Post by Sparty McFly on Jul 20, 2010 23:52:15 GMT -5
(OoC: The idea popped into my mind to type the thoughts of what a typical NfS street racer would be thinking as he raced. Thus, this.
This uses Nitro's cars but not Nitro's style. Oh, one of my Fanon Wiki articles is referenced here. In short, it takes place before the events of World (the MMO) but after the events of Carbon.)
I was at the starting line, marked by two colored smoke grenades. The engine of my customized Shelby GT500 mustang roared, as everyone revved their engines and chatted before the race. They all knew the police were involved, and they all knew the stakes. But big money was on this race.
Years past, a single racer named Bishop changed the entire face of street racing, by starting an underground delinquent and progressing within a year to the most wanted, then a hero the next two years afterwards. And with that, street racers who were arrested set up an official street racing tournament: it was worldwide, it included everything found in regular street racing, and it took place on every track. It was called Shift, named because of the shift of environements and risks.
Street racers joined Shift, but some remained. They joined an unofficial league nicknamed "Nitro". And this was the last Grand Prix race in the state.
My opponent next to me was Mooch, my best friend and arch-rival. Me and Mooch thought near-identical: I was driving a Mustang, he preferred a Camaro SS. However, there were other racers. One was utilizing a BMW M3 E96, the most modern model, which had been painted in a semblance of a paintjob, meant to be a racing tribute to the ever-famed M3 GTR which bought Bishop much fame and infame, and eventually bought BMW enough publicity to resurrect the GTR line, and even expand it to other cars. The last Tokyo Car Show BMW had revealed their new BMW 135 GTR, which had the power of a standard M3 GTR - not bad. Not bad.
Yet another was using a Toyota Supra. Finally, the woman to the right was driving a pink with splotches of purple and red painted Subaru Impreza WRX. And the girl walked out onto the track. She was required to wear a regulation bikini, which, at night, would glow when car headlights were pointed at it. She held the flags up.
She brought them down a bit, the revving continued, and then she finally brought them down completely. The cars practically roared off the finish line.
I saw Mooch next to me, giving me a wave, and then the Supra girl, in front of a Wal-Mart of all places, broke the stereotype by expertly drifting and then roaring through the street, followed by me, the Bishop wannabe, and then Mooch.
And then we heard the sirens, and it meant bad news: for some reason, extreme dislike was taken to the Shift tournament. With the incoming cars, an order was given on the radio: "Get to the finish using any means necessary."
And then I looked back and saw the regular few Crown Victorias. And then I swore "F*CK" into the radio as loud as I could. They parted graciously, revealing something never before seen. Draped in blue and black police paint. With streamlined sirens. And a screaming turbo.
It was a Koenigsegg CCX police car and it was out for blood. Worse, it was flanked by two Lamborghini Reventon cop cars, which made me wonder: How the hell did they get these kind of damn police cars? Lambos cost millions to buy. Two Reventons alone would have taken up the entire police budget for three decades.
But then my thoughts changed into survival, as I flew past the spike strips being readied. And then I saw what I called suicide alley: several Hummer H2 SUTs, armor-reinforced, ready to charge. Not Bishop slammed to a stop, and faced the Reventons head-on: I later learned that they parted out of the way and let him through before one 180'd and went after him.
I was lucky: they were just finished when I coasted through. Mooch wasn't. The last I saw of him, ever, was the Hummers in my rearview mirror smashing his Camaro into pieces. I'm not sure where he is, or if he's even alive.
Revenge filled my heart, so when a Reventon landed in front of me, I used some nitro and bumped it, sending it into a nearby shop. Fortunately, it was for sale: no real damage done.
The girl radioed me: she sounded distressed. "This is Juliet, I'm surrounded by police at a dead end west of Carmicheal's, there looks like there's nowhere to run."
I provided sound advice. "Juliet, this is Gasser, smash through the fence. Your WRX should handle the two-foot fall onto the dirt."
She responded with an affirmative, and I could only wonder her fate. However, another Reventon appeared and tried to t-bone me. Ever the wiser, I slowed down, and the Reventon braked, before pursuing me. He then slammed into the rear, spinning me out. I stabilized going backwards, then applied nitrous as an airbrake before spinning, using nitro AGAIN, and speeding past the Reventon. It tried to give chase, but when I braked it was forced to stop, after which I used a side road I knew well. Two down, one to go, I thought.
And then the CCR rumble hit me. Crap. This is it, nowhere to run. And then I saw a jump across a ditch which lead me in-city. It looked too long for the Shelby but I had to try.
As the CCR slammed on the brakes I veered my Mustang right and flew across the gap. Now I was Bishop Clone Number R48X5. Oh well.
I decided to postpone the race for a month, informed the local committee that I was switching to a Volkswagen, and then patiently headed to the finish line.
There I saw a no-worse-for-wear WRX, clad in pink, with purple and red colors added in. And a girl, standing outside: not too thin, not too big, wearing sunglasses.
As I got out of the Golf, she looked me in the eye and said, "Pay up, buddy boy."
My final thought before heading back to the safehouse: Damn. i coughed up the 10,000 that the race won, without questioning anything.
(OoC: Might make this a series.)
This uses Nitro's cars but not Nitro's style. Oh, one of my Fanon Wiki articles is referenced here. In short, it takes place before the events of World (the MMO) but after the events of Carbon.)
I was at the starting line, marked by two colored smoke grenades. The engine of my customized Shelby GT500 mustang roared, as everyone revved their engines and chatted before the race. They all knew the police were involved, and they all knew the stakes. But big money was on this race.
Years past, a single racer named Bishop changed the entire face of street racing, by starting an underground delinquent and progressing within a year to the most wanted, then a hero the next two years afterwards. And with that, street racers who were arrested set up an official street racing tournament: it was worldwide, it included everything found in regular street racing, and it took place on every track. It was called Shift, named because of the shift of environements and risks.
Street racers joined Shift, but some remained. They joined an unofficial league nicknamed "Nitro". And this was the last Grand Prix race in the state.
My opponent next to me was Mooch, my best friend and arch-rival. Me and Mooch thought near-identical: I was driving a Mustang, he preferred a Camaro SS. However, there were other racers. One was utilizing a BMW M3 E96, the most modern model, which had been painted in a semblance of a paintjob, meant to be a racing tribute to the ever-famed M3 GTR which bought Bishop much fame and infame, and eventually bought BMW enough publicity to resurrect the GTR line, and even expand it to other cars. The last Tokyo Car Show BMW had revealed their new BMW 135 GTR, which had the power of a standard M3 GTR - not bad. Not bad.
Yet another was using a Toyota Supra. Finally, the woman to the right was driving a pink with splotches of purple and red painted Subaru Impreza WRX. And the girl walked out onto the track. She was required to wear a regulation bikini, which, at night, would glow when car headlights were pointed at it. She held the flags up.
She brought them down a bit, the revving continued, and then she finally brought them down completely. The cars practically roared off the finish line.
I saw Mooch next to me, giving me a wave, and then the Supra girl, in front of a Wal-Mart of all places, broke the stereotype by expertly drifting and then roaring through the street, followed by me, the Bishop wannabe, and then Mooch.
And then we heard the sirens, and it meant bad news: for some reason, extreme dislike was taken to the Shift tournament. With the incoming cars, an order was given on the radio: "Get to the finish using any means necessary."
And then I looked back and saw the regular few Crown Victorias. And then I swore "F*CK" into the radio as loud as I could. They parted graciously, revealing something never before seen. Draped in blue and black police paint. With streamlined sirens. And a screaming turbo.
It was a Koenigsegg CCX police car and it was out for blood. Worse, it was flanked by two Lamborghini Reventon cop cars, which made me wonder: How the hell did they get these kind of damn police cars? Lambos cost millions to buy. Two Reventons alone would have taken up the entire police budget for three decades.
But then my thoughts changed into survival, as I flew past the spike strips being readied. And then I saw what I called suicide alley: several Hummer H2 SUTs, armor-reinforced, ready to charge. Not Bishop slammed to a stop, and faced the Reventons head-on: I later learned that they parted out of the way and let him through before one 180'd and went after him.
I was lucky: they were just finished when I coasted through. Mooch wasn't. The last I saw of him, ever, was the Hummers in my rearview mirror smashing his Camaro into pieces. I'm not sure where he is, or if he's even alive.
Revenge filled my heart, so when a Reventon landed in front of me, I used some nitro and bumped it, sending it into a nearby shop. Fortunately, it was for sale: no real damage done.
The girl radioed me: she sounded distressed. "This is Juliet, I'm surrounded by police at a dead end west of Carmicheal's, there looks like there's nowhere to run."
I provided sound advice. "Juliet, this is Gasser, smash through the fence. Your WRX should handle the two-foot fall onto the dirt."
She responded with an affirmative, and I could only wonder her fate. However, another Reventon appeared and tried to t-bone me. Ever the wiser, I slowed down, and the Reventon braked, before pursuing me. He then slammed into the rear, spinning me out. I stabilized going backwards, then applied nitrous as an airbrake before spinning, using nitro AGAIN, and speeding past the Reventon. It tried to give chase, but when I braked it was forced to stop, after which I used a side road I knew well. Two down, one to go, I thought.
And then the CCR rumble hit me. Crap. This is it, nowhere to run. And then I saw a jump across a ditch which lead me in-city. It looked too long for the Shelby but I had to try.
As the CCR slammed on the brakes I veered my Mustang right and flew across the gap. Now I was Bishop Clone Number R48X5. Oh well.
I decided to postpone the race for a month, informed the local committee that I was switching to a Volkswagen, and then patiently headed to the finish line.
There I saw a no-worse-for-wear WRX, clad in pink, with purple and red colors added in. And a girl, standing outside: not too thin, not too big, wearing sunglasses.
As I got out of the Golf, she looked me in the eye and said, "Pay up, buddy boy."
My final thought before heading back to the safehouse: Damn. i coughed up the 10,000 that the race won, without questioning anything.
(OoC: Might make this a series.)