Conflict

Part 2, Chapter 5

The first thing Strip registered as he regained consciousness was the quiet hiss of an air compressor off to his left. It had a soothing rhythm to it. Hiss. Stop. Hiss. Stop. Hiss. As he came to, he made out the sound of a paint gun operating in synchronicity. The hum of a repair machine served as a relaxing backdrop.

He cracked his eyes open and looked around. Unsurprised, he found himself in a repair bay. Across the room, Izzy sat motionless in another booth, eyes closed, getting a new coat of paint. He watched the machine move back and forth across her spoiler, giving her a final coat of black paint to finish off her stripe. Seeing her made him feel content.

He then looked at himself. From what he could see and feel, he was in one piece, with a plain, but color correct coat of Dinoco blue paint. He rolled out of the booth and went through the motions. Engine running? Check. Transmission shifting? Check. He could even feel his wings and secondary engines had been replaced. Drowsily, he cruised over to a nearby mirror.

"Sorry we couldn't replicate your sponsor's design," Rick called to him from behind. "The machines only do factory-specified paint schemes."

Strip turned to see his CEO approaching him. At the sight of the Power Wagon, the memories came rushing back. His engine sputtered to a rough stop as it all came flashing to the front of his mind, as though he were experiencing it all over again. His talk with Rick, the severed hall, the fall of building one, Jess falling through the air, that young Mustang...

Rick saw him dissociate and came to a halt several feet away, wary. He didn't know what Strip had seen or experienced before they'd managed to dig him out of the wreckage. They'd found him near the body of one of Ford's Mustangs, who had long been gone at that point. It was a miracle he was still alive.

"What happened?" Strip asked when he found himself again.

Rick took a deep breath as he pondered where to begin. "Well, we found you under a building, for starters."

Strip knew that. He looked toward Izzy. "Is she alright?"

"Hm?" Rick followed his gesture toward the Daytona. "Oh, yeah, she's fine. She flew out of there on her own. Impressive really. She just didn't want to get worked on until she knew you were gonna make it."

"Was it that bad?" he hesitated to ask.

"It... was something." Rick looked away. "You spent nearly half a day down there before we got to you."

"Half a – " Strip's mind snapped into action. Half a day, plus all the time needed to repair him... "How long's it been?"

"About six days. We got you in here as soon as – hey, where are you going?"

Strip made like a bandit toward the exit as Rick kicked himself into gear to try and catch him.

"Strip! Wait, don't go in there."

"I need to find a phone, Rick," Strip called behind him as he pushed through the door. "Now. I was supposed to – "

He screeched to a halt as he saw the scene in the neighboring room. One, two... five... eleven? Eleven. Ten sheet-covered mounds were about his size, with varying degrees of structure left to them. Some looked to have wings, others didn't appear to have anything more than a frame. The eleventh was shaped differently, more like an older car - a Monaco to be precise.

Strip slowly backed away until his bumper contacted the wall near the door.

"No," he whispered.

Rick looked across the covered bodies, hesitating on the last one. He blinked away his emotions as best he could and cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," Rick muttered. "There wasn't anything else we could do."