/ect/ - EUfag cry thread

youtube.com/watch?v=TnLAC5AJPuM

>near future EUSSR
>middle of the night
>turn the key
>entire neighborhood is terrorized by the thunder of a four cylinder shitbox
>roll out the renegade vehicle
>drive for one last time before the secret police chases you down
>it was a good run, my friend
>WE DIE IN FIRE AND FLAMES
>YEAAAAAAAAAH

In the UK you need a license for that

>Insurance will go ballistic on any cars with non self driving capabilities

tfw

>Where will the mass emigration of enthusiasts be to?
Honestly thinking about it a lot. There might be a few possibilities.
If you're a bikefag, South-East Asia might be a good bed. bikes and scooters are now so deeply engrained into everyone's daily life that it would be impossible to ban them at once, and it would take at least four decades to get the people used to something else enough to replace them all. So it might be a good place to be if you want to make sure your bike will still be allowed on the road. Not to mention, Vietnam has some god-tier mountain roads.
As for cars, perhaps South Africa. The immigration procedures are nowhere near as long, convoluted or expensive as that of the USA, especially if you have a degree in anything which will also allow you to make a fairly comfortable living (unlike in the rest of Africa where you won't need to give a shit about laws in the first place but getting a car maintained there will be near impossible if it's not an old Merc or a Hilux, though it seems car culture is somewhat growing in Kenya and Ethiopia), and the country is not only quite large but also fucking empty. Might become a safe haven for offroad guys. Not too sure if the roads are in good enough condition for the rest though.

Hey I was in that thread.
It was a truly glorious thing.

>being white in South Africa
shiggy diggy

Beats being white in the UK, France or Germany.
At least you can go hide in the middle of nowhere.

>implying you can't have fun in ices or sub 1l ecobboxes
we will find a way
youtube.com/watch?v=zoeqPbxN7WQ

bump because I'm writing a story based on this thread. should be up in 10-20 minutes.

Better end in main character death (probably by suicide) or it won't be about a relatable character.

it'll be even better than that.

godspeed james

This just looks sad.

>guy gets "the talk" when he turns 18
>takes him some time to fully realize what it meant to be responsible enough to live with freedom
>by the time he does, he also faces the challenge of becoming self-sufficient through employement
>he can finally do what he wanted rather than what he needed or what he was expected to do
>it takes him little time to realize that the world has changed and what he has been told about responsability is no longer true
>he lives in a system that does not exist to make sure liberty is not abused and responsability taken, but rather insures everyone's maximal safety and comfort, at the complete detriment of any risk-taker, any industrious person, anyone who does not fit the approved mold
>and he faces the one fate worse than death : a life with no drive, no purpose, no spark of joy or ectacy, nothing but the numbing feeling of a warm cocoon designed to never surprise you with anything too unexpected, nothing that might hurt you
>the one thing worse than death : an empty life

>no loud revs
>no gear shifting
>battery overheats after a while anyway, so I have to auto-pilot home in limp mode
So this is the future that awaits us?

in what kind of retarded dystopia do you faggots live?
are y'all brits or what?

where is it then faggot

sorry m8 the story is even bigger than expected lel
im still doing it, and this thread is still open.

just wait a little, i'm sorry about the delay.

>What will we do, lads? Where will the mass emigration of enthusiasts be to?
My uncle has a country place, that no one knows about. He says it used to be a farm before the Motor Law.
youtube.com/watch?v=FAvQSkK8Z8U

Only if you're christian tho.

I just keep expanding the scope of the story more and more so I add more to it. That's why it's taking so long.

But I promise when it's done it will be a much better story than if I just stopped now. I want to post the entire story rather than post one part, then have everyone wait 30 minutes for the next part and so on.

But it'll be done user :)

Well if thread dies before then just make a new one, people usually like this type of stuff

Alright I understand user. I'll post the first bit in 10 minutes. I'll pace out the rest of the story so as I write the final bits it should all get done in quick succession.

Post theme: youtube.com/watch?v=-8xeStLTnhM

CHAPTER 1 - PROLOGUE:

>The year is 2050.
>Self driving has been outlawed.
>The now retired legendary Mid Night members gather in an old Japanese mountain pass. The last mountain without constant drone coverage.
>Only 23 remain from their group. The rest had cut ties or passed into the cold night. These were Japan's last men.
>They spent their 20s here. Memories came rushing back.
>Memories of high speed runs on the Shuto Expressway.
>Memories of racing their friends - some they considered their brothers up Japan's innumerable peaks
>Memories of wearing away their tires as they cascaded down the mountain passes at suicidal speeds, their driving rendering the laws of physics as mere suggestions as they took each turn, each hairpin with inhuman finesse

>But it was all gone now, recreational driving had been propagandised as a crime akin to murder. Liberties stripped away in the name of safety.
>23 of the finest cars from the distant 90s now stood here. The finest cars Japan ever made. Skylines. RX7s. Supras. 300Zs. NSXs.
>Each was an automotive expression of the human condition. Love letters to the art of driving.
>Icons.
>Made in an era of liberty that paid no heed to fearmongering. By companies that still catered to the lucky few drivers who did not view cars as appliances.

>But this group, this legendary group of 23 purpose built machines were also the last. The rest had been seized in a worldwide crackdown - branded "assault vehicles"; too dangerous to even own.

youtube.com/watch?v=fE6xNjphq-0

Post theme: youtube.com/watch?v=_VONMkKkdf4

CHAPTER 2 - THE FALL

>Garages, driveways, show rooms, even museums. All raided of any internal combustion engine powered car by the now corporate controlled United Nations in a global campaign in 2038 aptly named "The Silencing".
>Millions died as the UN converged on every country, every city and every village the world over in a misguided crusade to seize the human driven personal vehicle - a final symbol of liberty.
>The world cheered. Babysat by conglomerates and corporations the world over for the last 3 decades, they lapped up every shred of propaganda transmitted from the UN HQ in New York.

>Henry Ford was stigmatized and labelled as a root cause for environmental decline. Felix Wankel was vilified, his surviving family arrested on counts of treason against Germany.
>Mazda was dissolved in 2034 and its factories destroyed as the company would not succumb to international pressure to begin building EV vehicles. Shortly after the company claimed its Skyactiv-Z combustion engine platform was as eco-friendly as an average electric vehicle, governments worldwide moved swiftly to suppress stories about this breakthrough and the CEO, Masamichi Kogai was sentenced for a lifetime in solitary confinement. He died of heartbreak a year later.
>Porsche faced a similar fate. The board of directors, now led by the great grandson of Ferdinand Porsche rebought their own shares and voluntarily detached the company from the Volkswagen Auto Group. In an incredible act of defiance, the board voted unanimously to dissolve the company as they did not see a future for a brand dedicated to driver's cars in an era without drivers. They were quickly branded traitors to the German people by the German Chancellor. The very word "Porsche" became a slur throughout Germany overnight.

>What will we do, lads?
Import cars from Russia.
/thread

An anger is actually brewing just reading this >:(

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CHAPTER 3 - THE DEFIANT FEW

>Over the decades, car enthusiasts had gradually been branded as "senile old men" to be laughed at. This rapidly morphed into "dangerous threats to the environment".
>But in the eyes of the global elite, that was not enough. This defiant populace who drove their own cars could not be controlled. They could not be watched at all times. Could not be commercialised.
>No built in speed limit enforcers. No cameras. No embedded GPS chips. No microphones to pick up "problematic conversations." No self driving systems to allow police to wrest control of personal vehicles.
>Petrol powered vehicles, the last of which had been built in the 2020s, had none of these shackles.
>Political power belonged to only the richest conglomerates, so in an era where every the personal vehicle was an EV, the richest were the companies that made them.
>And there was far, far too much money to be gained in electric motor production to allow even the minutiae of cars that were combustion engine powered to roam the streets.
>This corporate agenda meshed perfectly with the needs for governments the world over to spy on their denizens, to end privacy and independence of man from state.
>1984 was merely an instruction manual, and Orwell its ideal architect. But the few drivers and antiquated cars that endured through all these years represented a past that they could not escape.
>The few that remained had to be purged.

>>Only 23 remain from their group. The rest had cut ties or passed into the cold night. These were Japan's last men.
god damn i wonder what they would think if they read this
im laughing and crying at same time
what happend to smokey the madman? he did kamikaze attack with his v12 supra?

>mfw smokey will die for our sins in my lifeime

th song is way better at 1.5 speed

remember: /k/ has our back and is our greatest ally

[In case anyone is getting a bit lost, I'm currently oulining the "Silencing" event. Don't worry, I'll get back to the mid night stuff soon. Just laying a bit of framework to the story, fleshing out the world in 2050]

Post theme: youtube.com/watch?v=r2rIm_Td2Mk

CHAPTER 4 - WHEN MEN WERE MEN

>These few - these defiant few - characterised by their roaring innards, represented the old guard. Each unique machine with its own character. Its own voice. Each as eager as each other to growl in confrontation of the new world. The growls of inline 4s, of V8s, of V10s, of rotaries, all in perfect unison.
>These machines - that were once divided by manufacturer, by engine displacement , by country - now stood as one.
>Each one of these now rare automobiles were coupled with owners that had not fallen for the lies of oppressive modernity, who stood beside their cars in solidarity.
>Who vowed to stand by the only machines that existed in this modern dystopia that did not lie to them, that did not spy on them. These great machines, driven by these "dangerous men" were eternal reminders of the freedom of their fathers. Direct contradictions to the lies of this manufactured modernity. They were boisterous insults to the global elite.

>Each shift, each push of the clutch pedal, each blip of the throttle was a poignant ceremony of vociferous remembrance of when humanity stood strong. Of when humanity was free.
>Of when Men were Men.

>storyfaggot
more like glorious faggot

how stoned is he

/OK/
W H E N
H W N E
E N W H
N E H W

>Don't worry, I'll get back to the mid night stuff soon
Do we have too? I'm really not looking forward to some weeby wanking over a bunch of guys who would then be in their 80s and were not that particularly good in the first place, just had the catchiest name

h-how does it end

Unfortunately so user, I've already written that part. Don't worry, I don't try to make them into gods or anything.

WE WILL RIDE ETERNAL, SHINY AND CHROME

>>These few - these defiant few - characterised by their roaring innards, represented the old guard. Each unique machine with its own character. Its own voice. Each as eager as each other to growl in confrontation of the new world. The growls of inline 4s, of V8s, of V10s, of rotaries, all in perfect unison.
>>These machines - that were once divided by manufacturer, by engine displacement , by country - now stood as one.
>>Each one of these now rare automobiles were coupled with owners that had not fallen for the lies of oppressive modernity, who stood beside their cars in solidarity.
>>Who vowed to stand by the only machines that existed in this modern dystopia that did not lie to them, that did not spy on them. These great machines, driven by these "dangerous men" were eternal reminders of the freedom of their fathers. Direct contradictions to the lies of this manufactured modernity. They were boisterous insults to the global elite.
h-holy shit
better than shakespeare

w-was eggman assasinated?

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CHAPTER 5 - AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT

>The throaty rumbles from the LS motors of American muscle cars traipsing through the American desert. Raspy inline 4s from the ancient era of the 1980s reverberating from Japanese mountaintops. The 997 911's iconic naturally aspirated flat 6 shouting an angry note through the streets of Stuttgart where it was created half a century earlier. The Aston V12 howling a loud, low note across the great British B-roads. The S-14 from the very last E30 M3 still on the roads screaming down the Autobahn. The glorious anthem of a naturally aspirated Lamborghini V12 screeching through the Italian riviera, flanked by acres of vineyards. The melancholic, droning ballad from the 15B rotary engine from a pair of RX9s scampering through the Australian outback.
>These thunderous sounds that littered the world over were the last reminders for the global populace of an era of freedom. An era they now mocked. But an era that inspired the silent minority.

>Each mechanical, snarling rev of dissent echoed through the countryside. But they were also reminders. Reminders to the silent men that looked on in awe, but men plagued by inaction.
>Reminders to not go gentle into that good night.
>To rage, rage against the dying of the night.

>These cars now stood among the shapeless safety obsessed spheres that modern cars had now become as insolent reminders of when humanity was unshackled.
>Octane pulsing through metallic veins, exhaling emphatically through exhausts. These mere machines retained more humanity than anyone scorning them could muster.
>Each one, a unique mechanical incarnation, an immortalization of the emotions of its engineers and designers. A human imprint - a soul.

>To the corporate conglomerates, they were provocations. Triggers that could snap humanity out of its trance. An encouragement of independence. An angry

>An unacceptable proposition.

Nah, he just died of a tragic and unfortunate heart attack (while driving his very own car that had several bullets lodged in its windshield and tires and had explosives hidden under the driver seat, which really did show the world how dangerous and irresponsible it was to drive your own car and prove that not only can you not trust your mere human instincts while driving, you can't even trust your engineering skills to build your own car)

The government of South Africa ignores black murders against whites. It's not like that in Europe. Not yet.

this is some nextlvl shit

Post theme: youtube.com/watch?v=k9NM-yK1C2I

CHAPTER 5 - DANGEROUS MEN

>Further propaganda and state sanctioned, state supported domestic terrorism the world over against these so-called "dangerous" men morphed public opinion to a tipping point.

>In the eyes of the public, car enthusiasts were now a threat to their very lives.
>A threat that, according to elite, were raring to run over pedestrians as they still had a "dangerous weapon" called the steering wheel in their grasp.
>A threat that would commit any crime without repercussion or chance of punishment due to a lack of security cameras riddling the interior and exterior of their cars.
>That would be free to "shriek hate speech" as they had no microphones wired directly to domestic security agencies in the interior of their cars.
>A threat that was responsible every environmental catastrophe throughout the globe.

>No one questioned this.

>After all, it was 2050. By the turn of the decade, independent thought had become a taboo. A mental illness. It was taught out of children at correctional facilities the world over.
>It was an antiquity, an obnoxious fragment of a bygone era. The loss of humanity's greatest trait led to no questions raised at the worldwide indoctrination.
>Few men paused and realised that the million petrol powered cars that remained on the roads had little to no effect on the environment. That emissions from ships and planes outnumbered cars by a million to one.
>Few men paused and realised that as cities the world over had exiled drivers as dangerous pariahs, they only the dotted sparsely populated countrysides, causing little threat to any other living being, for they numbered so few, and were dispersed so far and wide.

>Far from their families and society, they had believed that they were now at liberty to live as free men. Wishful thinking that they were free men that could drive. No matter the cost.

>Wishful thinking indeed.

i dont know what the fuck you are smoking, but dan, keep smoking it... you are shitting out some masterpieces

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CHAPTER 7 - THE SILENCING

>The clocks hit midnight.
>2038 was welcomed with a chorus of digital fireworks that silently projected across the mega metropolises of the world.
>It was also welcomed by the sound of gunfire. A 67 year old man was shot dead by police in New York while he was celebrating the event with his family for disturbing the peace.
>His only crime was that he dared to turn the ignition in his Shelby GT350. Pinned back into his seat by a pistol round, his last moments were spent clutching the old leather steering wheel. The rumble of Carol Shelby's V8 was his eulogy.
>The Mustang gurgled through the night until it was eventually publicly disassembled by a mob. Long after the body panels were torn off and its wheels hacked off, the V8 engine kept firing.
>An act of defiance in tribute to its last owner.

>But the switch had been flipped. The celebrations emanating from the event pressured the governments of the world to take action.
>They were more than happy to oblige.
>With a huge military response, the likes of which not seen since the Iraq War, each country mobilized to work quickly against the dangerous men.
>A global warrant was issued, ordering every petrol vehicle to be abandoned and its location known for a quick destruction. Any defiant men would be seen as traitors to the people, and summarily arrested.

well gotta sleep ill check this tomorrow
so far 11/10

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CHAPTER 8 - MIGRATION

>Overnight, the US became host to the greatest V8 orchestra of all time.
>Throughout every state, men set out into the great nothingness, with their cars their only company. Knowing it would be their final ride. And driving despite this. They would do whatever it takes to keep themselves and their humanity alive.

>V8s pulsated from Mustangs of every age, driving at full throttle alongside countless Camaros.
>Ford GTs and Corvettes traversed through interstates innumerable. They drove side by side; once mortal enemies. Now necessary allies, their drivers united by the now dying passion of their cars.
>They all gravitated towards Detroit. In an age of no religious belief, there was some hope of a divine intervention in the birthplace of the motor car. A righteous bolt from heaven to save what they held dear.

>But in their heart of hearts, they knew they would not make it. But they drove regardless, into oblivion. They were human, after all.

>Alongside their American brethren, a magnificent roar of V12s emanated throughout the British countryside. Aston Martins, striding powerfully alongside Jaguars and Bentleys drove north, into the mountains of Scotland. They hoped to find solace in the wilderness.

>Their plaid cabins were their final graves. Their time of death shown in the ornate dashboard analogue clocks that had stopped functioning as the cars started to become riddled with bullets as they powered up the M1 in a fatalistic, yet vain hunt for glory.

>Screaming Italian V12s from Lamborghinis and Ferraris drove north in search of the Alps. The two marques once divided by philosophy, now united in doing what Ferrucio and Enzo would have done themselves - united in the pursuit of motoring nirvana.
>But they were far outnumbered by the Alfas. Akin to the armies of Rome, the red legions driven by Italia's bravest pulsed through the countryside, the spirit of Caesar coursing through their veins.

>Roma Invicta!

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CHAPTER 9 - ALPINE GRAVES

>In the distant mountains of Japan, its finest sports cars roared to life in pursuit of Mount Haruna
>This would be their final touge, a final test to see what their aging machines could accomplish. An honourable end.

>They achieved that they sought.

>In Germany, tens of thousands of flat 6 engines coughed into life. Some hadn't driven in decades.
>But the 911 was not a car to pass quietly into the night. From its very inception until the closing of the factories in Stuttgart, they remained as the finest drivers cars ever produced.
>Countless racing victories adorned the 911's name, but this was its greatest race. Its race for survival. A fight to preserve the legacy of the great Ferdinand Porsche.
>The citizens of Stuttgart serenaded its brave sons as they drove into the night.
>Porsches of all models and all years joined as brothers in arms as they drove down the Autobahn one final time. All on a southward course.

>Mercedes and BMWs of all models formed the most unlikely partnerships as they followed their brothers southwards.
>3 Series joined alongside C classes. 5 series with E classes.
>The vanguards of this German legion were the finest cars BMW's M division, and Mercedes' AMG tuning house ever produced.
>The orchestra of V8s and Inline 6s lit up the Bavarian countryside

>They all joined the Italians in search of refuge in the snow covered passes of the Alps.

>The avalanche triggered by the men who hunted them caused the mountains to be their final resting places.

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CHAPTER 10 - THE LAST MID NIGHT

>All that remained were this fateful 23.
>It had taken them months to prepare for this, none of their cars had run in decades. They were old now, most in their 60s and 70s - far from the idolized legends they had been. None of that mattered. Not tonight.
>It was necessary now.

>Within an instant, a 2JZ roared to life. A hair raising, throaty cacophony emanating from the depths of a pearl white mk.4 Supra. Akira-san knew it would be the last time it would sing.
>Wiping away a solitary tear, he reached for his gloves. His trembling hands gripping his old alcantara steering wheel.
>He wiped away the dust from the centre cap. The Toyota logo hidden beneath the dust glimmered.
>He felt young again.

>A chorus of 13-Bs began to idle, an angry buzz reverberated. This was followed closely by the menacing gurgles of the RB26DETT emanating from the 6 dusty old R34s.
>A red NSX coughs into life. The headlights slide up from the bonnet, illuminating the fateful pass ahead.
>Kentaro-san stepped on the clutch. His now ragged, wrinkled hands grabbed the shifter. He pushed it away from him as it glided effortlessly into first.
>The brim of his HKS branded cap cast a shade onto his eyes that he was thankful for; they were starting to well up.
>He stamped hard on the accelerator, the tachometer needle hitting 8000RPM within an instant, his foot still firmly on the clutch.
>The 3.0L V6 sang.
>A song of bravery.
>A song of opposition to the new world.

Post theme: youtube.com/watch?v=9qvglWAHDak

CHAPTER 11 - RUNNING IN THE 90s

>One by one, the others joined him.
>Each press of the accelerator pedal from each car added a rough, yet beautiful note of rebellion that resounded across the cherry blossoms that lined the mountain pass.
>The solo had become an orchestra.
>An orchestra of a bygone era. An orchestra of defiance.
>A glorious composition that reverberated around the dystopian silence of the Hokkaido prefecture.

>Kentaro-san's left foot flew off the clutch, the NSX's bright rear light bar disappearing in a cloud of smoke as his old Pirellis struggled and contorted in a squealing effort for grip
>The smoke dissipated, the NSX now only visible as a lonely red line in the distant darkness
>Akira-san's rough features lit up into a smile and he slammed his foot onto the accelerator, his left foot releasing the clutch in perfect unison
>The Supra bellowed an angry note in response, as it followed the NSX into oblivion.
>The blow off valves hissed like snakes in approval, Akira-san pushing the fabled 2JZ to its limit

>The NSX was now only meters ahead, the Supra had closed the gap incredibly quickly.
>Akira was not surprised by his progress - Hokkaido's downhill Tomuraushi pass was arrow straight for the first mile. But after that, the NSX would come into its own as the tarmac twisted and turned into countless hairpins.

>They arrived at the first corner
>In perfect sync, both men pushed onto their brakes and their heels pivoted as they blipped the throttle, the V6 engines revving in encouragement
>As they rounded the bend Kentaro realised he was not alone. A black RX7 screamed a high pitched note as it accelerated away from the apex. The pack of R34 V Specs followed directly behind. Even more RX7s, Supras and Fairladies emerged from the darkness of the night.
>The 23 cars now drove as a single, rapid block.

>The orchestra was looking for an audience.

This makes for a breddy inderesding setting actually.
I kinda want to write stories of people randomly finding old local cars after 2038 in all sorts of places in the world.
If the thread is still alive later and anyone is interested, I might give it a try.

Post theme: youtube.com/watch?v=411iOnRcjAU

CHAPTER 12 - MID NIGHT

>The sound cascading down the mountainside had already alerted the police in the valley below.
>It didn't matter. Nothing did. They all knew they would face a lifetime of jail for what they were about to do.
>But they knew they would never survive to see those bars. They had lived long lives, and would die having lived one last time.

>The pass had long disappeared behind them, they now drove toward southwards. They would drive for as long as they could, and for as long as their engines would reply to their calls for defiance.
>Lights appeared in the distance ahead, a menacing circular display of blue, red and white. A helicopter began to circle overhead.

>The white R34 within the pack accelerated ever forward, now forming the vanguard for the group. [pic related]
>Memories of their heyday in the 90s flooded their heads. But they all knew this was their finest hour.
>The police lights ahead came ever closer, but each man had their right foot pinned to the floor.

>This was Mid Night's legacy. Their greatest high speed run. A high speed run not measured between themselves, but against the global elite. A herculean effort to outrun the downfall of man.
___

>Inside a lonely house miles away, a grizzled man wakes in the middle of the night to the almost forgotten, faint sounds of a 2JZ emanating through the countryside
>This is followed closely by barely audible rasps of the 13B which puts to rest any thoughts he may be hallucinating.
>With great urgency, he slips on his plain white trainers and pulls on a white t shirt and walks downstairs
>Picking up his phone, he struggles momentarily to remember the phone number of his dear friend, then raises it to his ear as he walks into his garage
>"Yes. Yes I know your brother has passed away but you have to come. Quickly. Bring your FD" he says in a hushed tone. The call ends.

>He stares at his 86.
>"It's time, old friend"

THE END

I hope you enjoyed it my nigs! Sorry it took so long!

im drowning in tears

>>Overnight, the US became host to the greatest V8 orchestra of all time.
>>Throughout every state, men set out into the great nothingness, with their cars their only company. Knowing it would be their final ride. And driving despite this. They would do whatever it takes to keep themselves and their humanity alive.

holy fuk... chills...

Is this the greatest story ever posted on Veeky Forums?

I'm going to go hug my civic now and tell it I love it.

godspeed you beautiful son of bitch

>tfw finished that story

My heart aches

Thanks everyone! Really appreciate it!

Man......

That was beautiful

That story makes me want to floor it into oncoming traffic.
In a good, Rage against the dying of the light way, not a bad story kinda way. Den outta den.

Somebody turn this into a movie.
Please.

inferior storytime inspired by a superior story
pls no bully I just found the idea interesting

Another story of what happened After the Silence

That was his favourite part, the moment when Krayah Solo takes her blaster off her smuggler's vest and gets the upper hand and drops her killer line:
«Now, the Falcon or your life, which matters most here?»
He could recite the line with every intonation. Most people don't much care about Star Wars: Against the Second Order but in his opinion, that series was amongs the best things in the franchise. Jacques was kinda weird like that.
But before he could finish the line, a small annotation appeared in the corner of the screen.
«You have arrived to your destination.»
His previous car faded the movie to black when it arrived but that new model from Google didn't. It gave you a notification and kept playing even when you had arrived. That was one of the main reasons he upgraded in the first place. Well, that and the mocking looks of his classmates when he arrived in the morning in an outdated model.
«Pause the movie, keep it there for when I come back and open the door.»
Jacques stepped out of the vehicle once the door opened. It was even worse than he thought. He was nowhere. There was no other way to say it, he was literally nowhere. The vehicle already had a hard time finding a route houside of the highway network and the urban zone but it could not even make it to the real destination. It was not registered anywhere, so it stopped near a bus stop and parked itself nicely.

Hopefuly Jacques was a clever guy, and a pretty damn autonomous one too so he had it planned: he localized the house, found it on a satellite map, pinned the location on the appropriate app on his tablet and now that the car couldn't find it itself, he still knew where to go. All he needed was to wait for the geolocalisation to work its magic, find him and all he'd have to do was walk, as horrid as that was. He took his luggage-drone out of the vehicle as well and once the very weak connection allowed it, he knew where he was, and he knew where he'd have to go. About 500 meters apparently.
The satmap didn't have much details about that area. No clear names for the streets, or «departmental roads» as they were apparently called, no town names obviously as there was no town to speak of. All he could find was, after a couple meters walking on the side of the road with his luggage-drone folloing him closely behind, was a very small dark brown sign with weird green moss growing over it that said «Le Petit Criabé». What exactly that was, Jacques had no idea, but signs are here for a good reason, usually. It was not even on the satmap so he didn't much knew what to make of it. He kept walking anyway.
This was even smaller than a village. The Criabé, if that's its name, was just a grouping of three houses now in ruins. Formerly a small farming community of a handful of families. All the memories of it died with its inhabitants and nothing was recorded about this place on any database. As far as Jacques knew, it did not even exist and the sign may very well have been part of an elaborate prank made decades ago.

He kept walking (god, why did walking have to be so exhausting? Why didn't they expand the rolling street networks everywhere?), took a turn right, the road turned into a dirt path and he started to fear for his shoes but according to the satmap, he was nearly there. It only took a few more minutes for him to reach the brick wall and the green metal gate. This is actually what he was most anxious about: he pulled a large key from his bag and inserted it in the hole, and turned it. Very slowly at first. He had no clue how much resistance the doors would have, as far as he's concerned there is absolutely no reason why this thing had not been replaced by a recognition system that would pick up his phone, but hey, what can you do? He had watched dozens of old movies just to find scenes of people opening doors with keys so he could have an idea of how that is supposed to work and if these were anything to go by, trying to be too quick or violent with a key would not open the door, the villain would catch up with you and you'd be dead. There was no villain though, only his luggage.
After a bit of struggle, he managed to open the doors, pushed them open and stepped inside what was now his property apparently. He scratched his head and took a look.

Everything was pretty much falling appart. The carden was full of high weeds now, save for the dirt and gravel paths leading to the door and the garage. The old house could very well crumble any day now, its once white walls now quite brown and covered with grapevine. A bench peeked from the weeds, so did a bit furether a round table with three chairs, and a strange rectangular frame with a net attached to it, which Jacques could swear he had seen somewhere…
This whole thing, the house and the garden, the field behind them and a patch of forest furether back all belonged to his great-grandfather and his grandfather before him. Apparently a distant elder bought it after making some money working as a dentist in Indochina. A colonial crime Jacques grew to like apologizing for. Still, great-grand-dad came back from there with something of a fortune for the time and bought a large property in the middle of absolutely nowhere here in the mountains of Auvergne in central France. And he passed it to his son. And when Jacques' grandfather turned 90 just a year ago, he passed it to his son who did not want anything to do with it. So Jacques, out of a strange thing he did not know was called curiosity, decided to take it. He thought it would be a nice, preppy little house in the suburbs of an actual city and hoped he could turn it into perhaps a movie-viewing room for him and his friends, something like that. When it turned out it was hard to even localize by satellite, it was too late to admit he might have made a mistake.

masterpiece.
gonna go hit the touge now.

He managed to open the front door with another key and walked in. Everything was dusty, something he was not used to at all. The room was quite odd, being both something of a living room with tired leather sofas and an ancient TV and a kitchen filled with utensils Jacques could not even identify. He stopped his luggage-drone here, left his bag but kept the key in his pocket. He had a strange feeling. He knew this place could be filled with things he would have to get rid of. Imperialist and colonialist memorabilia, dangerously obsolete technology, unsafe kitchen supplies, offensive pieces of art, all sorts of things that could put his career in jeopardy before it even started. Even his studies could suffer considerably if it turned out a book somewhere had untasteful social commentary or illicit sexual situations described in it, let alone racially or sexually discriminatory content. And his fears were very much reasonable as the kitchen had an obviously racist poster for a (hopefuly) defunct brand called Banania, displaying what is very clearly a condescending imperialist if not straight-up racist image of a person-of-african-origin. He disattached the poster very carefuly, a nasty voice in the back of his head reminding him that illicit objects like that are worth a little fortune on the deep web (or so he's been told). And he'd soon need to upgrade to the next phone.

But even that was not what he feared the most. He had a bit of a cold sweat when he saw a garage. As an aspiring sociologist and expert in environmental-racial-dynamics, he knew of a lot of taboos. Including those that lie in garages.
These things were not easily disclosed to the public but it was considered necessary for the formation of expert in RGCR (Race, Gender and Class Relations) to learn of them. That is how he learned about cars.
He left the room and went, key in hand, to the garage door.
He knew of that considerable common mistake. And he knew how pernicious it had been. But what he was most worried about was of what exactly he would find behind these doors.
As horrific as cars were before the advent of Tesla, Google and many others, not all were equal in the slaughter. Since he learned about them, Jacques had kept a soft spot in his heart for the van drivers, these poor people forced by their employers to work inhumane shifts to transport cargo from place to place, many of them dying of thirst, hunger of exhaustion at the wheel of their death-machines as their absurdly right schedules did not allow them to take a single second to rest. He would understand if he found a van in the garage.
He also found a strange admiration fo those operating farm or construction equipment. The disposable men, the people forcibly strapped onto machines designed for peak-exploitation that would so easily overhead and explode, mowing everything they come across in the process, and reducing their driver, greatest victim of all. He would be proud to know his elders survived entire careers on these horrors.

But what he really feared was to find a truck or a sport car. Trucks had essentially become legends as most media containing them had been edited or deleted from databases to purge the idea out of public consciousness. But apparently they were larger machines, particularly in vogue in North America, driven by understandably worried people or selfish boasters who wanted to be sure that when the unevitable accident happens, they would be the one crushing the other equally guilty driver. They would be in the bigger car, they would come out on top. But whereas the truck stemmed from a need for security, the sport car was a product of pure selfishness and fanatism. It was driven by lunatics who made a sport of breaking the law and endangering everyone they came across. Whether the motivations were caused by belonging in a strange cult worship of speed and supremacy of the driver, or a purely selfish wish to impose themselves over other inferior people, the people driving these sport cars were quite easily the best example of why the 20th century went wrong. It is a well established fact that sport drivers supported supremacist movements, that they were overly represented in all crime statistics, that they were the primary demographic committing rape, all that sort of despicable behavior that mankind had hopefuly evolved beyond. Jacques' greatest fear was to find a sport car behind these doors.
His hand now shivering, he slipped the key into the hole, wiped the sweat from his brow, turned the key, and opened the doors. And there it was.

It was nothing he had ever seen. And he knew most of what one could know about cars. All the crash stats, the relation between the type of car drive and criminal behavior or mental illness.
But this was nothing he had seen before.
It was small and low, angular, obviously quite dusty… But it looked nothing like any car he had found documentation about. It was a small, bright yellow thing, kind of high on its small and narrow wheels, hinged towards the front. It had no doors to speak of, no roof either. Only two small seats and a large empty space behind them with some large cardboard boxes and plastic containers as well as a large piece of black folded cloth. It had a piece of glass on the front, completely rectangular.
More itnerestingly though, it had a small booklet on the driver seat that read:
«Citroën Méhari: Manuel de réparation»
Brilliant. Not only had he just become accessory to murder by owning one of these dangerous machines, the only way to learn more about it was in french. At the university, classes were in english, the overwhelming majority of the media he liked was in english, all his friends spoke in english (in fear of being racially insensitive by asking someone where they are from and what language they spoke). He had barely spoken a word of french since he left home a couple years ago. And even then, he was certainly not used to reading long texts. Text-to-speech translators existed for a good reason after all.
Still, if this was a manual on how to use that thing, then perhaps it also contained info on how to dismantle it before anyone learns of its existence.
Jacques pulled his phone out of his pocket and realised the connection here was so weak, scanning the manual and automatically translating it would take ages. He would have to do it all himself after all.
He sat down on the driver seat, very careful not to touch anything that might move, and started reading.

After a long time trying to decypher some of the absolute nonsense in the manual, full of nothing but complex schematics that did not move and words he was quite sure were made-up, Jacques remembered something he picked from a class in gender-activism: the best way to become a proper ally is to try immersion yourself into another gendered life experience, knowing a struggle is the best way to get a better idea of what it might be and that can only increase the quality of your allyship».
He destined himself to become one of the people helping to spread better social justice and equity through the world thanks to his inherent privilege as a straight white male. So maybe learning of the negativity that plagued the world for so long, that nearly killed the planet, that engrained patriarchal constructs in collective consciousness would help him to better fight it.
The keys were on the passenger seat.
He moved the boxes, containers and the cloth out of the car, put the keys in the hole they were meant to be, and turned them.
He quite literally jumped out of the seat at the racket this caused. His entire body trembling, he got back on his feet. The car, the Mehari was not moving. It was silent now. Maybe he had turned it wrong. He grabbed the manual again, got back into the house and started going through all the books, all the pictures that were in the house in search of clues on how to operate these things.
It took Jacques several days to learn to properly open and close the doors inside the house, use the kitchen, get back to his cat and reach the closest town to get groceries, get rid of the headaches caused by that much reading, figure out how to operate the DVD player and the TV (thank god these things at least have buttons and menus,THANK GOD the house is still on the grid)…
And what impressed him the most was that due to the laughable network coverage, he did not even do one internet search. Might have given him away.

>>The orchestra was looking for an audience.

100% HARD

He was staggered by the amount of media he found. So many books and movies left uncensored. So many depictions of violence and what he would best describe as «coercive gendered sexual violence» but that peole in the movies kept calling «love». And after a lot of digging, he started to get something of a picture:
To start a car, one first needs to turn the ignition key then press on the throttle to get the car started. If the car does not start it might be because it does not have fuel, or it has a serious problem (at which point Jacques planned on giving up, attempting to drive was one thing but repairing would make his crimes even worse). Once that is done, the handbreak must be deactivated. Then the car must be put in gear at which point it will start to move, and will then be directed by steering it thanks to the wheel.
It had been over a week and Jacques felt ready to tackle the Mehari again. He went back to the garage, more comfident this time, but the sight of the car was enough to scare him again. Much less comfident, he stepped in. He had left the key in the hole. He bit his lips and turned it. This time, he did not panic due to the loudness. He kept the key in the hole, pushed to its maximum tipping point for a moment until the massive racket started to smoothen somewhat. His hand shaking heavily, he grapped the steering wheel and, having learned by heard what pedal was what, he pushed on the throttle.
The noise became even worse. He closed his eyes. For a moment he feared someone might hear it, but there was no one arround. He released what he had identified as the handbrake thanks to the manual and as he had gathered would be a good idea, pushed his feet as hard as possible against the brakes.
The Mehari did not move.

Now was the hardest part. He grabbed the knob he had identified as the gear lever and, one foot still on the brake, pushed the clutch, and moved the lever to the position indicated on its pommel. This is when things would get complicated: now he would have to release the brakes, throttle in a bit and gradually release the clutch. He let go of the brakes. The car was still not moving. He let go of the clutch very, very slowly and quite suddenly, the car had a sort of hiccup that almost got him out of his seat. This, as a handy driving manual had told him, was called «stalling».
And he would not let that stop him. Mankind at its worst was full of people capable of operating these things and there was no way he, a far better and more advanced person, would be beaten by the luddites of the past. He persevered and after five more stallings, he took things slow enough and with a scream of sudden panic, the car started to move forward.
He lost all his composure. He pushed as hard as possible on the brakes and the clutch and the car stopped just as it had started.
He did all he could to catch his breath again and planned ahead: once he would leave the garage, he would turn right slowly, go through the garden and once that is done, he'd be in an open field where he'd have room to turn and stop without running into anything. He released the brakes, pushed on the throttle a bit, and gradually released the clutch.

The Mehari started moving once again. Sweating heavily, Jacques kept a tight grip on the steering wheel until he exited the garage. He started to turn the wheel right and the car slowly followed. He turned it a bit furether. The car was still following. He found himself on the trajectory he had planned. Now all he had to do was keep this deathtrap moving in a straight line. Sweat was pearling and falling from his eyebrows but he was far too worried about the car spinning out of control to get either hand off the steering wheel. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the open field, where nothing but overgrown while plants and weeds were festering now.
His curiosity had gotten the best of him. At this point he was a sort of criminal the world had not seen for a very long time. He had nothing to lose anymore. Knowing perfectly well he was committing a deeply antisocial act, an act of ecological and technological violence, he stepped on the throttle slowly. The car accelerated, straight ahead.

His hair started to flow a bit with the movement of the car. He expected the cancerous fumes to make him instantly sick but there was nothing of that. It was a bright sunny day with a light summer breeze. He felt not just perfectly well but even strangely intoxicated. He wiggled the steering wheel about. The car responded quite slowly so it did not alter its trajectory much. He made wider movements and the car snaked along.
He started laughing. His entire body was driftign arround as he drove the car through small twists and turns. He let his left hand off the stering wheel and raised his arm in the sky, hand wide open, feeling the light stroke of the air on his skin and let out a shout of joy and excitement.
Jacques was in first gear, doing 15 kph. This is the most danger he had ever put himself into, the most risk he had ever taken. Yet as he realised when he took his first wide turn on the left to go back towards the house and not run into the woods, he was in control. The car responded to him. He could run it into the house, or into a tree, or stop it right now, and this feeling of being in control was nothing he had felt before.
He kept laughing uncontrollably, zig-zaging arround the field, going in circles, accelerating then braking, and when he stalled the car again in a bold attempt to shift to second gear, left it, still laughing, feeling alive like he had never felt before.

No one really knew what to do when on that 17th of august, the alarms rang in the police watchpoint of Lyon. The satellites had detected something they nad not detected for seven years when a group of criminals were localized driving towards the italian administrative-european border in a Renault Alpine, and antique Citroën Traction-Avant with unexplainable «FFL» markings on its doors and a small Peugeot 205 that somehow did not struggle to follow along. This time a bright yellow plastic box was located speeding at clearly hazardous speeds towards Le Puy En Velay. The road security drones had been dispatched quickly but it would take them a long time to reach it. Local police detachment had also dispatched helicopters and other airborne drones to keep track of the safety hazard that could enter a zone of potential trafic if it kept going past Le Puy and moved towards Clermont-Ferrand.
Upon interception, the offender was apprehended and was found laughing loudly, which he did not stop until he reached his cell in the psychiatric facility in Lyon where he would he placed until a proper medical and criminal diagonstic could be established.

Jacques Duval only left his cell when he jumped to his death three weeks after his arrest leaving nothing but a writing on the wall stating «Méhari mon ami».
Profilers and semiology experts are still attempting to understand its meaning.

Don't tell them about the dorito

Welp, that ended abruptly.

[spoiler]I was kinda hoping for even moar good stories[/spoiler]

I liked it! Great sequel!

[spoilels]honestly anyone with any idea of stories like that should write them as well, keep the fun going and get our cold little hearts warmed for once [/ohwait]

THIS
we need to get /tv/ in on this shit