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And when the crowd parts, the rest of Lightning’s sentence dies in his throat.
Standing there, smug and indifferent as ever, is Jackson Storm.
He's alive.
Of course he would be alive. Of course the EMP wouldn't have killed him. It probably didn't even affect him, he probably couldn't even feel it-
“Hey, Champ,” Storm says, smiling at him with his lips closed, like he knows something Lightning doesn't.
Oh god , he does. Lightning has just accidentally challenged Jackson Storm to a race. The one guy on earth he could never figure out how to beat, and now he's got to race him again, but this time their actual survival depends on it. Lightning can not lose again, it's literally not an option this time. The other option is imprisonment, or maybe even death , who knows.
Go figure!
Storm just keeps smiling at him like he’s already won. Lightning already lost his composure four seconds ago, and feels his hackles raise just by looking at him.
Storm looks… more or less the same as Lightning remembers. There's a few scuffs on his black carbon panels, one or two spots where the weave is frayed and nicked, but otherwise he is whole and hale. He looks like he has hardly lifted a single tire, or had any struggle in this hellscape these whole long two years. Of course!! Just Lightning’s luck that Storm has had things easy. He’s probably got this whole sorry pack of cars doting on him like royalty-
“Why are you alive,” is what Lightning says.
Storm bursts out laughing, which just rips a growl out of Lightning in tandem, propensity for banter utterly flattened by the overwhelming presence of the other. Lightning suppresses a shiver at the booming sound of it.
“Not very nice of you to say, Champ.” Storm looks to either side of him finally. “Spirit Halloween,” he greets Cruz. “Hicks,” he greets Chick, smile thinning.
Chick just waggles his brow at him. “Hey Stormie Boy,” he smarms.
***
Jackson ignores the green car. Nothing else matters right now.
Lightning McQueen is alive.
Jackson had long since accepted a universe where he’d never see the fascinating thing again, and yet here he is standing in the dirt before him, huffing and snarling, putting his body in front of the others as if to protect them from him.
Of course Lightning would be alive. He's sort of like a worm, or a bug in that regard, always breathing down somewhere in the dirt- a shining, writhing, eternal creature.
Jackson takes a good look at him.
He’s real, all right, all two tons of gleaming red steel, lips twisting in adorable confusion at whatever subtleties Jackson peppers into his own expression, fictions just to rile him up. It has the dual effect of keeping Lightning pinned to the spot, for Jackson to keep taking him in.
He looks... Worn. Like he’s been working. A few poorly healed dents, some paint missing, a patch of tape, scrapes and mismatched rotors… all beaten to hell, like he's been racing. Like the world ended and he turned it into his own goddamn personal race track. And here Jackson is, roped into his peabrained scheme to wrestle it out for some sort of stupid fucking political deal. It's always the same damn thing with Lightning McQueen, isn't it. Like everything in life has to be some sort of grand romantic gesture, even if it's just a race. Especially if it's a race.
He doesn't look bad , though. That would be difficult to achieve, but he’s done it once before. He looks how Lightning McQueen should, brow furrowed and flanks matted with carbon, blue eyes burning. In fact, knowing the racer is alive and well seems to soothe something within Jackson, like a deviated thread righted again, washed and lubed and put back straight. Huh. He didn't know it had been crooked in the first place.
“The Hurricane Coalition accepts your terms,” Jackson finally says.
Lightning closes his mouth, tilts up his chin. He won't back down; pride before reason. A little thrill goes through Jackson's frame. He gets to have Lightning all to himself on the track again? Panting at his fender, pinned and beaten down by adversity as Jackson winds him into submission at 200 miles an hour? It's easy enough to do, but Lightning always makes it difficult, turns it into some drawn-out, hard-earned thing. It's too good to be true.
No one else had raced Jackson like that. And he hasn't found anything else close to compare since the world ended, either. Ramirez was good, Jackson will admit now after these years gone by, but there's only one Lightning McQueen, no matter how you slice it.
His own smile must have faded, because Lightning is smiling at him now.
“Do your worst,” Lightning promises him.