#cars fanfiction

[riordanness]

follow the sparks, i’ll drive — [l.mcqueen]

a lightning mcqueen human car racer!au x personal assistant fanfiction (coming soon!!)

“follow the sparks, i’ll drive <3” playlist

“slutty version” playlist (by @motherrpearl )

— 🏆᯾ 🖇️ ❀ 🏎️ ✞ 📸 ☘︎︎ 🏁 ༄

— 🏆᯾ 🖇️ ❀ 🏎️ ✞ 📸 ☘︎︎ 🏁 ༄

Okay… Here we go. Focus. Speed. I am speed. One winner, 42 losers. I eat losers for breakfast. Breakfast. Wait, maybe I should have had breakfast. A little breck-y could be good for me. No, no, no, stay focused. Speed. I'm faster than fast. Quicker than quick. I am lightning!

“Hey, Jay! You ready?” A familiar girl’s voice, his personal assistant, life coach, and coffee supplier, cuts through his thoughts and interrupts his pep talk. “We don’t have long.”

“Oh, yeah,” the boy replies. “Lightning's ready.”

— 🏆᯾ 🖇️ ❀ 🏎️ ✞ 📸 ☘︎︎ 🏁 ༄

in which,, an arrogant, selfish, famous race car driver goes missing, and the girl who’s always been in love with him has to pick up the pieces of his life, as she always does.

— 🏆᯾ 🖇️ ❀ 🏎️ ✞ 📸 ☘︎︎ 🏁 ༄

comment to be added to the taglist!! coming soon <3

[thirteens-lucky-tardis]

GUYSSSS-

😭💖😭💖😭💖😭💖😭💖😭💖😭💖

(Art by @kkelsey--spring )

[praxcrown5]

Carstober Prompt 19: Still on Duty

"Doc meant a lot to me. He was my crew chief, my mentor and my friend. But what the public really doesn't get is that he meant a lot to a lot of people, especially those who'd known him since he first rolled into town. And, when he died, the pain of that loss hung over the town like a shroud for months. Everyone was hurting. Everyone was grieving.

But Sheriff took it the worst.

He and Doc had been a couple since the sixties. They didn't, like, announce it publicly, or anything, and they kept things professional out in public...but you could tell.

And...I fully expected Sheriff to break down when I told him the news. But he didn't. He showed no outward signs that he was bothered in any way.

He didn't cry at the funeral.

He kept up with his duties in and around town.

In fact, unless you really knew - knew him as much as anyone, knew him from the way Doc talked around him, talked about his own life but made it obvious Sheriff was a part of it, watched Doc's eyes light up, subtly of course, whenever their eyes met, watched the slight change in their smiles, the cant of their tires, the leaning in closer during conversation - you'd think that Sheriff was just as quiet as always, just focused on policing, on trying to keep a handle as Radiator Springs kept growing.

But, if you watched, you'd see him slow down when he passed their old haunts, look just a touch forlorn as he spied the garage, Doc's parking space at Flo's. If you watched, really watched, you could see that the town, his town, their town, was pain." -- Cars Weekly Interview with Lightning McQueen, January 12th, 2011.

[heartstringsbloom]

“What’s the last thing your mother said to you?”

The microphone is shoved under his face and McQueen starts. That’s. . .not the question he had been expecting.

“I’m—sorry, what does—?“

“Do you regret not visiting more often?”

“Hold on—“

“Monty.” Mom is there now, hanging behind the reporter like a shadow. His own eyes stare back at him so lovingly he might be sick. “I want you to follow your dream.”

“Mom. . .”

He feels her hand on his face. She’s closer suddenly. Her voice echoes around him, drowning out the reporters, the cheering fans. His panicked breathing.

“It’s gonna be okay. Your sister and I are gonna be keeping an eye on you.”

Lightn—Monty forces himself to swallow. The cameras are blinding. He shuts his eyes against the flashing but he still sees her. “How can you? I’m so far away. Mom, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

“Mr. McQueen! How selfish can you be to leave your family behind for the track? MR. MCQUEEN!“

“STOP!” He crashes to the ground, doesn’t feel the impact. He- he might throw up. “I don’t know! Stop asking me!”

He sobs, hard. His eyes are squeezed shut yet somehow he still sees her beside him. He can’t escape her—his—her eyes, or her voice. A soothing haunt to his ears.

“Baby, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

“No I’m not.” Monty hugs his knees to his chest. Everything keeps fading in and out but her presence is steady. Too real. Not real enough.

“Mom,” he sobs.

“I’m so proud of you,” she soothes in his hair. Her hugs are just as warm as he thinks he remembers. But he still can’t feel her.

“You—you shouldn’t be.”

“You oughtta call your sister, sundrop.”

“I can’t, mom.” Monty sniffles. He feels smaller than ever. Nothing exists beyond her feather-light embrace. “She probably hates me.”

He closes his eyes and, finally, everything fades with that. Mom rocks them both, humming something about needing to run to the store for glue to finish Maisie’s costume for the play.

“Into The Woods?” They had both performed in that one. They had performed in a lot of plays together. The last one was when they were 15.

“You know your songs, baby?”

He snuggles in just like he used to. “Yeah, mama.”

She kisses his temple. Monty’s too tired to open his eyes, as if they’re glued shut. Mama squeezes him tight, still rocking back and forth. The last time he let her hold him like that was when he was 12.

“Love you, sunshine,” she whispers. He wants to say ‘don’t go,’ but his body is heavy.

His eyes open to window of Doc’s guest room.

It’s a bit cold, and he can see the sky is barely awake. He pulls the blankets tighter around himself. It’s half a comfort.

The room is a low grey. It’s early-early. Doc’s gonna get him up for training in a couple of hours. Mont—Lightning can barely stomach the idea, but he pushes out of bed anyway. He can at least get a shower and food.

The dream sits untouched in the back of his mind. He can’t help but to. . .well, he doesn’t recall much of it at all, but he can’t shake it. He doesn’t really want to.

His hands feel loose as he reaches for the shower curtain. It rests there, unmoving, unwilling. He just doesn’t have it in him. Lightning pulls away and slides to the floor, lashes sticky on his cheeks.

People always told him he had his mother’s face. For some reason they never said it to Maisie, though it could have been for her brown eyes. It hurt to look at her sometimes, as if he were missing out on something he never knew, but at the same time they were incredible. A treasure only she held. Maisie never liked her eyes. Monty appreciated them, though he’d never admitted it (he should have told her).

Same lips. Same jaw. Same piercing eyes, different colors. Maisie got mistaken for him, and he got mistaken for mom, even though Maisie had mom’s honey-to-gold blonde hair. Monty’s was strawberry blonde, almost rosy (rosy like his and Maisie’s cheeks).

He jolts awake when someone knocks at the bathroom door.

“Lightning?” Doc calls. “You about ready?”

Light. . .ning blinks himself awake (“pay attention, McQueen.” His sister would say during rehearsals, snapping her fingers in his face. They shared the same last name). He pushes up from the floor, eyes thick with sleep he doesn’t know if he wants. His legs are weak. He slips down with a sigh.

“Monty?”

(“Monty,” mom says softly when he won’t get out of bed. “You’ll be late for school.”)

The door creaks open. He feels Doc press a hand to his forehead.

“What’s goin’ on, kid?” Doc sounds worried, actually.

“Jus’ tired,” Lightning slurs. His lips barely move. “Tried to get a shower, couldn’t keep myself up.”

Doc’s beside him now. He brushes some hair from Lightning’s eyes. “You feelin’ sick?”

“Nah.” Maybe?

It’s quiet for a moment. He can hear Doc thinking.

“I think we can skip practice today. Go back to bed.” Doc stands, helps Lightning up. “I’ll bring you some food in a bit. Should have some water, too.”

Yeah. His lips do feel dry.

(“You need some lip balm,” his sister tells him through the mirror one night as she does her makeup. He’s still trying to get the stupid wig to look right. “And water.”)

Shut up, Maisie.

“Hey, you don’t have to like it,” Doc hums, as if Light spoke aloud. Maybe he did. “It’s what’s best for now.”

“You always say that,” Lightning whines, feeling in quite the mood to just be difficult.

(“You always say that,” he mutters to their reflection. She clicks her tongue and decides to not with the usual ‘I’m always right.’)

Doc eases him into the once messy bed now tucked neatly because Doc sometimes goes behind his back like that, and folds the sheets around his waist. The comforter has been folded on the desk chair.

“Try to sleep, rookie.”

“Sleep is so off season, Doc.” Lightning scoffs and burrows into his pillow. “Let me behind the wheel and I’ll. . .”

Tires spinning. Dirt flying. Turn right to go—

(“One day,” Monty asserts, laying on his sister’s shoulder. The tv screen glows black and white in the darkness of their little living room. “Someday soon, that’ll be me.”

He feels feels her hum more than he hears her. “Your hair’s in my nose.”

“What was that? I couldn’t hear with your hair in my ear.”

“Chomp.”

“Chomp?”

“. . .”

“Did you bite—“)

“—my hair?” Monty mumbles in his pillow.

He hears a chuckle.

Gets everywhere, someone says.

He doesn’t know who. The door shuts quietly.

Lightning wakes up to a note on the bedside in Doc’s handwriting, saying he’ll be at the clinic til 5 or so. Then he checks his phone and there’s a text with the same message, because Doc figured he’d better appreciate that.

He sits up and stretches, letting out a lion’s yawn that tastes like a fresh start and all the sleep he could have asked for. His stomach draws wide circles in him and he glances about for that food Doc had promised.

Doc wouldn’t just leave food out for however long to go bad.

He finds some soup and a cup of strawberries in the fridge. Soup is never his first choice but the strawberries help it go down. He surprisingly doesn’t mind it as much as he usually does, especially when it’s hot and warms him right up. He’s all the more grateful that Doc didn’t leave it out to go bad (as opposed to Lightning, who hasn’t just once forgotten to put leftovers away before bed).

“He’s so cool,” Lightning sighs. The doorbell rings.

As he opens it, he’s met with the most beautiful sight.

“Howdy, doll.” Sally dips her sunglasses and smirks. “You got a date to the prom?”

He sips from his bowl and leans on the doorframe, fighting to hear himself over the speed of his heart. “She just showed up.”

Sally leans up to kiss him before he leaps back, hand over his mouth.

“Stickers?”

“I’m sick, Sal!”

Sally, angel she is, laughs and draws his hand down. She pecks him softly, like, wow. “S’not gonna stop me.”

“Hm?” He’s still reeling from how lovely it always is.

“Nothing, babe.” She walks through the living room and he bounds after, so happy to be together. “How’re you feeling?”

“Good.” He sits back down at the table and opens his arms, wraps the blanket he’s been wearing around them both. “Sleepy. Is that weird? I just woke up.”

“My poor, sick baby.” Sally’s kiss tastes like strawberries. Oh, the thief. “The soup should help.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like soup,” Light mumbles against her crown. “How’ve you been?”

She swirls one of the berries in the bowl, giving a noncommittal shrug. “Well it’s slow today, but most people aren’t rushing through our cute little town this time of year. Don’t get me wrong, I love the activity.” She sighs, takes a bite and Lightning plucks a piece of chicken from the bowl. “It’s just nice having it to ourselves every now and then, not having to deal with all the buzz Mr. Golden racer boy brings everywhere he goes.”

He snorts. “I wouldn’t say I’m that popular.”

“Sure. Sky’s not blue.”

“Maybe not to you.” And he means it, watching her nibble the soup-coated berry and gaze sleepily towards the window above the sink. Bluer than blue, everything she is. Beautiful and true.

“You wanna come by the Cone? I could keep you company.”

“Nah.” He moves the bowl towards her, stealing back his cup of fruit. “It was enough walking to the front door and back.”

“Don’t be a stranger, shortcake.” She moves off of his lap and he misses her already. “I’m calling every couple hours, hear me? If you don’t answer, I’ll peek through your window until you either shoo me off or I get tired of looking at you.”

He rolls his eyes. “In other words, I’d have to actually tell you to leave.” Impossible. He’d never want her to leave.

Her smirk is back. “I know how hard that is for you, so I’ll make the agonizing—“ Sally clutches her heart, lifts her knuckles to her brow “—sacrifice of leaving on my own. See what you’re doing to me, stickers? Do you see how much I go through for you?”

“Always.” He kisses the back of her hand, drops his forehead to it. “I love you.”

He feels her brush a curl behind his ear and knows that she’s the best he could have ever asked for. “I love you too, Lightning.”

They part soon after, with Sally reiterating her promise to check in regularly and Lightning promising to let her.

As he wraps himself in bed, belly comfortably full and face more relaxed, he wonders if he’s forgotten something. His eyes will fall closed and he’ll think he sees someone, he almost knows he does, but they’re gone as soon as he’s conscious of them. There’s a voice he hasn’t heard in years but could never forget. Someone’s hand in his, whispering reassurances behind a curtain. The murmur of an audience. Gone again, back to nothingness behind his eyes. And as it goes, each time.

He falls asleep on a stage, sharing a dream he’s left behind.

It’s loud this time of night, voices bleeding over each other as silverware and plates meet. The tv over the bar is low, far from the main diner and even farther from those just outside, but she catches things here and there all the same. She’s learned how to use her ears.

Racing season must be at its peak. The interviewer on air won’t stop babbling about that three-way tie. Maisie still can’t wrap her head around such a blunder. Least of all can she believe how reckless he was.

Monty never used to be so careless.

When the press shove their way to him (“McQueen! McQueen!”) he’s leaning on his car, smirk loose and proud, arms crossed as if he’s everything and more, the brat (he’s enough, always has been, but she never told him and that hits her harder and harder every night). He prides himself on this one-man show attitude. Maisie tries to get lost in anything else: her cider is bubbly and sweet, he’d like it, Monty’s so different now; the night is cool and deep and unlike the flashes on screen that capture his every move and perfect teeth (as if he ever knew when to stop eating candy. Did he break the habit?).

Ugh, this is her least favorite part of the night, having to sit and wonder. He’s not even thinking about her. Not with his flashy new lifestyle and adoring fans. She polishes off her cider, listening to someone on tv yell that they quit, but refusing to watch. She recalls the news articles detailing each crew Monty’s fired. Maisie leaves her glass at the bar, tips the bartender who smiles her way, asks if she’ll get along fine on her own. She hums noncommittally, adds a few more bills to his tip because he has been a real gentleman all night. She leaves before he can ask again.

In her car she melts against the steering wheel, exhaustion hitting her at once. She doesn’t have to be on set til 9-ish, so she can sleep until 7 or so and make the next town over on time. And right now it’s. . .

Well, if she’s back at the motel and in bed within the next forty-or-so minutes she’ll catch a few hours of sleep after accounting for the bug-watch she’ll be doing. As it goes.

(Why hadn’t he called?)

Why hasn’t she?

She pushes away the accusation, scoffs at it. She’s been busy, obviously. Busy getting background roles and sleeping with the lights on to avoid bugs, or keep them away, but either way she doesn’t sleep. Busy having to settle with a stale bagel each morning because of her allergies and the hotel staff never knowing what’s been used in their meals. Monty probably gets his food special-made. Maisie hopes he remembers to be mindful anyway. He seems fine so far, at least.

Fine enough without her. No reason to call.

Her thumb hovers over his contact in her phone, as it does at least twice a day. He’s on live tv. She could call and embarrass him, probably, if he bothers to pick up. In front of the camera? He’d be ridiculous to. It’s not out of his league, but he wouldn’t have his phone on him. Not just after a race. She couldn’t bring herself to do it anyway, to even taint his success, though it crawls under her skin to just. . .and maybe she’s different now, too.

Her hand shakes and her throat dries. She tosses the phone to the passenger side, breathes through the weight behind her eyes. She’s just tired. And very tempted to go back for a few more ciders, fooling herself into thinking she could afford it. But she’s a big girl. She can pull through without the sugary support.

Maisie drives through McDonald’s for a small coffee—it won’t do much for her, but it’ll make the night a little easier—and heads back to the motel.

It’s a quiet drive. She keeps the radio off, really in no mood for it, though she hasn’t been able to get that one song out of her head for a while.

“Life could be a dream. . .”

The city is its best at night. The lights always fill Maisie with nostalgia for those long, sleepy rides along the freeway, nodding off on her brother’s shoulder as mama drove home. She can’t feel the lights like she would her family, but they’re almost an embrace. They’re close enough.

In the back of her mind she sees those lights on the red carpet. Cameras flashing (“McQueen, McQueen!”) catching her every angle, every one her best. Capturing him, too, as they walk side by side in this dream they’d have built.

There they would be: on a stage doing their latest Broadway hit. Her makeup perfect and his wig finally right. Monty and Maisie, twin sensations.

She’s back at the hotel before she knows it. Her coffee is cold when she picks it up, and she’s no way to heat it. Maisie sighs and brings it in anyway.

She sets it on the small table under the mounted tv that doesn’t get any channels. She showers quickly, well past ready for bed. The stage comes and goes, but her thoughts keep Monty the rest of the night. Her thumb hovers over the contact.

Maisie falls asleep, phone in hand, missing a far-off dream and a far-away sibling.

[pleasantbirdsand]

Someone please tell me the author of Those Little Things Called ‘Right Turns’ (Sherb42) is on here cause I think dadswap au is wonderful

[goldendiie]

when i come back you’ll still be here. (X)

[angst3njoyer]

everyone is just losing their shit because lightning has fucking DIED. docs about to shove his head into a brick wall, sheriff looks like he’s going to go into a panic attack, maters okay? HELL NO. he’s been HAVING panic attacks. you’d think he’d move on just like that but have you seen?? how he reacts?? whenever lightnings on the verge of death??? (cars 2 and cars 3 specifically, although I don’t see cars 2 as canon.) sally has practically been a corpse for the past three days. don’t worry flos cooking the pain away, oh, the foods salty? maybe because blood, sweat and *literal goddamn tears* have been put into the food, sarge is dead (not literally), fillmore is deader (not literally), lizzie has enough issues she doesn’t need more, red doesn’t have to worry about watering his flowers for a good while, his tears are already helping the flowers. everyone is just losing it.

i need a fanfic to the towns responses to this if this really happened. i need angst in my blood. I don’t know why. All I know is that mater would *not* just be sad and call it a day. if someone tried to put their hands on his best friend he would beat their ass. (again proven in cars 2, but that.. we don’t speak of that movie.)

[kei-maki]

Saw that @secretly-larry-daley began mentioning his Cars 3 rewrite and I thought it’d be a good time to also mention that I’m working on a rewrite for Cars 2 :D

Feel free to send asks about it!

[racer62]

Wanna participate in a cars related event?

WELL NOW YOU CAN :D

Try your hand at writing an apocalyptic alternate universe fanfic on cars! And don't worry, It doesn't have to be Shakespeare level, just do your absolute best!

Put it in the following collection:

Yes, I know that's extremely out of pocket for a cars fic, but that's the fun of it!

AND if you don't feel like writing, you could draw something. Either, fanart of someone else's fic or just an original piece. Use the hashtag when you post it here on tumblr: #Cars Apocalypse

(The quality of the art gets better if you click it💀)

Or you do both writing and fanart, entirely up to you🫵

[pinkpinkmermayyy]

guys felt a little cringe started writing a cringe cars au fic

@gaystappen @champmorado @punkeropercyjackson @penguinotaku

Im cringe but im free

[thirteens-lucky-tardis]

In a quick Google search, I come to find that Mater was probably born January 12th, 1957, making him 49 in the first Cars movie. In further research, Sally is speculated to be late 30s to early 40s, meaning everyone in Radiator Springs (besides Sally) is 40 and up. Lightning is speculated to be early to mid 20s. Now I'm in love with the idea of everyone hating Lightning at first because he's this borderline angsty teen who thinks he's so much better than everyone else and everyone is so tired of his crap at first, then grows to love him after a while.

That Cars fanfic is looking pretty good right now...

[praxcrown5]

Carstober Prompt #s 9 and 10: Poor Choice/Roadkill

"When I was a kid, I used to sneak out at night to race the main roads. It was dangerous--ALL racing is dangerous--but I was a young hot-rod with a chip on my hood. Bad things only happened to adults, and I was a kid with an engine that could put out 120 horsepower.

One night, after I'd spent the evening tearing up the back roads, I tried sneaking back into the house through the door into the den. Pa was home and, because of how big he was, he slept in the den with Ma. I knew Ma was still at the garage, working a double because the clinic wanted her to dissect a special engine.

Since Pa usually went to bed really early, I coasted down the driveway as quietly as I could, and I popped the latch using a set of tools that I'd made.

I opened the door...and found myself staring directly at his grille.

"Hud." He rumbled, looking down at me with severe brown eyes. "You snuck out of the house, again. From what your Ma has told me, that's the tenth time this month."

Despite him being five times my size, I wasn't intimidated. I glared back, and puffed myself up, defiantly. "Yeah, and?"

I thought he might yell, but instead he just stared at me, troubled. "Were you racing?"

"Yeah."

"It's dangerous, you know."

I snorted derisively. "Everything is dangerous, according to you and Ma." I pushed forward so that we were, effectively, bumper to bumper. "I bet if y'all had your way, you'd keep me locked up in the house, lest I scuff up my tires driving down Main Street."

Usually, being loud and aggressive would make most other cars back away. It was my defense mechanism, and it had worked wonders in and around town.

But Pa was unfazed. He held his ground and turned my push forward into an affectionate nuzzle. "Hud, I mean it. I've seen some pretty horrible things on my travels..." he sighed, and my arrogance sort of fizzled. "I...don't want anything bad to happen to you, is all."

I reversed a bit and glared at him, suspicious. "If you actually cared, you'd be home more often."

His expression shifted slightly. I could see that my statement hurt him, but, rather than yell, his shades drew down so that he looked both sad...and determined. "Do you know what a coal scraper is?"

Of course I knew what a coal scraper was. Everyone did. They were giant, feral scavengers that lived in the woods and traveled in herds.

I cocked a shade. What game was he playing?

"Long before my family started their lumber business, they would mine coal. It was hard work, and to make things easier, they domesticated coal scrapers to help collect and transport the resource to various camps situated throughout the woods. Once the mines were depleted, they released their dutiful beasts of burden back to the wild where they still roam to this day."

"So...what does this have to do with racing?" I asked, truly unsure where this was going.

"Coal scrapers still roam these woods. They're very, very hard to see in the dark, and they often use our roads as game trails."

I reversed a bit. "You mean...people hit them?"

He nodded.

"You've seen this?"

"Yes." He looked at me, shrewdly. "Most cars are robust enough to survive the collision. But coal scrapers are scavengers, and a disabled car lying broken and bleeding on the road is an easy meal."

I stared at him, unblinking.

"Good night, Son." He said, reversing slowly back to his usual sleeping spot.

I remember darting into the house, closing the door behind me and hurrying back up the ramp to my room where I hunkered under a blanket for two days, re-evaluating my life up until that point. His warning was one of the few things from that time that I truly took to heart.

And for good reason.

Two weeks later, I snuck out of the house to go racing with my friends. No sooner than we started down the switchbacks into Oracle Valley, than a Heard of Coal Scrapers crossed the road right in front of us. We barely stopped in time.

I think, had Pa not told me that story, we all would have been going a lot faster down those curves. And that little bit of caution...even if it was just a tiny voice in the back of my head, stayed my ego enough that I could live to drive another day." -- An Excerpt from "Recollections of the Hudson Hornet." Vol 2, pages 34-37.

[carboardserpent]

Jackson Storm is autistic, no you can't change my mind.

Anyway, have a little thing I wrote about it.

- - -

The track stinks, even through the helmet. Burned rubber and exhaust fumes are apparently one of the best things about the sports, if you ask fans and other drivers. It stings my eyes and burns in my throat. You'd think eventually you'd get used to it. You'd be wrong.

The sun is reflecting off advertisement boards placed above the seats of the stands. Every one flashes a glint of light through the top of the windshield that keeps catching my attention and distracting me.

The roaring of 40 engines is deafening through windows only covered by a net, and there's a voice in my ear trying to talk me through the plan I already know. I can hear myself responding, but I'm not actually sure what I'm saying. Whatever it is seems to be satisfactory, though - the voice in my ear goes quiet a moment before the engine roar gets louder.

My body responds without me telling it to. Foot down, shift up; it's automatic. Everything looks kind of hazy. Like a light mist has covered the track, even though the sun is shining directly in my eyes from over the top of the stands. I'm not really in control, but that's okay. I don't need to be.

I'm free to float in this hazy disconnect, watching myself drive like I'm a passenger in my own body. It's fine. I'll come back to myself when there's thirty laps to go. I always do.

[goldendiie]

americana OC posting: featuring chicago’68 (my favorite historical event), fillmore’s wedding (which probably never happened), and my own illegible handwriting.

[angst3njoyer]

what if i made a fanfic about mater being the one to be with doc in his last moments? i know a lot of people are more interested in lightning and doc angst, but id like to see more content about doc and maters relationship. after all, one of the reasons doc became lightnings crew chief is because of "mater not being able to say goodbye." (NOT A SHIP)