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Red. That's what he's always been. Well, there've been a few paint jobs here and there, but he's always felt right in red. It's his. It's the person he is. Red is safe. Red is kind. Red is home. But that solotch of blue sticks with him, no matter how hard he tries to scrape it off. Every coat of paint in the world wouldn't be strong enough to get it off. And Lighting hates it. He hates how cold it feels, how unwelcoming, how harsh it makes his expression look when he smiles, because the stupid thing is right on his hood.
He learns to get over the blue, after taking the piston cup. Doc and Sally and Guido and even Flo help him see reason. Blue isn't bad on its own. Lightning knows that. But blue still isn't him. Not in the way red and yellow are. He's the storm on the horizon, blinding fast and loud. Blue is for slow people, retirees and friends. Not him. Never him.
Then one day there's an exhibition match between the US and Austrian racing teams. Nothing special, it's almost routine, really. Lighting gives a few interviews, talks up himself and his team, and praises the Australians. There's whispers, and people point to that blue splotch. Lighting ignores that. It's normal. Soulmates are… well, not rare, but uncommon enough that some still find them to be weird. Though, Lighting admits, it's weird to meet someone who hasn't found theirs. Most pairs—or trios or whatever—stick together. They also find each other early, usually. Doc met his when he was five or so. But Lighting hopes he never meets his.
The pre-race trash-talking is normal. Lighting makes a big show of asking who's coming in second—he always does. His team laughs and scuffs his paint a little, fully aware that he's not going to try particularly hard. There's nothing to win here, other than some fun.
After the pit area talks, they warm up. Just a few laps, nothing major. There's one less racer than Lighting thought there'd be, though. Nineteen rather than the advertised twenty. It's not a big deal—the track will hardly be crowded—but it makes his spot at the front feel empty. He's used to having someone to his right, revving their engine or breathing deeply. Yet there's nothing.
Curiously, he casts a look back. He squints his eyes. There's… there's a tiny blue speck in the middle of the starting line, wiggling about. It's a fish. A tiny, tropical fish. How did it get on the track? How is it still alive. Lighting looks around and tries to get the attention of the flag bearer on the podium.
"Hey! Hey! There's a dying fish down here! Someone come get it!"
"Hey now, I'm a fish, but I don't think I'm dying!"
Lighting looks back again. The fish is flopping forward, flopping on the ground without a care in the world. "Also, I'm pretty sure the rules say you can't cause an intentional delay before a race! At least I think they do…"
"Who… what… how? "
The fish laughs, now just a few feet away. They're a brilliant blue, but there's a single red stripe on their side. Red. "Don't question it! I woke up like this one day. Isn't it great?" Lighting doesn't know how to answer. He's so caught up in his shock that he misses the start of the countdown.
The green flag waves. Cars race forth. And that fish leads them, trailing blue. Lighting is lapped by that fish three times in that race, coming in second. No one lets him live it down. He lost. To a fish. And the fish doesn't even seem to care. She—because she is a she, apparently—swims about in the trophy, happy as can be. Oblivious to the red on her side.
Lighting hates it. He hates the stares. He hates the fact that he lost. He hates her, most of all. For ruining him. He'll get her back, though. There's no way he won't. He's Lighting McQueen. He'll beat Dory the fish, even if she is his soulmate.