-grille with a truly ancient Ford ute. The collector's item raised a disapproving windshield at the scene before him.
"Brass, calm down," The ute ordered, and the fighter sat back down on his axles, odd-coloured eyes locking on the newcomer. "These are refugees, not troublemakers." The ute appraised Chick and Dale, then jerked his hood toward a garage door neither had noticed before, one that was now open.
"Do come in, travellers, I think it would be best for us all to get out of sight."
Dale glanced between the garage door and the fighter, who was still twitching in anticipation of escape. Even if Chick stood a chance against him, the cost of broken parts would be far too high. Dale turned back to the ute, who was regarding them with an almost patient smile.
"Alright then," Dale muttered, straightening up in false confidence. "We'll come inside, but only for a little while."
The Ford nodded, seemingly unconcerned.
"A little while is enough."