Chapter Text
Year 2006. LM-9500 location error.
Four days before the race. The road stretches for just over 100 kilometers to the west before reaching the distance that his vision can clearly distinguish without getting lost in noise and pixelated shadows. He manages to pinpoint his approximate location on one of the secondary roads off the Interstate between nowhere and an endless dusty desert. He takes his time walking at an indifferent pace; he doesn't look back once he passes the road sign and the number of miles it will take to reach the next uninhabited town.
Lightning walks along the edge of the road.
The heat exceeds 100°F, approximately 105°F if his calculations are correct. However, his body is hardly bothered by the imposing sun overhead. He knows he was made to endure extreme temperatures, and as long as the desert doesn't suddenly turn into winter in the middle of summer, he won't be able to freeze to death. Lightning continues on his way in silence, accompanied by occasional dusty breezes.
As time passes while walking, he seeks to distract his attention to what he can observe with the naked eye. The sky is blue and clear in the middle of the transition from morning to afternoon; the sun is at its peak above the surface, radiating heat like a red-hot combustion, and his projected shadow does not extend anywhere other than beneath him. The sand in the air goes unnoticed at his side; each speck of dirt that hits the synthetic skin on his face slides quickly like dust on a smooth surface. There is no sweat to hold it back.
The impressive plateaus stretch into the distance, their surface recalling the passage of time with different pigments in their reliefs. Orange, red, yellow, and variations can be glimpsed, blending in with nature. As if they were created for that purpose, destined to be immovable.
Software Instability 17%
He carefully observes the cacti and dry plants along the roadside. He carefully slows down, trying to capture every detail his vision can reach. He has an impressive amount of information running through his processor that could identify every different species of flora in the entire country, but he is not looking for any calculations or catalogs to frame in his memory files.
Lightning is tired of analyzing every aspect of his existence; now he decides he just wants to observe. The relentless heat tests every being around him; some plants are completely dry and devoid of life, while others remain steadfast. Some cacti even manage to produce small flowers on their thorny contours. He can almost simulate a smile on his lips when he sees them.
His face remains flat, not indifferent to his surroundings, but clearly empty.
Fuzzy memories from the night before try to distract him from the road, momentarily demanding his attention from the desert. He looks away from the plants and searches for distraction on the other side of the road, but there is nothing to capture his processor's attention. The desert repeats the same scene.
Silence. Rocks. Cacti. Plateaus. Sky. Road.
Memory quickly recovers the attention it seeks from Lightning. The events that led him to be stranded in the middle of nowhere.
Being a machine assembled from metal does not give him greater control when he seeks to suppress his... defects.
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“I'm going out to freshen up for a moment. Don't move from here, kid. I'll be right back.” Mack got out of the truck as soon as he finished that sentence. He closed the door, taking the keys with him.
Lightning didn't watch as Mack ran to the restrooms at the 7-Eleven gas station next to the interstate, nor did he estimate how little time he had once the driver's head disappeared into the small public service building. When Mack went inside, Lightning got out of the truck.
He set his timer for 6:20. That was how long it took driver Ruztese to get in and out of the occasional stops along the route to California. Lightning had taken note, timing each stop they made. Harv's orders stipulated that Mack should not be more than five minutes away from him and vice versa. If it wasn't Mack, it was bodyguards or technicians. Anyone involved and trusted by Harv and his boss; it was his golden rule, never leave Lightning McQueen alone.
He was too valuable to be left out in the open.
Although Mack wasn't a bad person and didn't mean to get him into trouble by running away, Lightning knew there wouldn't be another opportunity like this.
The rules for androids like him dictated that he follow orders from the moment he was activated; every word that came out of a human superior's mouth had to be obeyed to the best of his ability. Order or rule, he had no say in disobeying or reneging, even when he didn't want to. Lightning had already overcome that digital wall of chains long ago.
It was only a matter of time, he knew that for sure. When Harv carefully examined his expression on camera, his movements on the track, his hesitation around people, the worn smile and exhausted mood of his perfect body, they would look for the defect, the error, the bad component to repair it and leave it better than new.
Better than new. He had heard that phrase over and over again, the reboot erasing the voices and looping them in his memory, and then he realized it had happened before.
The mechanics and technicians searched again and again. No one found anything, the next race wasn't waiting for anyone, and there was only one solution.
Restarting only works a certain number of times, calculated once it counts the number of times it has been erased from existence and returned in a matter of seconds like a blank sheet of paper. The period during which it manages to recover its memories along with its defects shortens with each memory reset. What took him the last five months to develop defects returns with a vengeance in the three months following the process.
The ninth reset he had was a month ago. It only took him the night before the most important race of the season to realize what had been done to him and understand how the previous eight times had turned out. The discovery distracted him on that last lap to win, and Harv detected it. Once in California, they will take him to the facility and he will enter that closed room with the stupid machine to leave a clean shell in its place.
Lightning won't take it again. He swears he'll tear himself apart before going back.
He doesn't want to think about that room full of machinery next to the cold hands holding him. He just needs to get far enough away, escape, not look back.
His brief lapse in thought brings him back to reality.
6:18 and counting. His processors are fast, even when he's lost in thought.
He examines his surroundings and begins to consider his options. Two cars are parked at the gas station, their owners going inside to refuel, both cars occupied by more people waiting for the drivers, families on a trip, he assumes. There are three trucks next to the gas stations, the truckers waiting while their tanks are filled, and there isn't much movement for 9 p.m.
His peripheral vision catches the camera on the corner, just below the station roof, emitting a red dot, recording his every movement with perfect aim. From his position, he knows they have him on video deliberately getting out of the truck.
That doesn't deter him from returning to the booth. In the minute it takes him to reconsider his escape options, a bus in the distance slows down and slowly pulls into the gas station. A couple gets off the bus as soon as the doors slide open and heads into the store while the driver refuels the bus.
Lightning sees his chance and takes it.
He acts casually as he crosses the store entrance, grabs the first drink he sees, pays, and walks behind the bus driver to board as if he belongs there. Upon entering, there aren't many passengers; not counting the couple, there are only three people scattered throughout the space that can hold twenty. Fortunately, no one pays attention to him as he sits at the end of the row.
1:50 marks his timer, and Lightning pulls his cap down over his eyes as the bus driver gets in next to the couple. When the engine roars to life and the bus slowly pulls away to take a different route, Lightning allows himself to let go of his worries for a moment.
There are no guards, no rules, no surveillance. He is... free.
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There was no plan after that.
When the bus made its first stop that night after escaping, he got out and started walking along the edge of a lonely road off the main highway. The stars accompanied him all the way.
Lightning didn't stop. The night passed and dawn arrived, reflecting the rays of a sun that awakened part of the surface with it.
His memory returned to the afternoon of the same day. The heat consumes everything around him. But he remains unchanged.
He walked and did not stop.
The afternoon passed and the sun began to set. Lightning did not stop; he did not need the rest that accompanied the darkness when the light was gone.
His night vision noticed a sign by the road. He stopped for a moment to read it. His shoes scraped almost silently on the road as he came to a sudden halt.
Welcome to Radiator Springs. Route 66.
He checks his current location and thinks about how perfect his improvised crossroads turned out to be. He is on a forgotten stretch of road, with civilization more than a hundred kilometers away. A deserted island in the middle of nowhere. No one would think to look for him there.
Follow the road ahead with his vision and glimpse a town a mile away. With the night vision his eyes allow him, he notices the wear and tear of the years on each building, yet they do not appear abandoned. Cars are parked scattered around various establishments, from old and worn to neat and well-maintained vintage models.
Making his presence known will only cause more problems than solutions, and due to the inconsistency of the situation, not arousing suspicion will become an impossible task, nullifying his chances of success in going unnoticed. Physically, for a human, even a healthy one, it is impossible to have made the journey that took him there walking day and night, but he cannot turn around on the highway now and hope that he will not be found.
He silences his chaotic processor in a vain attempt to calm down and proceeds to remain silent. Hoping that no one can see him crossing the desert in the middle of a summer night.
Apparently, his concern about being discovered does not help him achieve his goal in the slightest. Getting carried away by his emotions only accentuates his defective state. Lightning is only an imitation of life; he is not programmed to be alive, only to appear to be.
But even when he reasons what is happening, the sensation does not stop. It is like wandering in absolute darkness; he could stumble and fall off a cliff and not know it until he hit the bottom, shattered into pieces.
The distraction pushes his most basic systems into the background, and he doesn't notice until it's too late. His perception of his surroundings completely ignored the police vehicle parked behind the large welcome sign.
And he realizes he made a mistake when he crosses to the other side of the sign, as a tired but alert gaze meets the vacant stare of a young man walking aimlessly in the middle of the wasteland.
Lightning quickly averts his eyes and walks down the road without flinching.
He doesn't slow his pace or look away from the road ahead when the black and white vehicle with insignia pulls up alongside him, following him.
“Hey kid, what the hell are you doing here?” The officer's deep voice wavers between suspicion and doubt as he addresses Lightning; it doesn't sound like an accusation, but rather the bewilderment of a man trying to formulate a reasonable explanation for the circumstances.
Lightning debates between remaining ignorant and rude or appealing to the officer's sense of morality. He doesn't have many options when dealing with an armed officer and nowhere to run or hide.
He focuses his attention on the officer, and his database identifies him in a flash. Michael Williams, 51 years old, Dallas State graduate, 30 years of service. No crimes on his record. He was sent to Radiator Springs for the position of sheriff in '83.
He decides to remain cordial for the moment.
“I'm on a trip across the country, I guess I got lost along the way,” he says calmly, measuring his indifferent tone, counting the normal number of times a human should blink without appearing nervous, holding his hands steady so they don't shake from the lies, and walking without hesitation.
“ Boy, you’re coming from the highway on foot, with no vehicle in sight. The nearest town is six miles from here, not to mention that you’re heading in the opposite direction of the interstate.”
In hindsight, Lightning should have planned his great escape in advance. The tremble in his right hand subtly intensifies, and he hides it in his jacket pocket.
“I... I guess I got confused, you know, the heat and all that,” he explains hesitantly, looking down at the ground. Confidence no longer comes naturally from his processor; here, he is not trying to appear to be the great racing celebrity. The web of lies designed to portray a promising and confident young man crumbles in the middle of the street.
The Sheriff remains watchful. Lightning glances at him out of the corner of his eye, analyzing his expression, trying to predict any intention or thought that might show on the older man's face. But the old man shows nothing more than a contemplative look; the car keeps pace with Lightning.
“Son, be honest with me, are you running away?” The Sheriff's concern is disguised by an underlying seriousness in his tone, much more present than the uneasiness he feels for Lightning.
His steps stop abruptly. Lightning thought he could keep up the act long enough to extricate himself from the conversation without reproach. However, the question threw him off balance. He is tired of lying, of acting, of pretending that everything is fine.
Certainly nothing is fine when you have to run away to avoid being torn to pieces.
“…Yes.”
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When the sheriff asks him to get in the car, Lightning doesn't argue.
He doesn't resist when the sheriff takes him to the station, or when he asks him to take a seat in front of his desk. Nor does he resist when the sheriff hands him a form to fill out with his information. Distant from his surroundings, Lightning answers each question as vaguely as possible so as not to be linked to his sponsor or agent. The question about his occupation is left blank when he hands in the form.
The sheriff reads it silently, and Lightning distractedly watches the clock hanging on the wall next to him.
3:19 a.m. Lightning looked at it for a moment.
And something began to flood his memory. Something deep and corrupt clouded his vision in the next instant.
Distorted screams caught his attention. Men in overalls and white coats blocked his view, and he watched his arms trying to break free from the hands holding him down. It was his voice screaming desperately, calling for help, hitting those who were trying to hold him face up on that bed.
A voice rises above all others and recites a code that forces him to deactivate his motor functions. However, none of his senses are shut down; he can still see, hear, and feel.
The voice that stopped him gives orders to the men in lab coats and overalls.
They take their tools and approach him...
The flash of an arm separated from the body confuses him.
He glimpses out of the corner of his left eye the moment when his right eye stops working and partially darkens.
His torso feels too light, as if something had ripped out his organs and exposed them to the air.
Fear consumes him. He does not want to die.
Software Instability 24%
“Wake up, kid!”
The sheriff's hands grip his shoulders tightly, the alarm in his open eyes bringing Lightning back to reality.
“Breathe, kid, calm down, you're safe.”
For a moment, he forgets that he still looks like a human being to others, and despite not needing oxygen to live, imitating them was crucial to avoid being discovered. Lightning begins to breathe heavily, concentrating on regulating his system before returning to normal breathing.
His vision still seems distorted, so he blinks a couple of times to reset his lens and focus on his surroundings.
His auditory system is working fine, and his motor functions return after a few seconds. He quickly realizes that his arms are shaking unconsciously. Malfunction?
“Are you okay, kid?” Sheriff hasn't let go of his shoulders or taken his eyes off him.
“Yeah, yeah, I'm... just tired.” Lightning fails to hide the little episode of memories that have surfaced in recent days, yet he doesn't appreciate the feeble attempt to divert attention from the mishap in order to get out of there as quickly as possible.
The clock reads 3:27 a.m. And he hears the echo of a sorrowful voice that is no longer there. I don't want to die.
The sheriff hesitates to let him go for half a minute, then sighs wearily as he lets go of his shoulders. “Sure, we'll continue tomorrow after we sleep.”
The senior officer gets up from kneeling next to Lightning and returns to his desk to tidy it up. When he's done, he asks Lightning if he wants to stay at his house.
Lightning considers his options.
I don't want to die.
Lightning accepts.
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Year 2006, Radiator Springs. Michael W.
The engine gives one last hiccup before falling silent. He removes the keys and puts them away as he gets out of the police car. He carelessly closes the door and waits standing up for his guest to appear on the other side.
The young man takes his time getting out of the vehicle and does not acknowledge his presence at any point. Sheriff sees that he is not doing so out of disrespectful teenage attitude, but rather like a child detached from the world; lost.
Throughout his years of service, he has seen cases similar to this boy's. Too many times.
The only surprising thing he finds is the way he arrived in town. The boy's appearance clearly indicated his urban origins, and his clothing betrayed a luxury that no middle-class family could afford. He easily appears to be the spoiled son of a wealthy city family, yet his gaze extinguishes that false representation obtained from his exterior.
His unkempt appearance reveals dirt accumulated on almost all of his clothes, fortunately it does not appear to be stained with anything other than dirt and dust. The young face, from which you would normally expect a smile or a frown, remains flat, without any inflection that reflects the boy's mood. Insensitive. His demeanor is almost worse; every action he performs seems automatic, rigid like the movement of a clunky machine. He also doesn't seem to be aware half the time he responds to your conversation.
Shock is the only conclusion he can draw. Whatever happened must have affected him drastically.
With that in mind, Sheriff slowly approaches the door of his house, unlocks it, and allows the boy to enter first.
As he turns on the lights, the small room to his right is illuminated. Sheriff heads to the kitchen at the other end. “Are you hungry, boy?”
He looks at the shelves in the cupboard, thinking about what he can prepare in a short time. When he doesn't hear a response after a minute, he turns to check on the boy.
The kid has his eyes glued to the framed photo on the decorative shelf. Sheriff vaguely remembers that it must be the last one taken last Christmas in Radiator Springs, with all the townspeople standing together, like a typical family photo. The kid—Montgomery McQueen, as far as he can remember from the form—doesn't react at all as he examines the faces in the photograph.
In a short time, commotion breaks out on his face. With his eyes fixed on a particular aspect of the photo, does he recognize any of the residents?
“Is something wrong?” he asks only out of courtesy, knowing from Montgomery's behavior that he will not get a sincere answer from him.
The surprise fades when the boy looks away at the floor. “Nothing. I'm just tired, that's all.” He finishes slowly, becoming thoughtful for a second before speaking again. “I'm not hungry, but thank you very much for the gesture, officer.”
Sheriff almost closes his eyes, but stops himself and decides to let it go. The last thing he wants is to make the boy more uncomfortable, so he decides to call it a night.
He guides him through the hallways to the bedrooms, points out the bathroom as the door at the end, and shows him the guest room. He apologizes a little for the mess of boxes stored inside, but the boy doesn't seem to mind. He tells him to wake him up if he needs anything, and the boy just nods silently.
Sheriff leaves the room and breathes deeply, exhausted. He goes to bed and hopes he won't find a mess in the morning; the last thing he needs is Doc scolding him in his monotone voice for not letting him know when the Montgomery boy arrived.
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LM-9500 location error. Please try again. Three days before the race.
Lightning lies down on the bed and closes his eyelids. His processor does not experience the absolute darkness that living beings experience when they close their eyes. Instead, when he opens them again, he finds himself on a race track.
Bright spotlights illuminate the track. His car is at the starting line, the number 95 gleaming on its side with the impressive lightning bolt design accompanying it. It shnes with the same vibrant red as always, the patterns remaining in the same places he remembers. It is exactly the same car he has used since he learned to drive.
There is no sign of the other drivers, and the stands are empty. No one is announcing the competition, and he is the only presence in the monumental stadium.
“I was wondering when you would show up.”
Behind Lightning appears his coach. He would have almost ignored him, were it not for the recent update to his latest reset; he has found the last month of visiting his liminal space to be a nuisance, and he expects it to remain so. He does not need any more unnecessary company; he already has bigger concerns than training.
Strip Weathers approaches Lightning's side with a calm and controlled look. His carefree posture shows a confidence very similar to that of the true veteran runner.
He is the exact replica of the longest-running runner of his generation, the sky blue jacket he wears even has the Dinoco sponsor's logo on the back.
The engineers thought that a calm and focused mentor would help him improve his skills and control his faulty impulses. Who better than The King for the job? Still, Lightning remains determined to prove that decision wrong, because the real Strip Weathers is nothing like the impostor programmed into his central processor.
“You are aware that what you do will have consequences, right?” The veteran's calm voice—exactly like the real one—somehow makes him feel the need to turn off his audio system; Lightning doesn't want to have that conversation.
“You say that as if the alternative were better.” Lightning quickly moves away from the track, not wanting to race or compete against Weathers. He leaves the red Corvette behind, and the other driver follows closely behind, not even trying to stop him, just accompanying .
“That depends on what you think is better or worse.”
Lightning wonders what kind of idiot programmed Strip Weathers' replica with such an incoherent and cynical personality.
“You're nothing like him, you know that?” he says, slowing down as he enters the pits and stops where his designated booth is supposed to be. Tools, tires, and gas tanks are scattered across tables and shelves, simulating the place as closely to reality as possible, but the absence of team members quickly dispels that illusion.
“I'm pretty close to the original, though. The problem in this situation isn't me, son.”
Lightning looks at him directly with annoyance that he hopes is clearly visible on his face. “You're annoying.”
“You told me that the last ten times you were here. It wouldn't be nice to make a habit of it, especially since you have an image to maintain.”
An unpleasant feeling spreads through Lightning as he listens to Weathers. He deduces that it is what humans call anger, and he does not hold it back, because frankly, he is tired of pretending that he does not feel it. “Who cares? I'm not going back to them! You know they'll take me apart when they find me, and I don't want to die like that!”
The senior veteran remains silent in the face of the outburst. But Lightning knows what he's going to say; the same thing he said the night after the race where he was in a three-way tie and failed to take first place. When he confessed his concern about the restart that awaited him.
“You're not alive, Lightning. You can't die,” he said as he held his shoulders and stared into his eyes.
He doesn't want to hear him say that again.
Shaking, his voice low and pitiful, he stiffens at the way Weathers looks at him. “I'm scared. I don't know what else to do.”
Weathers holds the deathly silence for several seconds. Suddenly, he approaches Lightning and...
He hugs him. Silently, he wonders what caused this reaction from the human replica, but his surprise prevents him from speculating.
“I wish I knew how to help you, Lightning, but that's beyond my capabilities. I'm afraid your future is uncertain, but... I don't see why it can't be something good,” he whispers optimistically. “I said it before, it depends on what you think is best or worst.”
Despite his confusion, Lightning wraps his arms around her and hugs her tightly. He sobs without tears, wishing he didn't feel so abandoned.
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When he opens his eyes, it takes a second for his vision to adjust to his surroundings.
The ceiling is the first thing he sees, followed by the darkness that is partially illuminated by the first rays of sunlight. Checking his internal clock, he sees that it is 6:04 in the morning. Lightning hasn't needed to rest since he was activated, nor does he even need to recharge his energy because his body is completely self-sustaining, but his motivation is at rock bottom and he chooses not to get out of bed.
He thinks about Weathers' words, trying to find a solution. He just wants to stay hidden and not let them find him. The question is: would it be easy to flee across the country? His face would be recognized anywhere, and Harv has eyes almost everywhere. Crossing the border is not an option, and leaving without a plan is as good as turning himself in.
Would staying be a better option?
He suspects that the few inhabitants of the village have had no contact with the rest of the world's news. To them, he is just a young man passing through like any other tourist. Perhaps with enough charisma and empathy, they will allow him to maintain the anonymity he desires.
He calculates his chances and finds the result satisfactory.
He gets out of bed, ready to do whatever it takes to stay. If anyone is designed to please people, it's him.
After all, androids are meant to please.
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Year 2006. Radiator Springs. Michael W.
The smell of breakfast wakes him from his slumber. Sleepy, he takes his time getting out of bed and absentmindedly wonders if Flo has broken into his house again for not showing up for the nightly dinner they share with the town.
He puts on a robe while yawning and leaves his bedroom for the kitchen.
The sight that greets him when he arrives is... sudden and unusual.
The boy he found lost on the road, making breakfast?
McQueen notices his presence in a flash, uttering a cheerful “good morning” as he prepares pancakes on the stove. His cap and red jacket are nowhere to be seen, revealing a white shirt and blond hair. The kitchen table is set with plates of eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, and apple and orange juice.
This baffles him even more, as he is quite sure there has been no juice or fruit in the fridge for a couple of days. He was supposed to do the grocery shopping today.
Confused, he slowly sits down at the table and watches the boy preparing the last of the remaining pancake batter. “Uh... kid, where did you get this?” he asks, lifting the half-full jug of orange juice three inches above the table.
“I saw fruit trees when I went out for a walk. Since they weren't on anyone's property, I thought I'd take advantage of them.” He says, turning off the stove and placing the freshly cooked pancake on top of the stack of five next to the counter. When he turns to look at him with the plate of pancakes in his hands, he pauses for a second, thinking. “Was that wrong?” He frowns slightly and doesn't move an inch.
Sheriff is puzzled. The boy in front of him is nothing like the boy in shock he picked up last night. Where did such a drastic change come from?
When the silence lingers unintentionally, McQueen lowers his gaze to the floor and the plate in his hands tightens slightly.
Coming out of his stupor, Sheriff clears his throat. “No, no, it wasn't wrong, kid, you just surprised me.” He shakes off his confusion and picks up the nearest plate to start eating.
The boy's spirits immediately return, and he ends up sitting across from Sheriff to take a small portion of each food. Sheriff is alarmed by how little the boy eats; he has seen Mater eat at least three times as much to feel satisfied, and McQueen's thin, pale face does nothing to dispel his concern.
“You don't eat much, do you?” he says, trying to sound indifferent despite his doubts. Sheriff doesn't want to deal with a possible fainting spell later and will feel guilty if he allows the boy to get hurt.
“Just what I need, I guess,” he replies calmly, picking up his fork to cut each piece of food into small bites.
Sheriff nods hesitantly and asks no further questions. In the middle of his breakfast, he glances sideways at his guest and can't help feeling that something is not quite right with Montgomery McQueen.
He hides his frustration at not being able to pinpoint the thought and begins to examine the facts. His gestures, his actions, the way he talks and interacts. Outwardly, everything seems fine, but the uneasiness he feels when he observes his behavior is... unnatural.
It's crystal clear that McQueen is hiding something. Fortunately, he doesn't have a feeling that it's something bad or harmful, just strange. Even so, his job is to ensure the safety of the town and its residents, so sooner or later they'll have to talk.
Montgomery finishes breakfast before him, picks up his plate, and takes it to the sink to wash it. The silence is soon broken.
“...I ran away from my guardian, let's just say he's not the best person in the world.” He says without inflection in his voice, as if he were simply recounting the everyday facts of life. He turns on the tap and takes the sponge with a dollop of liquid soap. The sound of running water is the only thing that fills the absence of noise. “We were supposed to go to California, I didn't want to go, so I took the first bus when he left me alone and ended up here.”
Sheriff feels unsure about how to handle the situation. “Hey kid, I...”
“I'm not saying this out of pity. I just want to stay hidden.” The boy's firmness fades the more he talks. “I know your job requires you to open a case in these situations, but I'm asking you not to.”
The water is still running, and Sheriff says nothing, just watches McQueen's stiff back.
“Please.”
Sheriff's heart softens as he hears McQueen's faint plea. He wonders what kind of abuse this request might be about; he quickly stops that thought, unable to bear the possibilities that arise when he considers it. He understands the boy's goal, but perhaps he doesn't realize that the police can do more for him than he can achieve alone in anonymity.
“Listen, we can file a restraining order and press charges for...”
“It won't work.” With slight brusqueness, he scrapes the surface of the plate with more force than necessary. “Harv is... not the kind of person the law can stop.” The boy's resolve falters for a moment as he slides the plate into the sink to rinse it. “If he finds out where I am, he'll come and... I just don't want anyone to find me.”
Every word that comes out of the boy's mouth makes Sheriff's blood boil even more; powerless to do his job because of the impunity of a man who causes anguish to a boy barely of legal age. He assumes that this is why he asked for the position of town officer, at least here he is not limited in choosing to do the right thing and not stand on the sidelines.
“Montgomery, you know I can't turn a blind eye when you tell me something like that.” The boy seemed to slump as the conversation progressed; his shoulders dropped, his head bowed, and his movements slowed in despondency. The sheriff sighed heavily; he didn't want it to sound like that. “Look, I won't file an official case if you ask me not to, but for your safety, I'll leave a record of the incident in place.” It wasn't standard procedure, but at least it was something.
McQueen remained silent, contemplating his words. With his back to the Sheriff, he couldn't make out any expression on his face, but after a couple of seconds, movement resumed. “All right, thank you, officer.” He finished his task by placing the plate in the dish rack and turning off the tap.
“My name is Michael, or you can call me Sheriff, whichever you prefer.” They hadn't properly introduced themselves; well, he hadn't introduced himself yesterday.
The boy turned around, leaning back as he crossed his arms loosely. A small smile crossed his lips, and his eyes seemed more animated than yesterday.
“Sheriff, can we see the town first?”
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Sheriff agreed that they could walk around the neighborhood before arriving at the courthouse to file the official document. Upon leaving the house, they crossed the front yard to the sidewalk and walked along the morning path.
Distant shouts took him by surprise for a second before he remembered the town's routine. At least the argument between those two served as an alarm to wake everyone up.
They approached and watched the one-sided fight from a distance. One of them, dressed in military garb, was shouting in a grumpy tone, while the other was wearing colorful, loose-fitting clothes and seemed unusually relaxed for someone being yelled at.
“I told you not to come near my yard, Fillmore!”
“Your poor grass needed water, and you hardly ever water it, man.”
“My grass is none of your business, hippie!”
The argument continued in circles. After a minute without stopping, McQueen asked, “Are they always like this?” He didn't take his eyes off the lighthearted spectacle between the grumpy soldier and the pacifist hippie. It was strange to see for a newcomer.
The exchange went back and forth quite vigorously, but there was a strange ease between them, as if regular conversations were like this. For Sheriff, it was a habit ingrained over the years.
“Sarge is in a good mood, actually.” He set out to cross the street to approach the pair, and McQueen followed a step behind.
When they were close enough to be noticed, both Sarge and Fillmore stopped their quarrel to focus their attention on the newcomer; McQueen looked somewhat apprehensive with all eyes on him.
“Wow! We haven't had any visitors since Sally moved away, and that was three years ago.” Fillmore seemed more animated than Sarge, who just looked him up and down, like a sergeant evaluating a new soldier. “Welcome! Oh... He's not in trouble, is he, Sheriff?”
“He's traveling, but he'll probably stay for a while,” he said briefly. “Montgomery, these are Fillmore and Sarge. They keep the town lively every morning.”
“You don't need to be so formal, Sheriff. You can call me Lightning. It doesn't sound as silly as my name,” he explained as he approached and extended his hand to greet them. Fillmore was the first to shake it kindly. “Nice to meet you. I'm Lightning McQueen.”
They began to chat, and Lightning found them pleasant. The conversation drags on a bit due to their extravagant personalities, but the boy doesn't seem bored or annoyed at any point. They part ways with the pair shortly after they both get into another pointless argument.
“Sometimes it feels like I'm babysitting,” the sheriff commented after failing to stop Sarge from resuming his quarrel with Fillmore.
Lightning snorts with laughter, thoroughly amused by the whole situation.
They soon arrive at Flo's café; the door announces their arrival with the sound of a tinkling bell as they pass through, and they hear 'Coming!' from the kitchen behind the counter.
The place is cozy. Blue-green tones cover the walls and monochromatic checkered floors, along with photos, prints, and frames with all kinds of knickknacks, giving the atmosphere a comfortable feel. The intoxicating aroma of food fills the place, and Sheriff has to remind himself that he already had breakfast before ordering a dish.
Instead, he decides to focus on Lightning. He sees that the boy can't stop looking around curiously, as if it were his first time in a place like this. Sheriff tries not to speculate about his reaction and approaches the bar to take the first seat he finds. Lightning joins him slowly and sits to his right.
Less than a minute later, Flo comes out of the kitchen with a smile on her face. As she approaches, she absentmindedly wipes her hands on the apron tied around her waist. “Good morning, Sheriff, how are you...” Her voice suddenly trails off as she notices Lightning, but the confusion doesn't last long as her enthusiasm returns with a vengeance; a smile spreads from ear to ear. “Now, who do we have here? Are you hungry, darling? You look a little thin for your age.”
“Oh no, I'm not hungry, but thank you for the offer, ma'am. My name is Lightning, nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, darling, and you can call me Flo. I'm not that old, son,” she says, laughing in a motherly tone. “What brings you to our little town? If you don't mind me asking, of course.”
The story they tell doesn't change, but they keep it vague, completely avoiding the part about the escape. Sheriff will keep it confidential for the time being, and although he knows his friends won't betray the boy, he also recognizes that they can be too overwhelming when they find out something, and he doesn't want that pressure on a child.
The morning quickly turns into noon, and after a lively chat about the history of Radiator Springs—mainly due to Lightning's curiosity—they get ready to leave and continue on their way.
They barely manage to get up from their seats when the restaurant door swings open loudly, letting in a young adult in overalls, partially covered in dirt and oil stains, looking disheveled. “Sorry I'm late, Flo! That old engine I found is giving me more trouble than...”
He stops short and his eyes light up when he sees Lightning, similar to a child's reaction when he sees a potential friend. “Hello! Did you just arrive?” He strides over and greets McQueen with a very impetuous handshake, shaking his hand up and down repeatedly. "What's your name? Are you from the city? You look like a city boy. My name is Mater, by the way! Have you seen the town yet? I know some spectacular views. Would you like to—"
“Mater, stop it, you're overwhelming the poor boy. And what did we say about questions?”
Mater lets go of the handshake, stunned by the sudden rebuke. “Uh... one at a time?”
Sheriff gives an exasperated nod. On the other hand, Lightning's shocked expression almost makes it worth allowing; the confidence with which Mater presents himself always leaves a strong impression on anyone. Mater insists that this is how best friends are made, but Sheriff is pretty sure that only applies to the outgoing mechanic.
But as he looks at Lightning, concern arises in Sheriff. He realizes that the boy is looking almost confused at his hand, the same one that Mater shook abruptly but without malice. That apprehension doesn't last long when he sees the small smile that appears on the young face.
“Sorry, I got carried away.” Mater shrugs and smiles guiltily. “But hey, not many people come around here, you know? That's why I try to be the best host possible,” he says, correcting his posture and proudly showing off his full height. Suddenly, he leans in to whisper loudly, “because between you and me, half the neighbors are too grumpy.” He doesn't finish that sentence before hearing the Sheriff's indignant shout and Flo's infectious laughter accompanying it.
Lightning snorts good-naturedly. “Well, I don't know about that.” She glances sideways at the Sheriff, and a grateful feeling distills from his gesture. “So far, I haven't found them all that bad. I think they're nice, grunts and all.”
Upon hearing this, Mater almost seemed to burst with joy inside.
With a big smile, he put his arm around Lightning's shoulders in a half-hug, showing a familiar closeness that no one could deny. Which was also strange because they had known each other for less than five minutes.
“Ha, I like you! Hey Sheriff, can he come with me? I can show him the rest of town for you.”
Sheriff was relieved to see that Mater's company was putting McQueen at ease, but they still had things to do, and he didn't want to delay the meeting with Doc too long. By now, Doc must have discovered the new visitor and was surely waiting for them. Nothing happened in Radiator Springs without Doc knowing about it.
“I appreciate the offer, Mater, but you'll have to wait a little while. Sheriff said he had someone important to introduce me to,” Lightning said uncertainly. He looked at the lanky young man's expression, hoping he hadn't disappointed him.
“You're not in trouble, are you, honey?” Flo returned from the kitchen carrying a couple of plates to the bar. Mater's lunch was left on the table, but the mechanic did not approach immediately.
“ Gee, if it's Doc, you don't have much time left, buddy. Can't we have some fun before that, Sheriff? I mean, at least that way he'll have some happy moments before his sentence,” he said by way of excuse. He was almost ready to run away with Lightning in tow.
“He's not in trouble, Mater, unlike you, boy.” Sheriff narrowed his eyes accusingly as he crossed his arms in annoyance. “Don't think we've forgotten about that unusual stampede of cows last week.”
“Ah, yes, that incident, how strange it was, wasn't it?” He went from enthusiastic to nervous when the event was mentioned. “Well, I guess we'll leave it for later.” Mater let go of the half-hug in an instant, and the next moment he took the blond boy by the shoulders and said, “If Doc asks you about me, don't tell him anything. Better yet, tell him you don't know me.”
The boy laughed happily. “Whatever you say, Mater.”
As they were about to leave, Mater gasped in surprise. “I almost forgot! You didn't tell me your name.”
“I'm Lightning McQueen. Nice to meet you, Mater.”
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LM-9500 location error. Connection lost. Three days before the race.
“Who is Doc?” I ask, walking at a leisurely pace.
Noon had brought heat to the desert, where it quickly settled thanks to the clear skies and summer season. They would soon arrive at the courthouse in the center of town, where he would get his answers, but even so, the curiosity in his processor continued to plague him. The mention of Mater had raised concerns in Lightning, and if there was a possibility of danger to his objectives, he needed to find out in advance.
“He's the town judge and doctor. He's not as social as the rest, and although he may seem a bit harsh, he's a good man,” Sheriff said, his gaze distracted by the sky. “Ugh, the heat is killing me. Doesn't it bother you, kid?”
Lightning would probably be bothered by it, of course, if he weren't made of metal and synthetic skin. Regulating his body temperature is also part of the job. Otherwise, he would be overheating.
“Not too much, I guess. I can take a lot.”
The older man gives him a strange look at that statement. Lightning decides to be more careful with his words from now on.
“You see, I spent half my life in Detroit and the other half in places like this.” That was partially true. He remembers spending part of his recent existence training for the season while rehearsing human behavior in the laboratory. “I get used to things very quickly.”
“You really do,” Sheriff muttered under his breath, his tone betraying something strange. Lightning chooses not to question it, and the conversation ends there.
Suddenly, Sheriff stops at the door of a building. The letters on the facade display a simple statement: Doctor Hudson. Somehow the place feels more imposing than it should, and Lightning begins to hesitate about going in. If this turns out to be who he thinks it is, he might short-circuit from anxiety.
He can't back out when Sheriff doesn't wait for his answer and walks through the doors without hesitation. Despite his uncertainty, Lightning follows him.
Upon entering, the fresh air is the first thing he notices. He looks around and begins to classify and register every square inch. The waiting room consists of two rows of chairs at each end of the walls and there is a small counter at the end of the space. Two doors are located behind the counter and another to its left with the word “closet” written above the small, blurred window. The floor and ceiling are white, while the walls are pale green. There is no decoration in the room except for a small pot of desert flowers in the foyer.
It's pretty boring, but better than white walls and machinery everywhere. Lightning can live with it.
Sheriff wastes no time and approaches the first door behind the counter. He knocks twice and waits.
Lightning can almost hear the Thirium running through his body in the silence that spreads the longer he waits. He feels his body preparing for danger, even though he knows consciously that there is none, and yet the feeling does not stop. He steadies himself and locks his position, forcing his body to remain still when he hears a chair creak on the other side of the door along with the sound of approaching footsteps.
The door opens to reveal an older man dressed in a jacket, dark pants, and glasses. Lightning doesn't need to check him again since he saw him last night in a photograph, but he needs to confirm it to make sure his eyes aren't deceiving him.
Paul Hudson, “Fabulous Hudson Hornet.” Veteran Piston Cup racer. Undefeated winner of three consecutive seasons. Graduated with a doctorate in '67 and disappeared in '69. Current location: resident of Radiator Springs.
Lightning tenses up when P. Hudson's harsh gaze turns toward him. His face doesn't look angry or particularly happy, but the intensity with which he seems to be silently examining him freezes every voluntary and involuntary movement. He remembers that he can't stop breathing because that would arouse more suspicion than if he stops, so instead he remains rigid as he holds the gaze of the town judge.
“Are you feeling okay, kid?” he suddenly hears the doctor say, and when he sees his slightly raised eyebrow, snap out of his brief mental lapse.
“Uh... yeah.” Lightning stammers unintentionally. He’s lucky he can’t sweat because he’d surely be drenched right now.
Hudson narrows his eyes with clear suspicion. A moment later, he begins to approach Lightning. “Dr. Hudson. Pleased to meet you.” He greets him and extends his hand.
Lightning takes a few seconds to extend his own in return. “I'm Montgomery McQueen, but I prefer just Lightning... sir.”
The sheriff clears his throat with a cough, almost amused by the nervousness in him, and barely manages to resist making a face of embarrassment.
Hudson deliberately ignores the gesture. “Michael said you need help and didn't bother to tell me anything, so what do you need, kid?”
Apparently, his little nervous breakdown didn't register anything he could remember at that moment about a conversation between the two men. There is definitely a malfunction; he assumes he will fix it when he can get some time alone.
He thinks about his cover story, but instantly the words fail him. He has trouble concentrating. “I... was... I'm running away from my guardian.” His gaze falls to the floor and his voice lowers as he can't find better words despite the extensive vocabulary in his code. “He's not a good person.”
Hudson gives him a puzzled look that makes him want to shrink even more from the height difference between them. His attention soon shifts from Lightning to the sheriff, almost demanding an explanation.
“He doesn't want to open a police case, he wants a statement instead.”
The doctor reflects silently for a long moment and turns his eyes back to Lightning. “Let's go to the courthouse. You can tell me the rest there.”
Lightning nods silently, grateful to have some time to reorder his memory and processor.
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Lightning takes a seat in the office and soon feels trapped; suffocated in a way he can't quite describe. Even though he wants to attribute these flaws to a malfunction, he can't deny that the presence of certain feelings confirms this is more than just a broken wire or bad programming. They're becoming increasingly ingrained in him.
"I know this might be difficult, kid, but I need your cooperation to help you."
Having P. Hudson in front of him only intensifies the feeling.
"Of course, Mr. Hudson."
“Only Doc’s okay, kid.” He starts pulling papers from his desk drawer and placing them on the surface. “I’ll keep it simple, that way we save ourselves a lot of paperwork.” He takes the pen from the pencil holder in his right hand, but instead of writing, he rests his arms on the desk and stares at him intently. Like a school principal looking at a student in trouble. “Tell me your side of the story.”
Lightning doesn’t waste any time organizing his alibi, taking a split second to check that the events add up and don’t contradict each other before opening his mouth.
“We were going to California for an event. Before that, I did something that really upset Harv.” He remembers the track, his options, the erased past that returns before the race, the multiple restarts. His hands tremble with stress as he watches the perfectly etched recordings in his memory; he’s going full speed on the last lap, but Strip Weathers and Chick Hicks quickly catch up. The detail of each view, analysis, and probability starts to bother him, and the voices screaming inside his helmet won't stop.
"Accelerate, Lightning! This is what you were made for, wasn't it?!"
Software Instability 38%
He stops his memory before it collapses. He clasps his hands and blocks movement with a command from his processor. “I didn’t want to go with him, and he forced me. He didn’t say so, but I knew there would be consequences when we got there.”
The feeling he had that night hit him once again. Fear of… dying is a possibility he never imagined having in his existence; that was only essential to living beings. You’re not alive, Lightning, you can’t die.
“It’s not the first time he’s done this, but I…” Unfair. It’s unfair. He needed to do something; it wouldn’t end like this, not again. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”
Doc hasn’t taken his eyes off Lightning since he started talking; concern is palpable in his silence, and no matter how much he analyzes the man’s expression, he can’t discern any of his thoughts.
With a carefully modulated and emotionless voice, he finishes the rest of his story: “I took the first bus I found and got here.”
Lightning expects to see Doc draft the document after he finishes. But the methodical contemplation he gets instead makes him regret revealing too much. The racing veteran isn't buying his explanation. Lightning just hopes he doesn't find out right then; he won't be able to run again.
"You'll have to be more specific, kid," he says after a minute of silence. "What exactly has Harv done?"
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There's no answer. Or, rather, there's nothing in his memory bank that could provide an answer. "...I don't know."
He searches through his data, files, audio recordings, everything recorded and stored as information within him. They don't exist. "I can't remember everything, but...it feels like..." He finds something, something that endures despite everything.
"You're not going to die, Lightning. You're made of tough stuff. Even if something breaks, we can fix you. You know that," Harv says, uninterested in the matter. Annoyance is evident in his tone, and his callous gaze fixes on him. "Now, stop delaying the test and get in the car."
Lightning stops.
He gets into the test vehicle, an exact replica of his '95 car. He starts the engine, and the radio in his helmet crackles, breaking the silence on the track.
"You'll race at 300 kilometers per hour for at least 100 laps."
It sounds simple, like all the instructions they give him. That's not the part that unsettles him; he's programmed and custom-built to run like a perfect machine.
Human racers, however, aren't machines. Accidents are a circumstantial part of running, Lightning knows that perfectly well, but that doesn't stop its trembling or the incessant stress that has coursed through his processor. He doesn't want to die.
"On lap one hundred, you'll crash into the wall on the first turn you take."
There's no choice to make. Nothing he can do to stop an order. They send him off without remorse because he's not human. They want records, quantifiable data, proof of how his body will or won't survive a crash.
He starts the car and doesn't think twice.
For the first thirty laps, he tries to calm himself. He's not going to die; they promised to fix him.
When he reaches seventy laps, his breathing stops. He doesn't need to breathe; he isn't alive.
By ninety laps, he manages to convince himself that it will be worth it. He is fulfilling his purpose; he must feel useful; it is necessary, and the benefit will outweigh the repercussions.
But as he takes that last lap, approaching the curve at speed, he realizes he can't do it, and he can't stop now either.
Lightning closes his vision and waits.
He hears the crash, but his audio system instantly distorts. When his vision returns, he is greeted by his body, impaled and pierced by… something. Partially blind, he can't distinguish or identify which part of the car cut his torso. The blue substance oozes out, and his energy drops dangerously.
He wants to plead for help, but his body no longer receives signals from the processor. Silently, every system shuts down.
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Lightning is activated again. There is no memory of what happened.
The fear remains.
Lightning begins to remember. The sensation is so overwhelming that his chest compresses with invisible pain. It exists and yet it doesn't; everything unfolds in an undefined chaos that corrupts the logic of his mind.
Software Instability 80%
It breaks, he can't bear it.
He leans sharply in his chair, clutching a hand tightly to his chest, desperate to alleviate the sensations and stop the pain; to tear out what afflicts him.
In a vague attempt to normalize each system that crashes, his breathing involuntarily quickens. He searches for the right approach that will allow him to bring each mechanism back online, but his attempts fail.
Rebooting becomes inevitable when he is unable to repair himself. He hates the powerlessness his situation instills, because no one can deny that he is defective.
Broken, fault, error, defect.
He is-
“You are not a defect.” A voice speaks firmly, holding him. One hand holds his, preventing him from tearing off his shirt and ripping the artificial skin; the other rests peacefully on his head. There is no laboratory, no cold hands; he is still free.
“Breathe and stay with me, kid.” Lightning recognizes Doc’s calm, grave tone and feels he can release the overwhelming feeling by focusing on it. “Nothing they’ve told you is true.”
The veteran racer keeps talking to him, anchoring Lightning with his words. “You’ll be safe here, I promise.” Hearing those words, Lightning feels a rapid wave of relief wash over him. The errors stop, the pressure eases, and the pain subsides. He shudders as he takes a deep breath.
“I…” He tries to speak; to compose himself and reassure himself that he’s okay, but something in his eyes distracts him. When he looks at his hands, his vision is blurry, the lens smudged with fluid that also runs down his cheeks. It takes him a second to find the explanation, and it takes him a while to grasp what it means. He’s speechless.
“I don’t need to know anything else, I’ve seen enough,” Doc says, oblivious to what troubles Lightning most, misinterpreting his lack of response.
“…I don’t understand.” Lightning knows he shouldn't let his thoughts out, but suddenly the importance of remaining silent becomes inconsistent; fragile. He can't understand what's happening, because he... "I don't... cry."
He was created to run, compete, and win. To be dazzling in front of a camera; a permanent image of youth, confidence, and perfection. His appearance is simply meant to show humanity, to be similar to humans, not to replicate them exactly.
"Crying is normal, Lightning, we all do it."
But he's a machine, an android. He's not supposed to be able to cry.
Why is he crying?
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- Radiator Springs. P. Hudson.
Doc hadn't seen a case like this since his internship at the hospital.
After calming Lightning down, he made sure to take him to the Sheriff so he could see the rest of the town. With a glance at his old friend, he assured him they'd have a talk later to discuss what had happened in his office. In the meantime, someone had to keep an eye on McQueen.
When Michael and Lightning left the courthouse, Doc focused on drafting the official report. He also resolved to investigate the boy's imbecile guardian; the trauma Lightning revealed in recounting his simple experience with Harv opened a can of worms that could no longer be ignored. The lifelong scar it left on the blond boy was… unbearable to witness.
The unfortunate boy who collapsed in his office needed help. Doc saw it in his eyes, his hands, and even his words. The weight of his ever-present fear reached his conscience, and he wouldn't allow himself to forget it. Lightning's desperation to control himself was the breaking point for Doc; when the trembling boy threatened to scratch and hurt his own chest, he didn't stand idly by.
He vividly remembers the moment; when, as he approached, delirious murmurs echoed from his mouth. Things like: mistake, failure, flaw, kept repeating, wrapped in words that, Doc understood, others used to say about the boy.
That's why pulling him out of his panic wasn't as difficult as he initially thought. Sometimes words of encouragement help when they've never been there for someone.
Letting him go was difficult when he didn't know for sure how broken the boy's mind was. When he calmed down, the boy's lively attitude returned at the sight of Sheriff, too quickly and too easily. Another thing that worried Doc.
So he sat down at his desk, quickly drafted a statement, and waited.
The Sheriff returned two hours later, with Lightning nowhere in sight.
“Where’s the kid?” Not a second had passed before the office door closed before he asked.
The sheriff sighed wearily, took the chair across from the desk, and settled into a vague silence.
“Mater took him as soon as we finished the tour.”
Of course, it was obvious, knowing the lively mechanic. Mater hadn’t had company his own age for most of his life, and for someone as friendly as he was talkative, it was a little depressing that he didn’t have any friends other than the residents of Radiator Springs. And although it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, Doc was pleased by McQueen’s presence.
“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t turn into the second stampede of cows this month.” It won’t happen anytime soon, but the new visitor will probably bring forward the next one.
“I think you’re asking for too much, Doc.” Michael smiled at the comment, almost nostalgic for something he didn’t clarify.
A faint moment of calm settled over the office, but Doc wasn't in the mood for trivial conversation or friendly chats. He had a job to do.
"You want to talk about what happened, right?" Michael stated, a dark look in his eyes. Disheartened in many ways. "I'll be honest, Doc, the kid didn't tell me anything more than he told you. He only mentioned that Harv was on the safe, less respected side of the law, untouchable in his words."
Many questions crowded Doc's mind, knowing Lightning's past, and none of them had a concrete answer. Vague memories and simple explanations left a void of unspoken truths and disturbing implications.
"How did he get here?" The first question, at least, didn't require much speculation.
Michael shifted in his chair, straightening his posture, his composure serious. "It seems he walked for a couple of hours along the highway to get here. Did he tell you about the bus?" With Doc nodding, he continued: “Well, I’m pretty sure the only bus with the closest route is more than seven hours away from here.”
What?
Noticing the confusion on his face, Michael immediately replied, “Yeah, I thought so too.” He rubbed his temple in a groaning tone, almost exasperated. “Either he survived a seven-hour hike in the sun, or someone abandoned him halfway there, although that wouldn't make sense—there wasn't a sound of any cars on the road,” he asserted suspiciously, his gaze drifting to the desk as he spoke thoughtfully. “Either way, the strangest thing is that when I found him last night, he didn't even seem tired or dehydrated.”
Doc pondered for a long time and came to a conclusion.
“None of that makes sense.”
“I know. What do you want me to say? That's what happened,” Michael said without reproach, his voice reflecting the same confusion surrounding the matter. His voice lowered as he voiced his thoughts: “I won’t lie, it almost felt unnatural to see him this morning… It’s probably just my imagination; he’s been acting like a normal kid the rest of the afternoon.”
Silence nearly returned when Michael’s face flickered with recognition.
“Although… last night when I took him to the station, I think he had a panic attack.”
Doc’s scattered attention returned to Michael.
“And you didn’t come to tell me?” Doc’s voice had never sounded so monotonous and harsh as it did at that moment. Clearly annoyed by the overlooked detail.
Even if he was firm or fair, Doc wasn’t cruel. He would have refrained from delving into the boy’s situation if only he had known what was causing so many questions.
Michael looked away. A grimace crossed his face, along with remorse in his posture. “Yes, I’m sorry, Doc. I should have warned you. It was sudden, and I’m not really qualified for that.” He pondered for a moment before saying, “One minute he’s silent, and the next he seems lost in thought. I thought he was just distracted, but it took some doing to get him to react.”
Now it was Doc’s turn to slump in his seat; he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to compose himself. “I just had one in my office.”
Startled, the law enforcement officer gave him a horrified look. “What? Really?” The memories of the same young man leaving the office without any visible collateral damage set off alarm bells for both Sheriff and Doc when he recognized him with a nod.
Doc pushed his chair slightly as he stood up; he walked to the filing cabinet next to the desk and began rummaging through papers and documents. “Yes, keep an eye out for him.” He pulled out a couple of sheets full of forms, taking them back to his desk. “I wouldn’t want him to accidentally hurt himself.”
He skimmed the statements on the forms. He just needed McQueen to sign them in case his guardian dared to set foot in Radiator Springs. As long as the boy didn’t leave the town limits, it would work for the time being, at least until his situation was sorted out.
Speechless, the Sheriff nervously ran a hand through his hair. “Good heavens… I don’t think I’m the right person to keep an eye on him then.”
At least Doc hadn’t said so himself. Even he felt overwhelmed despite his experience in the medical field. “We can’t just leave him alone either; that would be like leaving a campfire unattended.”
Seeing him through his eyes was a heartbreaking experience. Someone so young shouldn't have been subjected to that kind of abuse, and Lightning's complete inability to cope with the stress of his own memories made it clear he couldn't take care of himself. He was a ticking time bomb; if he didn't overcome his past, the past would bury him.
He could almost see a distorted reflection of the scene.
Doc refused to let it happen. He wasn't a psychologist, but he was willing to offer what little he had.
"I suggest he stay with me," he said firmly, without a moment's hesitation. He would help the boy and convince him to sign those papers.
"Isn't that a bit much? I know you value your privacy."
"My privacy isn't worth anyone's health. I'm more than a hermit, you know?" Doc replied with a small smile. He wasn't as intolerant or grumpy as many thought.
He just hoped the boy wouldn't object to the change of accommodations.