Triple Digits

Claire Miles

The killer entered again sometime in the late afternoon on Monday, the race only an hour away. Claire only knew this because she could see the afternoon sunlight that streamed in when he opened the door and took a seat across from her once again, glancing to the camera. It remained off, thankfully.
Claire desperately needed the bathroom, and she was thirsty and in pain, but beyond that, she was still alive. Anything could be fixed, so long as she was alive. She wanted to hug herself, but her hands were still tied behind her back.
Taking a miniscule amount of mercy on her, the killer pulled off her gag to tip some water down her throat. She swallowed it down greedily, hating that she had to rely on this monster to stay alive, but not so prideful that she would let herself die rather than accept whatever scraps of mercy he threw her way.
Crossing one leg over the other, the killer read the results of whatever was on his laptop screen, clicking his tongue in disappointment before saying elusively, "I put it down to a vote, as I said, for who would win the race tonight. Between you and Velocity. I won't tell you the winning outcome. We wouldn't want to throw the race. What car would you like to drive today, Triple Digits?"
She didn't really care, if she was being honest. The thought of participating in his sick little game of puppetry made her feel sick to the stomach. There was something odd about his bet, too, like he had something planned for it.
Still, forcing her voice to be calm, she asked, "What kind of cars do you have?"
If it bought her more time alive, or humanised her a little for this teenager, then she would keep speaking with him.
Excited at her cooperation, the killer leaned forward in his chair, exclaiming, "Oh, a pretty good selection! I have everything from H-Class to one or two S-Class vehicles. Name one, and I'll see if I have it." He sounded eager to show off. Who in Mid-City would have such a wide variety of vehicles? Unless he was lying, of course. She couldn't see the rest of the warehouse, only the room he'd erected out of tarp. It could be empty, or it could be full of cars.
"Peregrine." If Claire was going to die, she was doing it in a car she knew and loved.
The killer clicked his tongue, "Ooh, tough luck. I can give you an X-Class La-Luna."
If she was racing against Velocity, who drove an S-Class Basilisk, then it would be hard to beat her in a La-Luna.
She frowned. Then again, she'd beaten the killer, who had been driving a Peregrine, in Strickland's 230-Mirage.
"I'll take the La-Luna."
"Good. The race is in about forty minutes." From the way he said the words, she doubted he'd been planning on giving her any car but the La-Luna. Her heart sunk into her toes. Had he tampered with it? Rigged it the way Quickshift's car must have been rigged?
He motioned to the camera again, and Claire sighed.
What fresh Hell was he going to send to the Mid-City police?
When the camera was rolling and the laptop set up to stream it to the Mid-City police department, the killer smiled at Claire...