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Title: To Finish First 1/?? (ST:XI/modern day NASCAR AU)
Author:
cupidandpsycho
Word Count: this part is 1750ish (give or take because Open Office doesn't know how to count)
Disclaimer: It's all lies. Lies, I tell you! I own nothing and no one but Kirk/Bones owns my soul! Some dialogue in this part is taken straight from the movie and I also make no claim on those words.
Rating: PG-13 (this part) to R (overall)
Pairing: None in this part (Scotty and the car maybe) but eventual Kirk/Bones.
Summary: Starfleet Racing's newest rookie, Jim Kirk, likes to say his wide-open is one more gear than everyone else's. His crew chief, Leonard McCoy, isn't sure that is a good thing.
Authors Note: Uh, yeah. Quite possibly the crackiest of crack fics? Also, my first ST:XI fic. *bites fingernails nervously* Many thanks to my beta readers:
fififolle,
fredbassett & especially
deinonychus_1 for her massive help with the fight scene.
******
James Tiberius Kirk loved this shit.
He loved the teeth-rattling vibration of the 700hp engine under the hood of his car. He loved the feel and taste of the dirt. He loved the smell of oil and gas and burnt tire rubber and track food, mingled together in a delicious aroma that made his mouth water, even though it always made him a little high. He loved flying around the track at a hundred and ten miles an hour with twenty other cars not afraid to trade paint, hanging on the ragged edge between wrecking and winning.
He loved every single adrenaline-pumping second of it but he especially loved the winning. The money didn't matter to him much. He gave most of it to Scotty for parts and labor anyway. No, Jim Kirk liked winning just so he could rub it into the faces of the drivers who raced with their daddy's money and too much time on their hands. Guys who always thought they'd be better than the kid who showed up to the tracks with one crew member and his car on a rickety roll-back instead of in some fancy-ass Featherlite trailer.
Jim liked to prove them wrong by kicking their asses on the track and he'd be doing it again tonight if he could just get around the red and black #66 car. He’d only just gotten to the other guy’s bumper, having patiently (for him) worked his way from a last place starting spot to the front of the pack.
"Two laps to go, Jimmy." His crew chief's Scottish brogue crackled over the in-car radio. "If yer plannin' a move, ye might wanna try it now."
"Yeah, Scotty, I hear ya," Jim shouted back. "This guy is runnin' three-wide by himself. I gotta pick my spot."
“Be quick about it,” Scotty replied. “And, for God’s sake, bring my car back in one piece!”
The cackling laugh in his ear was the only response Scotty got as he watched the #66 barrel into turn four with Jim right on his arse. The two late-model cars were running nose-to-tail now, so close that you couldn’t slide a piece of paper between their bumpers. They stayed glued together like that for the next lap, the nearest car behind Jim's Chevy still two car-lengths back, and Scotty nearly breathed a sigh of relief when the white flag waved as the red and black car hit the start-finish line first... until the ass of the car broke right as he dove down the track to try to block Jim.
“Jim, look out!” Scotty shouted in warning, but it was too late. He watched helplessly as Jim's right front bumper clipped the #66, sending the other car up the track and hard into the wall as Jim, and the rest of the field, flew past.
Jim started hollering as soon as he was clear of the dust and saw the yellow and checkered flags waving. He was going to win the race.
“Steaks are on me tonight, Scotty!”
“You might be eating yours through a straw, Jim.”
Because from where Scotty stood on the pit-box, he had a great view of the driver of the #66 car as he climbed from the driver's side window of his car, angrily waving his fist in Jim's direction as he drove by under caution.
“What? Why-- aw, fuck! It was his own damned fault, Scotty.”
“I'll let you try to tell him that.”
*****
Despite Scotty’s best efforts to diffuse the situation, the driver of the #66 (and the usual pit road detritus of track officials, pit crew, family members and pit lizards) was waiting for Jim when he pulled into Victory Lane.
“You fuckin' did that on purpose, pretty-boy,” the guy yelled as Jim climbed out of the car. That was his first mistake. As much as Jim used his blond-haired, blue-eyed looks to his advantage, he loathed having it thrown back in his face.
“Easy there, Cupcake. Rubbin’s racin’, right? You can send me a bill for the damage.” Jim’s reply was cheerfully sarcastic and Scotty groaned inwardly.
Cupcake wasn’t having any of it, though.
“I’ll take it out of your ass,” he snarled, stepping into Jim’s path before Jim could get around him.
That was his second mistake. There was going to be a fight, if Cupcake wasn’t careful and Scotty really didn’t want to have to use his share of the winner’s purse to bail Jim out of jail.
“You and who's army?” Jim asked, not noticing (or just not giving a damn) that Cupcake had been joined by three of his crew.
“Hey, pretty-boy. Maybe you can’t count but there are four of us and only two of you.”
“Oi!” Scotty exclaimed, throwing his hands up in protest. “This isn’t my fight. I’m just the mechanic.”
Jim gave him a sideways look that said, “Thanks a lot,” but turned his attention back to the larger man.
“So get some more guys and then it’ll be an even fight,” he said smartly, before slapping Cupcake twice on the cheek and turning to walk away.
That was his second mistake of the night. Before Jim could take another step, Cupcake grabbed his shoulder, spun him around and cold-cocked him in the face.
“Ugh,” Jim groaned as he fell into Scotty's arms, blood pouring from his split lip. “You gonna help me out here?”
“Nope.” Scotty shook his head as he helped Jim regain his footing. “You're doin' just fine without me. Duck!”
As a racer, Jim had great reflexes and they served him as well in a fight. He ducked down, Cupcake’s fist flying wildly over his head. Before the man could recover, Jim slammed a kick into his ample gut, sending him crashing into the side of Jim's car.
“Watch the car,” Scotty cried indignantly as Jim straightened up and aimed another kick, only to find himself tackled to the ground by one of Cupcake’s friends. The new guy wrapped his hands around Jim’s neck and squeezed like trying to pop Jim's head off until a sharp whistle rent the air.
As if they were dogs called by their owner, because they pretty much were, two track officials pulled Jim and the other guy apart as a silver-haired man waded into the crowd.
“Everyone out of the pits,” he said evenly. “Now.”
As if the command had come from God and, since he owned the track (and Starfleet Racing, one of NASCAR's best teams) Christopher Pike was God, the crowd scurried off like their asses were on fire with a chorus of, “Yes sir, Mr. Pike. Sorry, Mr. Pike.” Everyone except for Jim, who was still coughing up a lung on the ground, and Scotty, who was staring at Pike in awe. Pike looked down at Jim and then looked back at Scotty.
“He gonna be alright?” Pike asked, voice edged with as much amusement as concern.
“Give him a minute,” Scotty said as he knelt to help Jim to his feet. “This happens about twice a week.”
Jim squinted up at Pike.
“You can whistle really loud, you know that?”
******
“You know, I couldn't believe it when my track manager told me who you are.”
They were sitting in lawn chairs up against the side of the roll-back, Pike in his jeans and sponsor-logoed poloshirt and Kirk still in his firesuit. Scotty was busy at the back, batting at mosquitoes and pretending to work on the car so he could eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Who am I, Mr. Pike?” Jim mumbled, heels drumming a relentless beat on the ground as he tried to work off the left-over endorphins from the fight.
“Your father's son.”
And there it is, Jim thought bitterly. Another person that thinks they know shit about me or my Dad just because of what the newspaper and TV reports said.
Reaching into the cooler at his feet, Jim snagged a bottle of beer out of the ice. He thought about being a polite host and offering Pike one but decided against it. No reason to make the man think Jim was welcoming the conversation.
Popping the top off the bottle, Jim made a show out of spitting out the blood-soaked cotton in his mouth and taking a long pull, silently hoping Pike would get fed up with him and leave.
Pike just helped himself to his own beer and continued, “When I bought my first race team, I promised myself I’d only hire drivers like your dad. He didn’t believe in no-win scenarios.”
Jim scoffed. “He sure learned his lesson.”
“Depends on how you define winning. You’re here, aren’t you? You, your mom and those people he saved. You’ve got that hero-or-zero instinct just like he did.”
“Why are you talking to me, man?”
“Because I liked what I saw out on the track. Because I made some calls while you were re-learning how to breathe. No one could believe I was even thinking about giving a test to, and I quote, 'a reckless, irresponsible hot dog with more guts than he’s got sense'.” Jim gave Pike points for not making air quotes with his fingers. He hated people that did that. “You like having that sort of reputation?”
“Maybe I love it.”
Pike’s mouth drew up in a half-smile as he stood up and reached into the back-pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet.
“NASCAR needs guys like you, Jim. Someone who isn't afraid to take risks. Someone who cares more about winning than riding around collecting points.” Opening the wallet, Pike drew out a card and held it out for Jim to take. Jim just stared at him until Pike laid the card down on the spot he'd just vacated. “Starfleet's running a test at Riverside on Tuesday. You get there, I'll give you a shot. If you impress me enough, I guarantee you'll win a championship in four years.”
Pike didn't wait for Jim's response, turning his back and sauntering off towards the brick building that house the track offices. Jim had been summarily dismissed.... and he didn't like it one bit.
“I'll do it in three,” he called out, snagging the card up into his hand. He never could back down from a challenge.
Part 2
Author:
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Word Count: this part is 1750ish (give or take because Open Office doesn't know how to count)
Disclaimer: It's all lies. Lies, I tell you! I own nothing and no one but Kirk/Bones owns my soul! Some dialogue in this part is taken straight from the movie and I also make no claim on those words.
Rating: PG-13 (this part) to R (overall)
Pairing: None in this part (Scotty and the car maybe) but eventual Kirk/Bones.
Summary: Starfleet Racing's newest rookie, Jim Kirk, likes to say his wide-open is one more gear than everyone else's. His crew chief, Leonard McCoy, isn't sure that is a good thing.
Authors Note: Uh, yeah. Quite possibly the crackiest of crack fics? Also, my first ST:XI fic. *bites fingernails nervously* Many thanks to my beta readers:
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******
James Tiberius Kirk loved this shit.
He loved the teeth-rattling vibration of the 700hp engine under the hood of his car. He loved the feel and taste of the dirt. He loved the smell of oil and gas and burnt tire rubber and track food, mingled together in a delicious aroma that made his mouth water, even though it always made him a little high. He loved flying around the track at a hundred and ten miles an hour with twenty other cars not afraid to trade paint, hanging on the ragged edge between wrecking and winning.
He loved every single adrenaline-pumping second of it but he especially loved the winning. The money didn't matter to him much. He gave most of it to Scotty for parts and labor anyway. No, Jim Kirk liked winning just so he could rub it into the faces of the drivers who raced with their daddy's money and too much time on their hands. Guys who always thought they'd be better than the kid who showed up to the tracks with one crew member and his car on a rickety roll-back instead of in some fancy-ass Featherlite trailer.
Jim liked to prove them wrong by kicking their asses on the track and he'd be doing it again tonight if he could just get around the red and black #66 car. He’d only just gotten to the other guy’s bumper, having patiently (for him) worked his way from a last place starting spot to the front of the pack.
"Two laps to go, Jimmy." His crew chief's Scottish brogue crackled over the in-car radio. "If yer plannin' a move, ye might wanna try it now."
"Yeah, Scotty, I hear ya," Jim shouted back. "This guy is runnin' three-wide by himself. I gotta pick my spot."
“Be quick about it,” Scotty replied. “And, for God’s sake, bring my car back in one piece!”
The cackling laugh in his ear was the only response Scotty got as he watched the #66 barrel into turn four with Jim right on his arse. The two late-model cars were running nose-to-tail now, so close that you couldn’t slide a piece of paper between their bumpers. They stayed glued together like that for the next lap, the nearest car behind Jim's Chevy still two car-lengths back, and Scotty nearly breathed a sigh of relief when the white flag waved as the red and black car hit the start-finish line first... until the ass of the car broke right as he dove down the track to try to block Jim.
“Jim, look out!” Scotty shouted in warning, but it was too late. He watched helplessly as Jim's right front bumper clipped the #66, sending the other car up the track and hard into the wall as Jim, and the rest of the field, flew past.
Jim started hollering as soon as he was clear of the dust and saw the yellow and checkered flags waving. He was going to win the race.
“Steaks are on me tonight, Scotty!”
“You might be eating yours through a straw, Jim.”
Because from where Scotty stood on the pit-box, he had a great view of the driver of the #66 car as he climbed from the driver's side window of his car, angrily waving his fist in Jim's direction as he drove by under caution.
“What? Why-- aw, fuck! It was his own damned fault, Scotty.”
“I'll let you try to tell him that.”
*****
Despite Scotty’s best efforts to diffuse the situation, the driver of the #66 (and the usual pit road detritus of track officials, pit crew, family members and pit lizards) was waiting for Jim when he pulled into Victory Lane.
“You fuckin' did that on purpose, pretty-boy,” the guy yelled as Jim climbed out of the car. That was his first mistake. As much as Jim used his blond-haired, blue-eyed looks to his advantage, he loathed having it thrown back in his face.
“Easy there, Cupcake. Rubbin’s racin’, right? You can send me a bill for the damage.” Jim’s reply was cheerfully sarcastic and Scotty groaned inwardly.
Cupcake wasn’t having any of it, though.
“I’ll take it out of your ass,” he snarled, stepping into Jim’s path before Jim could get around him.
That was his second mistake. There was going to be a fight, if Cupcake wasn’t careful and Scotty really didn’t want to have to use his share of the winner’s purse to bail Jim out of jail.
“You and who's army?” Jim asked, not noticing (or just not giving a damn) that Cupcake had been joined by three of his crew.
“Hey, pretty-boy. Maybe you can’t count but there are four of us and only two of you.”
“Oi!” Scotty exclaimed, throwing his hands up in protest. “This isn’t my fight. I’m just the mechanic.”
Jim gave him a sideways look that said, “Thanks a lot,” but turned his attention back to the larger man.
“So get some more guys and then it’ll be an even fight,” he said smartly, before slapping Cupcake twice on the cheek and turning to walk away.
That was his second mistake of the night. Before Jim could take another step, Cupcake grabbed his shoulder, spun him around and cold-cocked him in the face.
“Ugh,” Jim groaned as he fell into Scotty's arms, blood pouring from his split lip. “You gonna help me out here?”
“Nope.” Scotty shook his head as he helped Jim regain his footing. “You're doin' just fine without me. Duck!”
As a racer, Jim had great reflexes and they served him as well in a fight. He ducked down, Cupcake’s fist flying wildly over his head. Before the man could recover, Jim slammed a kick into his ample gut, sending him crashing into the side of Jim's car.
“Watch the car,” Scotty cried indignantly as Jim straightened up and aimed another kick, only to find himself tackled to the ground by one of Cupcake’s friends. The new guy wrapped his hands around Jim’s neck and squeezed like trying to pop Jim's head off until a sharp whistle rent the air.
As if they were dogs called by their owner, because they pretty much were, two track officials pulled Jim and the other guy apart as a silver-haired man waded into the crowd.
“Everyone out of the pits,” he said evenly. “Now.”
As if the command had come from God and, since he owned the track (and Starfleet Racing, one of NASCAR's best teams) Christopher Pike was God, the crowd scurried off like their asses were on fire with a chorus of, “Yes sir, Mr. Pike. Sorry, Mr. Pike.” Everyone except for Jim, who was still coughing up a lung on the ground, and Scotty, who was staring at Pike in awe. Pike looked down at Jim and then looked back at Scotty.
“He gonna be alright?” Pike asked, voice edged with as much amusement as concern.
“Give him a minute,” Scotty said as he knelt to help Jim to his feet. “This happens about twice a week.”
Jim squinted up at Pike.
“You can whistle really loud, you know that?”
******
“You know, I couldn't believe it when my track manager told me who you are.”
They were sitting in lawn chairs up against the side of the roll-back, Pike in his jeans and sponsor-logoed poloshirt and Kirk still in his firesuit. Scotty was busy at the back, batting at mosquitoes and pretending to work on the car so he could eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Who am I, Mr. Pike?” Jim mumbled, heels drumming a relentless beat on the ground as he tried to work off the left-over endorphins from the fight.
“Your father's son.”
And there it is, Jim thought bitterly. Another person that thinks they know shit about me or my Dad just because of what the newspaper and TV reports said.
Reaching into the cooler at his feet, Jim snagged a bottle of beer out of the ice. He thought about being a polite host and offering Pike one but decided against it. No reason to make the man think Jim was welcoming the conversation.
Popping the top off the bottle, Jim made a show out of spitting out the blood-soaked cotton in his mouth and taking a long pull, silently hoping Pike would get fed up with him and leave.
Pike just helped himself to his own beer and continued, “When I bought my first race team, I promised myself I’d only hire drivers like your dad. He didn’t believe in no-win scenarios.”
Jim scoffed. “He sure learned his lesson.”
“Depends on how you define winning. You’re here, aren’t you? You, your mom and those people he saved. You’ve got that hero-or-zero instinct just like he did.”
“Why are you talking to me, man?”
“Because I liked what I saw out on the track. Because I made some calls while you were re-learning how to breathe. No one could believe I was even thinking about giving a test to, and I quote, 'a reckless, irresponsible hot dog with more guts than he’s got sense'.” Jim gave Pike points for not making air quotes with his fingers. He hated people that did that. “You like having that sort of reputation?”
“Maybe I love it.”
Pike’s mouth drew up in a half-smile as he stood up and reached into the back-pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet.
“NASCAR needs guys like you, Jim. Someone who isn't afraid to take risks. Someone who cares more about winning than riding around collecting points.” Opening the wallet, Pike drew out a card and held it out for Jim to take. Jim just stared at him until Pike laid the card down on the spot he'd just vacated. “Starfleet's running a test at Riverside on Tuesday. You get there, I'll give you a shot. If you impress me enough, I guarantee you'll win a championship in four years.”
Pike didn't wait for Jim's response, turning his back and sauntering off towards the brick building that house the track offices. Jim had been summarily dismissed.... and he didn't like it one bit.
“I'll do it in three,” he called out, snagging the card up into his hand. He never could back down from a challenge.
Part 2
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on 2009-10-08 02:08 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-08 02:31 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-08 02:17 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-08 02:32 pm (UTC)NASCAR lends itself well to AU's with big casts! And to crack fic LOL.
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on 2009-10-08 02:37 am (UTC)You are one brave person. :) It's looking good so far! I look forward to the rest of it. :D
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on 2009-10-08 02:33 pm (UTC)Come on, be brave! Come out of the closet! Being a race fan is nothing to be ashamed of. Unless you like Kyle Busch. ;-)
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on 2009-10-08 03:22 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-08 02:34 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-08 04:09 am (UTC)more please
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on 2009-10-08 02:35 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-08 08:03 am (UTC)I love how you incorporated some of the movie lines into the fic, and I can't wait to see what Kirk's dad's famous for in this universe.
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on 2009-10-08 02:40 pm (UTC)I know that SGA fic! One of my LJ friends that's into the show linked me to it when I mentioned I was writing this one. It's hilarious. NASCAR is really good for cracky, ensemble AU fics.
I wanted to stick to that scene in the film as much as I could in this part. Nothing else in this fic is going to come so close to the original. It's too freakin' hard trying to stay true to the original, ya know?
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on 2009-10-08 10:37 am (UTC)Can we have more?
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on 2009-10-08 02:41 pm (UTC)More soon... ish. :-)
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on 2009-10-08 11:47 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-08 02:42 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-08 04:02 pm (UTC)You see Nelsinho is looking for a drive in NASCAR or one of the other US series? Having torpedoed his own F1 career.
I considered a NASCAR Au once - it's better than F1 because in F1 you practically need to have an engineering degree to get anywhere near the pits now, NASCAR seems a bit more open.
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on 2009-10-09 01:00 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-09 10:29 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-09 11:06 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-08 04:51 pm (UTC)Please?! lol!!
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on 2009-10-09 12:30 am (UTC)Really? Cool! In NASCAR or local track?
More soon. Thank you for reading! :-)
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on 2009-10-08 05:59 pm (UTC)*Seriously. Them and ice hockey. They repel bad writing somehow.
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on 2009-10-09 12:27 am (UTC)I'm intrigued by your assertion that NASCAR AU's repel bad writing? If only because NASCAR fanfic isn't so lucky as a general rule LOL.
Thank you for reading!
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on 2009-10-09 02:05 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-09 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-11 05:51 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-09 05:18 pm (UTC)“I’ll take it out of your ass,” LMAO. Love that line *veg*
Pike!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
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on 2009-10-09 06:21 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading, sweetie. And double rrr about Pike. I've always had a thing for Bruce Greenwood but then I read some hot Pike/McCoy and, yeah, I haz another pairing. *headdesk*
Just not in this fic, obvs.
I luffs my banner too. Except Captain Fine looks less angsty than amused. You can see his mouth curling up! But I still love it.
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on 2009-10-10 10:28 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-10-10 06:03 pm (UTC)http://community.livejournal.com/st_reboot/870444.html
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on 2009-10-10 02:17 am (UTC)no subject
on 2010-01-20 09:25 pm (UTC)