Chapter Text
Herbie always loved racing. The feeling of the air on his windshield, the thrill of scrambling to be first, the ground under his tires; He loved it all. In fact, today was going to be one of his big race days. Excitement hung in the air as he watched the light filter in through the garage windows as the sun crested the horizon. The light added a certain shine to his sleek paint job, that of course, would be dirtied after the race later.
The inside door to the garage opened, revealing Jim Douglas—Herbie's driver—holding his keys and wearing his racing suit. “Big day, huh?” he commented, and Herbie let out an enthusiastic beeeep! in response. Jim gave an amused laugh. “Well, someone’s excited to race!” He gave Herbie a few pats on his hood, walking in front of him to get to the driver’s side door. “I’m counting on you, Herbie.”
Herbie opened his door for Jim as he hopped in and turned the keys. The garage door opened, and Herbie rolled out, taking in the warm morning. Then, just like that, he was off. The roads were fairly empty at this time of day, save for the occasional car. Herbie particularly noticed a black Trans Am, since it seemed a bit out of place to see a sleek car like that on this dirty back road. As Herbie kept driving, a while past that car, the ground off the side of the road was giving off something odd. It felt like it was trying to weaken him by being near it. It almost seemed like there was an acidic trail. Herbie tried not to pay it much mind—shouldn’t get anxious right before a race, right? Plus, Jim wasn’t freaking out, so he’d be fine, probably.
Either way, Herbie and Jim soon arrived at the race, and right on time, too. Herbie, as anyone who knew him would expect, was thrilled just looking at the track, and Jim was teasing him about it. But the thought of speeding through those turns, winding between cars, and the competitive edge of it all… it was what he always looked forward to. He wasn’t even focused on how the pit crew was scrambling around to make sure he was ready to race. As soon as they gave him the go-ahead, he rolled up to his spot before the starting line, and watched as the other racers got in place. Engines humming in unison, waiting for the flag to drop.
A voice rings in over the speaker system: the race caller, most likely. “Good morning, boys and girls, spectators of the race. I hope you’re ready to see some really thrilling action on the track today!” Herbie always got internally annoyed at ‘boys and girls.’ That didn’t really include cars, did it? Whatever the case was, the race caller would be rambling to the audience for a few more minutes, and Herbie definitely did not let out a self-important rev at his name being announced.
After what felt like hours of waiting, which was actually two minutes, because Herbie was impatient when it came to racing, the flag dropped. Herbie shot off, quickly taking the lead. It all felt perfect: the shining sun, the texture of the road below him, the roaring of the engines in front of him… wait, in front of him? He realized with a start, that he wasn’t in first—oh, no. He was in dead last. Herbie tried to catch up, he really did! But his engine just wouldn’t work hard enough. He let out a sad beep as he accepted that today was not his day.
An excessive amount of time later, Herbie finally rolled up to the finish line, carrying himself with shame. His paint was embarrassingly scratched and dirty from taking a shortcut through the bushes when the race was called to be over. If you listened closely, you could hear his engine making a depressed sounding sputter. Herbie was a truly pathetic sight right now, and one may even wonder why he isn’t shaking by now. The winners were already on the podium, smiling, holding up trophies shinier than Herbie’s paint ever was. He resented losing, as there was no way to get out of the shame of it, especially with Jim there.
“What the hell was that race, Herbie?” Jim scolded. “Did you even use your engine for that?” he accused. Herbie’s engine whined. He had used his engine, tried his best, went as fast as he could, but it wasn’t enough. It’s not like he could explain that to Jim, though. “We’re going home,” Jim grumbled with a scowl. Herbie knew he’d messed up.
On the drive back home, the air was thick with a silent tension, and Herbie had to resist whining again. He was sorry, he really was! He didn’t mean to lose that race… They drove back home the same way they went to the race, but now there weren’t any other cars to shift his attention to. That patch of road that made Herbie feel odd still had the effect on him, but to a lesser extent. Could that be why he lost the race? The road under him felt coarse and grating, like that source of comfort was trying to punish him, too. He watched the sky grow dark, showing the hidden nighttime stars.
As soon as they arrived home, Jim got out, slamming Herbie’s door, and went to the living room. He hadn’t even spared Herbie a ‘goodnight.’ Herbie made a sad little beep of shame to nobody in particular and settled himself in the cold garage for the night. He could faintly hear a conversation taking place in the other room, and even though he couldn’t make out a word of what was said, he had a feeling it was about him. And not in a good way. If only he’d won that race, maybe he would be good enough for Jim, but as it was, he wasn’t ‘Herbie’ to people. He was the Douglas car. Jim’s legacy was his legacy, and to ruin that was to ruin himself.
The house felt almost hostile now. Herbie wanted to turn tail and drive off, or at least get some fresh air, but the garage was locked tight. He revved in frustration, as if anyone who would hear him would care. Thoughts of previous races flooded his mind, and he kept wondering why he lost this one. It shouldn’t have been any different than the other races, but it still was. Now all Herbie could do was wait for the next day, wait for what Jim was going to do, and wait for his next chance to prove himself. So that’s what he did. He waited.