HEY GUYS, REAL QUICK , ILL BE POSTIING THIS CHAPTER AN TO START THE KINGS RACE TODAY BEFORE BEGINNING TO EDIT THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS I HAVENT BEEN ABLE TO DO , ANOTHER CHAPTER WILL BE POSTED TOMORROW SO ON AND SO ON UNTIL THE EDITS HAVE CAUGHT UP. I APOLOGISE FOR POSTING THESE CHAPTERS WITHOUT EDITING AND JUST POSTED WHAT I COULD, HOPING OTHERS COULD FIND SOME ENJOYMENT IN WHAT WAS READ, BUT DUE TO COMPLAINTS I WILL BE SLOWING EVERYTHING DOWN AND FINE COMBING EVERYTHING UNTIL SATISFACTORY, I HOPE YOU CAN ENJOY THE STORY AS IT SLOWS DOWN AS I UPDATE EVERYTHING
PS. ANSWERING QUESTIONS. THE SUPRA IS THE 1997 SUPRA .
THIS FANFIC SPANS MORE THAN JUST THE FIRST MOVIE
....
Jacob sat half a kilometre from Green Meadows, engine idling low, staring at the iPhone in his lap with long drawn breaths and scanning eyes, as if the screen could tell him whether this was salvation or a mistake he'd never undo. He barely concealed the shaking of his hands as he stood in the shadows of an alley ten minutes before the race began.
' this is it, the long run, the kings race set up by the system ' If he ran he risked being in the spotlight, risked being outed, killed or arrested, if the Hoonicorn failed that was it, he'd be in bars before he knew what hit it, the very thought made his heart hammer in his chest.
The Hoonicorn's cabin vibrated with restrained violence and anger, a car out of time made by a legend. Even at idle, the car felt impatient—like it could sense the city's hunger ahead, like it wanted to answer in the only way it could , speed and noise. Jacob didn't look up at the streetlights or the distant glow of helicopters; he kept tracing the map with his eyes until the route burned itself into his skull, jaw tight and shoulders tensed, every moving car made him paranoid the cops were coming.
This wasn't just a race, this was the one and only time the kings would be crowned, a turning point in history, marked by chaos and speed.
This race was a line through the city's throat, meant to cut the city in half, an announcement.
He dragged his thumb across the route slowly, committing each segment like a prayer, breath slow and steady, looking at the device that would give him an edge, nobody had a map with live updates like this, not yet, not in this easy to navigate manner. And so he scanned the map , looking at the starting line, of which he knew the opponents were already gathering.
START: Green Meadows → Avalon Boulevard.
Avalon wasn't a "startline" in the romantic sense, more a barrier to cross now that the cops had all but blocked off the road with steel and air. It was blunt city asphalt—lane paint half-worn, storefronts closed, sidewalks that still remembered daytime foot traffic. The first stretch was all about composure after the lapd breach: holding a rolling start without anyone jumping the gun, where they were allowed to build up as much speed as they were comfortable with before crossing the starting line, keeping the pack tight enough to be a pack but spaced enough to not become a pileup the instant a cruiser lunged to split or take them out.
Avalon meant lights. Intersections. Cross-streets where a single wrong driver could drift into the lane and turn a crown into a funeral. Wide four lanes wide enough to make it difficult to pass. NO sky scrapers, lined with old businesses and rising trees, not quite the city centre.
It meant the first test wasn't horsepower.
It was restraint, restraint to keep things together ass the cops hauled ass to catch you. And then :
Left at Broadway / Manchester.
The map showed the turn like a hinge, and Jacob could feel how it would play even before his tires touched it. That left would be the first real compression point—cars tightening formation, brake lights flashing in a chain reaction, everyone trying to claim the inside line without touching bumpers.
Manchester carried a different texture—wider stretches, deeper shadows between warehouses, long sight lines where cops could stage. It was where the race would start to taste like intent. Where someone would inevitably push early, just to say they did, rounding corners and splitting traffic in an effort to try and get an early edge through the old streets.
Jacob's eyes flicked to the time stamp on the update. The system had chosen this route because it was dramatic, it was a statement meant to irritate him for trying to defy it. He grunted as he turned to the next stretch:
On-ramp to the 110 Highway, northbound.
The on-ramp was where the city stopped being a grid and became a river. The map showed the merge point like a narrowing throat—traffic funneling, concrete walls, the sound changing as soon as rubber met freeway asphalt. Where one could truly let loose as soon as they hit tarmac, and then the race to the end would truly begin.
110 north meant acceleration finally mattered, but it also meant exposure. Freeways were long sight lines and predictable exits—easy to chase, easy to cut off, easy for black Corvettes to build geometry around you. If you made it there past the pursuing officers, it meant now you had to run, be faster than the car behind you ... and keep it up.
Jacob traced the ramp with his thumb and imagined the pack surging, engines rising in harmony, the first real stretch where drivers could stop pretending and let their cars breathe.
Follow the 110 north past Dodger Stadium toward the I-5.
That stretch was pure momentum—wide enough to build speed, narrow enough to punish mistakes. The map's line ran like a blade past landmarks the city knew: the shadow of the stadium on a hill, the glow of signage, the sense of passing something iconic while doing something illegal.
Past Dodger Stadium meant the city was watching, whether cameras were present on the run if you let them see you. It meant the race was now crossing through places people could name in headlines.
Jacob's jaw tightened.
Transition to the I-5.
Interchanges were always the real killers. The map showed it as a clean connection, but Jacob knew better—interchanges were choices made at speed: lane shifts, signage flashes, sudden compressions where drivers either trusted their line or stabbed brakes and created chaos behind them.
The I-5 meant a different kind of speed too—longer lanes, heavier traffic patterns, more trucks, more mass moving like slow obstacles. You didn't just out-accelerate here.
You out-predicted.
Right onto the I-2.
That right was another hinge—less obvious, easy to miss if you didn't know it was coming. A place where a driver could get trapped in the wrong lane and lose the crown before the canyon even began.
Jacob traced the turn and imagined it: the pack thinning, leaders committing, latecomers swerving, the city's concrete funnels forcing everyone to declare whether they belonged in the front.
Right into the 210.
The 210 was the city's last real "big road" before the world changed. It was where the lights spaced out more, where the skyline began to feel like it was falling behind them.
But it also meant enforcement could stage cleanly—units placed at ramps, spike strips ready, block cars angled like teeth. The 210 was wide enough for a trap to look like traffic control until it was too late.
Jacob's stomach clenched, this wasn't going to be easy or simple. it was going to be something that meant danger more than any , but not as much as the next part.
Angeles Crest Highway (CA-2) — jagged, windy, climbing out of the city.
This was the spine of the route, curves, danger around every corner no matter how good at driver you were.
This was where the race stopped being a chase across streets and became a test of nerve.
Angeles Crest wasn't forgiving freeway. It was elevation and curves and drop-offs that didn't care about reputation. It was the air turning colder as you climbed. It was headlights slicing through darkness where there were no streetlights to make you feel safe. It meant that one wrong move would be your end, the end of everything you ever knew and everything you had ever done.
The map line wriggled like a scar through the mountains.
Switchbacks.
Blind crests.
Long sweepers that invited too much speed, then punished you with tightening radius, you'd drive off before you even knew what happened..
Guardrails that were sometimes there and sometimes not.
It was the kind of road where the car mattered less than the driver's willingness to stay calm when the world fell away beside them.
Jacob's thumb hovered over the jagged portion and he felt his pulse slow, not from peace—focus. He'd always understood roads like this. Not because he loved danger, but because roads like this demanded honesty.
No cops could out-box you here without risking their own death.
No helicopter could sit low without losing the ridge line.
This was where the city ended and the mountains decided who deserved to keep moving.
Left turn and follow the path to Palmdale — finish.
The final leg ran toward open desert air, where the mountains loosened their grip and the road began to stretch again. Palmdale meant the end wasn't a dramatic intersection. It was a release—high-speed exit from the tight throat of the crest into broader, flatter land. It was the time for true speed, where everything done through the race bled away into the only thing that mattered, how fast you were willing to go, how much you were willing to trade paint and fling everything you had for the chance at the prize.
But it also meant something else: the finish line wasn't safety. It was just the end of the route.
After Palmdale, you either vanished… or you got caught while your engine cooled and your adrenaline drained and your hands started shaking again, then you got the hell out of dodge before you were reaquired by the cops... if you escaped them at all.
Jacob stared at the endpoint until his eyes stung.
Palmdale.
A real place. A real city. A real finish that would put real civilians near the end of a race designed by a system that wanted entertainment no matter who got hurt.
He locked the phone screen and sat back, breathing slowly.
Half a kilometre ahead, Green Meadows waited—police lines, helicopters, kings in hiding, and a rolling start that could turn into a cage in the first sixty seconds.
Jacob's hands rested on the wheel as he thought. Thinking about mia and how she was no doubt thinking about him, thinking about dom and everyone else. But he couldn't let it swallow him right now, and so he began to listen to his music to distract himself, Les by childish gambino.
He didn't feel like a king, he felt cornered into taking the risk. he had to keep them safe, put the target on his back just to make sure the system didnt kill anyone.
He felt like a man about to light a fuse through the city, and the system wanted to shake the keg as much as it could.
...
Jacob started the Hoonicorn one minute before the start. Jaw set and brow furrowed, hands curling around the wheel.
Not because he needed the warmup. The car was already a coiled animal. He did it because the sound anchored him under the music blaring in his ears, hand flicking to his iphone as he started the gps.
The engines rumble shook the car angily. The whole chassis vibrated under him like it was impatient.
His gloved hands settled at ten and two. He breathed once, slow, and watched the seconds tick down on the iPhone screen.
00:58. 00:57. 00:56.
Outside, the night was too bright for comfort. Helicopter rotors thumped overhead. Floodlights washed whole blocks in white. Red-blue strobes in the distance bounced off storefront windows and the glossy skin of police cars, turning the city into a flashing, overexposed arena, they glowed over the horizon like a silen threat.
Green Meadows was already a perimeter, not a place, and everyone knew it .
He rolled forward slowly, creeping out of they alley like a beast.
No sudden launch. Just a smooth creep, the Hooniconr going from idling to open acceleration in a split second. The closer he got, the more he could feel the presence of the other racers without even seeing them—engines tucked into shadows, men and machines hiding behind corners and parked cars, waiting for the moment the rolling start became a sprint. They were already creeping forward toward the start unawares he was already screaming towards them.
Jacob's HUD flickered with a single, clinical line:
KING'S RACE — START: NOW
He didn't hesitate.
He speared forward like a slung arrow, sinking to his seat as the G-forve pushing him into the seat.
The Hoonicorn lunged like it had been kicked by God—torque slamming into the drivetrain, the rear tires biting hard enough to chirp even with a controlled throttle, the car surging into speed with brutal immediacy. The world tightened into a tunnel of road and light.
He didn't drift into formation.
He cut through it, screaming past Sunny, Johnny and Dom who reacted with wide eyes and open mouths as he blurred past.
He blew past everyone like this was a solo sprint.
A matte-black blur ripping down Avalon Boulevard, overtaking the other cars before they'd fully committed or even realised, passing their headlights and engines making different noises like they were stationary. The Hoonicorn's exhaust note didn't just announce his presence—it erased everyone else's.
On the street up ahead with a wall of black, blue and red, the police line reacted instantly.
They'd been waiting for a pack with the arrogance of a highschooler jock, so sure of themselves.
They got a missile instead.
A cruiser angled harder into the lane ahead, trying to seal the corridor. Another unit swung in from the side, attempting a wedge. Spike strips weren't visible yet, but Jacob could feel the intent—make the start a choke point, end it before the freeway.
He didn't brake, instead he aimed.
The first barrier—plastic and metal, reflective—exploded under his front bumper in a spray of shards. The Hoonicorn's suspension compressed hard, then snapped back, the car staying straight like it was built for impact. A police cruiser tried to commit to the block at the same time, nose edging into Jacob's line.
Jacob clipped it—front shoulder to front corner—hard enough to shove it sideways onto the side of the road and past the frightened cops standing outside, not hard enough to stop him or truly harm anyone. The cruiser's tires screamed as it skidded toward the curb, and Jacob was already through the opening he'd created.
Sirens detonated behind him like a pack waking up.
And the black Corvettes—waiting just outside the visible blockade—moved like a single unit coming together like a wave.
They didn't hesitate for the other racers.
They pivoted toward the leader of the pack, their intentions to take the first out at the start, then pick everyone else off afterward.
Their target , the unrecognizable Hoonicorn.
The Corvette engines rose, cleaner and deeper than the old patrol cars, and Jacob felt the change in pressure behind him like the air itself had sharpened. Black silhouettes trying to creep up from the shadows as the horizon fell.
The chase had begun before the race could even breathe, and the others racers realised that they needed to catch up unless they truly intended to lose.
Avalon Boulevard became the first real test as they swept onto the street, people scattering away from the road as everything beyond the canopy of the cars blurred.
It wasn't open freeway yet. It was city artery—traffic lights, cross streets, storefronts, dark windows, occasional civilian cars caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. The pavement was imperfect, patched, seam-ridden, the kind of road that punished sloppy throttle and rewarded discipline.
He drove it like he'd memorized it in his bones, creeping around a pothole past a slow civilian.
He stayed center lane long enough to build speed, then shifted left to avoid a patch of broken asphalt that would unsettle the rear at this velocity. He threaded between two slow-moving sedans—one braking late in panic at the sound of sirens—slipping through the gap with inches to spare, the Hoonicorn's wide body clearing like it had been measured.
Behind him, the Corvettes closed, or attempted to close as best as they could to the beast he was at the helm of.
Not screaming. Not swerving, just the attempt to close the gap wit the racers not too far behind with their own entourage .
Their lights came on in synchronized bursts, strobing the street in a rhythm that made everything feel like a heartbeat gone wrong. The LAPD cruisers followed behind them in a less disciplined wave—older, heavier, trying to keep up, their sirens a raw mechanical howl.
Jacob glanced in his mirror once and felt his stomach tighten:
The corvettes were failing to catch him, but the other racers were creeping up on them, no doubt they would eventually slow and pick another target, and that was something he couldn't allow. And so he eased off ever so slightly, allow them to crawl up just enough to let them believe they could catch up.
One on his left rear quarter, one slightly offset on the right, building a bracket. Not ramming yet. Just positioning.
They wanted him contained before Manchester,
They wanted to end it before the 110 on-ramp turned everything into predictable geometry.
Jacob's jaw clenched., he could feel his blood pressure rising, the anticipation, the flow of the race before it really started, and ever so slightly, despite himself... he smirked.
He didn't have his defensive tech in play, this was going to be a race as real as any other.
This was still old-school, brute survival.
He took Avalon's long straight and pushed harder, letting the Hoonicorn's torque pull him forward like a rope. The car surged. The exhaust bellowed. The streetlights blurred into a strobing ribbon.
A civilian car drifted near the centerline ahead—an unaware driver, slow, ordinary, about to become a fatal variable.
He eased right—barely a lane shift, smooth and early—so the maneuver didn't look like panic. The Hoonicorn slipped past with a yard to spare.
The left Corvette tried to mirror the line and got forced wider by the civilian car, losing a fraction of position. The right Corvette held tighter and gained, nose creeping up toward Jacob's rear quarter.
Jacob's hands stayed light on the wheel, but his pulse hammered.
At the next intersection, a cruiser tried to cut in from a side street—an impulsive block, too eager.
Jacob didn't hit it. He didn't need to, instead he swerved away out of reach of the cruiser as a small chuckle escaped his lips.
" idiot "
He took the intersection on the inside line, forcing the cruiser to either commit into a collision with a civilian van or hesitate, an easy decision , one that let him flip the cop off through the window whilst the racers behind tore past the overeager cop.
He took the gap and kept going as the following racers had to deal with the blockade closing the gap.
The noise behind him grew louder, then quieter, then louder again as the pursuit wave stretched and snapped through the city grid.
Above, the helicopter spotlight found him again, washing the Hoonicorn's matte body in white glare. The camera locked on, hungry.
The whole city was watching the first mile of the King's Race turn instantly into a siege.
And somewhere behind, Dom and the other racers—now finally fully committed—were forced to chase the same route with the knowledge that the start had already been stolen.
Jacob had taken the crown's first breath and turned it into a sprint.
Avalon Boulevard rushed toward its hinge point—the left turn at Broadway and Manchester—and Jacob could feel it coming like a corner in his soul.
Because Manchester wasn't just the next street.
It was where the city would tighten, where traps would thicken, where the chase would stop being an opening skirmish and become a full-fledged war.
And the Corvettes behind him weren't falling back.
They were closing. But before they , they hit the first corner at speeds many wouldn't drive once in their entire lives.
And as that happened, as blood burst in his ears and heart ached. He forgot it all, the heartache of keeping secrets, the agitation of the system working against him... he forgot every little thing that heppened beyond the windshield... and let himself go like nothing ever could make him.