The AE86 raced through the streets of Stadium as if it already knew the way. The console tuned to Rush Hour, and the engine rumbled smoothly, almost timidly compared to the 350Z's V6, but McQueen kept it going well. The slow acceleration provided excellent comfort, but it was boring for McQueen.
The Tuning Shop appears at the end of the block: a wide warehouse with rolled-up steel doors, bright fluorescent lights leaking onto the sidewalk, the smell of hot oil and exhaust fumes in the air. Outside, two cars are being lifted: a Supra Mk4 with its hood open and a prototype car with only the chassis half disassembled.
McQueen parks the AE86 right at the entrance. He turns off the engine and gets out. A tall guy, overalls dirty with grease and a backwards baseball cap, emerges from the shadows of the shop wiping his hands on a rag.
"You must be Lightning. Rachel said you were coming," says the mechanic, extending his hand. — I'm Vince. Welcome to my shop. What did you bring us?
McQueen points to the Toyota.
— This one. Totally stock. I want to start slowly. First, remove the speed limiter. Then, we'll talk about intake, exhaust, and maybe a better suspension. No swaps yet... I want to feel the car evolve with me.
Vince laughs and walks around the vehicle, analyzing every detail.
— Good choice. This white panda is legendary for a reason: balance. Little 1.6 naturally aspirated engine, rear-wheel drive, featherweight. But stock? It'll struggle against anything turbocharged. We'll fix that.
He opens the hood. McQueen stands to the side, watching as Vince connects the laptop to the OBD and starts tinkering with the software.
— The limiter will be removed in five minutes. As a bonus, I'll reset the error codes Rachel left. She always sends cars with some hidden trick.
While the software runs, Vince points to a corner of the workshop: shelves full of replacement parts — sport shocks, Brembo brakes, custom headers, even nitrous kits from various brands.
"If you want to build from scratch, start here. Suspension first: it keeps the car glued to the ground, but without sacrificing comfort. Then, cold intake and full exhaust. You'll gain about 20-30 horsepower just from that. And the sound... it'll be beautiful."
McQueen nods, already visualizing it. He picks up his cell phone — a new message from an unknown number:
"There's something in Fort Union. Listen: If you want to make a name for yourself here and get good sponsors, you'll need to change the aesthetics of your car. No sponsor will want a factory car to sponsor. See you around." – Rachel
The laptop beeps. Limiter off. Vince disconnects and starts the engine. The roar becomes a little freer, more alive.
— Okay. No more 180 km/h restriction. Without the limiter, you'll be able to overtake the others without so much difficulty. And come back another day. We'll put in a decent suspension so you don't spin out on the next corner.
McQueen gets into the car, feels it looser, more responsive. He engages first gear and slowly drives out of the workshop. The Bayview night still pulsates: flashing neon lights, the sound of distant engines, the smell of hot asphalt.
He smiles in the rearview mirror. The lightning bolt has a new toy. And the game has only just begun. He starts slowly in first gear, the car accelerating gradually, cutting through to 80 km/h.
McQueen engages second gear and releases the clutch, feeling the car respond with a liveliness that didn't exist before. The engine revs more cleanly, without that abrupt cut-off that the limiter imposed around 180 km/h — now, the tachometer keeps climbing, the roar becomes sharper and hungrier, as if the car had just been released from a muzzle.
It's not a huge difference yet; the car remains stock, naturally aspirated, modest. But it is subtle: the accelerator pedal feels more connected, the airflow freer, and the lightweight chassis dances with more confidence on the smooth curves of Stadium.
He takes the main avenue, empty at that hour of the early morning. The yellow streetlights cast long shadows on the damp asphalt. McQueen floors it on the straight — the speedometer climbs quickly: 100, 120, 140... he engages third gear and continues. No cut-off.
The engine screams in third gear, the needle approaching 190, 200 km/h, and the car still wanted more, it could go further. A smile spreads across the corner of his mouth.
"That's it, buddy... now you're really breathing," McQueen murmurs, glancing in the rearview mirror. The taillights reflect off the low buildings, neon flashing red and blue.
He downshifts to second gear at the South Market corner, throwing the car sideways just to test it. The rear end slides in a controlled manner, the rear wheels emit a little smoke, and he corrects with counter-steering and accelerates, but as expected, the car doesn't react quickly. The AE86 isn't as brutal as the 350Z; it's weaker, but with great potential. But without the top speed limiter, he feels the engine wants more—that it wants to be pushed to its limits.
McQueen keeps a light foot on the final straight of Stadium, letting the AE86 breathe. The speedometer already reads 210 km/h when he releases the accelerator, the engine returning to a gentler, almost grateful rumble. He doesn't push it any further—not today. The night is still young, and Fort Union awaits.
He turns left at the Stadium exit, taking the South Market road that leads east. The asphalt there is more uneven, with old patches and curves that seem designed by someone who hated straight lines. The AE86 glides through them as if it were made for it: light, neutral, drama-free. The stock suspension still complains a bit on the bumps, but the car obeys. It's honest. McQueen likes that.
The GPS vibrates again. Rachel:
"Fort Union. Main street, near the old Union Pacific warehouse. There's a race going on now. It's not official, but there are some heavy hitters. If you want to get in, arrive before 2 a.m. And try not to look like a tourist."
McQueen replies quickly:
"I'm on my way. Any tips?"
Almost immediate response:
"I heard one of the Wraiths will be there, he's a rookie on the team. He'll be driving a black Civic with a dragon decal. If you're wondering why this is important: their leader is the one who caused your accident. So, don't miss it, and be careful."
He nods and tosses his cell phone onto the passenger seat.
The sign appears on the horizon: FORT UNION
The city lights begin to appear: streetlights more spaced out, older neon, less flashy than downtown Bayview. He can smell gasoline and tire smoke, the muffled sound of engines getting closer and closer.
McQueen slowly enters the main street. The AE86 goes unnoticed at first—white, discreet, without a giant spoiler or flashy wheels. Perfect.
He spots the spot: an empty parking lot behind an abandoned warehouse, headlights pointed towards the center forming an improvised circle. About 15 cars lined up: a purple Skyline R34 with a widebody kit, a blood-red Integra Type R, two identical black Silvia S15s, a canary-yellow Mazda RX-7 FD with scissor doors, a moss-green Eclipse GSX, and, yes, the white Civic EG with a huge Chinese dragon decal on the doors—the famous "Dragon Civic" that everyone both mocks and respects.
In the middle of the circle, a guy in a black leather jacket and messy hair holds a radio. He's the organizer, the "Judge." Everyone knows the Judge in Fort Union. He doesn't race, but he decides who does.
McQueen parks in the corner, turns off the engine, and gets out. Heads turn slowly. Some recognize the white panda immediately.
"Look who it is… Does your grandma know you borrowed her car?" one of the drivers teases.
McQueen ignores him and walks to the circle. The Judge sees him and raises an eyebrow.
"New here?" asks the Judge, his voice hoarse from cigarettes. "What's your style?"
McQueen looks at the cars around him, then returns to the AE86.
"Drift and cornering control. No nitro, no turbo. I just want to see what it can handle."
The Judge smiles slightly.
"Drift and control, huh?" The Judge exhales a puff of smoke, his gaze skeptical. "Here in Fort Union, the asphalt is treacherous and the walls don't forgive miscalculations. If you want to prove that Panda isn't just a tofu delivery car, the timing is perfect."
He points with the radio to the black Civic with the dragon decal. The driver, a young man with driving gloves that look brand new, is leaning against the hood, watching McQueen with a look that mixes curiosity and disdain.
"That's Kenji over there, from the Wraiths," the Judge continues. "He's wiping the floor with everyone who tries to challenge him on the Street X circuit. It's a technical track, short, full of tight corners where torque is useless if you don't have the skill."
The Judge taps on the roof of one of the nearby cars to get everyone's attention.
"Listen here!" The next duel will be on the short circuit of the abandoned construction site. Three laps. The Rookie in the AE86 and three other cars. At stake is the respect of the home crowd and a direct entry into tomorrow's betting circle.
On site, the circuit was already set up. Barriers erected to mark the course, and tight corners. The cars lined up to form the starting grid. McQueen was positioned in the middle of the grid; the AE86 seemed out of place among the other modified cars. The other drivers who would race with him were: Kenji, in his Civic, Otis, in his Ford Focus, and Miki, with his 240SX.
The Judge positioned himself between the cars with his arms raised. The Civic's roar was sharp, the sound of the VTEC rising like a chainsaw. The AE86 responded with a low sound; McQueen knew he would need every ounce of technique to avoid being left behind at the first opportunity.
The Judge lowered his arms abruptly. The tires screamed.
The first corner is a 90-degree right, immediately followed by a tight left-hand hairpin. Kenji gets a better start due to traction, Otis, with his Focus, explodes ahead, launching the car into the lead. Kenji and Miki dive in right behind, forming a metal and sound barrier. McQueen is in fourth, feeling the slipstream of the three cars.
In the first sequence, in an extremely tight "S" curve between two concrete walls, Otis struggles to maneuver the Focus and hits the wall. Kenji tries to squeeze the Civic into the gap, but Miki bumps into his rear, throwing the Dragon off balance.
The AE86 is the narrowest and most agile of the group. While they fight for position and battle the inertia of their powerful engines, McQueen has the advantage of his light weight and uses it to maneuver smoothly through the corners.
The cars enter the second lap. Otis's Focus is losing power in the corners, holding up Kenji's Civic, who is furiously trying to overtake. Miki is attempting an outside maneuver.
The AE86 is revving high. Without the limiter, the transition between second and third gear takes longer, which guarantees stability and power in second gear without needing to shift gears. He sees an opportunity to drift and cut the line of two cars at once in the next hairpin turn.
McQueen takes a deep breath. He knows that, in Street X, excessive aggression often ends in twisted metal against the concrete. While Otis, Kenji, and Miki fight for space, swapping paint and wasting time on defensive maneuvers, McQueen decides to be surgical. He ignores the instinct to pull the handbrake. Instead, he trusts the innate balance of the AE86.
Entering the hairpin, while Otis's Focus spreads too wide trying to close Kenji's Civic, McQueen takes the ideal line. He opens the corner wide, almost touching the outside wall with his rearview mirror, and initiates a smooth, progressive braking.
The car's weight shifts forward perfectly, giving total grip to the front tires. While the other three struggle with understeer (the famous "front end slide") due to entering the corner too hot, McQueen's AE86 cuts through the inside, passing Miki's 240SX.
Miki and Kenji get stuck in the "traffic jam" caused by Otis's car. Because McQueen didn't brake and kept the engine in the ideal torque range, the AE86 exits the corner with much more flow speed. In a single fluid movement, McQueen goes from fourth to third position, glued to the rear bumper of Kenji's Civic, which managed to maneuver ahead of Otis.
We're on the last lap. Kenji is visibly nervous; he looks in the rearview mirror and sees the AE86 getting closer. He starts to rock the Civic to close the gaps, but this slows him down.
Ahead, there's a fast sequence of corners followed by the finish line. This is where the AE86's suspension will be most tested. If you keep your foot down, the car will rock, but if you time your braking correctly, you'll take off at speed.
McQueen floors it on the straight and brakes gently in the corner, slowing down as little as possible, which gave him better performance and sent him straight to first place when Otis and Kenji ended up braking too late at the first corner, significantly reducing their speed.
McQueen crosses the finish line with the AE86 still in second gear, the engine screaming at its limit without hesitation. The speedometer reads 140 km/h at the exit of the last corner, and the car slides in a drift until it stops completely on the track, smoke rising from the rear tires. The roar slowly dies down, leaving only the heavy silence of the crowd and the distant echo of engines.
Kenji arrives second, the black Civic smoking, the dragon decal looking all scratched from the battles for positions. He slams the door shut as he gets out, gloves still on his hands, his face red with anger and shame. Otis comes right behind, the Focus with a scratched side and a bent front bumper—the wall left its mark. Miki closes the grid, the 240SX intact, but the driver shaking his head as if he knows he lost by a hair's breadth.
The Judge walks to the center, radio in hand, crooked smile on his face.
"And there it is!" he announces, his voice cutting through the air. "The rookie takes this! The respect of the house is yours, kid. Tomorrow you enter the betting circle. You have talent for the Street X."
The crowd explodes in mixed murmurs—some applaud, others mock the "tofu delivery car" that just humiliated one of the Wraiths. McQueen walks out slowly, hands in his jacket pockets, smiling.
"That's it, folks. Ka-Chow!" McQueen celebrates, winking at the audience watching.
Kenji approaches, stopping two meters away. Narrow eyes, low but loaded voice.
"Good race, rookie. But that doesn't change anything. We won't forget about you. And I'll still beat you next time."
McQueen stares back at him, unblinking.
"Then come on. But next time, make sure you use a real car. Because this one here"—he points to the AE86—"is just getting started."
Kenji lets out a dry laugh, turns his back, and returns to the Civic. The other drivers begin to disperse, engines starting, headlights cutting through the night. The Judge approaches McQueen, handing him a small black card with a stylized lightning bolt symbol.
"Tomorrow, midnight, on top of the Union Pacific overpass. High stakes. Some sponsors will be watching. If you want to impress, improve that look."
McQueen takes the card and puts it in his pocket.
"I'll be back. You can be sure of that."
He gets into the AE86 and starts the engine. He shifts into first gear and slowly drives away from the location, heading towards a nearby spot Rachel had sent him on her GPS.
Arriving there, he enters an alley that leads to a vast courtyard, and a garage at the back. There was Rachel's 350Z, parked in front of the gate. McQueen approaches the garage gate and honks; the gate opens and he drives in.
Inside, he finds Rachel and another guy.
"Hey, Lightning McQueen? Having fun? I called you here to tell you something. Everything in the Bayview racing scene goes through me. Drag racing, drifting, circuits... you name it. There's also the Underground Racing League—that's where the real elite go. You're a guest in my city, so show some respect."
She points to the guy, who was adjusting a car.
"Meet Tommy. He takes care of all the mechanical stuff," she explained, her voice sounding firm. "This is your garage now." Rest and park your car here, plus you have space to make some minor adjustments to the car.
She walks over to her 350Z and starts the engine.
— So, that's it. See you around, good luck to you, Lightning.