James "Lightning" McQueen, 22 years old, Canadian. A rookie street racer.
The story begins after Glenn defeats Rico Valdez's street gang, "The Eastsiders," in Olympic City. McQueen is now revered as the city's best street racer. After the final race, he's leaning against the hood of his Skyline, celebrating, when his cell phone rings. He answers.
"Congratulations, Lightning," the man said, his deep voice coming through the phone screen. "You've just become a legend around here. My name is Victor Kane. I have a team that needs someone of your caliber, McQueen. I'm inviting you to join."
McQueen replied coldly, without hesitation, "No, thank you. I'm not interested."
Kane chuckled softly, menacingly, "I won't take no for an answer, McQueen. You'll rethink that very quickly."
McQueen stares at the screen for a second, then simply presses the end-of-call button and throws his cell phone onto the passenger seat.
Later, while driving to the celebratory party, the phone rings again. It's Natalia.
Natalia asked excitedly, loud music playing in the background — Glenn! Where are you, Lightning? The party's on fire here! Everyone's asking about the king of Olympic City. You gotta come soon, man! People want to see the guy who took down the Eastsiders!
— I'm on my way, Naty. Don't miss my beer, okay? — he replied with a smile, speeding up.
The call continues for a few seconds, with Natalia laughing and talking about the crowd, when suddenly bright headlights illuminate the rearview mirror. A black Hummer H2 appears out of nowhere in the dark alley ahead.
— Glenn!? What was that? Is everything alright there? — she asked, worried.
Before he can answer, the light blinds everything. The Hummer accelerates and violently crashes into the Skyline. The car spins, metal creaking, glass shattering, slamming against a wall.
The Hummer stops a few meters away. The driver's side window slowly rolls down. A man with a clearly visible scythe tattoo on his hand holds the phone to his ear.
— Yes. Problem solved. The Skyline is in pieces. It won't be racing anytime soon. — said the man, cold and calm.
Six months later.
McQueen is on a plane to Bayview. He opens the envelope Natalia gave him at the airport. Inside, a handwritten note:
"Good luck in Bayview, champ. You deserve a fresh start. Be careful with new people, but trust Rachel — she's one of the good ones. The car key is hers. Don't forget me, okay?
Kisses, Naty."
Along with the note, a car key with a silver keychain engraved: "Rachel".
McQueen arrives at the Bayview terminal, picks up his suitcase and goes to the parking lot. There it is: a bright green Nissan 350Z, immaculate, waiting for him. He gets in, adjusts the rearview mirror and starts the engine. The familiar roar makes him smile for the first time in months.
A female voice comes through the car's sound system, a recorded message from Rachel:
"— Glenn McQueen! Welcome to Bayview," her voice cheerful but firm. "The insurance money for your Skyline is already in your account. Go to the dealership on the coast and choose your first new car. But first… use my 350Z. You have three races allowed with it. Show this city you didn't come here for a stroll. Good luck. And drive like a maniac."
Glenn grips the steering wheel, engages the gear, and speeds off from the parking lot in a left-hand drift. Bayview is about to learn the name of Lightning McQueen.
He drives past the airport exit, admiring the car's power and beauty, when he sees a group of people huddled on a corner in Fort Union. As he approaches, he realizes a group of street racers are there for a race. The crowd notices Rachel's 350Z arriving and starts cheering excitedly—the best driver in town was there to race—but when they realize it's not her, one of the drivers approaches the car door and speaks to McQueen.
"Hey, man? Borrowed Rachel's car and already thinks you're the big shot? Show us more than just a pretty car to prove you belong here. Grab your money and let's get started. Two laps. The track map will be downloaded to your GPS."
"I'm in," McQueen replied with a smile.
They line up the cars at the highway entrance, the roar of the engines driving the crowd wild. McQueen grips the steering wheel tightly, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.
"Okay, let's go. Focus. Speed… I am speed!" he whispered to himself.
The 350Z's engine revved up, adrenaline began to flow. A woman approached the cars and positioned herself in front of them, signaling for them to get ready; the roar of the cars became more aggressive, a subtle display of power. She raised her arms, the cars were ready, she quickly lowered them, and they all sped off, tires screeching.
The race became an intense spectacle, the drivers trying to overtake each other while having to dodge civilian cars. McQueen felt the car's raw power and accelerated, extracting everything the car had to offer.
"Let's see how Rachel modified you."
He accelerated against the flow of traffic, dodging a car coming towards him. Further ahead, he reached a tight corner and drifted the car. The other racers tried to keep up, but McQueen's drift was surgical. He exited the corner with his foot down, the rev counter almost kissing the red zone. Looking in his rearview mirror, he sees one of his opponents attempting an inside overtake, but he doesn't give him an opening. He feigns a right turn and, at the last millisecond, lightly pulls the handbrake, letting his opponent go straight past and crash sideways into the guardrail.
"Amateur," McQueen mutters, a smirk appearing as he activates the nitro.
The world around them becomes a blur of neon lights. The 350Z roars, the gears engage with a melodic symphony, the straight-cut gear making its characteristic sound. He cuts through Fort Union traffic as if the civilian cars were standing still. He accelerates and passes the bridge above the stadium, and he spots the dealership, but keeps accelerating.
As they enter the main straight of Fort Union, civilian traffic becomes dense. One of the racers plays dirty, overtaking and blocking McQueen's path, forcing him to brake sharply to avoid colliding with a taxi.
"Want to play dirty? Let's play dirty then," McQueen murmurs, his eyes fixed on the asphalt.
He notices an opening in the oncoming lane. Without hesitation, he swerves the 350Z to the left. The sound of oncoming car horns is deafening, but McQueen keeps his cool. He weaves between an SUV and a delivery truck, feeling the vacuum shake the Nissan's body.
With only a few meters left to complete the first lap, a golden opportunity arises. The Mustang ahead tries to take the perfect line, but McQueen uses the curb for leverage, slightly jumping the edge to cut the angle of the curve. The 350Z lands perfectly, its suspension absorbing the impact; it's now glued to the rear bumper of its opponent.
The Mustang accelerates and attempts evasive maneuvers, trying to force the 350Z out of its slipstream, but McQueen doesn't give in and continues in the slipstream, increasing his speed. They reach the airport entrance curve; one of the drivers, in his Honda Civic, attempts an overtake on the right, pulling alongside McQueen.
In the final stretch of the last lap, McQueen activates the nitro and overtakes the Mustang, gaining a small distance from it, but as they were near the finish line, the Mustang hits the side of the 350Z's rear wheel, causing it to lose control and skid. McQueen tries to maintain control, managing luckily to cross the line in first place and finishing with a 360 on the asphalt.
"Yes! Ah, kid!" McQueen exclaims.
At the end of the race, one of the drivers—the same one who teased him for driving a car that wasn't his—approaches.
"Hey, you did great, brother. You showed you really have talent." In his cheerful tone, he extends his hand for a handshake. "What's your name, rookie?"
"McQueen," he replied. "But you can call me Lightning McQueen."
"Lightning?" he laughed, but respectfully. "Aren't you a little too cocky for someone who just arrived? This is just the beginning, my son." You'll need a lot more than just Rachel's car to win. —getting into his Civic— I'll remember you. Welcome to Bayview, Lightning.