Roar of the Orange Beast

Muffled screams wrapped around the corridor walls. Loose debris from the ceiling fell like snow from a tree branch. It was an uncomfortably long walk for Tim and Jack. A literal riot took place several floors above.

“Sorry.” Tim broke the awkwardness between the two.

“What? The people going mad? Place was due for a renovation anyways.”

“No, not that. My regeneration. It just… isn’t working like it used to.”

Jack scratched his head. To him, it worked exactly as it was intended. Maybe even too well.

“I’m not going to complain. You fixed me right up! Even got rid of the creaking in my shoulder.”

Stretching and flexing his old bones, Jack was expecting a response. Not silence. He slowed his pace to match Tim’s before wrapping his arm around him.

“Why the long face? You won a flippin’ limit hand! The Tim I know would be pub crawling and setting himself on fire for fun, not sulking about ‘regeneration.’ Is this what parenthood does to a fella? Yikes.”

“I wished it was just that.”

Jack sighed. “You lied. It ain’t just about a car, am I right?”

“Car’s just… a means to an end.” Tim walked faster, moving away from Jack’s arm around his neck that stayed there for a tad bit too long. “Look, Jack, I appreciate you setting up the game and giving me a heads up about the General, but I just can’t help but feel like I’m making a mistake.”

“Mistake? Your entire existence’s a mistake, pal. A bit too late to harp on about a new one, no?”

“... You’re way too comfortable to just say that to my face.”

“And you, my friend, are way too soft to be a walking nuke. Just… you know, maybe stay this way and try not to let the big fella inside you out that much?”

“I’m trying to set a good example to Mia. I’ve been cutting down on the drinks, you know?”

“I can tell. Plus, you’re heading to The Mids, right? It’s only going to get worse. Hey, I know a guy in Trackersfield. Exiled Therapist.”

“Please don’t. I don’t want another one killing themselves.”

“That was like what? A hundred years ago? C’mon have more faith in the progress of medical treatments! Hell, my cousin had surgery in The Mids done by flippin’ robots! They probably have a way to hotwire your brain or something.”

Tim sighed. “They did. In the last Age. You don’t know this, but tech’s actually more advanced a thousand years ago. The Spire’s robots? Some of them are older than me.”

“... Can you stick to being soft? I don’t think my heart can take your random nuggets of existential dread like it used to.”

They stopped in front of a metal door. Jack placed his palm on the biometric scanner next to it, only to get an error, the screen flashing red. Confused, he tried again. And again. And again.

“Don’t look at me,” Tim said. “I healed your arm, not rearranged the handprint pattern.”

“It’s not that. The folks upstairs probably messed with the security system or something. Could you do the honors?”

“You sure you don’t mind?”

“It’s a door. Not a car.”

Tim punched right through the metal. His hand fiddled around, looking for the handle. But even when he pushed it down, it wouldn’t open.

Jack rolled his eyes. “When I said ‘soft,’ I didn’t mean this soft. Just pull the—”

The entire door came off. Hinges, frame, and a good chunk of cement included. Tim looked at Jack, his eyes gripped with guilt.

The casino owner tapped on his shoulder, reassuring him it was no big deal before entering the hole in the wall. “That works.”

With his right wrist wedged between the tears on the metal, Tim opted for the faster option. He chopped his right hand off with his left, the door and all the extra bits falling to the floor with a thud. The stump he had regrew its lost extremities as the severed hand melted into nothingness. No sign of self-amputation left behind. Not even a drop of blood.

Stepping inside, the panel lights of the ceiling lit up, a sea of white blinding Tim temporarily. But even as his vision adjusted to the flashbang, the brightness didn’t fully disappear. The entire room was painted white, walls like milk. It was an art gallery. But instead of paintings, the exhibits were all cars.

Two, maybe three dozen cars were perfectly lined up in two rows, stretching the entire width of the gallery. From exotics to classics, every piece of machinery here was treated better than royalty. Glass, metal, and plastic preserved better than most Regalia on The Surface. Not even a speck of dust dared trespass onto these hallowed grounds. Each beauty was exactly the way Tim remembered them, even after forty years since he last set foot here.

“Go ahead, Champ. Take your pick.”

Tim could hardly believe “Car” Jack’s generosity. This fleet of automobiles made up only a mere fraction of his entire collection, but these were his first. Roulette wheels above spun to fund the wheels here. In a way, each one of these vehicles was like a child to him. Tim knew how hard it was to even think of letting Mia go, so for the collector to be so open with giving one of them away, it had to hurt.

“You’re really okay with this?” Tim asked, triggering a fit of laughter from Jack that ended with a sigh.

“You won their hand in marriage. If anyone deserves to take one of them out for a spin, it’s you.”

“So what if I lost?”

“... You’ll get one of the piles of junk I disposessed.”

“Thanks. I mean, seriously. You didn’t need to do mahjong game for all this, but I’m glad you did. It’s fun.”

“I had to. For old time’s sake, yeah? I had a feeling you weren’t coming back. Might as well go out with a bang. And besides…” A mischievous smirk flashed across the old man’s lips. “Always fun to mess with the mob bosses once in a while.”

“Mobsters, yes. But the Greerian Military?”

“Bah, you worry too much! They’ve been trying to weasel their way in for a while. War’s bound to happen, with or without you in the picture. Now hurry up and pick one out. I’ve got a casino to clean up.”

Tim found himself walking past each vehicle. They were beautiful, yes, but they weren’t the one for him. Every single one was a technological marvel, a feat of engineering that had its place cemented in history. But there was only one that truly called out to him. A star in a necklace of pearls.

Tucked away at the very end was an old muscle car. Sleek, but overall pretty unassuming, especially when compared to its curvier sisters before. But this one, in particular, had special value to Tim. Memories of a better time. Nostalgia on four wheels.

“I knew you’d go for her. She’s the same one I offered you all those years ago, ‘member?”

“Yeah.”

“Still remember how much it cost?”

“Four hearts. Three livers. Twelve kidneys.”

“Hah! Those were the days, man. Those were the days. I’d have loved to see the face on that Necromancer when he found out he can’t use your organs!”

“Try not to screw with the wrong clients again. I won’t be here to bail you out anymore.”

“I know, I know.”

Jack tossed the keys over to Tim. Sitting inside the driver’s seat. A flood of memories came rushing in. The smell of the fabric. The way his fingers caressed the steering wheel. How his reflection looked through the rear and side view mirrors. Everything felt just right.

Firing up the ignition, he felt new life breathing into his undying body as the rumble of the engine shook his soul with excitement. Like a child being given his first toy, a genuine smile conquered the weathered face on his skin. Witnessing such a pure, unfiltered reaction felt like a reward to Jack. Seeing someone fall in love with a car; it reminded him of why he even began his journey as a collector in the first place.

“She’s all yours now, yeah? I’d say ‘take good care of her,’ but knowing you, you’ll get her banged up in no time.”

“... I think she can take some punishment.”

“Just like its new owner, then. But enough chit chat. Just go!” With a click of a remote, he raised the garage door. “I wanna hear her roar!”

Jack watched as the car drove off, the exhaust playing music to his ears. He waved his old friend and prized possession goodbye, the vehicle driving off into the distance as the music faded.

It would be the last time he ever saw both of them again.

-----

Tim peered out of the secret parking entrance, a fair bit of distance away from Jack’s Jackpot. Through the pristine glass of the windshield, the human stampede outside the shiny building stretched all the way to the neighboring streets. It was no longer a casino bank run, but a full-blown riot. Still, that wasn’t the cause of the tense feeling creeping under his skin. That honor belonged to the Greerian Military.

Tanks, jeeps, armored transports; General Walker worked fast. The commotion outside the casino turned into the perfect cover-up for an invasion. Peacekeeping, as they called it. But with this much firepower showing up and with the O’Keefes firmly under their thumb, no doubt the other three families of the Big Four would have something to say about it.

Tim floored the pedal, the force sending the car on its two rear wheels like a stallion eager to fight. Any rioter nearby backed off, stunned by the heart-thumping growl of the V8, fuel injectors spraying life into the beast and fear into everyone around it. Like a king on his motorized chariot, he charged into the chaos, awe and admiration written on the faces of each head turned.

The folks of Pitstop gave way to their guardian deity. While they might not recognize the orange beast, they knew the drunkard behind the wheel right away. Having spent years living together with the unkillable man, most were familiar with his easygoing disposition. Only a few were willing to push their luck like the now-deceased O’Keefe patriarch. So to see the broke Exiled driving like a madman in a car that must’ve cost him an arm, leg, and brain or two, they dared not even lay a scratch on the fancy ride.

Unfortunately for Tim, the Greerian Military wasn’t local to Pitstop. He turned the steering wheel as if it had been sucked by a whirlwind, the car swerving just in time to avoid a surface-to-surface rocket. Dirt and debris stained his glossy hood and the windshield. A massive crater in the ground reminded him that his new toy wouldn’t be as lucky as him if it got hit.

Clicking his tongue, he had no choice but to employ forbidden driving techniques not seen in over a hundred years. His feet played with the pedals like he was on an arcade dance machine. The gearstick saw more action in a single minute than throughout its entire existence. Under the helm of its master, the machine was brought to its absolute limits, cylinders pumping as if they weren’t just fueled by gasoline, but by his Blackblood.

Be it heavy ordnance or combined arms, nothing could hit the car. Through the smoke and the flames, it came out unscathed each time, leaving behind an orange blur that dumbfounded the electronic targeting systems locked onto it. Military tech worth hundreds of millions beaten by a car from half a century ago. And with each missed shot, the coordinated offensive gradually turned into an uncoordinated defensive.

The three families of Pitstop struck back.

DIY guns, improvised explosives, the kitchen sink; anything and everything that a gangster could get their hands on turned into weapons. Typically reserved for each other, the criminals of Pitstop now formed a united front against this foreign threat encroaching on their haven.

Anarchy became all-out war. To the military, at least. To Pitstop, this was Tuesday.