He never lingers for too long. Perhaps it was fear that if he stayed for too long, he would be remembered and all he wanted was to be forgotten. Ghostly and malevolent, the press called him. A devil on the racetrack. Burning away the tires, the stench of burnt rubber tasting like dead carcasses in his mouth. Sick, sickening, he keeps on driving, he can't stay here long, he needs to vanish, he doesn't need to exist, he doesn't need to be needed---
He stops and time flinches, the whirlwind of fading reveals a dark background of rain and clouds around the track. He wipes the rain from his mouth (face, face, face, he had one of those right?). He hadn't been driving, just sitting in the car, letting the rain seep into the leather. He quietly steps out and shuts the door.
"What is it, Speed?"
Speed is quiet for a moment and says, "Why are you here? This is his--," he pauses and swallows harshly, "This was our racetrack. Rex and mine."
"You should go home," Racer X replies staunchly, "It's late and you'll catch a cold."
"You will too," Speed says calmly, taking in the soaked jumpsuit, "We could go home, mom will--."
"Not there," Racer X brushes his reply away, "And it's none of your concern. I'm your rival remember?"
Racer X doesn't twitch, but he remained a dim solitary figure against the rain, like an obstacle to all nature, rage and silence in one man. Speed waits patiently, for an answer of any kind to break the constant drum of the rain.
He doesn't get one. Racer X stalks away, only his back clear to Speed as he was left in the rain with confusion and a ghost.