Acceleration

Chapter 7: The Hotrod

Hotrod's grip tightened around Erin's hand—not painfully, but with a strength no regular old man should've had. His muscles were still enhanced. Erin returned the pressure, giving a silent signal in return.

"Lizzy," Hotrod said, still holding Erin's hand. "Give me and your friend a few minutes to talk."

"Gramps, we're not dating. You don't have to give him the scare-your-boyfriend routine—"

"Lizzy." His tone sharpened, and he glanced over his shoulder.

She rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath, and left, closing the door behind her.

Hotrod finally let go of Erin's hand and lowered himself into the chair at her desk with a soft grunt. The old wood creaked beneath him.

"I take it you're that new lightning kid, huh?"

Erin hesitated before answering.

"I'm not gonna tell anyone, kid," the man said with a sigh. "I just need to talk to you about the life you're stepping into."

Erin sat down across from him. "I know about you too."

Hotrod chuckled, low and raspy. "I was wondering if you did."

Erin leaned forward, eyes intense. "What happened? What did the government do to make you stop?"

Hotrod shook his head slowly. "It wasn't the government that made me quit, kiddo."

He leaned back and began to speak, his voice growing distant as memory took hold.

"It was the middle of the Cold War. I was deployed in the jungles of North Vietnam. A freak storm rolled in—nasty thing. We were ordered to pull back to base. On the way, I hit a tripwire. Grenade trap."

He tapped his left leg.

"My leg came clean off. I remember flying through the air, screaming. Then—boom. Lightning struck. Dead center. Lit up the whole forest."

He pulled down the collar of his shirt to reveal a branching black scar etched across his left shoulder and collarbone like lightning frozen in flesh.

Erin instinctively yanked down the collar of his own shirt, revealing an identical scar on the opposite side of his body.

Hotrod nodded slowly.

"When I landed, I thought I was dying. But then I looked down and—my leg was back. Fully regrown. Meanwhile, the original was lying in the mud a few feet away."

Erin's eyes widened.

"I took it to my COs. Next thing I know, I'm being flown stateside for briefings and tests. Even met the president. See, back then, America needed a symbol—something powerful to believe in. I became Hotrod. They gave me a fancy bulletproof coat, ran some tests, and then sent me back out there. And for a while... it was fun."

He paused, jaw tightening.

"Until the letters started coming."

"Letters?" Erin asked.

"Invitations. From 'private contractors.' Offers to buy my story. To run some tests. At first it was flattering—then it got aggressive. I kept saying no. But eventually, people started showing up. They'd follow me. Watch me. Try to corner me. I still said no."

He looked down at his hands, knuckles scarred.

"Then one day, I was out on patrol with my squad. A group ambushed us. Came outta the trees like ghosts. I fought back, but one of them managed to cut me in half. Took my legs. Literally ran off with them."

Erin's stomach twisted.

"One of my guys shot one of the attackers. Pulled the mask off... he was American."

Hotrod's voice went flat.

"That's when I knew. This wasn't about war anymore. This was something else."

He looked up at Erin with fire behind his old, weathered eyes.

"All we got was a name. The company was called A.G.E.N.T."

Erin's blood ran cold.

"They were already operating in the '70s?" he asked quietly.

Hotrod nodded. "No one could touch them. CIA, FBI—nobody even knew who they were. A ghost corporation. Black budget. Off the grid. When I refused to cooperate, the government put me in Witness Protection. Gave me a new identity, new life. I disappeared. Met my wife. Had a family. Tried to forget."

He exhaled slowly.

"I never thought anyone else would end up like me."

"Did they ever come after you again?"

Hotrod shook his head. "They lost me. But if they're still out there... you can bet they're watching now."

Erin rubbed his jaw, eyes on the floor.

Hotrod leaned forward, his tone softening.

"Tell me, 'Lightningsonic'—you and my granddaughter dating?"

Erin's head shot up. "What? No, sir! I swear—it's not like that."

Hotrod laughed, deep and genuine this time. "Relax, kid. She hasn't had a friend since kindergarten. Not since her diagnosis. If she brought you home? Sat you in her room? You matter to her, whether either of you realize it or not."

Erin didn't reply.

"Just don't tell her, alright? Let her be a teenager for a little while longer. You don't need to drag her into this mess."

"I won't," Erin said, nodding firmly. "I'll keep her out of it. I promise."

Hotrod stood and patted Erin on the shoulder.

"And if she finds out—so be it. But don't go advertising who you are. If A.G.E.N.T. is still around, you'll need to be smart. Stay fast. Stay alive."

He turned to the door, gripping the handle.

"Oh, and kid?"

"Yeah?"

"That name sucks."

Erin sighed. "I'm workshopping it, sir."

Hotrod cracked a small grin, biting the inside of his cheek.

"You know what would be a good name..."