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V

It was somewhat relieving to see that somebody had taken initiative and gotten ahold of the medical services not long after McQueen had, only just, pulled Francesco from the heated remains of his car. He had had enough trouble with getting through the smoke as it was, but the six-strap seatbelt of the formula car probably would have cost them both their lives in the fireball if he wasn't quick.

Thank God he was. He was cutting it quite close to their ends but he managed. Francesco did have an extra gash down his side now from the dented metal digging into him and being pulled out, but it was either sustain another injury, or die in Satan's bonfire.

As soon as McQueen thought they were far enough away from the burning wreckage, he promptly dropped to the ground as his legs went weak, only just preventing the Italian racer from smacking his head off the dirt. He kept one hand pressed against the gushing wound, positively fuming at himself for that and trying to weight that against the possibility of burning to death instead. It seemed obvious which option was preferable, yet he just couldn't shake off that blameworthy feeling.

He awkwardly shifted Francesco's helmet off his head, setting it aside and feeling slight relief as the Italian racer gasped in the cleaner air. Alive, though only just. McQueen cursed inwardly at his inability to read a situation; he should have realised something was wrong the moment Francesco began talking in first person rather than his usual over-confidence-prompted third person. Seemingly insignificant detail, yes, but such things had their importance regardless of the circumstances and situations surrounding it.

"Did you finish?"

He jumped slightly, looking down at the pretty badly injured (understatement of the year) racer and scarcely stammering out his answer.

"I just- you see- I mean I tried to-" he paused to collect himself, "I tried to brake, I swear, but I-" McQueen stopped mid-sentence, panicking as Francesco sighed dejectedly and relaxed further, his eyes closing tiredly. He pressed marginally harder on the gash, getting more worried by the minute as warm blood seeped between his fingers. Where the hell were the paramedics when you needed them? This wasn't some little playground trip and someone had scraped their knee; this was a major life-threatening crash and someone had more than a close scathe with some sharp metal.

So where were they?

----

'Of course the finish line was more important,'

Sirens wailed in the distance, or were they closer than they seemed?

'The win is more important than a life?'

He weakly pulled his cross out and held onto the pendant desperately, his hand caked with blood.

'Am I-...am I going to die?'

He blinked in and out of consciousness, one minute finding himself staring at the blue skies dotted with black clouds of smoke, the next he found the white roof of an ambulance with cool, clean air rushing through his lungs and the gentle hold on someone's hand in his own.

And then it was complete darkness.

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