Speed slammed the brakes. The Mach 6 fishtailed, smoke boiling from the tires. He should keep going. Pops was screaming in his ear: Keep going! The Casa Cristo is about survival!
Racer X coughed, a weak laugh. “Go, Speed. The race.”
“Forget the race!” Speed roared, slamming his fist against the glass. It didn’t budge.
“Speed, look out!” Pops Racer’s voice crackled over the comm. “They’re boxing you in!” speed racer 2008 racer x
Racer X didn’t just dive into the gap. He threw his car into it. The Shotgun (that was the car’s name, though no one said it aloud) slammed into the lead Togokhan coupe at a 90-degree angle. Metal folded like paper. The coupe exploded into a fireball, taking two of its partners with it.
“The race,” Racer X said, pointing a trembling finger down the track. The pack was a distant roar. “Go.”
For one eternal second, the masked driver didn’t deny it. A single tear, pink with blood, traced a path down his temple. He nodded. Just once. Speed slammed the brakes
But Racer X was already moving. He’d used the shockwave to kick out the ruined canopy. He crawled from the wreck, pulling off his melting gloves, his racing suit smoldering. He didn’t look at Speed. He couldn’t.
He drove to honor the ghost who was never really a ghost at all.
“Not without you.”
But the impact was brutal. Racer X’s car went into a flat spin, then a tumble. It rolled six times before coming to rest on its roof, skidding to a halt in the middle of the track, leaking fuel.
The engine roared. The Mach 6 shot forward like a white bullet across the ice.
“Listen to me,” Racer X said, his voice stripped of its usual growl. It was quiet. Human. “You’re faster than I ever was. You don’t need a ghost. You need a brother who loved you enough to leave.” Pops was screaming in his ear: Keep going
Then the fuel tank ignited.
“Rex?” he whispered.