Chapter Text
Thunderstorm sat on the plane with her crew chief and father Elijah “Storm Cloud” Torres. They were on the flight to Tokyo, and she was more than excited to compete in the World Grand Prix. Sir Axlerod had invited her last month, and she had spent that time period training extra-hard.
She felt bored, to say the least. Considering the flight to Tokyo was going to be a long one, she had a lot of time on her tires. And her crew chief had fallen asleep a long while ago, and she was the only one awake.
Turning on her small TV provided on the plane for every passenger, she turns down the volume as low as possible, but also just high enough for her to hear. She flips through the limited channels on the small screen, until she found the Mel Dorado show.
She had watched the show a few times back home, and it wasn’t enough to catch her interest. She had only watched the show when she felt bored or when there was nothing good to watch on her flat-screen TV back home.
She clicks on the show, and it shows a long list of episodes, up until the latest episode. She chooses the latest episode, and gets comfortable as the show’s intro plays.
“And on satellite, a World Grand Prix competitor and one of the fastest cars in the world, Francesco Bernoulli!” Mel Dorado announced on the show.
On the right side of the screen, Thunderstorm could see that the race car Mel introduced was a Formula car. His paint job consisted of Italy’s flag colors - green, white and red - and in the center of his hood was the number 1. And below the number was a small flag of Italy.
She had read about the Italian Formula race car. He was an aspiring racer who had been taken under his crew chief Giuseppe’s wing to be one of the best and fastest racers in the world. And one fun fact that she found interesting was that he had open wheels instead of fenders, which was meant to swoon over cars.
She also watched some of his races, and she knew right away there was a good reason why his crew chief gave him his racing number. He was fast, real and incredibly fast, on the track, and had a maximum speed of 220 mph. She was a bit slower than him, her top speed is 215 mph. He was stiff competition, since he was known for having quite the winning streak in all of Italy.
Francesco was on set with a backdrop of the Colosseum in Rome. He was flirting and making eyes with someone who was off-set. That gave Thunderstorm the impression that he loves to flirt with other cars.
“It is an honor, Signorine Dorado. For you,” Francesco says in his Italian accent to the host with a smile.
“Miles, why not invite Lightning McQueen?” Mel asks Sir Miles Axlerod, the reason she was competing in the race. She was chosen to help promote his fuel Allinol and prove she was the fastest race car in the entire world, and the other racers were chosen to compete for that exact reason as well. While she had never advertised or promoted anything before, she only chose this opportunity to show the world that she was one of the best.
She could see Francesco’s face fall at the mention of Lightning McQueen. Maybe he was jealous of the American race car.
Sir Axlerod sighs. “Of course we invited him. But apparently, after a very long racing season, he is taking some time off to rest.”
“Lightning McqQueen would not have a chance against Francesco!” Francesco butts in. Thunderstorm took note that he liked to refer to himself in the third-person. “I can go over 300 kilometers an hour! In miles, that is, like, uh….way faster than McQueen!”
“Huh,” She hums softly. She didn’t quite believe that.
“Let’s go to the phones. Baltimore, Maryland, you’re on the air.”
“Am I on? Hello?”
“You’re on. Go ahead.”
“Hello?!”
“Go ahead, caller.”
“Hello-?!” Suddenly, the caller in Baltimore got cut off. Thunderstorm sighed, about to turn off the TV and go to sleep, when Mel decided to move on to a caller in Radiator Springs.
“Yeah, that Italian feller you got on there can't talk that way about Lightning McQueen. He's the bestest race car in the whole wide world.” The caller was speaking in a countryside accent, and he appeared to be defending Lightning McQueen. Must be a die-hard fan or something.
She saw Francesco take this as the opportunity to make fun of the race car that didn’t even bother to compete in the World Grand Prix until now.
“If he is, how you say 'the bestest race car,' then why must he rest, eh?” He asks.
“Cause he knows what's important. Every now and then he prefers to just slow down, enjoy life.”
Francesco grins. “Ah, you heard it! Lightning McQueen prefers to be slow! Of course, this is not news to Francesco. When I want to go to sleep I watch one of his races. After two laps I am out cold!”
Thunderstorm rolls her eyes at the Italian race car. She should really turn off the TV and rest up if she wants to be at her best in Tokyo. Not to mention, this was giving her an awful first impression of him.
“That ain’t what I meant! He likes to slow down and enjoy life by taking it easy! He has a life outside of racing, you know!”
“Francesco has a life outside of racing as well. And Lightning McQueen, he is afraid of Francesco. This is not new to Francesco. He is afraid of getting beaten by Italy’s number one racer in the World Grand Prix! It is cute that you’re defending him and all, but Francesco can’t think lf any other reason why McQueen won’t compete otherwise.”
“Let me tell you something else there, Mr. San Francisco. McQueen could drive circles around you!”
“Driving in circles is all he can do, no?”
“No! I mean yes! I mean, he could beat you anywhere! Anytime! Any track!”
Francesco rolls his eyes and sighs tiredly of this senseless argument between him and the tow truck. “Mel, can we move on? Francesco needs a caller who can provide a little more intellectual stimulation. Like a dump truck.”
Before the tow truck could finish his next comeback towards the Italian, he was suddenly pulled away from the phone. Mel, Axlerod and Francesco were greeted by Lightning McQueen. “Yeah, hi, this is Lightning McQueen.”
“The Lightning McQueen, huh?” Francesco exclaims happily at the sound of McQueen’s voice.
“Look, I don’t appreciate my best friend being insulted like that.”
Now Thunderstorm understood why the tow truck was so defensive.
“McQueen, that was your best friend? Aw. This is the difference between you and Francesco. Francesco knows how good he is. He does not need to surround himself with tow trucks to prove it.”
“Those are strong words from a car that is so fragile.” Lightning retorts, causing the Italian race car to be absolutely livid.
“FRAGILE?! He calls Francesco fragile! Not so fast, McQueen!”
That only stirred up another comeback. “‘Not so fast’. What is that? Your new motto?”
“MOTTO?!” Francesco started screaming and cursing in Italian. “Pezzo di merda! Come ti permetti di insultare Francesco?! Vaffanculo, pezzo di merda di second'ordine!"
Luckily, the host had the great idea to cut off Francesco’s audio. Thunderstorm finally turns off the TV and goes to sleep. Hopefully, her impression of Francesco would improve when she arrives in Tokyo.