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.
Racer X coughed, a weak laugh. “Go, Speed. The race.”
Twice, a Grumman assault car had lined up a clean shot on Speed’s engine block. Twice, Racer X had slid into the path of the missiles, taking the damage on his own reinforced chassis. The first time, Speed waved a furious thanks. The second time, he just stared.
Then, a shadow.
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.
“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.”
In his mirror, a tiny speck—Racer X—stood alone on the track, silhouetted against the burning wreck of his own car, and raised a hand in a silent salute. speed racer 2008 racer x
He ran. The ice crunched under his boots. The overturned Shotgun was a wreck—the cockpit a spiderweb of cracks. Inside, Racer X hung upside down, blood dripping from a cut on his brow. His visor was shattered. For the first time, Speed saw his eyes.
They were not cold. They were terrified. Not of dying. Of being seen.
“Get out!” Speed yelled, tugging at the jammed canopy lever. “It’s going to blow!” But the impact was brutal
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.
“Not without you.”