Chapter Text
Formula 1 is—by all meaningful accounts—a physically demanding sport.
With drivers going up to speeds upwards of 360 km/h, it's truly a wonder how human physiology has made way for the body to adapt to such top speeds. With g-force adding an additional 40 pounds onto the necks of the drivers, all those who are crowned with a spot in the sport must undergo constant training and management to maintain the ideal weight for their car. In the middle of a circuit, the heat and car do not care about what you need. It’s a form of self mutilation, if you consider it that harsh, with how much of a toll it can have on you, what with losing several pounds for just one race.
There is, however, another universal requirement expected of every driver that steps through the padlocks of history laid by Formula one; maintaining the mental capacity to have both superhuman reflexes and the emotional regulation to be both infallible to the constant threat of your position. Mindset is any driver’s key to balancing physicality, mental strength, and staying enthusiastic despite being stuck in the midfield, and a good personality can be the make or break of any driver and the media storm that floods the streets of the circuits they visit, especially for a driver with no significant name or backing.
That being said, it’s no surprise that there's an air of reverence for drivers in the Formula 1 grid. While junior units are also well regarded, none come close to the prestige that comes with getting into the big leagues. You go at 360km/h–an astonishing speed for any human to be going–on the regular, have a reaction speed faster than a normal person can blink, and get to have the fame and prestige that comes with associating with big company names and sponsorships that’ll give you and your family a new level of generational wealth for a good while. Who wouldn’t want to be in that position?
It is a good job. It is a tiring job. It's a job everyone covets and everyone wants to succeed in. It’s a promise of a community that knows exactly what you are going through and more, and the call for him to become an official reserve driver for the team that has sponsored him for years is an omen he is fully aware he should not ignore.
For Pure Vanilla Cookie, it is a job that should be his big break, the final piece to the large picture he’s been sacrificing his whole life to gain.
It should be an easy choice to make.
Later, when the deed is done, he throws up at the thought of it all anyway.
YAS MARINA CIRCUIT, ABU DHABI || 📍 UNITED ARAB EMIRATES
- FREE PRACTICE 1 || AFTERNOON
The heat is astonishing.
Pure Vanilla was more accustomed to the milder temperatures of his home country in a general sense. While his pathway to Formula 2 had found him in similar circuits over the years, it was only now that he found himself stepping into the arid deserts of Abu Dhabi. He had enjoyed the accommodations given to him well enough, and while he had hoped to stay in the beautiful rooms given to him, the call of the tarmac had driven him to suit up and rush over to the pit garage immediately.
A hand comes to rest on a tanned, sweaty forehead. Mildly disgusting, if he thought about it too much, but the rookie wasn’t one to dwell on such trivial things. Especially when the subject of all his desires laid before his very eyes.
There, in the midst of the busy garage, mechanics run in and about making final tweaks and adjustments. Some are by his own design — the change of tires for one, the slight downturn of the wing another — but the major parts have been fitted for him back at the factory and have clearly been fine tuned even more thanks to the constant support of the ever enthusiastic Team Principal of theirs.
Fire Spirit Cookie, the youngest Team Principal on the grid, yet the one in charge of the oldest team. It had been quite the controversy hiring him, and Pure Vanilla had known at the time that Maranello had been full of rioters protesting such a young prospect as the new lead. He hadn’t paid much attention, especially as the shift had come in the midst of a hectic season, but the redhead had proven all of his detractors wrong by dragging the—by then emaciated—Scuderia Ferrari to the top by virtue of sheer will and the hiring of Hollyberry and Burning Spice at around the same time.
And well, the driver could hardly hold any grudges against the man that had gambled on him so many years ago.
‘You sure you don’t mind any tweaks? Last time Holly let me, she threatened to leave..’ The older man had recounted during their previous meeting, a bead of sweat forming in his temple at the thought of his young prospect doing the same.
Pure Vanilla, never one to mind his overwhelmingly supportive leader, had simply inclined his head and smiled wholeheartedly as he agreed.
‘Looks like it paid off.’ He thinks to himself appreciatively, reaching over and dragging a hand over the rosso corsa sidepods. The entire thing was still the same, sleek design that had been home to Burning Spice for the past three years, the carbon fiber bodywork smooth to the touch, the material stiff even as he pushed against it. The halo was emblazoned with the familiar number of its actual driver, and the titanium alloy made it cold to the touch even through his warmed palms. The aforementioned elder driver was only a level away himself, monitoring the data Pure Vanilla was gonna feed him during his run. While a lesser man would have gawked at the thought of being a mere replacement, such was the will of the system they all served.
Regardless, it was just as rewarding to him to even be allowed near such a priceless relic, one that had served Scuderia Ferrari faithfully over the course of the past year.
The entire thing was fitted exactly to his weight, which was just shy of the minimum limit required for his height. He had sheepishly promised to work on it as a result of the threats by Hollyberry, and while he had given it a bit of thought, it wasn’t much of an aid if he still puked it all back out anyway. On the more technical side of it all, the entire thing had been mostly kept intact save for the readjusted wings and brake configurations he had asked for. The session wasn’t intended to test out all the experimental equipment they had prepared, it had mostly been to give him a feel of the car before his promotion next year.
Besides that, he had already gotten into the seat earlier just to check the fitting and found several more things readjusted all to his unknown preference. Sitting in it kept him exposed to the familiar scent of the garage, the heat of the enclosed environment a constant companion to the sounds of people talking and murmuring around him. It had been a nice surprise to see everyone being quick to get him comfortable with talking more about the logistics of it all, but anything more personalized and relevant to comfort had been left up to Fire Spirit due to his tendency to adjust to the car rather than it adjust to him.
Looking at it had given him the strength to push through the sweltering temperature despite the constant asks of the passing managers alike if he’d like to go into the team suite. Though still, seeing the flurry of movement and how everyone seemed to jog around even with him present did make him feel a little guilty. While it had been the norm for most of his career to be the underdog, here in the Formula 1 pits, everyone was working to serve the team and by extension; him.
Despite his mind opposing the warm buzz in his heart, he can’t deny how he feels truly at peace in the hustle and bustle of it all. Feeling at home with the team that had sheltered him for his junior years had been an expectation, of course, but it had been different to when he was in F2, racing for Prema and delivering wins on the down low as his seniors fought for the World Driver’s Championship. Now, he was here. Expected to give them the info they’d need to finetune the car for his debut next year.
He remembers the growl of the car beneath him, the adrenaline of strapping himself in place when he had first driven in Formula 2. How the commenters had written him as a passionate youngster who knew his talent and reveled in it. Feeling the rush of ecstasy as the wind whipped by him as he warmed his tires on his qualifying lap earlier that day had kept him on his feet, his nerves still thrumming underneath his flesh even by the end of his allotted time. It had taken him hours to calm down after it, even with his parents at his side the entire time. He knew full well the pressure to succeed, especially after Ferrari’s previous driver in F2 hadn’t gone out with a peaceful farewell, and with Burning Spice’s talks with Mclaren in the higher level of the motorsport, it seemed he was almost guaranteed the spot within the next two years.
How much more anxious would he be now? Standing in the middle of the team that he had been representing since his early teens— the one he had cheered for as a child and wouldn’t let down now as an older man.
Kissing his palm, he lays it on the halo of his car.
Thank you. He prays. Be good to me.
His thoughts, while jumbled, are still eternally grateful for the opportunity. And though he might try to parse through the feelings of both hellish anxiety and learned indifference even more, he’s interrupted by the familiar growl of an engine starting up in the garage next to them.
He looks to Fire Spirit, who popped up just a bit ago to inquire more about his choice of wing angle, and who is now staring with a hard look on his face at the new sound interrupting their, while not exactly peaceful, still very meaningful moment. His hands are on his hips; not atypical for him, but his fingers dig into the expensive material of his slacks and would leave a bit of a mark had they cost less than a kidney. It’s a slightly worrying sight, and the rookie gulps down the acrid taste of his apprehension to get an answer.
Pure Vanilla taps him on the shoulder, the smaller man almost jumping a bit in surprise yet still choosing to lean in for the rookie to ask. “Who’s garage is that coming from?”
Fire Spirit rolls his eyes. “Who else would it be if not for the ever spectacular leaders of the championship this year.. and last year.. and the year before that…”
As if in afterthought, his eyes narrow. “You’d think after a while we’d catch up even just a tiny bit. Well, no. Somehow that bastard is still keeping his entire ship afloat and staying 5 seconds ahead without cheating. I would know, I even gave the higher ups a report.” His hand reaches up to poke at Pure Vanilla’s shoulder as a warning. “If one of them approaches you, run. I do not want to get Eternal Sugar anywhere near Holly.”
Ah, he thinks, Eternal Sugar. Red Bull's Second Driver, a young talent herself, had been close to beating her teammates’ record a few years past. He knows the media adored her, a stark contrast to their almost mocking fascination with the other driver in the team. She was a symbol of defiance against the stereotypes that had plagued the grid a decade back, her signing to Alphatauri and subsequent win in the midfield car had launched her into an early career in the faster teams. The pink-haired woman had spearheaded quite a lot of female drivers joining the junior leagues as a result, especially through the sponsorship program she funded from her own endless pockets.
She was rich and beautiful—-a model besides. The media would crown her the princess of the grid had she been anything other than a very proud and out lesbian pining for her rival driver; the Hollyberry Cookie, no less.
Well, you can’t have everything.
Fire Spirit lets out a groan, and Pure Vanilla spares a glance to the monitors the other man had been fixating on since earlier. There on the screen was the familiar onboard view of the aforementioned woman, the neon pink a stark contrast to the sharp navy blue of her vehicle. She had clearly gone on her hot lap, her lap time a whole 3 seconds ahead of the Williams that had led the rankings for the past few laps. The fact she had such a large gap early on could mean a variety of things for the rest of the teams struggling to catch up to them, and Pure Vanilla knew first hand that such a difference had often decided outcomes of championships, especially for the past four years.
They watch her finish one last out lap, her pace not improving but the difference between laps only being a few hundredths off from a new high. It takes him a moment, but he recognizes the strategy they’re employing, one that was common amongst leading teams who prioritized long-term development over points on the weekend. It meant that only one car had been sent out, and since said car was on its way back, the other would be on the move next.
As if on cue, another engine begins to rumble in the background next to their car, and the signature mixture of oddly sweet fuel wafts its way to their own garage.
He feels his breath hitch. “Is that..?”
“Yes, Nils." Fire Spirit sighs exasperatedly. “It’s him.”
The engine lets out a signature roar, and a familiar flash of blue, red, and accents of yellow drives off with the same brisk manner that was associated with its driver.
Had it been car #23 rushing past them, he wouldn’t have paid any mind. Neither would Fire Spirit, except to maybe gloat about hiding Hollyberry's schedule well enough to keep it from the infamous woman on the hunt for it. But the fact that it was the number one emblazoned on the sidepods of the very familiar RB20, and his teammate had just been seen on their monitors mere moments ago had confirmed the identity of who was so brazenly beginning his session.
Shadow Milk Cookie.
The reigning World Champion. He had been so for the past 3 years, the race today being his final one before achieving his 4th title, decided just 3 months back in his 15th race win in a row in Azerbaijan. He was a man of articulate insults, constantly erasing the doubts of reporters around him of any hidden kindness left within his soul. Well renowned for being an asshole, constantly winning and flaunting it for all the world to see. Besides being a tactical genius on track, he was also the son of a renowned businessman and the brother to another previously dominant champion as well. Despite his stand-offish nature in the media, he had still been Pure Vanilla’s inspiration to push through with F4 due to his astronomical rise and now steady hand on the top seat of the motorsports world.
It had been one thing to want that power to help his family as a child who was to choose between his career and financial stability. It is another to see that power now, as a reserve driver and firsthand witness to the older man making history on the Formula 1 paddock he so publicly despised.
Dwelling on it all wouldn’t serve him well. He had to learn his place in the pecking order, regardless of how much he wished to uncover the truth behind his idol’s prickly demeanor. He knew in his chest that his goal was a futile one, one made in the hopes of getting closer to a man that was revered more like an infamous god rather than a human being, but it wasn’t in Pure Vanilla’s nature to give into what he deemed impossible.
Maybe I could talk to him another time. He decides.
(The thought is little more than a fantasy, he recalls later on in the night, but it helps in the moment and that is the only thing that matters.)
Fire Spirit, well-aware of the nature of his interest in the other man, sighs knowingly.
“I seriously don’t get why you’re excited to race against him of all people. Besides his looks, the only thing redeeming about his personality is that he also keeps Sugar away from Holly, and even that feels like a constant threat to me as an individual on his bad days.”
The blonde can only shrug in response, Fire Spirit continuing as he does nothing to elaborate. “Well regardless, you’re going in after him. Holly’s gonna focus on laying down rubber and giving us data on the tires to use for the weekend. You? Do your best. We’ll be here, and you’ve already done quite a bit of prep. I believe in you, champ.”
Pure Vanilla gives him a warm smile, his hands itching to give him a hug.
“Thank you.” He murmurs instead, patting the other man on the shoulder.
Fire Spirit sees his hesitation and grabs him into a half-hug regardless, his eyes twinkling with that familiar trust he had so constantly given to Pure Vanilla in spades. It’s a kindred companionship they had forged, both talented in their fields but undermined by the glory of those around them. Of anyone, it was the Team Principal he could relate keenly to. Without all the politicking and connection building, he was simply a friend. And the younger man had very little of them, nowadays. The redhead let go to give him one last pep talk and left, the click of his shoes against the flooring echoing softly and growing fainter and fainter until Pure Vanilla couldn’t hear it at all. If he had been any younger, he might’ve gone after him, but the reality of it all had reared its head to remind him of his place.
The rest of the garage was still busy with minding the monitors for Shadow Milk’s pace, and he decided to make his way over to Hollyberry’s section with a pep in his step. They could look over the data together, and he always looked forward to meeting her after being approached constantly by the older woman.
Thanks to her, he had a small collection of friends in the paddock. He found himself dragged into a friendship with Dark Cacao, the upcoming Mercedes driver meant to take over Silent Salt’s seat for the next season, whose cool yet caring demeanor had endeared him to Pure Vanilla almost immediately. Golden Cheese, his literal opposite, extravagant and ever encouraging.
Another one, closest of them all, had been Black Raisin Cookie. The race engineer that had stayed with him from Formula 3 and had often been key to maintaining his position through constant strategizing both on track and off. She knew his habits as much as he knew hers, and it had been a rough few years with only her and Fire Spirit as his constants on the race track.
Constants he hadn’t needed to give up, clearly.
As he enters, the aforementioned race engineer perks her head up to meet his gaze. She’s midway through a conversation, hands absentmindedly tapping a rhythm on the table adjacent to her. Wildberry is in the middle of explaining something, most likely the strategy and how to relay the information to Pure Vanilla himself, and he too is moving his hands around to emphasize his point. He too, looks up to meet the blonde’s eyes, who in return gives him a smile and a wave.
Nearby, Hollyberry lets out a holler characteristic of her enthusiasm.
“Pure Vanilla!” Her hand reaches over to pull him into a side hug he reciprocates gladly. “Has Fire Spirit updated you on the strategy yet?”
He thinks for a moment. “He has. Though I think something will change considering Shadow Milk is on track now.”
Her grin now presses into a frown. “Is he now?”
It’s no surprise she’s apprehensive. Her championship title had brought back quite a bit of hope for the tifosi, after all. Yet with Red bull’s consecutive four year win streak now secured, he knew that a good amount of people had grown tired of only seeing occasional glimpses of red on the podium, how Mercedes and Mclaren had been catching up to them just this year as well as a result of the new regulations that Ferrari was still adjusting to.
They both spare a glance to the nearby monitor. The infamous champion was clearly just laying down a bit more rubber on his first lap before attempting a flying lap after. To those unaware, it would look as if he were mocking those watching him. They knew better than to expect anything less from the man, but even that sort of behavior would be a new low for the man. Regardless, the rookie could tell that the presence of the Red bull on track had caused another wave of unease to settle over the garage, where even Black Raisin and Wildberry seemed to silence themselves to listen in for any flaws Shadow Milk could expose on his own car.
True to form, however, he doesn't, and Pure Vanilla feels quite a bit of shame for being the bearer of such news to his future teammate.
“It’ll be fine,” He assures her, putting on a comforting tone. “It’s only free practice. If you can squeeze in a win, that’s great! If not, then we can still be proud of doing our part for the engineers.”
“True.” She motions for her gloves to someone off the side. “Is your car ready? We should be clear to go in a bit. Despite how little we interact off track, he isn’t the intentionally malicious type.”
As if on cue, Black Raisin places a hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to go, actually. Thank you for helping me with this Wildberry, same to you too Holly.
From there, it’s a flurry of movement to get all his equipment on. From his helmet to his HANS device to the balaclava and his suit. He only snaps back into reality once he faces the side-view of his car to be, his hands tense at the thought of being behind the wheel once more. When he blinks, its to the view of his hands on the wheel, the accelerator beneath his feet and his ears ready for the go ahead from the team right by his side. He sees the excitement on their faces, the hopeful glint in their eyes. It sticks into the back of his mind even as he veers into action, the grinding of the fresh wheels on the tarmac as he drives onto the track of a lifetime.
In an instant, he could lose all of this.
The politics behind the veneers of normalcy that the higher-ups so often wished to display had always been a topic Pure Vanilla had avoided as much as he could. He knew a big reason behind his rise into F1 had been the Ferrari name tacked onto his every signature, but getting into the field with just that alone had never guaranteed a spot for anyone at any time in the past few years.
Light Cream had been one of the drivers for Brabham F1 and had nearly won at some point in his career. His son, Clotted Cream, had then taken a shot at joining Mclaren roughly half a decade previous. A crash and two poor performances had been all it took for him to get sacked. Presently, he was the Team Principal of Redbull and had no qualms in insulting the former team he drove for.
He had to do all of this well—not just in terms of performance but what he could bring to the team.
Forza e coraggioza.
COMMENTATOR 1: It’s a sunny day here at the Yas Marina Circuit, and the heat is rising between the teams today! Free Practice has always been the time for new faces to show themselves, but this time, several new drivers show up for their turn in the hot seat. What do you expect for today’s practice, Madeleine Cookie?
COMMENTATOR 2: Well Espresso, the exciting part is picking out the fresh figures expected to shuffle into new teams next year.
COMMENTATOR 1: True.. on the one hand, we have the longtime members familiar to us all. On the tarmac at this point are Red Bull's Shadow Milk and Eternal Sugar, the latter fresh off her stint and back into the garage for readjustments. The 4-time world champion is currently getting a feel for his out lap, followed by the silver Mercedes occupied by White Lily.
Commentator 2: Ah.. her second year on track. She’s eyeing the championship next year with a stunning debut at 4th place in the current standings, quick to adapt and a favorite of Elder Faerie’s. Right behind her is a not-as-new face. Currently 10th in the championship race is Williams’ Dark Cacao, following closely behind. He’ll be joining her next year with Silent Salt’s move to Haas.
Commentator 1: My dear partner, I do hope you’re not putting too much of your hopes on just those two, cause I see a flash of red on the circuit and they’re coming in hot.
Commentator 2: Scuderia Ferrari’s Champion and up-and-coming rookie are now beginning their out lap. Besides Hollyberry’s spectacular pace, there is a lot of speculation regarding whether or not she’ll be content in the second driver position that the rumors have been hinting at with the introduction of Pure Vanilla Cookie.
Commentator 1: Pure Vanilla is well known as the leading figure in the Formula 2 championship at the moment. While his final race in the junior formulae is still highly anticipated by his fans, his debut here will mark the first time Formula 1 will witness the young talent’s prowess. Currently, he seems to be getting used to the feel of the car while Hollyberry begins her prep for a hot lap.
Commentator 2: With Burning Spice’s departure to Mclaren for the new year, Pure Vanilla is to fill in the 7x Grand Prix Winner’s role next season. Ferrari’s placing a lot of hopes into the young driver, especially with his ties to the brand aging like wine with his performance in the feeder classes. It’s an investment 5 years in the making, and well.. It's here that we’ll see how he handles the car to be given to him.
Commentator 1: Looking at him right now, he’s going into turn 6, Hollyberry squeezing past in order to get a feel for her own pace.
Commentator 2: Let’s just hope for the best for him. Now, let’s go over and take a look at the Mclaren at the top of the ranking at the moment..
RADIO IN.
BLACK RAISIN (O.S): How’s the car?
PURE VANILLA : Pace good. No problems.
BLACK RAISIN (O.S): Shadow Milk 10.5 seconds behind. Prepare to make way.
PURE VANILLA : Is he doing his flying lap?
BLACK RAISIN (O.S): Yes.
PURE VANILLA : He’s not slowing down.. I’m going into the corner. He needs to slow down.
BLACK RAISIN (O.S): Will get back to you on that. Just clear the way, got it?
PURE VANILLA : ..
BLACK RAISIN (O.S): Pure Vanilla?
BLACK RAISIN (O.S): Oh. Oh shit.
RADIO OUT.
COMMENTATOR 1: Oh? A sudden red flag has been called.
COMMENTATOR 2: It seems that an incident has occurred at turn 7. Good Lord. Is that Shadow Milk Cookie?
COMMENTATOR 1: The Red Bull and Ferrari have collided. It looks like Shadow Milk was chasing his flying lap.
COMMENTATOR 2: Based on the footage here, the Red Bull braked too late and crashed into the other car going into the turn containing the rookie driver. The poor lad was only on his installation lap as well. Fellow teammate Hollyberry is only a few turns away, entering into turn 9 as her teammate skids off of the track and into the barrier.
COMMENTATOR 1: It seems that irate is too simple of a term to describe the pure rage on Shadow Milk’s face. The man is climbing out as we speak.
RADIO IN.
BLACK SAPPHIRE COOKIE (O.S): Shadow Milk, are you alright?
SHADOW MILK COOKIE: F*CK! (He throws his HANS device out of the car) Va te faire foutre! Who crashed into me!?
BLACK SAPPHIRE COOKIE (O.S): Update on your condition first? Red Bull garage can be heard shuffling.
SHADOW MILK COOKIE : Fine! I’m fine! He didn’t let me pass! That fucker! Merde!
BLACK SAPPHIRE COOKIE (O.S): Alright, just leave the car. You crashed into a rookie.
RADIO OUT.
RADIO IN.
PURE VANILLA : Hello? I’m alright, the car isn’t though. (His voice starts shaking as he pants.)
BLACK RAISIN (O.S): I know, can you get out?
PURE VANILLA : I am. I am. Someone is coming. Who did I crash into? Are they alright?
BLACK RAISIN (O.S): Yes. Yes they are.
PURE VANILLA : Who was it? (Distant shouts can be heard.)
BLACK RAISIN (O.S) : Maybe get out of there first…
RADIO OUT.
After being escorted off the track, Pure Vanilla began to worry.
To be fair, the incident wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary. It was his first race, after all. Many drivers crashed, many more performed badly. But then again, most of them hadn’t been five years into a sponsorship that was only now bearing fruit. It wasn’t so much the thought of injury that scared him, but the damage to his career. The thought of his condemnation in the garage plagues him as he slowly but surely makes his way back to the garage.
While the impact hadn’t hit the threshold that would’ve required a visit to the medical center, he still felt the sting of humiliation as he, unwillingly, stepped into the pitlane and scurried to the garage where a crowd of mechanics and performance engineers were huddled together.
In the middle of it all is Fire Spirit Cookie, who is so frazzled by whatever it is that they’re witnessing that he’s been drawn back out of his office, and Black Raisin Cookie, who looks like she’s ready to claw out of her own skin.
To their right, a mechanic he vaguely knows shouts his name, the genuine relief of the Team Principal whose eyes are wide with fear beside him rolling off the man in waves.
The said man rushes over, the rest of the team following in turn as Black Raisin fits herself immediately by his side. Whatever they’re saying is a blur as his mind slowly turns towards the monitors. He feels the urge to watch the crash all over, pin point where he goes wrong, but the calls of those swarming him keeps his body locked in place even as his mind travels a million miles an hour.
Realistically, it shouldn’t matter. The car will be fine, the scores will be fine.
It still doesn’t stop the sinking feeling that makes itself known in his chest.
Fire Spirit keeps shaking his shoulder, but Pure Vanilla moves to the monitors, grabbing a pair of headphones off to the side to listen in on the data. Everyone else seems to adjust, making way and flipping through screens to replay the exact moment he’d been aiming to rewatch, and he only realizes that what’s coming for him is much more terrifying than the prospect of being sacked by the team.
One.
He sees a blur of blue and red. Obviously pushing.
Two.
The blur seems to brake a bit too late, but the car Pure Vanilla was occupying was clearly in view.
Three.
The footage shows him getting out of the car, making his way all the way back to the garage. What he didn’t see was the fury of another driver just a few meters away. Distantly, in the corner of his very, very muddled mind, he can hear an approaching shout.
Four.
He rewinds it, realizes far too late what the agitated throw of the HANS device is clearly a bad omen.
Five.
He turns to the garage doors—the ones facing the pits he had just reentered ten minutes previous—and finds himself on the receiving end of a mean right hook.
There standing right in front of him, fist clearly trembling with road rage, is the 4-time World Champion.
Shadow Milk Cookie.
.
.
.
Pure Vanilla pauses.
Oh.
Oh dear.