So, here's the first chapter. Feel free to critique it. In fact, I encourage it. It's still under revision.
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C H A P T E R _ O N E
It was twilight in Kingsborough. A gentle breeze quietly made it’s way through the city, dancing haphazardly back and forth between buildings and out into the winding roads of the mountains surrounding the blazing lights of the metropolis.
All was calm. The few remaining people wandering the streets at this hour seemed to walk with a silent shuffle. Even the engines of the sparsely grouped cars and trucks seemed to chug more softly than usual.
A small group of young men had gathered at the corner of a four-way intersection. An overpass extended eastbound of the intersection, while the road to the north wound along a wide corner, disappearing behind a series of industrial buildings.
A distant sound seemed to rile up the crowd, and the men pushed toward the intersection, but none dared to step into the street. A rather short member of the group, dressed in torn jeans and a baggy, red, hooded sweater, suddenly jumped up, before pointing emphatically toward the curved road to the north.
“Dude!! They’re coming!” he exclaimed. The entire congregation suddenly erupted into a buzz, while two in attendance stepped forward, raising their cellphone cameras in front of themselves.
The sounds of engines roaring shattered the dead quiet of the city, and in moments, a silver Porsche Carrera GT shrieked out from behind the industrial buildings blocking the view of the crowd.
‘Car’ would have been an insulting term for such race-bred elegance on wheels. A swept-back nose with delicate, wrap-around headlights met with an equally laid-down windshield, while seamlessly integrated scoops protruded out from the sides of the incredibly expensive machine. All of this was met at the back of the car by a fairly large - but well-integrated - spoiler, which, along with the large, handsome wheels, completed the look as a breathtaking racing machine.
The all-aluminum V10 screamed along at beyond eight thousand RPM as the tires howled in protest. The driver of the silver German car executed a textbook perfect drift when, suddenly, from behind the buildings, rocketed a bright yellow Corvette Z06.
Much like the Porsche, this car was remarkably aerodynamic. The lines met in the front with an understated ‘beak’, which seemed to reach out to the sharply-designed, fixed headlights. Forsaking the busy additions of spoilers and scoops, the Corvette was much more streamlined. The roof rose and fell, creating two very low-profile ‘bubbles’ above both the driver and passenger seats, and the entire car abruptly ended at the rear, which was squared off and accented with the vehicle’s four signature deep-set, circular tail lights. Additionally, all of the decals and markings had been stripped from the paint.
Amazingly, the brutish, yellow American monster followed the Porsche’s line exactly, and thundered closer, nearly tapping the rear bumper of the Carrera. Jockeying for position, the ‘Vette raced up to it’s redline.
The driver threw a shift, eliciting a piercing shriek from the blow-off valves hidden beneath the carbon fiber hood of the Corvette. The rear tires chirped, and the monstrous sports car drew even closer to the Teutonic supercar.
“Holy shit!! Dude it’s Vaughn’s Corvette!! And he’s racing a-!! Is that a Carrera GT?!” came a shout from the group, while flashes from the cellphones burned into the night sky one after the other.
“That ‘Vette is the sickest thing I’ve ever seen. The whole engine’s built to the nuts, and he’s got just about the sickest tires you can get on the street.” one spectator mentioned to another.
“You really think it’ll take down that Porsche? Who is that guy anyway?” responded the other. But there wasn’t any time.
The two cars broke their rear ends loose, and the pair slid into the intersection and up onto the overpass. The Porsche leveled out, gently slowing it’s slide to the outside. Surprisingly, the Corvette kept a tighter line, and rushed through the inside lane, roaring forward.
Once the two vehicles were nose-to-nose, the driver of the yellow Chevrolet offered a courteous wave and a handsome grin from within he darkened cockpit, before thundering forth, leaving the incredibly capable German supercar behind.
An enormous group had gathered in a parking lot just ahead. Vaughn always drew a crowd when he raced. He was one of the best, bar none. The fact he so easily defeated a 605 horsepower vehicle designed to dominate the track was a testament to that.
With a final, elongated scream of the tires, the Corvette rapidly decelerated, before powering into the parking lot, sliding to a stop, with just barely enough space to keep from crushing those who came to see him.
The Porsche entered far less dramatically. Obviously dejected over his defeat - especially considering his vehicle had cost far, far more in it’s still-factory trim than Vaughn’s Corvette had cost to purchase and modify - the driver of the sleek, German supercar sat in his car, hands on the wheel, staring forward into space for a long moment.
Hopping out of the car, the victor of the match offered little more than a slight wave before gravitating toward a small gathering of men, who were poring over the details of the race, stopwatches, cellphones, and money in hand.
Vaughn was a remarkably handsome, younger driver, who almost always dressed in expensive slacks and a dress shirt. Today was no exception. His overpriced, silver Italian watch sparkled in the light of the street lamps, and his carefully-styled, short brown hair seemed immune to even the most enthusiastic gusts of wind.
Unsurprisingly, the Irish-born man was the object of several women’s attention. It was strange, however. By anyone’s account, he was single, and yet he consistently shrugged off the advances of even the most beautiful girls.
Most people were either unable or unwilling to explain the phenomenon. It was extraordinarily difficult to infer anything from his expression, as his piercing green eyes were always so consistently focused, and they never faltered.
“Yeah, it’s official,” spoke one of the stopwatch-holders. “You broke this run’s record by over eleven seconds. And I’ve never seen you run this route before.”
“That’s ‘cause I haven’t.” Vaughn replied, collecting his winnings - in cash, of course - as he spoke to the ‘officials’.
In actuality, the ones who governed the race were usually enthusiasts of the noble sport of racing, who simply couldn’t race themselves. Often they were the friends of local teams. Even more often, they were without their own cars, or with cars not well-suited to racing, which gave them incentive to involve themselves with timekeeping and other less grandiose aspects of the racing world.
“I guess this is why they call you ‘Top Gun.’” mentioned one official, who immediately received the ire of the Corvette-driver.
“They call me ‘Faoi Lánluas’, and it doesn’t mean ‘Top Gun’, you idiot,” Vaughn’s accent, while normally totally unnoticeable, always began to show through when he was getting worked up over something. “It means ‘Top Speed’, and it’s just a stupid nickname.”
“Whoa. Awesome. What is that, Irish?” replied the official. The well-dressed racer merely stared at him for a moment, with a mix of anger and disbelief.
“Sure. Why not?” he finally managed, before heading off to a waiting group of friends. Immediately recognizable, these friends were also Vaughn’s teammates, and together, their team was one of the absolute strongest in the entire region.
The Porsche driver still hadn’t exited his vehicle, and most seemed to have already forgotten about him. The talk now was on the race that had just occurred, on the Gaelic racer and his team, and on what the spectators would do now that the race was over.
One spectator, in particular, had come alone. He was standing in the crowd, breathless and dumbfounded. This had been the first race the exceptionally young boy had ever watched, and the minuscule taste of motorsports was sure to ingrain itself upon his psyche.
The boy was a mere sixteen years old, with a messy shock of brown hair and eyes of blue. He wore a pair of black cargo pants and a grey zip-up hoody, and his lack of years caused him to stand out rather glaringly.
His name was Kenneth Harris. He was a tenth-grade student and, unfortunately, had very few people he could call ‘friend.’ Naturally, without any group to call his own, he sought to join an existing one.
He had stumbled across this race rather by accident, however, after having decided to take a walk earlier this night. After leaving the local 7-Eleven with a cola in hand, he’d overheard talk of the race, and decided to go investigate, since the location turned out to be very close-by.
It was fascinating. The brown haired student was merely a teen killing time on a Friday night, but it was at that moment that he decided that he wanted to become as good as that Corvette driver.
One day, he dreamed, he would become the best racer Kingsborough had ever seen. The best the world had ever seen. But first, he needed to practice. He would find a popular route and attack it.
Of course, he needed a car first. Ken sighed, finishing the last of his Pepsi before idly discarding the bottle on the sidewalk. Nobody seemed to notice, and he didn’t care. Sighing at length, the boy shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled off.
The easiest solution to his sudden woes would be to get a part-time job, since his parents would never simply buy him a car. But even that would take ages before he could actually afford even the most pitiful set of wheels.
Somehow, he’d have to strike a deal. He wasn’t sure how to bring the issue to his mother; it was a delicate subject. But it didn’t matter right now. It was late, and it was tired, so he began the walk home, leaving the excited buzz of the crowd behind.
- - - - - -
C H A P T E R _ O N E
It was twilight in Kingsborough. A gentle breeze quietly made it’s way through the city, dancing haphazardly back and forth between buildings and out into the winding roads of the mountains surrounding the blazing lights of the metropolis.
All was calm. The few remaining people wandering the streets at this hour seemed to walk with a silent shuffle. Even the engines of the sparsely grouped cars and trucks seemed to chug more softly than usual.
A small group of young men had gathered at the corner of a four-way intersection. An overpass extended eastbound of the intersection, while the road to the north wound along a wide corner, disappearing behind a series of industrial buildings.
A distant sound seemed to rile up the crowd, and the men pushed toward the intersection, but none dared to step into the street. A rather short member of the group, dressed in torn jeans and a baggy, red, hooded sweater, suddenly jumped up, before pointing emphatically toward the curved road to the north.
“Dude!! They’re coming!” he exclaimed. The entire congregation suddenly erupted into a buzz, while two in attendance stepped forward, raising their cellphone cameras in front of themselves.
The sounds of engines roaring shattered the dead quiet of the city, and in moments, a silver Porsche Carrera GT shrieked out from behind the industrial buildings blocking the view of the crowd.
‘Car’ would have been an insulting term for such race-bred elegance on wheels. A swept-back nose with delicate, wrap-around headlights met with an equally laid-down windshield, while seamlessly integrated scoops protruded out from the sides of the incredibly expensive machine. All of this was met at the back of the car by a fairly large - but well-integrated - spoiler, which, along with the large, handsome wheels, completed the look as a breathtaking racing machine.
The all-aluminum V10 screamed along at beyond eight thousand RPM as the tires howled in protest. The driver of the silver German car executed a textbook perfect drift when, suddenly, from behind the buildings, rocketed a bright yellow Corvette Z06.
Much like the Porsche, this car was remarkably aerodynamic. The lines met in the front with an understated ‘beak’, which seemed to reach out to the sharply-designed, fixed headlights. Forsaking the busy additions of spoilers and scoops, the Corvette was much more streamlined. The roof rose and fell, creating two very low-profile ‘bubbles’ above both the driver and passenger seats, and the entire car abruptly ended at the rear, which was squared off and accented with the vehicle’s four signature deep-set, circular tail lights. Additionally, all of the decals and markings had been stripped from the paint.
Amazingly, the brutish, yellow American monster followed the Porsche’s line exactly, and thundered closer, nearly tapping the rear bumper of the Carrera. Jockeying for position, the ‘Vette raced up to it’s redline.
The driver threw a shift, eliciting a piercing shriek from the blow-off valves hidden beneath the carbon fiber hood of the Corvette. The rear tires chirped, and the monstrous sports car drew even closer to the Teutonic supercar.
“Holy shit!! Dude it’s Vaughn’s Corvette!! And he’s racing a-!! Is that a Carrera GT?!” came a shout from the group, while flashes from the cellphones burned into the night sky one after the other.
“That ‘Vette is the sickest thing I’ve ever seen. The whole engine’s built to the nuts, and he’s got just about the sickest tires you can get on the street.” one spectator mentioned to another.
“You really think it’ll take down that Porsche? Who is that guy anyway?” responded the other. But there wasn’t any time.
The two cars broke their rear ends loose, and the pair slid into the intersection and up onto the overpass. The Porsche leveled out, gently slowing it’s slide to the outside. Surprisingly, the Corvette kept a tighter line, and rushed through the inside lane, roaring forward.
Once the two vehicles were nose-to-nose, the driver of the yellow Chevrolet offered a courteous wave and a handsome grin from within he darkened cockpit, before thundering forth, leaving the incredibly capable German supercar behind.
An enormous group had gathered in a parking lot just ahead. Vaughn always drew a crowd when he raced. He was one of the best, bar none. The fact he so easily defeated a 605 horsepower vehicle designed to dominate the track was a testament to that.
With a final, elongated scream of the tires, the Corvette rapidly decelerated, before powering into the parking lot, sliding to a stop, with just barely enough space to keep from crushing those who came to see him.
The Porsche entered far less dramatically. Obviously dejected over his defeat - especially considering his vehicle had cost far, far more in it’s still-factory trim than Vaughn’s Corvette had cost to purchase and modify - the driver of the sleek, German supercar sat in his car, hands on the wheel, staring forward into space for a long moment.
Hopping out of the car, the victor of the match offered little more than a slight wave before gravitating toward a small gathering of men, who were poring over the details of the race, stopwatches, cellphones, and money in hand.
Vaughn was a remarkably handsome, younger driver, who almost always dressed in expensive slacks and a dress shirt. Today was no exception. His overpriced, silver Italian watch sparkled in the light of the street lamps, and his carefully-styled, short brown hair seemed immune to even the most enthusiastic gusts of wind.
Unsurprisingly, the Irish-born man was the object of several women’s attention. It was strange, however. By anyone’s account, he was single, and yet he consistently shrugged off the advances of even the most beautiful girls.
Most people were either unable or unwilling to explain the phenomenon. It was extraordinarily difficult to infer anything from his expression, as his piercing green eyes were always so consistently focused, and they never faltered.
“Yeah, it’s official,” spoke one of the stopwatch-holders. “You broke this run’s record by over eleven seconds. And I’ve never seen you run this route before.”
“That’s ‘cause I haven’t.” Vaughn replied, collecting his winnings - in cash, of course - as he spoke to the ‘officials’.
In actuality, the ones who governed the race were usually enthusiasts of the noble sport of racing, who simply couldn’t race themselves. Often they were the friends of local teams. Even more often, they were without their own cars, or with cars not well-suited to racing, which gave them incentive to involve themselves with timekeeping and other less grandiose aspects of the racing world.
“I guess this is why they call you ‘Top Gun.’” mentioned one official, who immediately received the ire of the Corvette-driver.
“They call me ‘Faoi Lánluas’, and it doesn’t mean ‘Top Gun’, you idiot,” Vaughn’s accent, while normally totally unnoticeable, always began to show through when he was getting worked up over something. “It means ‘Top Speed’, and it’s just a stupid nickname.”
“Whoa. Awesome. What is that, Irish?” replied the official. The well-dressed racer merely stared at him for a moment, with a mix of anger and disbelief.
“Sure. Why not?” he finally managed, before heading off to a waiting group of friends. Immediately recognizable, these friends were also Vaughn’s teammates, and together, their team was one of the absolute strongest in the entire region.
The Porsche driver still hadn’t exited his vehicle, and most seemed to have already forgotten about him. The talk now was on the race that had just occurred, on the Gaelic racer and his team, and on what the spectators would do now that the race was over.
One spectator, in particular, had come alone. He was standing in the crowd, breathless and dumbfounded. This had been the first race the exceptionally young boy had ever watched, and the minuscule taste of motorsports was sure to ingrain itself upon his psyche.
The boy was a mere sixteen years old, with a messy shock of brown hair and eyes of blue. He wore a pair of black cargo pants and a grey zip-up hoody, and his lack of years caused him to stand out rather glaringly.
His name was Kenneth Harris. He was a tenth-grade student and, unfortunately, had very few people he could call ‘friend.’ Naturally, without any group to call his own, he sought to join an existing one.
He had stumbled across this race rather by accident, however, after having decided to take a walk earlier this night. After leaving the local 7-Eleven with a cola in hand, he’d overheard talk of the race, and decided to go investigate, since the location turned out to be very close-by.
It was fascinating. The brown haired student was merely a teen killing time on a Friday night, but it was at that moment that he decided that he wanted to become as good as that Corvette driver.
One day, he dreamed, he would become the best racer Kingsborough had ever seen. The best the world had ever seen. But first, he needed to practice. He would find a popular route and attack it.
Of course, he needed a car first. Ken sighed, finishing the last of his Pepsi before idly discarding the bottle on the sidewalk. Nobody seemed to notice, and he didn’t care. Sighing at length, the boy shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled off.
The easiest solution to his sudden woes would be to get a part-time job, since his parents would never simply buy him a car. But even that would take ages before he could actually afford even the most pitiful set of wheels.
Somehow, he’d have to strike a deal. He wasn’t sure how to bring the issue to his mother; it was a delicate subject. But it didn’t matter right now. It was late, and it was tired, so he began the walk home, leaving the excited buzz of the crowd behind.
![[Image: Sage.jpg]](http://rebecca.florizone.com/sig/miscsig/Sage.jpg)