tt: burnout

Arc slowly shook her head as she stared at Street. Quasar couldn’t believe it either. Cleary, he wasn’t going to leave, not with an attractive woman around. 

Dodger, on the other hand, was completely mortified, not only because this stranger that they had just met was flirting with his sister, but also because the aforementioned stranger apparently wasn’t leaving anytime soon. He shot a disbelieved look at Moto -- while he respected him, he had to admit that occasionally his decisions as the leader were questionable.

Moto knew that he would have to keep an eye on this newcomers, seeing how he still didn’t fully trust them, but so far they seemed harmless. He was pretty certain if they had been up to something, there would’ve been a bloodbath after Dodger stuck a glock in their faces.

She never even got chance to draw them before the other racer appeared, however. Street didn’t know what the hell to think as Dodger was pulled away: he kind of wanted to kick his ass, but he was also starting to wonder if the other racers were just as trigger-happy and what they’d do then. He was no stranger to being shot at, but it was a bit different outside of his game where he could, well, die. 

At least, that was until he saw that the newcomer was an attractive woman.

Because then all his thoughts boiled down to ‘ten out of ten, would bang’.

A grin crossed Street’s face as he leaned down to her level. 

”Heyyy, babe, it’s totally fine,” he said. “It’s just a misunderstandin’, nuthin’ more, nuthin’ less. So what’s yer name, sweetheart? Is it as pretty as yer face?”

Arc turned to stare at Street with her mouth open and Quasar facepalmed so hard it was a miracle he didn’t break his nose, groaning as he slowly dragged his hand down his face. 

“Alright, now that’s crossing the line, pal! Ya don’t go hitting on my sister or next time, I will shoot y --”

“That’s enough of you!” she snapped, shoving him back behind her before turning back to Street, “Uh, really, don’t worry about him, he’s got a terrible aim. I’m Dylan, that’s Dodger, who I’m sure will not cause any more trouble for you, right?” 

She turned to look at her brother for an answer, who refused to respond, only glaring daggers in Street’s direction from behind his helmet visor. 

Street quickly raised his hands as a sign of peace. 

“Whoa whoa whoa! Buddy, calm the hell down! We was just wantin’ to say hello! We’s all part’a the same franchise here!” 

“I don’t believe ya!” he exclaimed, frantically waving the gun’s muzzle in Street’s direction, “A ‘T’ on your head doesn’t mean jack squat! You’re intruders, intruders are threats, and around here, threats either get out or get bullets through their brains!”

He sucked in a breath to continue, but before he could get the words out, he was silenced suddenly when a third racer, donned in almost identical clothing to his own, roughly yanked him backwards, causing him to accidentally fire a shot upwards in surprise. Looking almost as angry as he was, she spun him around and pulled him forward.

“What’s wrong with you, you moron?! You can’t just go around threatening to shoot random strangers!” she cried, shaking him as she spoke, “And quit playing leader all the time! Turbo’s the leader --” she then thumbed over her shoulder at Moto, who had been standing off to the side, “-- and he’s alright with them being here, so lay off!”

Dodger, after finally pulling himself away, whipped back around to face his unwanted visitors with a lowered brow, but was shoved behind the other racer before he could do anything. She grinned nervously. 

“What, really?” Street exclaimed. “I’m not used to meetin’ people who’ve heard’a us!” And Moto said about six years, which could easily mean seven years really. Street didn’t remember their game’s early days well at all, but he looked at Quasar, hoping he could remember them better and therefore know where Baxter had purchased their game from. “Uh, could that’a been us maybe?” 

Quasar was still on edge despite Moto moving his hand away from his gun. He wanted to leave now, if he was honest, and he sensed that Moto wasn’t exactly eager to give them all a big family hug. He slowly shook his head at Street’s words. 

“Pretty sure Baxter got us from BMI, dude,” he answered, not once taking his eyes off Moto. “Not that I remember being sold, but that’s where everyone said he got his newer machines from. So no.”

“Huh.” Street raised and lowered his shoulders. “That answers that, then. And, well, no, we ain’t actually from this arcade, we’re from another one near here. But we heard yer game was in town and we had nuthin’ better to do, so I mean, why not? Why not come over and see what yer like? After all, I hear yer game’s just as chaotic as we are.”

While he still hadn’t fully given them his trust, Moto’s negative feelings towards them were gradually starting to subside. He supposed it was only natural for sprites of the same franchise to be curious about their counterparts from other games, and as obnoxious as they were, he figured that these newcomers really did mean no harm.

“I see,” he muttered, “Well ... I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to let you take a quick look around. Note ‘quick’, ‘cause a number of my colleagues don’t exactly approve of unexpected visitors. For instance, there’s a certain one who’d likely wanna pop a bullet in each of your heads if he --”

“Turbo, get back!”

Before Moto could react, he was roughly shoved to the side by a taller, blue-clad individual who, for whatever reason, was still wearing his helmet and most of his racing gear, despite the arcade being closed. He cocked the lever of a glock he was holding and began frantically pointing it back and forth between the three visitors, his eyes darting wildly from one person to the next.

“’Sup, bro! I’m another Turbo like you - see?” He pointed to his cap. “My game’s TurboTime Street, from 2007. This here’s Quasar, the closest thing my game’s got to ‘the yellow racer’.” He gestured to Quasar, whose eyes were locked on Moto’s gun, and he felt far less optimistic about their situation than Street. 

Poor Street, he greeted every new Turbo hoping they’d be like him and not like the one who’d bricked RoadBlasters, but Quasar had grown to believe big egos and hostility were the rule, and Street had yet to realise he was the exception to it. So why had Quasar come, then? Well, he’d only intended to to see if the game was real before his gang set off to find out themselves, and they would start a fight. He hadn’t even been sure if he’d enter the game when he’d set off: the only reason he had was because Street and Arc had. 

There came the sound of the Corvette’s door slamming and Arc drifted over, her swords clinking against her back. 

“And this is Arc, the closest thing to ‘the blue racer’,” Street said, sounding a little less enthused. 

 Arc stood beside Street with one hand on her hip, her eye flicking over Moto.  

At Arc’s words, his eyes narrowed slightly, but after a short moment of hesitation he wordlessly removed his hand from the holster and crossed his arms. Sure, he didn’t trust them, but he knew he should only be threatening to use his weapon only if he needed to, as much as he would’ve loved to pop a bullet in this new Turbo’s forehead right about now.

“TurboTime Street, huh,” he finally responded after a moment of silence, raising his brow, “Yeah, I’ve heard of that -- saw one of those across from my game in an arcade auction about six years back. Never really got a good look at its cast until now.” 

“Small world, ain’t it?” he remarked. 

“Apparently so,” Quasar answered, pulling a comb out of his pocket to fix his oh-so-important hair. 

Street got out of his car and looked around. His first impression was that it looked strikingly like his own home, far more than he was expecting it to, if he was honest. The main difference was, Burnout’s city seemed - well, kind of dead. Speed City was an endless cacophony of noise and colour that hit like a tidal wave the moment the train doors opened, but this place… 

Before he could leap down, he was stopped by one of the newcomer’s shouting, which echoed and bounced off the walls of every building to the point where you could’ve likely heard it five miles down the road -- there was no doubt that every one of his colleagues, wherever they were, had heard that. So much for not doing anything drastic. His teeth grit and his hand instantly shot to his gun holster, and while he stopped himself from ripping the pistol itself out, he gripped it tightly in the case that he might need to. He leapt from the wall, sticking close to it before he finally marched into view.

“If you’re looking for the people, broseph, I hope you like long and ... probably frustrating scavenger hunts.” I wouldn’t worry though, he thought bitterly to himself, they’ll probably all come running here in a snap, after hearing your little announcement. 

And seriously, what the hell? How had they had the same idea at the same time? What kind of coincidental bullshit was this, even by TurboTime Street standards? 

Little did he know, Arc felt exactly the same about his presence. Her heart had sank upon catching up to his Mustang, and she’d even considered going to the Arena instead and investigating this new TurboTime later, but it was too late for that now. They’d come out of their game (giving Game Central a collective heart attack but thankfully not killing anyone) and had left their arcade behind, rumbling through the wires in search of ‘Buster’s Games’. 

Speaking of visitors, he could’ve sworn he heard an engine -- multiple engines, in fact -- up at the exit wire to Game Central, which was visible in the distance from where he was at. While he couldn’t see the vehicles they belonged to, he could easily tell that the ones he was hearing did not belong to any of his colleagues.

The door to Street’s hut crashed open, and there stood a grey-skinned man in a red leather jacket, one hand against the frame as he panted heavily from exhaustion. At last, he looked up, his eyes wide with alarm. 

“Turbo!” 

But in this particular game, the cracked and beaten roads were completely empty.