Chapter Text
Jackson Storm could still remember the first time he saw him.
Not in person. No, he wasn’t that lucky. He saw him on a flickering TV screen, in a dim garage where the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber clung to the walls like wallpaper. He was young, still too small to touch the pedals of his uncle’s busted Mustang. But the second that red blur streaked across the finish line on screen, a thunderous roar behind it, something changed in him.
Lightning McQueen.
He wasn’t just a racer. He was a legend.
He had a name that sounded like it belonged in a comic book. Hair wind-swept, always slightly messy, like he'd just pulled off a high-speed escape and didn’t have time to care. His smile was crooked, sharp, and dangerous, flashed like a dare. Every inch of him screamed—
“I own this.”
“Wow,” Jackson whispered the first time he saw him. "That’s the coolest guy I’ve ever seen."
From that day on, it became a routine.
Jackson would rush home from school, sprinting past cracked sidewalks and chain-link fences, just to catch the tail-end of a race broadcast. When the signal was fuzzy, he’d pound the top of the TV in frustration until the screen snapped into focus and Lightning's name filled the lower third in bold yellow font:
#95 – Lightning McQueen.
He started recording the races—old VHS tapes with scribbled labels: “Spring Circuit – McQueen Wins,” “Desert Track Showdown,” “Night Drift Battle (Ka-Chow Moment!!)”
He played them over and over. Memorized Lightning’s every move. Every turn. Every post-win celebration pose.
His mother noticed.
“You’re really into that guy, huh?” she asked one day, eyebrow raised as she watched him carefully peel the edges of a Lightning McQueen poster before taping it to a clean wall in his room.
Jackson just nodded, too focused to reply. His hands trembled as he smoothed the poster flat. Lightning stood on the hood of his race car, backlit by a sunset. One hand running through his messy hair, the other holding his helmet by the strap. Smiling. Untouchable. And Perfect.
________
Soon it became more than just posters.
He saved up for a red racing hoodie with Lightning's number on the sleeve, got a keychain that looked like his car, and spent hours drawing fan-made decals and taping them to his notebooks.
And at night, he’d lie on his side, staring at the poster like it was watching over him.
“One day,” he whispered. “I’m gonna be like you.”
But sometimes... sometimes, it was “I wish you’d look at me.”
________
When races weren’t on, Jackson went hunting for anything Lightning-related.
Old interviews, Behind-the-scenes features, and Magazine clippings. He memorized the man’s stats like scripture:
Speed: 198 mph
Age: 26
Weakness: none.
“How can someone be that good?” Jackson murmured one day, pausing the screen on a shot of Lightning waving to the crowd, smile soft and eyes shining.
And… how could someone look like that?
Lightning’s red leather jacket clung to his shoulders like it had been made for him. The sleeves pushed up. His white tank top underneath was stained with engine grease and still he looked cooler than anyone Jackson had ever seen.
Jackson stared at the screen for too long. His stomach twisted. Not in hunger. Not in jealousy but something else.
“Why can’t I stop looking at you?”
________
He didn’t understand it. Not then. Just thought it was admiration. Hero worship. Normal stuff. But as he grew, he realized it wasn’t just Lightning’s skill that haunted him.
It was Lightning’s face. His voice. The way he laughed, like the world couldn’t touch him.
And the worst part?
Jackson didn’t want to be him anymore.
He wanted to stand next to him. Close enough to smell the grease on his skin. Close enough to hear him whisper "Good race, kid" into his ear.
Close enough for Lightning McQueen to finally see him.
________
He was fifteen when he first touched a real wheel.
Not a plastic one and not some kiddie kart. A real wheel with weight, grip, and power humming underneath his fingertips like a live wire. He remembered sitting in the old silver Honda his uncle used for deliveries, heart pounding as the man simply tossed him the keys.
“You break it, you pay for it,” his uncle joked.
Jackson laughed. He stared at the keys like they were made of gold.
That afternoon, in an empty parking lot under the blaze of the afternoon sun, Jackson pressed his foot to the pedal for the first time. It stuttered. The engine coughed. He stalled twice. But on the third try, it moved slow, jerky, but forward.
And God, it felt right.
He was a natural. Sloppy at first but something about the wheel in his hands made everything click. He didn’t just want to drive. He wanted to fly. And in his mind, there was only one goal:
Catch up to Lightning McQueen.
________
The training was brutal. Jackson took every chance he could get attending local driving clinics, backroad lessons, anything that involved speed and control. If it had wheels, he was behind it. His small room filled with dog-eared racing magazines, handwritten notes, worn manuals on track layouts and driving theory. He memorized diagrams, practiced reaction drills with nothing but a stopwatch, studied steering techniques until his hands cramped.
Other kids were out partying.
Jackson was in the garage, trying to shave milliseconds off his turning angles.
And on the walls? Still Lightning McQueen.
________
By sixteen, Jackson had made a name in the underground karting circuit.
He arrived in a black suit, silver helmet, no name on his uniform. Just a small lightning bolt stitched on the glove, his way of mocking the man he once worshipped.
He won. Over and over.
By the time the national junior races came around, recruiters were already talking.
“That kid’s got fire.”
“He’s fierce.”
“He’s not just racing. He’s chasing something.”
And they weren’t wrong. Jackson didn’t celebrate with a smile or a wave at the finish line. He’d pull off his helmet, eyes focused, whispering a single name—
“McQueen.”
Because for him, every win wasn’t about the trophy—
It was a promise.
“I’m catching up.”