Post by lieutenant on Aug 23, 2016 1:10:12 GMT -5
Tame
Alternate Universe- Tame Racing Drivers
Part 1- Tame
When Jeremy calls The Stig their Tame Racing Driver, there is a lot more to it than jokes for the fans.
An AU in which a secret species is used as Racing Drivers, and Top Gear has one, but has to deal with all that implies.
Tags: Top Gear, The Grand Tour, The Stig, James May, Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, Alternate Universe-Tame Racing Drivers, Slavery
Copyright 2011-2016 jashasedai
Soon
A roaring helicopter shot over the landscape. The doors were open, cold wind buffeting the men inside. Jeremy and Richard had given up on having a shouted conversation over the turbines. They were sitting looking out the port side. Normally Jeremy would have stuck his feet in Richard's lap, saying that as a giant of both size and intellect, he needed the space. But today his feet were planted firmly in front of him. He was sitting there, hanging onto the strap at the top edge of the door. His bicep was bulging. His knuckles white.
Richard was facing the front, and occasionally glanced up to see what the pilot was doing. He'd wanted to fly this mission himself, but it required more experience than he had, and knowledge of the area.
He looked over at James, who had his hand casually through the strap as a safety precaution, and was waiting patiently for the helicopter to reach its destination. "How's he doing, mate?" he called over the rushing.
James reached his left hand out slowly towards the white figure in the seat in front of him. The white helmet jerked back suddenly as if James' hands were a fearful spectre that had appeared out of nowhere. James gestured a thumbs up and then held his hand open, palm upwards.
The Stig shook its helmet. It tucked its hand under its arms, and then untucked them and cradled its helmet in its hands.
James looked at the others. "It's getting worse."
---
2002
When Top Gear had started, James hadn't been on the show and no one had wanted to go with Andy Wilman, the producer, to pick out the first Stig. In the end, Andy and Jeremy had made a decision about what they wanted, and Andy went to pick him out.
Black would look cooler, they decided. It would really make a statement to the fans that this driver was hot stuff, a threat to speed records everywhere. Andy had chosen the first Stig, later differentiated by his unusual colouring, and brought him back to Dunsfold, where he imprinted on their chosen match.
That series had experienced a lot of teething issues. Among the trials and tribulations, and problems they simply hadn't been prepared for, they'd lost the Black Stig.
The next time they had a better idea how to handle it.
Jeremy, Richard, and James, the newest presenter, had all gone with Andy. The building was an enormous warehouse surrounded by prison fencing, razor wire at the top to keep what was outside out, and what was inside in. The cars pulled up at the gate. While Wilman showed the guards their papers, Richard leaned over to Jeremy.
"Look at it all. They keep them all in there?"
Andy turned slightly. "Quiet, Richard. This will just be a supplier. No one knows where they come from."
Jeremy whispered as the guard waved them through, "Someone has to know where they come from or they wouldn't be here, would they?"
James grinned internally at this level of cheekiness, and decided he was going to like being a member of the Top Gear team.
The black SUV parked and they went in through a man sized door next to a large shipping door. Inside the building it was noisy with high pitched engine noises. "Come on in," a man in a sharkskin jacket said to them. "Don't mind the noise, the boys are just giving 'em some exercise, like. They live for it, you know." He led them past a temporary wall, and into the body of the warehouse. There were 3 levels along the outer walls. Built mostly of cyclone fencing, with plywood floors. They were 10x10x20 cubicles. In the center of the warehouse were 3 go-kart tracks. Go-karts driven by multi-coloured helmeted figures raced around the tracks. Plastered against the wall of nearly every cubicle, entirely focused on the karts, was a straining Racing Driver.
"I figured you might have trouble with that one you bought last time you were here, Mr Gere. Sometimes the monotone ones are a little… unpredictable." He turned to Andy, looked over the 3 presenters. He looked at Jeremy for a long time, then back at Andy. "You and your associates might be happier with a nice bi-tone. Green and yellow are usually easier to handle. Give your racing team a boost, but won't be too likely to… go over the edge."
James took a half step closer to Richard, raising his hand just slightly. Warning him back.
"We might be amenable to a change-up in colour scheme," Andy started.
Jeremy stepped forward. "What've you got that's fast?"
The supplier looked at him. "Mr Gere tells me your last one lost its match. Racing Drivers have to have a match. Wouldn't do to have a team driver who can't go out in public. Got to have someone to give interviews."
"Yeah, we've got someone." Andy said. "This time I don't want it imprinting on the match, though. You're right, we lost the last one because the guy we found for a match couldn't handle it. This time I want it to imprint on these guys."
The supplier looked unimpressed. "Racing Drivers only imprint once. You can put all three of 'em in there with it and see which one it doesn't kill."
Richard made a questioning squeak.
The man laughed. "I'm just kidding. They won't know you're there unless you're imprinted on them." He looked at Jeremy. "So, you want fast." He started leading them down the line of cubicles. "Well, the monotones are faster than the bi-tones every time. But they're more intense, less… social."
"Even less human, he means," Richard muttered. Andy and James gave him filthy looks.
"If that's what you want, though, this is it, down here. It's the fastest one we've ever had. A certain racing team who just lost their best driver were very keen to have it, but their match didn't feel up to handling such a big stallion."
"How do you tell if it's a he?" James asked. ″I thought they didn't have gender."
"Oh they've got gender, alright. The females match with female humans. Just not a lot of call for mare Racing Drivers. Here it is, our big stallion."
The cubicle had empty cubicles on every side. In it, as desperately focused on the action on the track as any of the others, was what, under other circumstances, could pass as a man in a white jumpsuit and helmet. Not all that big, either, a bit taller than James, but still average height, slim to skinny.
"Why do you call it a big stallion?" Richard asked. "It's not so big."
"It's our dominant male. We have to keep it away from the other Racing Drivers because they keep challenging it. We can only let it out for exercise alone. It's… savaged any other big monotones we put near it. Would you like the boys to put it through its paces?"
"Please," said Andy. The tracks were emptying now, handlers leading away the more passive bi-tone Racing Drivers whose exercise time had finished. A red and orange one kicked the wheel of its go-kart, waving both arms at it as if the kart had cast aspersions on its mother. A handler gently led it away by the arm. "I see your tracks aren't wide enough for passing. Isn't that a little hard on them? Never getting to really race?"
"They get too competitive if they're allowed to pass. We train them to race their own times. Even then, we have to watch the weaker ones. Racing Drivers don't know when to stop. They'd go until they burst their own hearts if we didn't stop them."
Two handlers opened the door to the white Racing Driver's cubicle and one of them held up a fist. The Racing Driver's attention snapped to the fist. The other handler clipped a lead-stick onto the back of its collar. The first opened his fist and let it see the key. The Racing Driver's reflexes were so fast the grab was barely visible. The Top Gear crew flinched back as it slammed to the end of its lead. The second handler was straining against the lead stick, holding the Racing Driver back from his partner. It reached as far as it could stretch, fingers grasping at the keys a foot out of its reach. The man backed up, the second man half walking, half being dragged as he kept it just out of range of the keys. They came up next to one of the go-karts and the man put the key in the kart and stepped back. The Racing Driver's reach and body followed the key as if magnetized. The second handler unclipped the lead.
In a blur, the Racing Driver was in the kart, revving the engine and focused on the little signal light beside the starting line.
"Fascinating, isn't it? It doesn't even know the handlers are there, it just sees the keys," the supplier said. James pulled a face, turning away slightly so he wasn't sneering at the man directly.
The light went green and the kart shot down the track. "It's about a second ahead of our next best time," the supplier told them. "Watch the precision in the cornering. It doesn't adjust any more than absolutely necessary."
"Is a second a lot on a go-kart track?" Richard asked Jeremy.
"How should I know?" the tall man whispered back.
"The spread for the other monotones is within a second. The bi-tones' best times vary anywhere within a 3 second span. On the long track. These tracks all connect when we're doing time trials. A longer track gives a better idea of the difference in ability, since we can't put them on a full sized track. So, yeah. He's the best we've had by a long way." The Racing Driver continued to make circuits of the small track.
"I'd like to confer with my associates," Andy told the supplier. The man nodded and headed off to wait impatiently for their decision.
"What do you think, guys?"
The presenters looked at each other. "It's fast," Jeremy said. "You only have to watch it to see that."
"I think we're not going to get a better opportunity," Richard put in.
"I agree," James said.
Andy nodded. "My thoughts." He went to make the deal. The 3 presenters stood and watched the Racing Driver. The red light signaled it to stop and it sat, tense in the car, watching the red light. The handlers came up and one attached the lead and the other turned the light off and took the keys out of the kart. They led it over to a side area where, once the keys had disappeared from sight, it stood with its arms folded across its chest. With the tracks shut down, the Racing Drivers had stopped focusing on it with laser intensity. Most of them were standing in the same position as the big stallion, though some were drinking from water bottles with straws that went under their helmets, or walking rapidly around the little centre post in their cubicle as though it was a tiny nascar circuit.
"Which of you is going to imprint on the new Stig?" Jeremy asked in an unsubtle attempt to be casual.
"What?! One of us?" Richard said.
"I'd have thought you'd be the one to do it," James added.
"I don't have the time to imprint on a Racing Driver." Jeremy protested.
"Neither do we."
"I heard if something happens to a Racing Driver, the person imprinted to it will die," Richard said.
James rolled his eyes. "That's not true. It's a myth. Like those stories about them being telepathic."
"That last one went crazy when Perry quit," Jeremy said, the words grinding out over his teeth. "He told it he was never coming back, and told it it would belong to Dawe, and it drove that damn car off a damned aircraft carrier."
"Dawe got weird after that, you have to admit," Richard said.
"Dawe was weird before that." Jeremy brushed a bit of lint off his jacket.
James shook his head. "Well how hard can it be?"
The three of them stood outside the imprint room. It was an actual wooden room, with walls that weren't made of mesh. James had preempted the argument's descent into a coin toss, and just volunteered to be the one who imprinted on the Racing Driver. He looked at the other two. They shifted from foot to foot, but nodded. He stepped into the room where the new Stig waited. Five handlers stood ranged around him.
The man in the sharkskin jacket greeted him. "Mr Singh," the supplier said.
James was momentarily thrown by being addressed by his alias, then nodded.
"Let me tell you how this'll work. The first human a Racing Driver lays eyes on without that protective glass will be the only one it'll acknowledge. You've seen how they don't pay no mind to the keepers. After this, that'll change for you. It'll see you, and you will be the only one who can control it. You'll have to be there to train it, and it will have to communicate through you. So the boys, they're gonna pull its helmet off, and you don't be shocked by what you see underneath. Just make eye contact. You look at it until it looks away, you got it?"
"Well, I..."
"That's all there is to it. Go."
Four of the five men grabbed the Racing Driver while the fifth reached for its helmet. It didn't react beyond a slight tensing until the hands touched its helmet, then it started thrashing. It tried to raise its arms and it took all four men to hold them down. It whipped its head to and fro, trying to get free of the grip that was pulling the helmet inexorably up and off. Finally, the handler pulled it free. The wrestling had resulted in the Racing Driver pulled to its knees on the floor. It stopped struggling to reach its helmet when it saw James.
It looked up at him with a young man's face. A human face, with blue eyes and sandy hair. There was no expression other than strain. It was breathing heavily. He looked into its eyes. How could they deny the humanity of these creatures? He stared until the new Stig dropped its, his - James would never think of him as IT again - dropped his eyes to the floor and made a noise that sounded more mechanical than organic. The helmet was crammed back on his head, and James snapped back to himself.
He stepped forward, and stared down the handlers who were releasing their holds, and helped Stig to his feet.
He knew more about Racing Drivers than most people ever would, but only because most people never knew they existed at all. When it came down to the details, most of what he knew was rumor. The only solid fact was that they were a separate, human-like species that lived to race. It wasn't so weird, he told himself.
It was weird, though, the way the Stig just sat in the box and laid down while the handlers nailed it shut. How, when they opened the box at Dunsfold, he just sat up and got out with no indication of discomfort or acknowledgment.
They had a medic who was experienced in treating Racing Drivers brought in. He introduced himself as Giancarlo, asked James to call him Johnny, and told James to bring the Stig into the hanger where he would be staying. James stared at the man.
"How?"
Johnny sighed. "You just tell him to follow you. They're really very intelligent. It's just a different intelligence from ours."
"Come on, then," James said to him. The Stig turned his helmet to face James, but didn't move.
"Try hand gestures. Most of the untrained ones know those, at least."
James waved in a 'come here' gesture. The Stig stepped forward, right into his space. James backed up a step, holding his hands up to stop the Stig from following. He made a thumbs up. Stepped back again with a less lively come here wave. Stig followed, as though he was on a lead.
"You're a natural. Communicating with him comes easily to you."
"It's all the practice communicating with those two pillocks," he muttered.
There was a walled off area of one of the hangers near the studio. It was equipped with no furniture at this point. Just laminate walls, flooring and sub-ceiling, and a row of cupboards along one side. There was a window, though, that looked out onto the track.
The medic wanted to do an examination; he instructed James to get the Stig's jumpsuit and helmet off. James thought for a moment, then tapped the Stig. "Stig," he said. He tapped himself. "James." He was half expecting a 'me Tarzan' moment, but the Stig just nodded. James mimed taking an imaginary helmet off. The Stig tensed. "It's alright, Stig. We're not going to hurt you." He smiled, trying to put off friendly vibes. Stig's hands reached up and slowly pulled his helmet off. He tucked it under his arm.
James' smile widened. "Good!" He gave a thumbs up. Then he mimed taking the jumpsuit off.
Stig took a step back, shaking his head. His very human eyes didn't show fear, but they did show tension.
James glanced at the medic for help.
"You're doing fine," Johnny told him. "Show him you mean it. Ask him again, but keep it upbeat. They respond better to the carrot than the stick."
James mimed again. The Stig strode forward and got right in his face. It didn't seem like an innocent misunderstanding like the first time, it seemed threatening. He looked down at James with narrowed eyes. James couldn't bring himself to stare back.
"Nope," Johnny said. "Look past him. Don't let him challenge you. You're in charge here, not him. Step away slowly, and we'll leave the room." He opened the door. James swallowed and focused on the window beyond the Stig. He felt the ice blue eyes on him, but he stepped backwards out of the room with Johnny. Johnny blew out a breath. "I haven't seen one that aggressive in a long time. Usually they don't go after their partners like that. You did a good job. We'll just stay out here for a bit. He needs to learn you won't give him the satisfaction of competing against him."
"What was he doing? Would he have hurt me?"
"He must be used to fighting pretty hard to stay in charge. Racing Drivers compete by racing, but they'll compete in pretty much anything. Chicken is a favorite. That's what he was doing to you, trying to make you stare him down."
"But I looked away, doesn't that mean he won?"
"No, you didn't acknowledge his challenge. You didn't make eye contact. That was exactly right."
James shuddered. He only hadn't made eye contact because it made him uncomfortable to do so. He had a lot to learn.
"Alright, let's go back in. If he comes after you like that, again, make sure not to acknowledge him."
"Would he have hurt me?" James realized Johnny hadn't answered that question the first time.
"No. But he'd have thought he was in charge, and you'd have had to work hard to come back from that."
They stepped back in. The Stig was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, staring out the window. His helmet was back on. He turned when James came in.
James gestured again for him to remove his helmet and jumpsuit. "We have to get you checked out before we can let you out on the track."
Stig's helmet lifted just a bit. He turned slightly back towards the window where the track was visible. He looked back at James and removed his helmet and started to strip off his jumpsuit. He had a grubby undershirt on, and he stopped with his suit around his waist to peel this off. The term peel was incredibly apt. It stuck and when he dropped it on the floor beside him, it landed with a thunk, and didn't flatten to the ground.
There was a distinct odour. It was strong.
Johnny's face was drawn into an angry frown.
James jaw had dropped. The body underneath, still appearing human, was pale, bony, emaciated and bruised.
There were dozens of linear bruises crisscrossing his chest, belly and arms in obvious cyclone fencing patterns. A picture came into James' mind of the Racing Drivers straining against the fencing of their cubicles. The image of what would happen if a strong man was throwing himself against a wire cage repeatedly. "Bloody Nora."
The Stig didn't stop at his waist. Once his undershirt was off, he bent down and unstrapped his boots revealing bare feet, then stripped out of his trousers to a pair of boxer briefs that hadn't originally been grey.
His legs weren't as bad off as his torso, though his knees were bruised and there were more crisscrosses on his thighs.
Johnny was red faced with rage, but keeping his voice level, he said. "These places shouldn't be allowed to do this. He's in bad shape. First thing is to check him for… further injuries. He won't let me touch him, so you'll have to do it."
"Shouldn't first thing be to clean him off?" James asked, tightly.
"Ideally, but if there's anything untreated I want to find out what it is now. We'll start by checking his heart and lungs. You hold the stethoscope and I'll listen." He handed James the round end of the stethoscope and pointed to where to place it on the Stig's chest. "A little higher. There."
James was curious what it sounded like. He was about to ask, when Johnny directed him to move the scope to another point, then two different spots on Stig's back, having him tell Stig to breath deeply. James accomplished this by breathing deeply himself and making a sweeping motion like his lungs expanding with his free hand.
"Now, eventually you'll be able to do this basic stuff on your own. Not really medical stuff, just Racing Driver first aid." He wiped off the ear-pods and handed the stethoscope to James, having him repeat the pattern of points and listening to the results. The heartbeat was fast, a continuous patter patter. "Count the beats, there should be between 180 and 230 per minute. It'll be easier if you count in segments of 15 seconds and do the maths."
James counted, multiplied the answer by 4. He tried again. The stethoscope was extremely sensitive. The beats were plain. He tried again. "I'm only getting 140."
"That's what I got, too. He's in pretty bad shape. They have a broader metabolic range than humans. It's low, but within tolerance." Johnny pointed at the places on Stig's back where James would listen to his lungs. "Any sort of wheezing or rattling or any difference between the lungs is something to call me about." James listened. He couldn't really determine anything, but memorized the sound of normal Stig breathing. All the while the Racing Driver just stood there, just watching James out of the corner of his eye.
"It's alright, Stig." James smiled. "You're doing a good job." He gave him a thumbs up.
"I'm going to have a look at his bruises. They look pretty typical for a Racing Driver that's just come out of a holding facility. Those places are never adequate. Too many Racing Drivers, not enough space, never enough track time, and never adequate tracks. Their survival ratings are like 70%." Johnny growled, leaning close to look over Stig's torso. "The ones that don't make it are almost always the weaker bi-tones. Those ones don't bring in as much of a profit, so what does it matter to the suppliers if they lose some of the stock? Don't even get me started on the poly-tones. They practically produce them in mills in the colonies."
He straightened up. Sighed. Got a hold of himself. "This one will be ok, though. We'd better get him cleaned up. Bring him through this way." Andy had arranged a sort of lavatory. It was like the ones on ships, or in caravans, where the whole lavatory worked as a shower. Except this one had more room. It was still a very tight squeeze for two full sized people. James stopped outside so Johnny could step in first. The medic shook his head. "He won't let me touch him, remember. We'll leave the door open and I'll stay right here."
James took off his shoes and stepped into the water closet.
"You may want to get him to leave the shorts out here," Johnny said.
James blushed. He mimed taking shorts off.
The apparently human male reached down and pushed his pants down off his hips. They dropped to the floor. James studied the ceiling. Waved the Stig forward into the water closet. James tried to remind himself, despite the very immediate evidence, that he was not about to be in extremely close quarters with another man who was showering. At least in school the other boys hadn't been crammed two to a stall.
"What, precisely is the difference in Racing Drivers and Humans? His heart beats faster, and I know they have reflexes that are off the charts, but strictly speaking, what makes them inhuman?"
Johnny reached in and turned on the water. It was cold. It made James gasp. The Stig just turned his face up into it. "Biologically? Not much. Psychologically, just about everything. Biologically the difference is like dogs and wolves. There's a few tweaks here and there that make them superior specimens." The built up filth of captivity was running off Stig in little rivers. "Psychologically, though, it's like humans and wolves. They are intelligent, they have a social structure, they communicate with each other. Between the species there can be understanding, to a point, and communication, to a point. But wolves can't engineer an industrial revolution. That's the difference." He waved towards the washrag and bottles of soap in the shower basket. "Teach him what to do. Those farms never bother with training for anything other than the work. Socialization is left up to the end buyer."
James took a rag and squeezed soap onto it, foaming it up and then handed it to Stig, who emulated him. The rag had a lot of soap on it, now, but that was all the better for the work it had to do. James mimed washing. The water was freezing, aside from shoes he was fully dressed, and he was standing pressed as far against the wall as he could be with, essentially, a naked man staring at him and showering. He wasn't really getting the hang of the washrag, either.
"Help him out, James, it's a foreign concept." Johnny was getting all the spray from the shower head, and he was wearing those rubber krocs like chefs wore, standing in a puddle of runoff, leaning against the water closet door. "Don't be afraid to talk to him. He'll learn more if you do. I know you're the man for words, James."
"Alright." James took a breath. "The purpose here is to get clean. See that grey stuff? It's old skin and sweat and it's full of bacteria." He took the rag from the Stig's hand and started washing his left shoulder. "The rag wipes the dirt off. Like...windscreen wipers. The soap kills any bad bacteria that are left. Gets rid of bad smells, too." He washed down Stig's arm and back up the underside, then across his chest, chattering away about how not all the bacteria were bad, and how soap came in different smells. Not used to talking into silence in everyday life, he fell into reviewing mode. He started reviewing his experience being partnered with the Stig, told the Stig how he felt they were each doing in their performance of the new task. He made sure to be full of glowing praise for Stig, because he felt like encouragement was a good place to be.
He got to Stig's waist and handed him the rag back. "That half is up to you, mate."
Stig nodded and carried on where James had left off. James went back to studying the ceiling, giving occasional pointers, like to clean between his toes. Then James took a handful of the Rid-X shampoo and washed the Racing Driver's close cropped hair. He taught him to wash behind his ears. He endured the uncomfortable bright blue stare inches from his face. When he was done washing everything, James showed him how to rinse. How to check for soap residue. They got out and James showed him how to towel off, using an extra towel to wring some of the water out of his own clothes.
In the larger room, he opened a cupboard and showed Stig a clean spare jumpsuit and boots. He explained about the laundry service, and showed him to put his dirty jumpsuit in the hamper inside one of the cupboards. The Stig watched him carefully, but James could see his attention was drawn to the window.
Johnny went with them outside. "You're doing a great job. Just keep up this level of training and he'll be a peach to deal with in no time. My work is done here, today. I'll talk to Mr Wilman about his dietary requirements and exercise routine. Here's my card, you call me anytime you have a question. It's been a real pleasure to meet you, James."
The track was set up with the kinds of neon flags they'd used to train the Racing Drivers at the holding facility. There was no need to teach a Racing Driver a track. After going around once, they'd know the ins and outs better than any human driver. The reasonably priced car was sitting at the starting line. The Stig was over to it like a shot, standing next to it with arms crossed. When James tapped the key fob in his pocket to unlock the door, the Stig jumped inside and looked out through the windscreen for the signal light. The crew had discovered with the last Stig that it was more reliable to signal him from the sidelines, so James counted down from three with big gestures, then pointed at the Stig. The car squealed to life.
James watched as the Stig blew away all the records. Lap after lap he hammered in clean, tight lap times. James felt himself smiling in delight.
Eventually he motioned for the Stig to stop, took him back and settled him in his room. As he walked away, still feeling the buzz of excitement, James' eyes nearly teared up with the deep, fulfilling sense of joy, of finally having gotten to really drive, for the first time in his life.
Wait...what?
Alternate Universe- Tame Racing Drivers
Part 1- Tame
When Jeremy calls The Stig their Tame Racing Driver, there is a lot more to it than jokes for the fans.
An AU in which a secret species is used as Racing Drivers, and Top Gear has one, but has to deal with all that implies.
Tags: Top Gear, The Grand Tour, The Stig, James May, Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, Alternate Universe-Tame Racing Drivers, Slavery
Copyright 2011-2016 jashasedai
Soon
A roaring helicopter shot over the landscape. The doors were open, cold wind buffeting the men inside. Jeremy and Richard had given up on having a shouted conversation over the turbines. They were sitting looking out the port side. Normally Jeremy would have stuck his feet in Richard's lap, saying that as a giant of both size and intellect, he needed the space. But today his feet were planted firmly in front of him. He was sitting there, hanging onto the strap at the top edge of the door. His bicep was bulging. His knuckles white.
Richard was facing the front, and occasionally glanced up to see what the pilot was doing. He'd wanted to fly this mission himself, but it required more experience than he had, and knowledge of the area.
He looked over at James, who had his hand casually through the strap as a safety precaution, and was waiting patiently for the helicopter to reach its destination. "How's he doing, mate?" he called over the rushing.
James reached his left hand out slowly towards the white figure in the seat in front of him. The white helmet jerked back suddenly as if James' hands were a fearful spectre that had appeared out of nowhere. James gestured a thumbs up and then held his hand open, palm upwards.
The Stig shook its helmet. It tucked its hand under its arms, and then untucked them and cradled its helmet in its hands.
James looked at the others. "It's getting worse."
---
2002
When Top Gear had started, James hadn't been on the show and no one had wanted to go with Andy Wilman, the producer, to pick out the first Stig. In the end, Andy and Jeremy had made a decision about what they wanted, and Andy went to pick him out.
Black would look cooler, they decided. It would really make a statement to the fans that this driver was hot stuff, a threat to speed records everywhere. Andy had chosen the first Stig, later differentiated by his unusual colouring, and brought him back to Dunsfold, where he imprinted on their chosen match.
That series had experienced a lot of teething issues. Among the trials and tribulations, and problems they simply hadn't been prepared for, they'd lost the Black Stig.
The next time they had a better idea how to handle it.
Jeremy, Richard, and James, the newest presenter, had all gone with Andy. The building was an enormous warehouse surrounded by prison fencing, razor wire at the top to keep what was outside out, and what was inside in. The cars pulled up at the gate. While Wilman showed the guards their papers, Richard leaned over to Jeremy.
"Look at it all. They keep them all in there?"
Andy turned slightly. "Quiet, Richard. This will just be a supplier. No one knows where they come from."
Jeremy whispered as the guard waved them through, "Someone has to know where they come from or they wouldn't be here, would they?"
James grinned internally at this level of cheekiness, and decided he was going to like being a member of the Top Gear team.
The black SUV parked and they went in through a man sized door next to a large shipping door. Inside the building it was noisy with high pitched engine noises. "Come on in," a man in a sharkskin jacket said to them. "Don't mind the noise, the boys are just giving 'em some exercise, like. They live for it, you know." He led them past a temporary wall, and into the body of the warehouse. There were 3 levels along the outer walls. Built mostly of cyclone fencing, with plywood floors. They were 10x10x20 cubicles. In the center of the warehouse were 3 go-kart tracks. Go-karts driven by multi-coloured helmeted figures raced around the tracks. Plastered against the wall of nearly every cubicle, entirely focused on the karts, was a straining Racing Driver.
"I figured you might have trouble with that one you bought last time you were here, Mr Gere. Sometimes the monotone ones are a little… unpredictable." He turned to Andy, looked over the 3 presenters. He looked at Jeremy for a long time, then back at Andy. "You and your associates might be happier with a nice bi-tone. Green and yellow are usually easier to handle. Give your racing team a boost, but won't be too likely to… go over the edge."
James took a half step closer to Richard, raising his hand just slightly. Warning him back.
"We might be amenable to a change-up in colour scheme," Andy started.
Jeremy stepped forward. "What've you got that's fast?"
The supplier looked at him. "Mr Gere tells me your last one lost its match. Racing Drivers have to have a match. Wouldn't do to have a team driver who can't go out in public. Got to have someone to give interviews."
"Yeah, we've got someone." Andy said. "This time I don't want it imprinting on the match, though. You're right, we lost the last one because the guy we found for a match couldn't handle it. This time I want it to imprint on these guys."
The supplier looked unimpressed. "Racing Drivers only imprint once. You can put all three of 'em in there with it and see which one it doesn't kill."
Richard made a questioning squeak.
The man laughed. "I'm just kidding. They won't know you're there unless you're imprinted on them." He looked at Jeremy. "So, you want fast." He started leading them down the line of cubicles. "Well, the monotones are faster than the bi-tones every time. But they're more intense, less… social."
"Even less human, he means," Richard muttered. Andy and James gave him filthy looks.
"If that's what you want, though, this is it, down here. It's the fastest one we've ever had. A certain racing team who just lost their best driver were very keen to have it, but their match didn't feel up to handling such a big stallion."
"How do you tell if it's a he?" James asked. ″I thought they didn't have gender."
"Oh they've got gender, alright. The females match with female humans. Just not a lot of call for mare Racing Drivers. Here it is, our big stallion."
The cubicle had empty cubicles on every side. In it, as desperately focused on the action on the track as any of the others, was what, under other circumstances, could pass as a man in a white jumpsuit and helmet. Not all that big, either, a bit taller than James, but still average height, slim to skinny.
"Why do you call it a big stallion?" Richard asked. "It's not so big."
"It's our dominant male. We have to keep it away from the other Racing Drivers because they keep challenging it. We can only let it out for exercise alone. It's… savaged any other big monotones we put near it. Would you like the boys to put it through its paces?"
"Please," said Andy. The tracks were emptying now, handlers leading away the more passive bi-tone Racing Drivers whose exercise time had finished. A red and orange one kicked the wheel of its go-kart, waving both arms at it as if the kart had cast aspersions on its mother. A handler gently led it away by the arm. "I see your tracks aren't wide enough for passing. Isn't that a little hard on them? Never getting to really race?"
"They get too competitive if they're allowed to pass. We train them to race their own times. Even then, we have to watch the weaker ones. Racing Drivers don't know when to stop. They'd go until they burst their own hearts if we didn't stop them."
Two handlers opened the door to the white Racing Driver's cubicle and one of them held up a fist. The Racing Driver's attention snapped to the fist. The other handler clipped a lead-stick onto the back of its collar. The first opened his fist and let it see the key. The Racing Driver's reflexes were so fast the grab was barely visible. The Top Gear crew flinched back as it slammed to the end of its lead. The second handler was straining against the lead stick, holding the Racing Driver back from his partner. It reached as far as it could stretch, fingers grasping at the keys a foot out of its reach. The man backed up, the second man half walking, half being dragged as he kept it just out of range of the keys. They came up next to one of the go-karts and the man put the key in the kart and stepped back. The Racing Driver's reach and body followed the key as if magnetized. The second handler unclipped the lead.
In a blur, the Racing Driver was in the kart, revving the engine and focused on the little signal light beside the starting line.
"Fascinating, isn't it? It doesn't even know the handlers are there, it just sees the keys," the supplier said. James pulled a face, turning away slightly so he wasn't sneering at the man directly.
The light went green and the kart shot down the track. "It's about a second ahead of our next best time," the supplier told them. "Watch the precision in the cornering. It doesn't adjust any more than absolutely necessary."
"Is a second a lot on a go-kart track?" Richard asked Jeremy.
"How should I know?" the tall man whispered back.
"The spread for the other monotones is within a second. The bi-tones' best times vary anywhere within a 3 second span. On the long track. These tracks all connect when we're doing time trials. A longer track gives a better idea of the difference in ability, since we can't put them on a full sized track. So, yeah. He's the best we've had by a long way." The Racing Driver continued to make circuits of the small track.
"I'd like to confer with my associates," Andy told the supplier. The man nodded and headed off to wait impatiently for their decision.
"What do you think, guys?"
The presenters looked at each other. "It's fast," Jeremy said. "You only have to watch it to see that."
"I think we're not going to get a better opportunity," Richard put in.
"I agree," James said.
Andy nodded. "My thoughts." He went to make the deal. The 3 presenters stood and watched the Racing Driver. The red light signaled it to stop and it sat, tense in the car, watching the red light. The handlers came up and one attached the lead and the other turned the light off and took the keys out of the kart. They led it over to a side area where, once the keys had disappeared from sight, it stood with its arms folded across its chest. With the tracks shut down, the Racing Drivers had stopped focusing on it with laser intensity. Most of them were standing in the same position as the big stallion, though some were drinking from water bottles with straws that went under their helmets, or walking rapidly around the little centre post in their cubicle as though it was a tiny nascar circuit.
"Which of you is going to imprint on the new Stig?" Jeremy asked in an unsubtle attempt to be casual.
"What?! One of us?" Richard said.
"I'd have thought you'd be the one to do it," James added.
"I don't have the time to imprint on a Racing Driver." Jeremy protested.
"Neither do we."
"I heard if something happens to a Racing Driver, the person imprinted to it will die," Richard said.
James rolled his eyes. "That's not true. It's a myth. Like those stories about them being telepathic."
"That last one went crazy when Perry quit," Jeremy said, the words grinding out over his teeth. "He told it he was never coming back, and told it it would belong to Dawe, and it drove that damn car off a damned aircraft carrier."
"Dawe got weird after that, you have to admit," Richard said.
"Dawe was weird before that." Jeremy brushed a bit of lint off his jacket.
James shook his head. "Well how hard can it be?"
The three of them stood outside the imprint room. It was an actual wooden room, with walls that weren't made of mesh. James had preempted the argument's descent into a coin toss, and just volunteered to be the one who imprinted on the Racing Driver. He looked at the other two. They shifted from foot to foot, but nodded. He stepped into the room where the new Stig waited. Five handlers stood ranged around him.
The man in the sharkskin jacket greeted him. "Mr Singh," the supplier said.
James was momentarily thrown by being addressed by his alias, then nodded.
"Let me tell you how this'll work. The first human a Racing Driver lays eyes on without that protective glass will be the only one it'll acknowledge. You've seen how they don't pay no mind to the keepers. After this, that'll change for you. It'll see you, and you will be the only one who can control it. You'll have to be there to train it, and it will have to communicate through you. So the boys, they're gonna pull its helmet off, and you don't be shocked by what you see underneath. Just make eye contact. You look at it until it looks away, you got it?"
"Well, I..."
"That's all there is to it. Go."
Four of the five men grabbed the Racing Driver while the fifth reached for its helmet. It didn't react beyond a slight tensing until the hands touched its helmet, then it started thrashing. It tried to raise its arms and it took all four men to hold them down. It whipped its head to and fro, trying to get free of the grip that was pulling the helmet inexorably up and off. Finally, the handler pulled it free. The wrestling had resulted in the Racing Driver pulled to its knees on the floor. It stopped struggling to reach its helmet when it saw James.
It looked up at him with a young man's face. A human face, with blue eyes and sandy hair. There was no expression other than strain. It was breathing heavily. He looked into its eyes. How could they deny the humanity of these creatures? He stared until the new Stig dropped its, his - James would never think of him as IT again - dropped his eyes to the floor and made a noise that sounded more mechanical than organic. The helmet was crammed back on his head, and James snapped back to himself.
He stepped forward, and stared down the handlers who were releasing their holds, and helped Stig to his feet.
He knew more about Racing Drivers than most people ever would, but only because most people never knew they existed at all. When it came down to the details, most of what he knew was rumor. The only solid fact was that they were a separate, human-like species that lived to race. It wasn't so weird, he told himself.
It was weird, though, the way the Stig just sat in the box and laid down while the handlers nailed it shut. How, when they opened the box at Dunsfold, he just sat up and got out with no indication of discomfort or acknowledgment.
They had a medic who was experienced in treating Racing Drivers brought in. He introduced himself as Giancarlo, asked James to call him Johnny, and told James to bring the Stig into the hanger where he would be staying. James stared at the man.
"How?"
Johnny sighed. "You just tell him to follow you. They're really very intelligent. It's just a different intelligence from ours."
"Come on, then," James said to him. The Stig turned his helmet to face James, but didn't move.
"Try hand gestures. Most of the untrained ones know those, at least."
James waved in a 'come here' gesture. The Stig stepped forward, right into his space. James backed up a step, holding his hands up to stop the Stig from following. He made a thumbs up. Stepped back again with a less lively come here wave. Stig followed, as though he was on a lead.
"You're a natural. Communicating with him comes easily to you."
"It's all the practice communicating with those two pillocks," he muttered.
There was a walled off area of one of the hangers near the studio. It was equipped with no furniture at this point. Just laminate walls, flooring and sub-ceiling, and a row of cupboards along one side. There was a window, though, that looked out onto the track.
The medic wanted to do an examination; he instructed James to get the Stig's jumpsuit and helmet off. James thought for a moment, then tapped the Stig. "Stig," he said. He tapped himself. "James." He was half expecting a 'me Tarzan' moment, but the Stig just nodded. James mimed taking an imaginary helmet off. The Stig tensed. "It's alright, Stig. We're not going to hurt you." He smiled, trying to put off friendly vibes. Stig's hands reached up and slowly pulled his helmet off. He tucked it under his arm.
James' smile widened. "Good!" He gave a thumbs up. Then he mimed taking the jumpsuit off.
Stig took a step back, shaking his head. His very human eyes didn't show fear, but they did show tension.
James glanced at the medic for help.
"You're doing fine," Johnny told him. "Show him you mean it. Ask him again, but keep it upbeat. They respond better to the carrot than the stick."
James mimed again. The Stig strode forward and got right in his face. It didn't seem like an innocent misunderstanding like the first time, it seemed threatening. He looked down at James with narrowed eyes. James couldn't bring himself to stare back.
"Nope," Johnny said. "Look past him. Don't let him challenge you. You're in charge here, not him. Step away slowly, and we'll leave the room." He opened the door. James swallowed and focused on the window beyond the Stig. He felt the ice blue eyes on him, but he stepped backwards out of the room with Johnny. Johnny blew out a breath. "I haven't seen one that aggressive in a long time. Usually they don't go after their partners like that. You did a good job. We'll just stay out here for a bit. He needs to learn you won't give him the satisfaction of competing against him."
"What was he doing? Would he have hurt me?"
"He must be used to fighting pretty hard to stay in charge. Racing Drivers compete by racing, but they'll compete in pretty much anything. Chicken is a favorite. That's what he was doing to you, trying to make you stare him down."
"But I looked away, doesn't that mean he won?"
"No, you didn't acknowledge his challenge. You didn't make eye contact. That was exactly right."
James shuddered. He only hadn't made eye contact because it made him uncomfortable to do so. He had a lot to learn.
"Alright, let's go back in. If he comes after you like that, again, make sure not to acknowledge him."
"Would he have hurt me?" James realized Johnny hadn't answered that question the first time.
"No. But he'd have thought he was in charge, and you'd have had to work hard to come back from that."
They stepped back in. The Stig was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, staring out the window. His helmet was back on. He turned when James came in.
James gestured again for him to remove his helmet and jumpsuit. "We have to get you checked out before we can let you out on the track."
Stig's helmet lifted just a bit. He turned slightly back towards the window where the track was visible. He looked back at James and removed his helmet and started to strip off his jumpsuit. He had a grubby undershirt on, and he stopped with his suit around his waist to peel this off. The term peel was incredibly apt. It stuck and when he dropped it on the floor beside him, it landed with a thunk, and didn't flatten to the ground.
There was a distinct odour. It was strong.
Johnny's face was drawn into an angry frown.
James jaw had dropped. The body underneath, still appearing human, was pale, bony, emaciated and bruised.
There were dozens of linear bruises crisscrossing his chest, belly and arms in obvious cyclone fencing patterns. A picture came into James' mind of the Racing Drivers straining against the fencing of their cubicles. The image of what would happen if a strong man was throwing himself against a wire cage repeatedly. "Bloody Nora."
The Stig didn't stop at his waist. Once his undershirt was off, he bent down and unstrapped his boots revealing bare feet, then stripped out of his trousers to a pair of boxer briefs that hadn't originally been grey.
His legs weren't as bad off as his torso, though his knees were bruised and there were more crisscrosses on his thighs.
Johnny was red faced with rage, but keeping his voice level, he said. "These places shouldn't be allowed to do this. He's in bad shape. First thing is to check him for… further injuries. He won't let me touch him, so you'll have to do it."
"Shouldn't first thing be to clean him off?" James asked, tightly.
"Ideally, but if there's anything untreated I want to find out what it is now. We'll start by checking his heart and lungs. You hold the stethoscope and I'll listen." He handed James the round end of the stethoscope and pointed to where to place it on the Stig's chest. "A little higher. There."
James was curious what it sounded like. He was about to ask, when Johnny directed him to move the scope to another point, then two different spots on Stig's back, having him tell Stig to breath deeply. James accomplished this by breathing deeply himself and making a sweeping motion like his lungs expanding with his free hand.
"Now, eventually you'll be able to do this basic stuff on your own. Not really medical stuff, just Racing Driver first aid." He wiped off the ear-pods and handed the stethoscope to James, having him repeat the pattern of points and listening to the results. The heartbeat was fast, a continuous patter patter. "Count the beats, there should be between 180 and 230 per minute. It'll be easier if you count in segments of 15 seconds and do the maths."
James counted, multiplied the answer by 4. He tried again. The stethoscope was extremely sensitive. The beats were plain. He tried again. "I'm only getting 140."
"That's what I got, too. He's in pretty bad shape. They have a broader metabolic range than humans. It's low, but within tolerance." Johnny pointed at the places on Stig's back where James would listen to his lungs. "Any sort of wheezing or rattling or any difference between the lungs is something to call me about." James listened. He couldn't really determine anything, but memorized the sound of normal Stig breathing. All the while the Racing Driver just stood there, just watching James out of the corner of his eye.
"It's alright, Stig." James smiled. "You're doing a good job." He gave him a thumbs up.
"I'm going to have a look at his bruises. They look pretty typical for a Racing Driver that's just come out of a holding facility. Those places are never adequate. Too many Racing Drivers, not enough space, never enough track time, and never adequate tracks. Their survival ratings are like 70%." Johnny growled, leaning close to look over Stig's torso. "The ones that don't make it are almost always the weaker bi-tones. Those ones don't bring in as much of a profit, so what does it matter to the suppliers if they lose some of the stock? Don't even get me started on the poly-tones. They practically produce them in mills in the colonies."
He straightened up. Sighed. Got a hold of himself. "This one will be ok, though. We'd better get him cleaned up. Bring him through this way." Andy had arranged a sort of lavatory. It was like the ones on ships, or in caravans, where the whole lavatory worked as a shower. Except this one had more room. It was still a very tight squeeze for two full sized people. James stopped outside so Johnny could step in first. The medic shook his head. "He won't let me touch him, remember. We'll leave the door open and I'll stay right here."
James took off his shoes and stepped into the water closet.
"You may want to get him to leave the shorts out here," Johnny said.
James blushed. He mimed taking shorts off.
The apparently human male reached down and pushed his pants down off his hips. They dropped to the floor. James studied the ceiling. Waved the Stig forward into the water closet. James tried to remind himself, despite the very immediate evidence, that he was not about to be in extremely close quarters with another man who was showering. At least in school the other boys hadn't been crammed two to a stall.
"What, precisely is the difference in Racing Drivers and Humans? His heart beats faster, and I know they have reflexes that are off the charts, but strictly speaking, what makes them inhuman?"
Johnny reached in and turned on the water. It was cold. It made James gasp. The Stig just turned his face up into it. "Biologically? Not much. Psychologically, just about everything. Biologically the difference is like dogs and wolves. There's a few tweaks here and there that make them superior specimens." The built up filth of captivity was running off Stig in little rivers. "Psychologically, though, it's like humans and wolves. They are intelligent, they have a social structure, they communicate with each other. Between the species there can be understanding, to a point, and communication, to a point. But wolves can't engineer an industrial revolution. That's the difference." He waved towards the washrag and bottles of soap in the shower basket. "Teach him what to do. Those farms never bother with training for anything other than the work. Socialization is left up to the end buyer."
James took a rag and squeezed soap onto it, foaming it up and then handed it to Stig, who emulated him. The rag had a lot of soap on it, now, but that was all the better for the work it had to do. James mimed washing. The water was freezing, aside from shoes he was fully dressed, and he was standing pressed as far against the wall as he could be with, essentially, a naked man staring at him and showering. He wasn't really getting the hang of the washrag, either.
"Help him out, James, it's a foreign concept." Johnny was getting all the spray from the shower head, and he was wearing those rubber krocs like chefs wore, standing in a puddle of runoff, leaning against the water closet door. "Don't be afraid to talk to him. He'll learn more if you do. I know you're the man for words, James."
"Alright." James took a breath. "The purpose here is to get clean. See that grey stuff? It's old skin and sweat and it's full of bacteria." He took the rag from the Stig's hand and started washing his left shoulder. "The rag wipes the dirt off. Like...windscreen wipers. The soap kills any bad bacteria that are left. Gets rid of bad smells, too." He washed down Stig's arm and back up the underside, then across his chest, chattering away about how not all the bacteria were bad, and how soap came in different smells. Not used to talking into silence in everyday life, he fell into reviewing mode. He started reviewing his experience being partnered with the Stig, told the Stig how he felt they were each doing in their performance of the new task. He made sure to be full of glowing praise for Stig, because he felt like encouragement was a good place to be.
He got to Stig's waist and handed him the rag back. "That half is up to you, mate."
Stig nodded and carried on where James had left off. James went back to studying the ceiling, giving occasional pointers, like to clean between his toes. Then James took a handful of the Rid-X shampoo and washed the Racing Driver's close cropped hair. He taught him to wash behind his ears. He endured the uncomfortable bright blue stare inches from his face. When he was done washing everything, James showed him how to rinse. How to check for soap residue. They got out and James showed him how to towel off, using an extra towel to wring some of the water out of his own clothes.
In the larger room, he opened a cupboard and showed Stig a clean spare jumpsuit and boots. He explained about the laundry service, and showed him to put his dirty jumpsuit in the hamper inside one of the cupboards. The Stig watched him carefully, but James could see his attention was drawn to the window.
Johnny went with them outside. "You're doing a great job. Just keep up this level of training and he'll be a peach to deal with in no time. My work is done here, today. I'll talk to Mr Wilman about his dietary requirements and exercise routine. Here's my card, you call me anytime you have a question. It's been a real pleasure to meet you, James."
The track was set up with the kinds of neon flags they'd used to train the Racing Drivers at the holding facility. There was no need to teach a Racing Driver a track. After going around once, they'd know the ins and outs better than any human driver. The reasonably priced car was sitting at the starting line. The Stig was over to it like a shot, standing next to it with arms crossed. When James tapped the key fob in his pocket to unlock the door, the Stig jumped inside and looked out through the windscreen for the signal light. The crew had discovered with the last Stig that it was more reliable to signal him from the sidelines, so James counted down from three with big gestures, then pointed at the Stig. The car squealed to life.
James watched as the Stig blew away all the records. Lap after lap he hammered in clean, tight lap times. James felt himself smiling in delight.
Eventually he motioned for the Stig to stop, took him back and settled him in his room. As he walked away, still feeling the buzz of excitement, James' eyes nearly teared up with the deep, fulfilling sense of joy, of finally having gotten to really drive, for the first time in his life.
Wait...what?