Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Surely soon, we will see the development of a new kind of fighter? Won’t we? The kind who knows what it means to love one’s country over themself?”

Commentary excerpt from the victory celebration of the 1965 Gazella Games. Sir Max Verstappen won his first championship for Red Bull, defeating Sir Lewis Hamilton of Mercedes (now Ferrari) in single combat.

***

Perhaps it is most apt to start this story with the destruction of peace and the loss of love.

The day turns to night and the air stifles with its heat, oppressive and humid. Alex closes the door behind him as he walks down the corridor. A soft, silky, and entirely too expensive shirt hangs loosely from his frame, as if to shield him from the prying eyes of the plants in the corridor. They don’t have the pinched expressions of the team as he returns bad data, and even worse performances, nor the adoring gazes of myriad fans. It’s a private victory to have a plant stare at him.

High walls line the perimeter of the hotel complex, their dirty white paint clouding and protecting. Alex sighs, shrugging off the shirt. His shoulders roll as if to erase the memories of the day. The pool beckons, hemmed with azure tiles and neat rows of lounge chairs. Alex notices how the lanterns surrounding the pool glitter over its surface before tumbling in, uncaring of the sound.

A waxing moon cascades over the hotel complex, his back embraced by the water. The embroidered towels read ‘The Maya Ayam Hotel.’ Alex opens his mouth as if to scream, before turning and diving underneath. The water churns over his skin. Does he stay there forever? Floating beneath the weight of the air above him? Alex’s eyes open, blurred and burning from the chlorine, the water an empty canvas.

He only lingers a moment longer, before returning to the surface and gasping for breath. The moon still remains, a constant amongst the fear. Images continue to circle in his mind.

Oh! And that’s Russell pinned to the ground! Sainz has his sword drawn! This is entertaining, isn’t it!

Alex exits the pool, skin already starting to dry from the night heat. The lights of the hotel rooms lead the way to where he knows George is. The path is calm and unremarkable. The open panelled doors are not. Neither is the light that streams out of them, as if the people inside want to be witnessed by the world. Perhaps they want to be witnessed during their downfalls, where the games they play and the performances they put on no longer show strength, but instead weakness and desperate determination to win. He peers inside, body careful not to betray interest beyond simple curiosity.

Eyes lock onto him. Three heads turn in unison, and Alex is spotted. George’s eyes pierce through his skin, and the quiet murmurs of discussion cease.

“Alex?” George asks, chest quickening. He steals a glance to Carlos and Lando, eyes betraying him. “You look awful.”

“Can we talk?”

Carlos and Lando rise to leave, their eyes downcast and furtive expressions growing on their brows. They wish Alex and George a pleasant night and leave quietly through the interior doors. George latches it behind them.

“Let’s go outside.” George directs, turning toward the doors, covered in wood carvings of plants. “Are you okay? This isn’t like you.”

Alex doesn’t respond, yet follows George outside, tracing his steps to a hot tub. George’s clothes fall by the wayside, as he strips to boxer shorts.

They ease into the water, turning on the jets. The space forces them closer, and their thighs almost collide. George exhales in a long, drawn-out breath. There is no awning, no covering to the patio. Only the walls in the distance are a scant protection here. Neither is this a private complex, where the security is discreet, and burner phones able to be concealed. Words run silent in these walls for most, apart from, it seems, George Russell.

Alex bristles. “Are you sure you want to do this in public?”

“You think this is public?” George throws out a pained half-smile. “Now, what is up with you? It’s not every night that you have the loner of the arena appear at the entrance to your villa, hair soaking.”

The air seems to still to a stalemate. The moon does little to shine on the pair. The angles of George’s face stand as silhouettes against the warm light that streams out of the villa. Alex wonders whether touching his face would cut him.

“They kept you in the medical centre for hours,” Alex mutters, eyes barely skating over George’s body. “Why?”

George sinks his head beneath the surface of the water.

-

“This won’t last forever, will it?”

The Sun blazes over the beach. Intertwined fingers squeeze with reassurance. Sand swirls and coats all with a fine mist.

-

George reappears, water dripping in rivulets over his skin, pulled taut over muscle that looks too old for him. “There. We’re the same.”

Alex laughs, a reserved sound. The smile on his face doesn’t reach his eyes.

George cocks his head ever so slightly. “You know I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?” A pause lingers in the air. “Oh.”

They exchange glances that reveal nothing, say nothing, are nothing. George shifts in the water, edging closer to Alex. His bruises are starting to bloom purple across his shoulder blades. Alex resists the urge to reach out and touch them, to squeeze and see what the reaction is.

A bead of sweat rolls down the back of Alex’s neck, blending into the stifling water of the tub. He cracks first, words slipping out of his lips without warning.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

George’s face darkens around his eyes. “What do you mean by this?”

“The late night meetings to talk. If the council finds out we’re talking without them involved- I don’t want to think about it,” Alex says, heaving out a breath. “I don’t know what Carlos and Lando were doing in your room, and I don’t want to ask, but you have to be careful.”

“I am careful, Alex. They can’t do any more to me than they already have.” George takes Alex’s hand, holding just the ends of his fingers. They both look out over the sprawling sight in front of them. Luxury seeps from every vent, secrets linger in every shadow. George continues, “You look terrified.”

George’s hand leaves his to reach up towards Alex’s brow, thumb lightly pressing to the creases. Alex lets himself melt, just a little, beneath the moonlight. It…feels good.

“Don’t do this. Not here,” Alex mumbles, his words scarcely a protest. The plants continue to leer at him. He doesn’t think about the windows, doesn’t think about the breeze that settles over the pair of them, air moving through. He doesn’t think.

The moment ends, and the gap between the pair of them is infinite.

“Better?” George asks, eyes unable to reach Alex’s. They never seem to anymore, not when Alex needs them to the most.

It’s always better. I wish it wasn’t.

Click.

The sound is gone before either of them can pinpoint its location. Blood runs cold through Alex’s veins. His eyes dart to George’s, blue eyes meeting brown.

“Go,” George whispers. “I’ll leave first. You wait.”

George is out of the tub before finishing the phrase. They share a look. Alex’s hands tremble, gaze following George as he looks at them. The painful expression of calm that lines George’s face is stuck in place.

“Thanks for the chat, mate.” George claps Alex’s shoulder, fingers itching to squeeze. He looks like a terrified cat, skin prickling with gooseflesh.

Chapter Text

I will find you. Do not wait for me, my love. Go and know what it means to be loved without bloodshed.

Sunsetting; Poem by renowned author Jenni Calderon, 1849-1930. Lived and died in Leslia, McLaren.

***

Sweat covers Carlos’ furrowed brow as he pads down the corridor. Alex isn’t meant to be here, not then, not soon. These were conversations designed to be had in the comfort and secrecy of a hotel room, where the cameras have been pulled from the walls and the paid help disappeared. Surely he knows his place amongst this cycle of secrecy? Where the danger of the open door is one taken out of necessity, to portray the innate understanding of their perception, to tout it and employ it for the gossip columns in the morning. The headlines would all be the same naturally, asking why these three men were in the room together, even after the public disgrace of Carlos’ team lingering in the arena’s collective memory.

Then Alex walked in, pulled George away, left their conversation unfinished and their words unsaid. That little bubble of safety that has been cultivated in the space between plaster and fluffed cushions disappears into the moon-dappled sky. Lando next to him says nothing, but his demeanour portrays everything that craves to be known.

The stupidity, the naïveté, the simple desire that rolls off Alex’s shoulders and bored itself into George’s eyes could not be more obvious if he had instead shouted it from the rooftops. Carlos has never usually considered George to be a simple man, instead one too preoccupied with the intensity of the games. He expected George to be preoccupied with the blood that flows off the backs of the failed, and the glory that grasps hold in the mindless purity of the newly crowned.

To walk off with Alex, however, that is unprecedented but not a problem Carlos cannot overcome.

Ferrari must lose. At all costs. Their ridiculous attempts at beautiful violence has to stop. Preening themselves on Charles and Lewis’ beauty in front of the adoring crowds as Lewis’ glaive, adorned with his trademark purple gems, arcs across the air and slashes into his enemies’ skin. Even after he left Mercedes in the name of solidifying glory, those gems remain, glittering under the burning sky.

“What are we going to do now?” Lando asks, voice dim in the exposure of the corridor. He pointedly does not meet Carlos’ eyes as he paces next to him, trainers sinking into the carpet.

“We wait for a better time,” he replies, stifling a yawn. “The council could only do so much in that medical centre. George will be fine, especially has his game scores are exceptional for the equipment he’s been given.”

“No wonder Red Bull are after him,” Carlos continues, glancing down at the titanium frame of the watch on his wrist. It’s too late for the press to be here.

Lando does not respond to this, and instead glances around at the encroaching walls, an edge of nerve clouding over his eyes. He thinks of bugs, with their beady, all-seeing eyes and disease-filled bites, too small to notice besides an incessant buzzing.

“Talk to me, my love,” Carlos says, voice only barely above a whisper. He jostles Lando’s side, just a little, brushing his shoulder, a bare arm meeting a soft woollen doublet, too warm for the night.

"This feels like the start of something bigger. I don't know what, and I don't know why I feel like it, but it does, Carlos. Maybe it's Alex being bold, or Lewis stepping into your shoes at Ferrari, looking like a prize fucking peacock, but something's wrong." Lando looks back to the walls and crosses his arm over his chest.

Carlos looks down at him, at Lando's curly hair shining under the warm light. "Don't worry about it, yeah? It will be fine. People move and change all the time. You've seen it — they'll settle eventually."

But what if it doesn't? Can you protect him if it doesn't? He'll be fighting at the top soon. The data says as much. Enough hits, enough close calls, closer battles. Lando won't be yours soon. He'll be the world's.

"Yeah." Lando goes silent again, as they step into the elevator. The blinking camera in the corner peers at him, lens moving in and out. Watching. Waiting. Observing.

Whilst the council swears them to secrecy, hastily shutting down discussion of the games and their outcomes to anyone but the assigned newspapers, the cameras always watch. They're always there. In the team’s castle walls, under the blankets and in the candlelight, it is only whispers and said words in front of the press that show some kind of truth. They could write letters, or send carrier pigeons, or pipe bombs. Maybe that would do something. It blinks again.

They’ve just landed a man on the moon, and the modern world is collapsing on the last vestiges of the old world, where men compete for glory, televised on CRT screens.

The elevator door opens in front of them and Carlos steps out first. Charles looms like a dark cloud at the end of the corridor, cutlass slung at his waist. His boots scuff with dust and the leather of his scabbard looks dull. Only his long crimson cloak flows like water across his back, a sharp contrast to his pale white tunic. Something about him looks like a god about to fall from grace.

"Carlos. How are you?" Charles asks, ignoring Lando's presence behind him. Only the chosen of the Ferrari crowd are allowed this conversation, where the prancing horses are more than the showmanship they enter the arena on.

Ferrari is all-consuming, all-knowing and all-powerful for those enraptured by its glorious beauty.

"Okay, no? It was a good match today, you against Yuki. I didn't think you'd get so close. I thought Ferrari still liked you to be all flashy."

"It's not my job to be the flashy one. It's my job to be the beautiful angel in the background that everyone wishes they knew. The newspapers know that, it's why the first thing anyone ever says is: 'Oh wow, Charles, that beautiful swoop you did with the sword would make an amazing addition to our next edition. We love you.’"

Carlos looks at the mid-century modern doors that line the corridor and wonders whether anyone has their ear pressed to it. Every one is decorated in vertical strips, carved like a wound into the wood. This is a floor just for Williams and Ferrari, but maybe Max crawled his way into it, taking them along with his crazy, ridiculous ideas. A squat teak counter sits at the end, with a yellow glass vase filled with white roses perched on top.

"It's Lewis then. I thought as much."

Charles' eyes flicker with sadness. "It is. Goodnight Carlos." He nods once. "Lando."

Lando uncrosses his arms and brings them almost out in a hug, aborting the movement in favour of lightly hitting Charles’ shoulder. He gets a shudder in return.

Carlos looks back at him, before beckoning Lando to follow. He unlocks his room and shucks off his shoes as he enters. The soft furnishings, dark navy and oak, hold years of secrets in their folds.

"Come here, Landito. I made sure to get rid of the bugs," Carlos says, long white shirt loose at the top, exposing a tanned swathe of skin at his clavicle. A paper-thin scar crosses over it.

Lando stands stuck on the spot, team-given doublet suddenly swallowing him whole, dark breeches contrasting with the wooden floor. Something is so very wrong with this.

"What if they're listening through the walls? If this comes out-"

Carlos takes a step forward, covering Lando's view of his pair of Toledo steel stiletto daggers in the corner by their whetstone. He presses his lips to Lando's forehead, chaste and reverential.

"They won't be. It's just Ferrari around here. I made sure it was quiet earlier. It won't have changed since we talked to George."

Silence lingers in waves. Carlos does not wait for a response before tugging Lando's hand down to the double bed. They sit, shoulder to shoulder and simply breathe together. Once, in together. Twice, out together.

"If the council-"

Carlos' tone is more forceful. "This entire show is a performance. We act, we fight. They can't take love away from us."

Lando's blue eyes meet Carlos'. "Sometimes I don't think you understand just what this is. I've always been the young one but this place chews and spits us out if they don't want us here anymore. You saw what they did to Logan."

A record player sits on a table by the bathroom door, hinged open, waiting to turn anew. Carlos stands up and walks over, the mushroom lamp shining dark, sultry shadows over the back of his neck. He shuffles his hands through the collection in the box on the floor, deft fingers working to find something worthy of playing for a former prince of Ferrari.

The day he was inaugurated as part of the kingdom of Ferrari, the sun had broken through the clouds for the first time in three weeks. So he could, in the traditional style, prance in on a horse, jet black and regal amongst men. Say his vows to the new kingdom, draped in the maroon velvet cloak. Catch Charles' eye and wonder if this is what his life was truly meant to be. Exaltations sung from rooftops and the tifosi screaming as the crown was placed on his head.

He picks out Peggy Lee's album Then Was Then — Now Is Now! and places it on the turntable, placing the needle down and letting the music overcome him. Charles preferred to play live. Pianist's fingers let loose over ivory keys as they were holed up in the castle back in Maranello. Nothing would ever be the same after that.

Lando looks over at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to say something in response. Carlos undoes one of the ties of his shirt, letting even more skin expose itself under the warm light and begins to slowly dance around the room. A pillar candle, yellowed with beeswax, sits by his bed.

"Stand up, come on. Dance with me."

Now I’m trapped in the web in love, trapped in the web of love…

Lando stands with a reluctance in his bones as Carlos takes his hands and brings them chest to chest. They sway together as the music picks up its beat. Carlos rests his head against the crown of Lando's. In his official photo, the one distributed to the newspapers, the crown Lando wears looks as if it’s about to slip, orange fabric and glittering black opals catching the light like Icarus' wings against the sunlight. The sword and shield he has in his hands glower with anger, unmatched by the pure terror that stays in his eyes. The terror lingers in his expression every time he steps into the different arenas, showboating to hype the crowd up.

Carlos twirls Lando around, making one revolution before an unbidden smile cracks through the facade on Lando's face. The beginnings of laughter sounds through the music.

I can’t fly away…
Clip my wings and I’ve gotta stay…

"Enjoying it?" Carlos dares to ask as they come back together. Lando places a hand at the small of Carlos' back.

"Yeah. What do you think George and Alex are doing? Or Max? He can't have found a way to get Daniel here, could he?"

It's too much.

"Get out of your head, Lando. Listen to the music."

The night sky opens its mouth and swallows them whole. The song finishes and another starts, skipping over the first few words. It must be used all the time.

The pair of them fall into a comfortable silence, as the drums beat through. Lando glances at the room in the hotel, a modernity disallowed when back under their kingdom proper. Medicine is limited to what the council deems necessary for beauty and for sport.

He thumbs over the scar on his nose with his left hand. That was a stupid series of events.

They came apart as Carlos pulls away just slightly. He takes his shirt off, revealing ripples of muscles that scale across his back, marked by little scars and some bruises from the day’s fight. Lando watches, eyes wide and he waits for Carlos to make the move. Too much, too needy and someone really would be listening through the walls, ready for them to fail.

Carlos cocks his head over his shoulder and whispers, "Like what you see?”

Lando nods. "Yeah."

Carlos, left in his tight-fitting trousers, paces over to the drinks cabinet and pours himself a tall glass of whiskey, probably an import from Haas’ territories. He offers one to Lando, who politely refuses.

As Carlos’ back leans against the cabinet, the album’s A-side comes to an end and the needle rises once more. It is pure silence. If he had stronger hearing, without the beginnings of tinnitus from the screaming crowds, Lando could have heard his heart speed up in his chest.

"I should go." Lando moves towards the door. "It's late."

Carlo's face betrays him. "You probably should. We have more tomorrow. I'll find you out there. Don't forget that."

The shadows pull long over Lando's face. "I know. You always do."

He leaves, pulling the door closed behind him and steps quietly down the corridor. Alex stands at his door, digging through his pockets for his key, wet patches catching through his linen shirt and Lando smiles ruefully at him.

Chapter Text

One sharp stick is enough to destroy a childhood.

Aphorism. Origin unknown. Often found in children’s nursery rhymes, particularly in the poor parts of non-fighting kingdoms.

***

The arena for this performance is a custom-designed space, built back in the 1930s by the predecessor teams. Only Ferrari and McLaren exist in the same form, with their house colours draped with pride as banners behind the masses. A perimeter of polished brick encircles an Art Deco monolith, pinned at either end by two towers, capped with a half-dome. Cumulus clouds hang low in the sky and the sun warms what it can of the ground as the crowds fill the benches and seats. Up in the pretty seats, with waiters hanging on their every word, the delegates of each kingdom’s legislature wine and dine whilst they wait for the blood to spill once again. The games are just about to begin.

Max adjusts his shoes, before rising, ready to step into the maw of the arena, jaw set in a hardened line. His Damascus steel broadsword hangs loose in his hand, lion-carved silver handle glinting under the light streaming in through the window. Today’s for the real fight, where the identical weapons that pit men as equals are replaced with the custom weapons designed in artisan houses. Man against man. Unequal. A battle for honour.

A voice shouts over the screaming crowd; there’s a record attendance for this weekend, held in some far-flung territory under Toyota’s control.

"-And for our next round, we have Max Verstappen of Red Bull fighting Charles Leclerc of Ferrari. Two triumvirate members! You all know the rules by now. Capitulation or inability to continue. Points are awarded on performance and for victory. Three rounds. Are. You. Ready?"

Mercedes, Red Bull and Ferrari comprise the triumvirate. The most powerful and dynamic teams fighting in the world. To be a member of one of them is not only an honour, but a near guarantee of victory, glory and happiness. The world throws itself at your feet. To have the one-to-one games between two triumvirate members? It’s a match for the ages.

The wooden gate doors swing open and Max blinks once to adjust his eyes, carefully arching to see Charles' luxurious clothes reflecting a bar of light against the soft dirt. The red shorts and the leather epaulettes on his jacket look too similar to the blood Max is almost certain will be spilt against the ground today.

He steps out and tightens his grip on the blade. Ready. Ready. Don't go too early, his father had always said.

To win is to react to mistakes.

Over the speaker, the announcer, clearly unfamiliar with who they are to each other, announces the round is ready to begin. Three…two…one…

Charles is on him already, slicing a careful move through the air with the grace of a ballet dancer. A dodge, sliding his foot behind him and Max is returning the blow.

Stay in the fight. You have to win this.

Max staggers forward, driving Charles to step back and squint his eyes against the sun. He swings and catches Charles' arm. A soft stream of red trickles down. It matches the colour of his shorts.

A scream erupts from the crowd, high-pitched and feminine. A pause. Max turns his head to see who it is. The crowd continues on, shouting at them to take chunks out of each other.

A foot hits his back. Max stumbles forward before swinging his sword around to try and catch Charles' thigh. It would make a good show, to see beauty destroyed in the attempt to achieve glory.

He misses. His father is going to hate that.

They lock eyes as Max stands back up. Blue against green and Charles' face sings with aggression. He is no longer a person. Beautiful.

The clock is ticking down and Max can feel it in his bones. This isn't going to go anywhere. His feet dance around in a circle, leather sandals patterning into the ground.

Charles follows him. The prancing horse follows the strike pattern of the lion. Skittish and somehow entirely regal.

One minute left of this round. Time to go back in for the kill, metaphorically, of course. Charles seems to grasp his very thought and moves in to jab his cutlass at Max's shoulder. The leather stops him from feeling any other injury than a mere wince of pain.

The crowd screams again and adrenaline flows like thick honey behind Max’s eyes. Some flags of the various kingdoms and their regalia colours jumps out through the din of people.

The bell rings a siren-like scream and they come apart, waiting for the next round.

***

Charles flicks a stone with his shoe in the break. It bounces across the ground before landing at the foot of his home clothes, folded away for safekeeping. Liam and Checo are up next. Brutal.

"He's not normally like this, Fred. I shouldn't be able to get him in the back. This isn't normal."

"Why are you concerned about what he's doing?"

Charles doesn't respond and turns back to his cutlass, rubies crusting the golden handle. He runs a finger across the blade’s steel edge. It is one of the last things his father bought for him as he moved up through the ranks, making it to the games.

Not long left before the next round. Standing back up, he takes a long drink of water and peers through the gate and watches Liam and Checo go for it, Liam's metal-tipped quarterstaff moving like water, smooth and controlled. The crowd must be loving this.

"Do you have any of the data?” he asks Bryan, turning his head away from the scene.

"Sure. Here and uh, here you were a lot more forceful than normal. Max's missteps helped, naturally. I think you can get him to capitulate a little earlier than normal." A shout erupts in the crowd. There must be more blood spilt on the ground.

"Thanks."

Charles takes a seat next to his equipment and pours over the paper data, itching for it all to continue.

***

"Ready? Go!"

Max moves first this time, new power coursing through his skin. He gets Charles’ sword in a lock with his and the clang of metal against metal sends the crowd into blood-frenzy.

Charles' eyes narrow, before he rushes forward and shoves Max to the ground.

"That's- that's how you want it? Okay."

Max rolls to the side, weapon swept away by Charles' quick feet. This is going back to basics. Charles' tightly-coiled arms clutch his shoulders and throw him to the side. A snarl creeps out from his lips.

Max reels from the movement, scrabbling to get back to his feet. Fighting on his feet has always been his strong suit. He rests on his knees for just a moment before jumping up as Charles makes another attempt at him.

This time, however, Max tackles Charles and pushes him away, eyes already on his broadsword. Rule one, day one. Don't ever touch another competitor's weapon. You aren't allowed to fight with it. And what use is the weapon you haven't fought with for most of your career? That synergy has disappeared the second your hand touches the crimson of Ferrari’s rosso or the green of Aston Martin.

Time moves around them like treacle. Max lunges for his sword and just manages to grab the edge of the hilt, swinging it around. Charles darts back and moves towards his cutlass.

As Max swings, they clash together again, sliding metal tightening the grip in Max’s hand.

His grip loosens just a little and Charles catches his forearm, opening a wound there.

Capitulation it must be then. One of them has to back down, lest they risk their weapons getting destroyed.

"So that’s how you're playing this, Charles?"

Charles steps back to give himself some room to breathe and manoeuvre himself. His rubies reflect red over his pale skin.

"Oh, don't you all love it!" Charles shouts into the crowd and the rapturous applause he gets in return fills his lungs.

Max lunges with his sword, carving his name and his pride into the air. It just misses as Charles spins out of the way. If only he could get just a little bit closer.

"That is time."

They come apart, panting and heaving heavy breaths.

***

"Do you have any advice?” Max asks his father, who stands tall and broad in the back of the open prep space, technicians and conditioners flitting around like fireflies.

"No. But I had expected you to be less sloppy today, what changed?" Jos asks, stepping almost too close to Max, blocking his otherwise good view of the other fights.

Max takes a long sip of his drink, sweet and sour at the same time. "I'm sorry. I'll get him this round."

"You always do." Jos steps away, back to talk to one of the many team members maintaining a view of the other players in their games. Liam seems to be running rings around Checo, blonde hair swinging as if spikes around his face. Something seems so desperately wrong seeing him fight out there.

Max turns his head away from the public assault and glances at his sword, the tiny amount of blood contained within its groove. He traces his finger over the tip, trying to draw blood. Daniel always mentioned that the best action was to be afraid of the tip of his sword, for it can hurt you if you don't treat it right.

But Daniel isn't here anymore, and there is one minute left of the round. So he stands up, clasping his sandals closed and tipping his head back, hair falling like a mane.

***

As they fight, Lando glances at his rapier, thin and utterly devastating. Up on the timer and scoreboard, he can see his name next to Esteban’s. Despite Esteban’s height, and new espadon Zweihänder, courtesy of a new sponsor, it shouldn’t be difficult. A shout echoes through; Charles and Max must be hurling insults at each other again. Part and parcel, then. Carlos said he'd be there. God, him, and Carlos. Left to pick up the pieces after getting shoved in Williams, the discarded toy of the old guard at Ferrari, pretty and handsome: destroyed internally.

He can't be there at the top step of the podium with him anymore. The equipment isn't good enough for that. The conditioning can only do so much. Lando returns to polishing his rapier enough to glint in the low light, clutching the rag in his hand so hard the skin under his knuckles begins to turn white. It stops the shaking, at least.

***

Charles and Max fight with enough vitriol to fill a swimming pool. Out there, the sound dissipates into heartbeats and a roar in the ears as they come back together again. The group games on Saturdays are for children, a relic of their upbringing, fighting in the circuits they frequented, where the blades were dull and the men and women watching only politely interested.

A swing staggers Max back, and Charles glances the returning swing of Max's sword. Sundays are where the champions are made, under the lights and in the shadows of black and white television.

Charles steps into Max's space and they drop their weapons, hauling each other to the ground, grappling at what little skin they can. Utter anger courses through Charles’ skin, even into the roots of his hair.

One minute left. Max thrashes like a beautiful caged beast. This is going to make for a great ending. They're so evenly matched, so close.

Before he can finish that thought, Max has him pinned into submission.

"Do you capitulate, Sir Leclerc?" It sounds like an order, not a request.

"Uh- fuck. Yes."

***

As Max and Charles leave the arena to thunderous applause, ready for the intensive medical treatment forced upon them by the Council, Lando steels himself, taking a deep breath and feeling the weight of his shoes moving though his shoes and into the ground.

He twirls his rapier in his hand once, feeling it grow warm under his touch. It's just about to begin, and he should breathe, as the team would insist. Lando can't even see Esteban out in the other side, nor Carlos in the watching stands. But he'll be there. Always is, always will be.

"Esteban Ocon, everybody!"

Esteban steps out, looking a bit lanky, sword strapped to his back. Something in his red and black cotton outfit makes him look like he could kill, if someone looks at him the wrong way. Lando swallows, throat tightening.

Agility always wins. Don't forget that.

"And the man from McLaren, Lando Norris!"

He steps forward, orange shoes tracing a memory into the ground. Lando moves through the motions, twirling and showboating the crowd to support him. Somewhere, in the back seats, the cheap ones, a girl is going to swoon and he'll have to live with the knowledge that the violence they inflict is both beautiful and an aphrodisiac.

He can't see Carlos, nor any evidence of the Williams team. He shakes his head to cleanse such a betrayal from his mind as they get ready, Esteban pulling his sword out, ready to clear some space. He'd never cleave blood and flesh out of him. This is a space-making weapon, before he drops it and fights like a bat out of hell. There’s a reason his sponsors get him to do cage fights in the off-season.

The bell rings and they're away, Esteban moving around Lando like a wolf against a deer. No headlights here, though, Lando taking an experimental lunge as Esteban lifts his espadon to spin.

For his efforts, he's rewarded with a blunt fist to the ribs.

***

Carlos clutches his shorts as one of the team members does up his shoes, just a little too tight, at his own request. You have to be able to feel your feet after all.

"Is that everything?” he asks, careful to remain as cordial as he need to be. The council would have a field day with anyone they deem as being less than perfectly kind to the teams. Fines are the least of their worries.

He gets a nod in return as the bell sounds. Carlos sprints to the observation platform, where some of the most obsessed spend their days analysing the competitor-in-wait's movements and micro-reactions instead of watching the games themselves.

Lando seems to be doing well, agile and nimble as ever. Considering the weight of his sword, Esteban is faster than normal. Carlos makes a mental note to ask the contacts he’s managed to accrue what the metal is.

Nothing beats Toledo steel though.

***

"Mi lago, what do you think the best weapon is?"

Carlos smiles. "Do you want to change from the rapier?"

"No, I just want to win."

"You will, someday. Your agility is your best bet."

***

Alex sidles over next to him, framed by their matching outfits. Dark circles ring under his eyes — the conversation with George must have lasted into the evening. He wouldn’t have been so stupid…

"How you doing?" Alex asks, peering down his nose at the games and the photographers itching to watch them destroy each other.

"Okay, yeah. How did it go with George?"

Alex spins his head on a dime. "It was fine. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I thought you'd be smarter than to be so public with it, but I can't stop you. Just don't get caught, yeah? You know the rules. By now, at least."

Alex bristles at this response and keeps his mouth shut. Esteban, down in the fighting pit, grunts as he swings the sword around once again, Lando dodging the onslaught with adept movement.

"He's good. Lando. The newspapers have him pinned to lead the championship this year. I'd like to agree with them," Carlos says, keeping his voice steady.

The bell rings for the break and both men visibly relax to careful eyes of the waiting crowd. The tension of friends supporting friends is a simple concept to understand if you have no clue of the stakes at play.

"I think he will. McLaren have a good combination of strength, agility and conditioning behind them, don't they?" Alex picks at his fingernails. "Carlos?"

Carlos watches Lando walk off, sweat glistening on his back. "Yeah. They've changed since I was there."

"They have. Was it your leaving that changed it?" Alex laughs into his own joke. He gets the same bristly response.

***

Under the yellow light, Lando is dabbed and prepped and talked at over and over. Carlos wasn't there, but he will be. They promised, under moonlit nights and blazing sunshine. But nobody can know.

Mi lago. You are the water I submerge myself in to hide away from the world.

Oscar comes to stand next to him, not even dressed for battle yet.

"You're looking calm,” Lando declares to his audience of one.

"They moved my fight to the end of the day; I've got time. You were looking good, you know, out there today."

"Thanks, Osc. I think things are going to be good this season, you know? It's only March, but something just feels a bit different."

And it isn't just Carlos at Williams, or the floundering of Red Bull. Is this what hope feels like?

Oscar smiles, tight-lipped and unable to broach any other subject, before turning his attention to the empty arena and the break allotted between divisions.

"I've had some good battles out there." Oscar offers up for consideration.

"Me too. Remember back in ‘66? With what's-his-name? You know..."

"The one where you swept his feet out from under him? Yeah, that was good. I wish I’d have been here to see that." Oscar glances down at his shoes.

***

Carlos and Alex return to their seats to see Esteban and Lando fight once more. The brutality of it all never gets any easier to stomach. But their expressions are controlled and their aggression genuine. There may only ever be one winner.

In the end, Lando ends up losing to a last-ditch fighting jab from Esteban leaving him on the ground, sword at his throat. The traditional capitulation, for a competition that seems more angry than traditional.

"Good fight!” someone shouts from the stands, as the people wait restlessly for the next round, tunics and clothes growing sweaty.

Lando shuffles back to his end of the arena as the bell calls for division, a marker of time known only as 'Break Time!' For the masses.

"That was good," Alex says, standing up and heading back to the Williams area. Carlos sits in stunned silence.

You were meant to win. You have to win.

"At least Ferrari lost," Carlos whispers under his breath.

***

Water drips down Max's back as the assigned team doctor, who comes prepared with the poultices and ointments assigned to them as a marker of tradition, instead of any concern that the treatments will be kind and efficient, prepares a treatment. At least they work, and cause such little scarring that only the largest ones are permanent.

She sluices his tired skin down as Max shudders away from the cold.

Jos sticks his head through the door, seemingly uncaring of any protocol. "The press need you outside. Hurry up."

"I don’t think we should hurry this, Mr Verstappen," a kind-faced medicinal fixer whispers. She is quickly dismissed with the flick of a hand.

"Max, now."

He puts his clothes back on and steps into the rest of the world.

Interviews go about as well as expected. Good performance, wins are necessary now. How did he feel about Russell and Sainz's spat during the games yesterday? Does this signal a change in team relations? Who will stay with the triumvirate during the next grouping? Are McLaren in? What about Sauber? Nice sword Max, any word on your new sponsors?

By the end of them all, he can almost feel the boredom in his sweat.

Charles wanders into the pen too, microphones held up to him at every opportunity, for the cycle must continue. The newspapers of all the kingdoms must have enough stories to report about their darling fighters. The prize winners, the leaders, the holy beings that will come and save them all from damnation.

Charles glances up at Max and smiles quickly. Daniel would hate how he responds by smiling back. He has to finish that letter soon, even if it pains him to do so. Love waits for no man, not even one fighting in the upper echelons of the society's finest arenas. But Daniel isn’t here. Fun can be had alone, right?

People keep arriving in droves, giving Max the perfect opportunity to leave, returning back to the Maya Ayam hotel, ready to fly home in the morning. Red Bull's kingdom needs its lion-faced leader to show up once more.

There are games to win and battles to be had.

Chapter Text

The psychological impacts of fighting are woefully under-explored in the current literature. More research is desperately needed. Experimental research has demonstrated a correlation between viewing the games and militaristic views. Causation is not yet confirmed.

Slicing the Mind: the Formula Games and Psychological Trauma. Thesis paper by Aurora Trimble, undergraduate at the University of Sauber.

***

1969 TOYOTAN GLADITORIAL GAMES

From: The Stewards
To: The Team Manager, Mercedes-AMG Gladitorial Team
The Team Manager, Williams Fighting

Document: 67
Date: 3/3/1969
Time: 11:36

The Stewards, having received a report from the Conflict Director, summoned (documents 61 and 62), and heard from the fighters and team representatives, have considered the following matter and determine the following:

No/Fighter(s): 23 - Alexander Albon, 63 - George Russell

Competitor(s): Williams Fighting, Mercedes-AMG Gladitorial Team

Time/Date: 13:30, 2/3/1969

Fact: Alleged incompatible conduct between fighters.

Decision: Isolation for a period not less than one (1) month from other teams. See attached document 24 for sport-wide decision.

Reason: The Stewards were alerted late Saturday evening to a report that was about to be published in the All-Kingdom Tribune, detailing photographs and details of a conversation that took place between Russell and Albon.

Such conduct was said to be romantic in nature. On the evidence gathered by the Stewards, there is no photographic evidence of such conduct, yet the conversations implied such behaviour. Given the lack of available evidence otherwise, the Stewards deemed it necessary to interview the teams and fighters implicated.

When confronted with the alleged actions, the representative for Mercedes was interviewed separately to the representative for Williams. This was to ensure no collusion took place between teams against the decisions of the FIA. The Mercedes representative claimed that such behaviour was typical of close friends, in support of section 1.3 of the Code of Conduct.

The Williams representative corroborated this argument, yet did not attempt to argue the conduct of 23 and 63 was in support of the Code of Conduct. We are inclined to agree with the Williams representative with respect to the Code of Conduct.

Both fighters were interviewed under precaution. Neither fighter was willing to discuss the photograph, with fighter 63 going so far as to call the investigation a ‘sham’. Fighter 23 refused to answer questions related to his past history with fighter 63, besides calling them ‘good friends’.

Upon further investigation, including closer examination of the photograph provided, we were dissatisfied with the claim that such behaviour was in favour of the Code of Conduct, yet we do not deem it sufficient for suspension from the championship.

We are dissatisfied that the conduct constitutes incompatible conduct, yet do consider the conduct between fighters 23 and 63 to be unbecoming of the traditions of the sport.

As such, fighters 23 and 63 do not face the highest level of penalty available (suspension), and instead only face exclusion for a time determined by the stewards of no less than one (1) month.

We remind the fighters of their right to appeal under Section 7.3 of the International Gladitorial Code Reformation (1965). Such appeals must be made within two (2) weeks of receipt of this document.

The Stewards.

See attached (Document 24) to determine changes made by the FIA in regards to future conduct between teams.

***

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE - NOT FOR PUBLICATION

FROM: The Offices of the Fédération Internationale de l'Action Sport (FIA)
TO: The Formula Games - Group One (Formula One)

Following the unsanctioned release of intimate photos of fighters Alexander Albon (23) and George Russell (63), we, as the leaders of fighting and action sports globally, have taken the view that such flouting of the sacred rules of this sport cannot go unpunished.

As a consequence, whilst the two fighters in question have already been reprimanded in private by their own kingdoms, we feel the need to update the rules in relation to all fighters and teams as a consequence.

Before announcing the new rules, we find it first necessary to discuss exactly why this has arisen. As it is known, the FIA has taken relatively relaxed stance on the flouting of relationship rules by fighters previously, particularly in relation to external relationships and the provision for fighters to have families. Whilst this has been the stance taken in the past, with the increasing popularity of this sport, we deem it necessary to review these rules and update them accordingly.

The Formula Games, and particularly in the first group, is a matter of intense privilege for the fighters involved. Not only does this bring glory to their kingdoms, and by extension the fighters themselves, but given the storied history of combat sports across the planet, certain aspects of the tradition of this sport must be upheld.

These include the relationship rules. We see now, more than ever, the vital importance of retaining the fraternal relationships that develop as a result of competitive sport. Whilst the photo obtained by the All-Kingdom Tribune does not show any particular egregious issue, we deem it necessary to stamp out bad actors before the games continue on.

In so doing, we formally announce the removal of travel privileges between kingdoms, between match weekends. This is a temporary measure to ensure the fraternal aspect of the games, and travel permits will be reinstated at the discretion of the FIA. Teams, as ever, will still allowed to send official mail and make official visits, as has been the case since the establishment of the FIA, but this will not include fighter face-to-face visits, as of the present.

We anticipate the shock and confusion this might cause, but rest assured that this will be a temporary measure, determinant on the team's behaviour and active participation in the next game rounds. Fraternity is what this sport is built upon, and we seek to maintain this tradition for as long as we can, whilst ever increasing the safety of this to our most faithful fighters. They always will come first.

This is not a decision taken lightly, but it is one we believe is most necessary to preserve the tradition of this sport.

Signed,
FIA, on behalf of the president.
3/3/1969

***

Breakfast is served on silver plates. George doesn't bother touching it, letting the scrambled egg congeal and turn orange as it lies next to some melted butter, reforming into a puddle. The lunch meal of steak and potatoes is left to fester, leaving his room to smell like a grill. By dinner, his stomach rumbles and George’s mind is filled with nothing but the thoughts of what could possibly be going on outside.

He turns over in his bed, stubble itching his face, and looks out of the window. The sweeping landscapes of the Mercedes castle grounds opens themselves in front of him and George feels tears roll down his cheeks. He doesn’t even remember starting to cry. Some young girls play outside, hands interwoven with each other, singing a nursery rhyme. The wind blows their hair around their eyes, blinding them.

George rolls onto his back, pulling his black blanket up to his chin and closes his eyes, thinking about floating away on a fluffy cloud. Alex always calls them sheep. George prefers to call them cotton buds.

But Alex isn't going to be able to laugh at that anymore, no matter how hard or how loud he tries. Nobody will be able to hear him, besides Carlos. That's what isolation is. Destruction of the soul and its ability to love another, for being caught in the sticky trap of a hot tub and deciding to let it take you anyway. The honey ferments into mead and those unaware of its dangers boil like a frog in water, drunk on the luxury of adoration.

A knock sounds at his door, rapping harshly. It’s probably someone bringing dinner that George will leave untouched. Dirty hands cannot touch food, for that will make you sick. There must be purity and a cleansed soul, and that comes in a month. The next round of the games are in two weeks and there is plenty of time to recover.

Fat tears keep falling: heaving, saddening sobs audible to the workers in the castle. George glances up in his room, decorated in the traditional style of the Mercedes kingdom. Silver drapes litter the walls, embroidered stars caressing the fabric. A sodium lamp casts yellow light on his face, refracting into rainbows in the water on his face.

“George? What are you doing?” a disembodied voice asks, deep and rich.

George elects not to respond, instead looking back to the window and wondering whether he can jump out of it and not hurt himself in the process. It seems unlikely, given the tower that he inhabits on a regular basis is three floors up. The landing surface would be a pile of thorny rose bushes, pale cream and pink.

"If you don’t respond, I am going to assume you're dead and call a doctor to come and certify it,” the voice continues, gradually stepping closer as it does so.

George opens his eyes to see Toto stood looming over him. His mop of black, almost jet-coloured hair is a shock against the soft furnishings. It looks a little greasy.

"You need a shower, Toto. Don't bother making me feel any better. You know what isolation is like." George looks up at his face, still lying flat on his back.

"You want to stay as the sad sack of potatoes you seem to be? Go for it. I can't stop you, but there's a letter for you downstairs. I thought you'd want to see it."

At that revelation, George pulls himself to sit up in bed, crossing his legs and stretching his neck. His head pounds with the beginnings of a malnutrition-induced headache. The scrambled eggs would have been perfect right about now.

"Is it from him?" George asks, not pretending to hold any kind of pretence up for inspection. The one thing Toto can never know is just how important they are to each other; lovers borne out of necessity.

"What do you think? I wouldn't be here if it wasn't. The kingdom doesn't run itself you know." Toto smiles at that, and provides his hand for George to stand up.

He's lost weight, anyone could tell. George’s shoulders poke through the thin fabric of his home clothes and his hair sticks to his forehead in a sheen. A mess, anyone would say, caused by the council and served up for public consumption.

Toto steps out to give him some privacy as George pulls some clean clothes on: a black tunic and comfortable trousers, before walking down the stone steps to the living area. He got to choose how this space was decorated and it was never going to be in the traditional style. So, orange wallpaper sticks to the walls and one of Eero Aarnio’s ball chairs lies next to the fireplace. Home, just about, or just enough. They’re not there enough to enjoy it.

On one of those silver trays that breakfast and lunch came on, a wax-sealed letter reveals itself to George. Official kingdom business, apparently, but nobody in this crazy stupid world takes their official stature as gospel. The secrets hidden in these letters, sent between dignitaries of the kingdoms, fighting and not, move through the political system and into the lives of the royal families. The princes that they are supposed to be, and the fighters they actually are, become one under the allure of love unbound by social convention.

The silver arrows pierce the skin of the bull, pulling it down to their level. The flightless birds are made whole again, renewed under the sunlight and the new day. The mountains become the playground of the bull’s sister, so similar yet rejected siblings.

This is all that is available to them. The promise of eternal glory.

***

Dear George,

How are you? I don't think that is a good starting question, but I'm asking it anyway. Isolation can do terrible things to you. So, that's why I'm talking here, under the official documents sanction we're allowed. I'd normally send something to my mother, where I can really, truly, bitch about this sport and all the people in it.

But today, my allocation for this week goes to you. My mother will have to accept my apology.

If it is any help to you at all, none of the subjects I've talked to in the castle today agree with the decision to isolate both you and Alex. ‘Not for official publication’ never goes very far. The photo was distributed to the various heads of state and they seem to agree with me. At least, James does. I haven't been able to talk to many others. Letters are expensive after all.

On that note, do you have any idea how Lando is? Our communications with McLaren are sketchy at best. We had to use our Mercedes equipment connection to get an official meeting with them the other day. There wasn't a chance on this planet that I would have gotten any information about him. So do you know? It's okay if you don't. There are bigger things at play in this then my little problems.

After we talked that night back in the hotel, I followed through and caught up with the Alpine pair. Jack seems to be settling in well enough, so he should be a good candidate to ge the in for the other teams. The triumvirate won't know what's hit them. There is a group game pre-release meeting before the next round that I think you'll want to be a part of for once. I know you don't tend to take part in them, which I have always found a bit strange, but please come this time. It’ll be fun, even if you just see the sparks fly from Charles and Max going at each others’ throats again.

Mercedes, Red Bull and Ferrari can't stand alone against the rest of them — especially not if we both want to see Ferrari fall. I like that you don't even have to have a personal reason for it. It’s just for the fun of the game. There’s a reason you're the head of the union. Lando always found that funny, you being the leader and all. You're too lanky for it, he thinks.

But I'm not here to insult you. There are big things to come. There has to be. The FIA haven't been this brazen in years, at least not since I joined the sport. It feels like it was ages since I did that. How time flies.

I want you to know that you have an ally here, George. When all else fails out there in the arena. There is someone who has your back. Ferrari must fall.

With respect,
Carlos Sainz, Prince of Williams.

***

The document is adorned with Carlos’ signet ring mark in the wax, broken open as George clutches the letter to his chest and looks towards the fire. If he was smart, he thinks, he should throw it in and commit the document to memory alone.

But he is a sentimental man, at the end of the day.

As George puts the letter in his trouser pocket, Toto pads back in, blinking twice at him. It is as if he is a hostage and the negotiators told him to communicate silently that he is in danger.

"Satisfactory?" Toto asks, not bothering to question who it was from or why George received it. It isn't like he would get a response anyway.

"Yes. Do you have the daily report?" George says, conscious of the multiplicity of duties as a prince. It isn't all fighting and glory. They are appointed to these positions, and to succeed isn't just to win. To succeed is to know strategy and battles and the intricate complexities of farming taxation regulation.

Toto silently hands over the thick sheaf of documents, which George takes with true gratitude.

"George, you have to know that this must stop. You have a duty to this kingdom and to the people thin it. If it comes to it, you know that the legislature will remove you. I cannot protect you forever."

George's long eyelashes bat in front of his face as he responds, emphasising the sheen on his blue eyes. "You do not need to tell me what I do and do not have the ability to do, Toto. I am good at fighting and I am good at leading. Transgressions can be ignored if my game scores are exceptional."

"Not forever. Be careful."

At this, Toto exits, leaving George in the silence of his chambers. He turns on a lamp and gets to reading documents and more documents and reports and the minutiae of life and death.

Alex once told him that he was at his most content with the pair of them sat together, reading quietly. It was children's fantasy books, written in a sloppy hand back then, not the future of their very kingdoms that they read.

George turns the page, drawing his knees closer to his chest on the sofa. Carlos is an ally. Lando, through Carlos, is an ally. Alex is a lover. Ferrari must be the enemy if he is to keep Carlos on board. Subtle lies and missed disagreements gave rise to that. Alpine and Aston Martin are useful idiots. Alonso is someone to be feared.

The spider-web diagram on a page about crop yields in one of the inner regions morphs into twine-bound thoughts linking allies and enemies and friends and equipment allowances.

George screws his eyes shut and tries to drown out the sound of the arena from his mind’s eye. He has two weeks to recover, to get to pristine perfection and fight once again. The bruises from the other day have finally gone. It took longer than normal, even with the medication he took from the Mercedes medical centre. Is he getting too old for this?

He wants to be back in a hot-tub. He rings for dinner. He reads more and more, before falling asleep on the sofa.

As the day breaks hours later, someone in the Ferrari kingdom awakes to find a sealed document, courtesy of Williams. It is signed and sealed with the personal sigil of Carlos Sainz, prince of Williams.

This time, George eats his breakfast.

Chapter Text

Make sure you go for their feet. Sweep it out from underneath them.

Training notes of Sir Charles Leclerc, leading Prince Fighter of Ferrari. Called il predestinato by the Tifosi.

***

Charles wanders into the Ferrari grand dining room, stretching his neck. “I want to talk to you,” he says.

“You don’t get to talk to me.”

Lewis' glaive rests against the dark, mahogany table. Lewis himself, politely dishevelled, stabs some food and holds it to his lips, bringing it down as Charles clears his throat. A limp green leaf hangs off the edge of the fork, about to drop. Crystal glasses and red plates litter the scene, filled with heaping piles of cornetti, along with foods from both Charles’ and Lewis’ homes. The thick scent of espresso floats out from the little cups in their saucers.

"Why? We're teammates after all. I think I have the right to talk to you about team work."

Lewis' tattooed hands come to scratch at his brow as he places the food back down on his plate. "You don't get to talk to me, Charles. I'll speak to you when it's the right time, okay? Now, come on, eat some breakfast. Haven't you got training?"

"Yes."

"Did I say you could respond?"

***

Charles warms up slowly, bringing his arms around his head to pull at the muscles and move loosely in the cool air of the castle courtyard, in full view of anyone with eyes who decides to peer out of the stained glass windows. His trousers are a little frayed from overuse and tucked into his leather boots.

He bends down, pressing his palms into the floor and breathing through the tightness in his calves, thighs, and hamstrings. Sometimes, when he's feeling lazy, Charles doesn't bother stretching out his tired muscles this fully and ends up waking up the day after unable to move his body. It's worse than after match weekends, where touching his skin manipulates the bruises to send searing, burning pain into his nerves, exhaled in a sharp hiss.

As he comes back up, pulling down his tunic, leaving the flat planes of his stomach for the views of the mirror in the evenings as he shaves, Charles looks over the scene. White lilies, in pristinely-kept boxes sit at the edge. They'd look positively broken if blood spilled upon their petals, dripping into the puddles that linger on the ground.

Charles pulls his cutlass from its carrying case, letting the weight of it sink into his hands. Nobody is here to come and interrupt him with a slice or a jab or some devastating public relations scandal. He twirls around, like a ballet dancer during the pivotal moment of the performance, and begins training.

It lasts for a few hours, Charles slicing wounds into cloth-covered training dolls. The doll’s frayed edges slice open as he practices coming in from behind for the traditional capitulation. He holds his cutlass under the throat of one of them, tip just touching where the Adam's apple would be. No blood trickles into the steel.

"Do you capitulate?” Charles asks the doll, which has no eyes to reflect fear and no mouth to respond.

At the doll's lack of voice, Charles withdraws his cutlass and disembowels the doll. Fluff and cotton strips fall to the floor as sweat drips into his eye. The other practice dolls, if they had the ability to, would cower away in fear. The lilies face towards the growing sun, a sharp breeze moving through the scene in the morning air.

"That was some good training, Charles."

He swings his head around to see Fred talking to him, pacing quickly into the training square. Normally, he wouldn't be allowed here. Ferrari tradition dictates that only the fighters and their trainers are allowed to bear witness to the restraint and control needed to discipline oneself for progress. Team principals, strictly forbidden.

"It was. What are you doing here? I doubt you've got any news from the other kingdoms."

"I think you underestimate just the amount of influence we have here. The FIA are going to keep this in order for quite a long time but there is only so much they can do to keep the predestined from succeeding. That is why we are here, after all. To make you win."

Charles grabs a soft cotton towel and dries his face from the sweat.

"So what I'm gathering is that you've got something for me? Who do we have to destroy this time?" Charles says, throwing the towel back into his monogrammed duffel bag.

Fred takes a seat on one of the benches, greyed hair loose in the light. "Not exactly. We know that the other kingdoms are doing what they can to avoid and interrupt the ban in place, whilst trying to maintain their appearance to the FIA and the fighting council. I don't think it is going to work."

"What does this have to do with me, Fred? I'm not going to be as stupid as to pull what Alex and George did. I'm never going to risk Ferrari for the sake of someone else, another fighter or not. There are bigger games to play than that."

Fred smiles. "You don’t need to remind us. Did you know that on the streets and in some of the temples, they proclaim that you are il predestinato? You are an inevitability, Charles. I wanted to ask you to make a formal visit to Haas in the coming days. They take some of our equipment and data processing systems, which should get the FIA to be less of a pain about it."

Charles takes his cutlass in his hand again, tilting it against the light. "Need me to do something there?"

"I need you to keep tabs on Ollie. Without the freedom to explore, we don't know where his loyalties lie currently. There are bigger fish waiting to catch him, and if he decides to make an agreement somewhere else before Lewis retires, we are in a worse position.”

"So, you're banking on Lewis retiring soon?" Charles tries to hide the small smile that tugs at the edge of his lips, knowing that the stilted morning conversations will finally be replaced, hopefully by joyful ones. An image of Carlos’ wide smile comes into his mind.

"Of course he is going to retire soon. When you have seven championships, an adoring fan base, and enough money to irrevocably change your life, what else is there to fight for? What else is there to achieve?"

"He'd be able to love someone if he left too. George is so incredibly stupid, throwing away his life like that, and for what? A dirty hot tub and a chance at love?"

Fred laughs. "I'm inclined to agree with you. Thank you for your time, Charles."

Fred stands and bids Charles a short farewell, walking back into the castle, where two enormous black metal horses loom over the main entrance. Fred takes the nondescript side door.

Charles moves back to the dolls. As he cuts a new move through the courtyard, some hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. He cranes his head around, looking for the thing watching him. There is nothing there and Charles curses himself for being so paranoid. Nobody would ever target Ferrari in their own home.

They would never be so stupid. His red cloth dampens with sweat and Charles grunts with exertion. Carlos used to fight alongside him during training, giving him an occasional chance to be his sparring partner and always with a joke at the tip of his tongue. Lando, when he was back with him at McLaren, must have taken a lot of joy from that.

He must have loved someone who knows what they're doing, taking the lead and guiding the naiveté of the child chucked as the 'next big thing' into the arena.

***

Again, someone steps into the courtyard.

"You need to be less graceful. Find your edge, Charles. Use it."

Charles whips his head around.

"What do you want Lewis? I thought I wasn't allowed to talk to you."

Lewis simply smiles and takes the head off of one of the dolls. It rolls to the ground, white innards sticking out. He doesn't even spare it a look.

"I think it's helpful to remember. That is all. There is only so much fire you can have when you're still trying to look good for the cameras."

Charles pulls his hand through his hair and frowns. "Why are you telling me this? No. Scratch that. Better question, why are you acting like this? What do you get from being such an asshole?"

***

"Lewis, can you come take a look at this?" Nico's blonde hair covers his eyes as he tilts his head back on the bed.

"Sure, what do you need? I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

***

"Maybe, someday, I'll tell you. For now, spar with me." Lewis slides his glaive into his hand and pulls it back. Preparing himself for a battle.

"Not with the training blades? Or even the standard ones for Saturdays?"

"God no. Where's the fun in that?” Lewis sneers. “Come on, Charles. Fight."

Charles obliges and moves to his starting position, legs slightly bent and eyes glimmering with apprehension.

They fight like bitter enemies, moving in large concentric circles. The lilies face into the growing sunlight. Lewis has the space advantage, but Charles has the youth behind him. Lewis isn't the young crazy person clawing his stake into the arena anymore.

"Come on, Lewis. Fight better than this. You know you can."

For that, Lewis shoves Charles to the floor and places his glaive at Charles’ throat. He feels the steel tip at the bottom of his jaw.

"That was fun. Again?”

***

In his bath, claw-footed and luxuriously deep, Charles looks at the ceiling, painted in a golden constellation. The sweat and grime fall away from him and into the steaming water.

The fights with Lewis had been evenly matched, flicking and changing between one victor and the other. Capitulations and surrenders and bruises developed, hidden amongst cloth. Traditional values dictates the bruises are hidden from each other.

Something about beauty, Charles thinks, as he washes his hair.

When he gets out, wrapped in a towel, Charles finds himself sitting by the fire. It warms his skin, as he pokes through the burning coals with a poker. The moment spreads out into silence and Charles lets himself be.

He has to win, obviously, but there is nothing better than this, here, under the luxury of the chosen few. The predestined. The perfect and the whole.

People will know he is kind and that he means well. Reputation protects. It must.

Charles reads late into the evening about the history of Ferrari, the kingdom borne of many others, given assailants to fight in the games. The elected, in a sense, playing the role of the gladiators. Legislation. Love, hate. Fighting, mercy.

There is nothing left to doubt.

Chapter Text

Average GDP per capita (fighting kingdoms): 35,419 Crowns.
Average GDP per capita (non-fighting kingdoms): 32,632 Crowns.
Population of the United Territories: 400,000,000 (1960 census estimate)…

Notes from a children’s geography textbook hidden under a bed in Chip Ganassi.

***

Lando and Oscar sit on opposite ends of the little side room they commandeered as a personal space, don’t come in, that’s an order. The wide vista of a donated tapestry from some oligarch sits as the backdrop to Oscar’s head, tilted down, eyes scanning over the daily report, occasionally scribbling pencil marks into it. Under the early morning misty haze outside, some chefs and cooks prepare breakfast for the princes, chopping and slicing a platter they will never get to enjoy in their homes.

"Who have you talked to this week, Oscar?"

"Just a couple of people. Why do you ask?"

Lando takes a long drink from his bottle. The icy water causes a little shiver to prickle through his skin. They both glance at each other over the chairs they sit on, the day moving slowly towards a pink-tinged evening.

"I’m trying to get the lay of the land before the next match, you know, in case someone else decides to do something so unbelievably stupid. Like getting your photo taken."

Oscar closes the book he's reading and moves to the door, long orange shirt flowing around him like the embers of a flame.

"Where are you going?" Lando asks.

"I'm going to get some way for you to stop moping. You're sad, and that means you're not going to perform as well. I don't need to ask why, and I honestly don't care about who you're fucking on the sidelines. But when it comes to this sport and this team, I expect you to be at your best Lando. You have to know that we’re expected to do really well this year."

"Yeah."

"I know. Just let me do what I can to help. Wait here."

"Sure, sure. Be right back, yeah?”

Oscar laughs and steps out as Lando takes a long, deep breath and leans his head backwards over the edge of the blue velvet sofa. So modern, McLaren like to posit themselves as. They are the cutting edge of diversity and new beginnings. If they were some space age beings, they’d deck the halls with boughs of flowers genetically-modified. But they are not and the flowers are orange lilies instead.

The flames dance in front of his eyes. Candle wax drips down the candelabra, pooling at the bottom. Lando tilts his head back up and gets to his feet, pacing around the room, wishing somewhere that there was an old, well-played set of vinyl records for them to take advantage of. The faint musty smell of the Maya Ayam hotel calls him like a lover drawling through a phone.

The door opens again into Oscar's private quarters and Oscar drags in a rolling table with a plastic Bakelite phone in. It, in no short an amount of time, is plugged into the wall, ready to dial.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Lando, there are big things at play in this hell of our own creation. If I can pull some strings, I will. This one isn’t bugged, I promise. I need you to do me a favour."

"Who do you want me to call? I'll do whatever you want."

"Don't be so submissive to the first person who treats you with some form of kindness. Can you call Logan and tell him the past is calling? He'll get what I mean."

Lando raises an eyebrow. "The past is calling? This isn't a detective story. You can be honest over the calls here."

"Don't ever get complacent, Lando. Never." Oscar drops his eyes to the floor, a flop of brown hair in his eyes. "I'll be back soon. I think you have about ten minutes. Just do it for me. And tell me what he says, yeah? I slid his phone number underneath the telephone. We don't have to pay for international phone calls here, thank god."

Oscar smiles before he leaves.

Since the introduction of direct international phone calls, exclusive for the kingdoms and their establishments, it has never been easier to gossip about the people you love, the people you hate and the people who, despite you being completely ambivalent about, are actually quite useful.

Lando pulls the phone from its holder, taking the little slip of paper from underneath orange plastic and unfolds it. Oscar's neat handwriting spells out Logan, followed by his number. The bell rings out as Lando pulls his fingers through the rings.

It rings, and rings, and for a split second in the warm air, Lando doesn't think Logan will pick up the phone. But Oscar said he would, and Logan, an ever reliable man, does.

"Hello?"

"Logan? It’s Lando. I was told to tell you that the past is calling. I don't think I'm meant to tell you the name of the person who wanted me to call you, but I know you know who it is."

"I do-" Logan's voice breaks. "Thank you. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. It's the least I could do. I need to go, cause I don’t have a lot of time left here. I hope it works out for you. And be careful."

"I will. Thank you, thank you again."

Logan hangs up the phone and Lando's fingers are already tracing over the edge of the phone again, dialling in the number for Ferrari. He has to call Charles.

"This is the Ferrari switchboard. How can we help you?"

"This is Prince Lando Norris of McLaren. I require the time of Prince Charles Leclerc of Ferrari. As quick as you can, please."

"Of course. Please hold."

The clouds outside move over the sun as Lando waits, the sound of static spitting acid at him through the phone's speaker.

"Who is this?"

Lando laughs. "It's me Charles. We still have that agreement, don't we?"

There is silence over the end of the phone, before the rustling of fabric, and Charles responds in a whisper. "We do. How quickly do you need me to get in contact with him?"

"As soon as you can. I need to talk to him."

"Sure." Charles hangs up. Barely a few seconds later, he gets a call through.

"This is the Williams switchboard. Carlos Sainz is trying to call Prince Lando Norris."

"That's me."

He's connected and Lando breathes out a long sigh of relief.

"Mi lago."

"Hey corazón. What's so important that you needed Charles to call me?"

"This phone isn't bugged. I just wanted to tell you that I miss you so, so much. I need you to know that before the games this weekend. There's so much happening. George and Alex…god. We have to be careful around them."

"There is, and we do. I miss you too. I miss you so much. I'll try and carve out a space to watch you this weekend, like I did last time."

"I didn't see you."

"I was there."

A soft knock echoes at the door, and Oscar pokes his head in, expectant and urgent.

"I need to go. See you soon."

"See you soon. One day I will get you to speak proper Spanish."

"One day.”

***

The newspaper that slides in front of Lando over his morning breakfast of cornflakes is emblazoned with a daring headline:

Il Predestinato meets the predestined of Haas in 3-day extravaganza!

A large photo of Charles sits plastered over the thin paper, his smiling face not quite looking real. On the other side, some of the most senior members of the legislature at Haas raise their arms in a wave to the crowds, in some elaborate ceremony. Religious fervour must be growing in the Ferrari heartlands for the Tribune to speak his name like that.

"The FIA must be having a field day with this," Lando says, waving his butterknife over the paper. Oscar just shrugs in response.

Whoever wrote this must have had a glorious time trailing the beautiful and completely unavailable Charles Leclerc around. They spare no expense talking about just how dashing he looked in the red cloak that billowed from his back, or the adoring crowds, or the beads of sweat that lingered at the delegates' brow.

A smaller photo of Ollie Bearman sits nestled alongside a detailed description of the itinerary for the three day trip. He’s in his official crown, known and craved by little boys and girls across the world: it sits nestled into his brown hair like a soft velvet glove on skin.

Rubies are nestled into golden arches moving in a soft curve, like a bird's nest. He holds his kopis sword, an old design dragged into modernity, along with the customary shield. Haas' emblem shines on it. He's smiling, politely and truly.

"Charles is at Haas."

He gets another shrug in response. Guess Oscar isn't up for talking today then. The cheerful reminder at the bottom tells Lando to turn to page 4 if he wants any more of the juicy gossip about the official trip.

So he does, and spends a few more minutes — that turns into an hour — reading over every detail of every word. Surely there has to be some kind of meaning to all of this pandering and posturing to the crowds. Maybe he should get glasses so he can read in and amongst the words; maybe he should get stronger arms, to push his hand in, hold on tight and pull the true meaning out.

By the time they settle into strength training for the day, Lando's mind swirls with opportunity. For chaos, yes, but also for anger and retribution against those who like to note his failure to win a weekend's worth of games, for everything that they dislike about him.

Oscar joins him for training, sweat pooling at the base of his hair, soaking into the roots. He smiles through the pain. The past must love him dearly, then.

***

In the afternoon meeting, held over a steaming cup of Earl Grey poured from a china teapot, the plans for the weekend are cooked up like a witch's brew.

"In the group games this weekend, the press have been talking about a change to the triumvirate. We know that Mercedes have been floundering since the news about George came out. Stupid boy. This might be our chance to get back in after the couple of years we've had."

Zak's wide, fat face sneers with joy at the chance.

"Red Bull aren't going to like that. Any changes to the status quo aren't going to play out the way they want them to. If I were them I’d hate the change too, but we're good and everyone can see it." Oscar replies, tracing a finger over the edge of the blue-rimmed china cup.

“But we have to bide our time.”

"I agree with Oscar." Lando supplies, barely looking at their faces, instead looking out the window and to the streets that sit beneath them.

"We bide our time."

Oscar sets his teacup against the saucer with deliberate force. “We have to act now. We have to.”

***

His horse's hooves pound drum beats into the ground as Lando hurtles through the forest, nearly at the edges of the capital of McLaren's territories. Named for, of course, the leader and the founder of McLaren's fighting division itself. Without their fighting division, McLaren would never be as respected a kingdom as they are. Bruce McLaren. Named for him.

He pats the neck of Cedar, her chestnut mane flowing down. He keeps on going, through the brush and into the no-longer-frosted ground, where the spring blooms are growing into a new kind of hope.

Eventually though, the ground turns to cobblestones and the galloping falls to a careful trot. Lando's black, nondescript cloak shrouds his head. There is no use in being caught parading yourself around the city streets and the alleyways. You're not Lewis Hamilton. The people of this land, if they do truly hate you, will get you removed. Eventually. There's a reason why Checo is being so carefully watched. So carefully analysed.

For all the speculation, Red Bull must have their own observation decks, just as in the arenas, where Checo lives, breathes, trains and hopes that each day will not be his last.

Lando turns down one of the boulevards, where his face is plastered, smiling and laughing, on a billboard.

Lando Norris: the fighter of the future. Here to serve the glory of McLaren every day.

Paid for by the ruling political party.

He stows Cedar in one of the posts, easing off her. It's been so long since he’s ridden that his muscles, accustomed to running and grappling and lifting weights in sweaty gymnasiums, are not used to the luxury of exploration of the equine kind.

A shop stands in front of him, selling wares and trinkets from all of the kingdoms, fighting and otherwise. A few unsuspecting tourists move in and out of the front doors, holding little paper bags. Maybe they'll have a magnet with his face on.

Don’t be so egotistical, Lando. They don't care about you.

He steps in, careful to only lower the hood of his cloak as he steps over the boundary.

A chirpy sales assistant with an accent from another kingdom hollers over the room. "Do you need any help, sir?"

Lando shakes his head and makes a beeline for the fighting kingdom's merchandise. Williams sits at the end alphabetically, and such order is maintained even here in the shops of the cities. Lando's fingers linger over the 55 keychain before settling on a postcard, compact stone buildings of the Williams capital creating a beautiful, if chaotic, image.

As he steps down the whole rack, Lando's fingers rifle through and pick up a postcard from each and every kingdom. Ferrari. Mercedes. Alpine. Haas. Aston Martin. Red Bull. Fighting Bulls. All of them.

There may be a letter limit, of the official sort, but there is little that can be said for the unofficial kind. There are some perks for growing up with these people. There are secrets and histories and code words that to anyone else would be purely indescribable. A call to action unheard but to anyone who truly knows.

He pays for them all, along with enough stamps to satisfy the craving of the postcards. He denies a bag.

As he steps back outside, Lando's fingers rifle through them in his trouser pocket. He must wear normal clothes of the modern era, if he is to blend in on the streets just like any other man.

On the ride back to the castle that looms large with black brick over the capital, the postcards burn their marks into his skin through the fabric. Secrets. Secrets. Mosquitos. Bugs that carry diseases. Diseased minds. Endings. Beginnings.

***

Oscar's quarters are on the right side of their wing, Lando's to the left. Sometimes, when Lando cannot sleep, he joins Oscar — ever the night owl — and they talk into the early hours of the morning about anything and everything. A few framed photos of Oscar’s family sit snuggled next to photos of his finest moments, his coronation and his battles. A large lead crystal jug sits filled with water, two lowball glasses next to it.

Tonight, however, they both sit in silence with the lamps dim, writing and rewriting letters to family members and friends across the borders of their self-imposed conditions.

The postcards sit in a neat pile as Lando scrawls his chicken-scratch handwriting across them, inviting all to an official meeting at the McLaren residences, hidden in coded language. Two weeks from that day. A few days after the next games. To mingle, to talk about the future of the Formula Games and to, ostensibly, become true representatives of their kingdoms in the eyes of the All-Kingdom Tribune.

"Oscar, for the ball next week, is it black-tie or court dress?"

"Court dress. McLaren are going all out this time. Should be fun." Oscar's tired words barely hide his sheer boredom at the whole thing.

"Thanks."

Court dress includes crowns, so, naturally, the invitation incudes his signature topped off with a crown drawn like a child's over his head. Egotistical. Egotistical. Egotistical.

Eventually they both retire back to their rooms for the evening. Lando spends his last few moments polishing his rapier before placing it back in its carrying case, battered and bruised from childhood.

Being born noble gives you the ability to cherish customised things, where they are not shiny toys for the elite, only given to the poor on merit. Cedar would agree with him there.

***

As the responses on headed paper, signed so formally and in such a neat hand, roll back in, Lando remembers to burn the receipt of his purchases. The official invitations are of course the only ones the other fighters are allowed to respond to, but his own are the important ones. He just needs to get through the weekend first, the group games and then the single, over distances greater than a little baby could ever expect to travel. Oh the modern joys of society.

As the ashes turn to dust, pale white and grey, Lando heads back to training with Oscar. He has to win this weekend. It’s him against Pierre. Glory and power must come from somewhere, after all. The enclosed dome of the training grounds seem to echo his every word and mirror his every grunt of exertion.

And if it isn't him, it will be someone else. And that, as ever, is an unacceptable gambit to be made.

He trains hard, smiles harder, and thinks so desperately of the planes of Carlos' chest, his thighs and his beautiful eyes.

A little wonder fills the air.

Chapter Text

“Fuck- oh fuck. I love you. Can they hear us?”

“Of course they can’t.”

Recording excerpt from the Archives of the FIA (AFIA), restricted section. Dated 3/5/1959. Voices tagged as LH and NR.

***

Under the blazing lights and the gas lamps left from a bygone era, Max shuffles his feet as he waits to do the next round of punches with his trainer. One-two, jab. Two-three, jab. Left-right, jab. Uppercut to the pads and a break for posterity. Water flows from his bottle and down into his throat, dampening like a hydrant to a wildfire.

Shuffle shuffle. The crowds are due to arrive any time soon, where the rituals of the kingdoms become the only truth they have to bear and the truest form of adoration. The Tifosi will burn candles and dance in circles. His own army, grown from little words and comments will come to perform ceremonial parades outside the arena, waving flags and singing chants designed to terrify the unsuspecting McLaren fan they come across. Some will bring replica weapons, made of plastic and designed for children who want to pretend to be swashbuckling pirates and even more will have the clothing of the kingdoms displayed like prized china. The real weapons will lie above the mantelpieces of the families‘ homes, next to the old photos and nestled between the children’s awards.

As they continue to punch and prepare for the day to come, Max glances at all the light fixtures on the walls behind them. Lamps and neon lights glow shades serene. Somewhere, up in the far-away sky, nebulae bruise the darkness in their Tyrian purples and their thick reds, their yellows and their blinding whites, so carefully manoeuvring dust into new burning flames. Their shapes swirl and morph into the patterns of bird’s feathers, as if they too will find a way to fly amongst the vacuum that embraces all in its ecstasy.

Soon — in the timespan of the universe — they will collapse into themselves and engorge themselves once again into those colours, pushing and heaving their death into the night sky. Little children across the United Territories will gaze wide-eyed and haunted into the sky, asking, what? Why? Is it going to happen to us? And the parents will have to turn around and say, no, my darling. We are made of rock. Strong and sturdy. I will never let anything bad happen to you. Did you know they’re called supernovas?

The earth's mantle is made of molten rock and iron moving like thick slugs across each other. Once, in the backyard of Daniel‘s ranch, nestled into the borderlands between Red Bull and McLaren‘s territories, he told Max about the moon and the rocket that had just landed. It had been earlier than anyone had expected, a collaboration between Mercedes and Williams borne out of a shared reverence for the planets and the stars. The rocket had been named the Silver Arrow, pointing its aim into the sky to be loosed towards a new kind of future.

***

The pulse beats of the music echo off the walls of the makeshift encampment of the Ferrari's Tifosi. Elegant red tables are awash with metal chalices, pewter plates and forks. Groups of people — from all differing backgrounds, ages, dancing abilities and happiness — move to the beat of the music.

A little girl enters the fray, her pink dress just reaching her knees, bought by her mother especially for this day. She skips along, chatting to some of the other kids who decided to join her little dancing circle. Some are decked in red, even though, under the direction of the Tifosi's temples, it’s a little unorthodox to wear red outside of the arenas. Her mother always said it brought bad luck to the fighters. She said something about how “Lewis wouldn't like it if we didn't support him properly now, would he?” Spoken in her long drawn out vowels.

One of the boys comes and swings her around with him, hand in hand, getting a little dizzy as they go faster and faster. She smiles as the adults pick up their false weapons and move to the next phase. Fake battling. Somewhere, someone will have lit a few beeswax candles in their corner of the camp, where her little stuffed toy sits nestled in her sleeping bag, having kissed it goodbye that morning.

The men bow low to the women. The women, as always, make the first move. The kids move to the growing oval of people who watch the religious fervour properly. A few speckles of silver and orange can be seen among them. Mercedes fans and McLaren fans.

"The trium- trim- how do you say it?" The little girl asks her older brother, who has got his hands resting on her shoulders now, a few years older and wiser.

"The triumvirate. That's why Mercedes are here, you see? They want to get a look at us," He says, cocking his head towards the blonde Mercedes citizen.

The false battle ends and her parent’s weapons are thrown to the crowds, along with the rest. They would never be stolen. Not here. There is too much electricity crackling through the air and too much emotion in every choreographed step.

The twirling starts again. The little girl swishes her pink dress around. Her brother smiles with a wide toothy grin. These moments, away from mom and dad, under the candlelight and the sun are all she ever wants to know.

***

A concessions worker, employed from one of the Grove Schools just for this occasion adjusts his collar, a loose thread tickling the side of his throat. He's got peanuts, salted and unsalted (stupidly wasteful, he thinks). There is also a little mango dish with rice and sweet milk. The caterers at Williams must have done their duty and figured out a way for Alex to get a say in what’s being served. His father had always told him to watch out for the propaganda. The little vices that would get him hooked on the drug of the games, ignorant of the collapse of governments and legislature elsewhere.

"Hi! Can I get some of the mango rice?” a pretty girl asks him, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking up at him with big glassy eyes.

"Uh-mhm of course. That'll be 4 dollars," he says, trying his best, and failing a little to maintain his airs and graces. His manager, if the man was watching, would have called him up on failing to upsell a drink to her. Branded with the Williams sigil and the motto: Independent Always. As if their alliances to Mercedes can make them any less tethered to the games and all that they represent.

Some shouts and screams build into a cacophony. The fighters must be here for the Friday parade. Group games tomorrow. The concessions worker cranes his head around.

***

Max lingers at the back of the pack, lined up next to Checo. They, as the reigning champions from the last cycle, come out last, to the largest cheers and the largest boos. Depending on the occasion, he either plays into the villainy or basks in the knowledge that he is the indisputable champion.

Checo's claymore and his broadsword brush against each other as the muffled sounds of an announcer lead Alpine, as the first alphabetically, into the arena. The slits of the setting sun glance off the single large opal set into the claymore’s hilt. Pierre and Jack step out to applause and Max closes his eyes, remembering the conversation Jos had had with him earlier that day.

"Max," he had said, stepping into his changing room. "I’ve some rumours around the arena that McLaren want in with the triumvirate this weekend."

Max looked up at him, narrowing his eyes and trying to discern what kind of thing his father could possibly want from him. "Who's out? Mercedes? Who did you talk to?"

"That's none of your concern, Max. Just focus on winning this weekend. We get the security if Ferrari still barely have the balls to fight us, so you need to grab McLaren's and squeeze them until they submit, yeah? Submit."

A few more of his fellow fighters step out, each with their swords and shields in this hands. Unless, you're Liam or Yuki that is, both opting for blunt force. Max will never understand why Liam does not go for something with a bladed edge. Bruises leave no scars. They cannot let the enemy know what they face each time they step into the arena with him.

Liam becomes an impermanent stain upon the memories of those he fights, ever lingering on the sidelines but never becoming the actor in his own play. He will never be ready to take centre stage and perform a soliloquy of anguish to the smiling faces.

Everyone else has come out now. Just him and Checo left. Max steps forward to see the sleek, modern patterns of mosaics on the perimeter of the arena. It's smaller than Toyota's, but enough that when he steps out, Max can feel the heat of the crowd’s breath beating through his skin.

***

"Mama! Mama! It's him!"

"Who is it darling?” the girl's mother asks, pulling her up to sit on her knee.

"Max! The one Charles hates! You always said he's the one he hates."

Her mother kisses the top of her forehead in response. "You're so clever, my darling. Whatever are we going to do with you?"

"Ice-cream when it’s over?"

She gets a laugh in response.

***

All of them stand now in a large circle, facing into each other, as if they are but schoolchildren again and the game is duck, duck goose. Who is the duck and who is the goose? Who gets to wield the power of choice?

The national anthem of Williams plays, all brass band and posturing. Alex and Carlos hold their hands over their hearts, heads lifted in a show of admiration for their adopted homes. You see, Carlos was born in Ferrari territory, after his father had been on a delegation there. Alex had been born even further, in the lands under Ducati's control. Both look so particularly out of place yet regal in their dark blue clothes, pinned together with enough silver to pay the monthly rent of a lowly worker.

"Welcome to the 23rd edition of the Williams Gladiatorial Games! As ever, we thank our esteemed guests from the other kingdoms for their grace in fighting with us this weekend. Under the glory of Equoya, we pray that the games are safe for all."

More applause. Some in the audience bend their heads in brief reverence of Equoya, the patron god of the princely houses of the Williams kingdom. Max manages to catch Charles' eyes, looking over at him with an inscrutable expression. So uninviting, so distant. He tries not to think too hard about what all of this could mean for him.

They do the classic performance of stepping into the circle in their team pairs. They provide a little show for the enraptured audience: a few dodges and dives each, showboating and begging silently for their money and their allegiance. The great houses under each legislature requires such a sacrifice each time.

McLaren have a brand new outfit for this weekend, all blacks and oranges, cutting Lando into a fine figure. He's grown into himself now. No longer the angry, awkward child with enough potential to fill a home with his nerves.

Max steps forward now, and lets his mind go blank with the glory of steel, the sharp smell lingering under his fingernails.

***

"What do you think Lando is going to say to George? He’s the reason why none of us can visit each other now. If I was him I’d just tell him to fuck off," Max asks Liam, as they all get corralled back into the waiting area, before being siphoned off to their team spaces, ready to go home.

"You're out, I'm in. Want a handshake agreement anyway? You're so sweet- So elegant George! Have my babies!" Liam heckles in George's direction. George’s normally glossy, styled hair is thin and limp around his brow. He must not have slept much recently.

"You're so right. It'll make for a horrible one though. I don't- they can't be here for long. Mercedes are predictable."

Liam's hair shifts has he pushes it out of his eyes. "Maybe that’s what'll draw more people in. A little bit of spectacle and a little bit of magic. Ooo, that would be fun. It'll get the Tifosi and your orange army riled up at least, won't it Max?" Liam pushes.

"You're not wrong about that."

They turn to their equipment, with the leading fighters in the championship getting to pick first of the equipment allowance for this weekend. There aren't many daggers this weekend; out of the corner of his eye, Max can see Carlos' dejected face.

Oh sweet baby, don't have your best? Daddy didn't get you it? Work with what you've got.

Daniel, if he were here, would have told him his frown lines are deepening across his face and Max would have told him to be quiet. But he isn't here. He isn't and he is never going to come back. All that exists of Daniel is letters and the whispered words of “I'll find you when it’s time. Secrets, remember?”

So all the rest of them can all burn in brimstone and in the incense the crazed Tifosi light in their offerings to the gods that reside over Ferrari's domain. They, of course, have a veritable pantheon to choose from. There are some perks within being a founding member of the gladiatorial games, borne out of a desire to see camaraderie and the continued pax territorialis following the wars.

Max wonders which ones they'll be worshipping tonight.

***

Later that night, the concession stand worker pulls the strap off that was tight across the back of his neck. He places it down on a counter in one of the high up boxes for the rich people. If he worked full time, it would cost him 30 hours of his salary for a days experience here. Not worth it. He can stick to the salted peanuts (because unsalted peanuts are for babies) that he stuffs in his pockets when the boss isn't looking.

He glances down at the arena to see two cloaked figures walking across it. He steps closer to the window, eyes peering down at the pair. One in pink. It must be Alpine. One in dark crimson. Must be Ferrari.

They get to the centre of the oval arena, one of the unique selling points of the Williams space. The pink one pulls their hood down, head turned away from the concession stand man's view. But, when the crimson cloak is pulled down, the face is unmissable.

Charles Leclerc, stood talking to a man of Alpine in the arena after hours. No swords or shields in sight. The boy can remember in one of the local newspapers the image of Charles' cutlass, called the second most beautiful weapon in the history of the games, just behind Lewis' glaive, of course.

Charles throws his head back in laughter, barely audible through the glass. The boy turns his head and body away almost before he can breathe. There must be silence. Nobody can know about this, apart from perhaps the spymasters that he knows lingers about to catch the unsuspecting in their lust-filled sleep.

***

Max places his broadsword back in its scabbard, looking once again over the room before turning off the light to step back to the carriages and to their hotel for the weekend. Time to rest, his father had said. Remember who the real enemy is, and remember who would kill for you and who would destroy you for the chance to succeed in these hallowed places.

Stepping outside, Max wanders over to his carriage, expecting it to be alone. It is not.

"Max, let’s talk,” an orange cloak says.

"Oscar? What the fuck are you doing here mate?"

"I have an idea for you. Would you like to hear it?"

Max signals for the pair of them to get into the carriage together. He pulls the door closed, signalling to the driver in front that they’re ready to leave. Oscar keeps his hood high over his face. There is no kindness in his expression as his eyes meet Max’s.

"Go on then. I can't just let you go now you're here."

"You're receptive. How would you feel about scratching my back, and I'll scratch yours? I think there's someone you'd like to see."

Daniel. His curls, smelling of carbolic soap and dusty places comes flying back to him as the carriage rocks forward, rolling towards the hotel.

"What are you trying to imply, Oscar? You- you're not stupid. There's a reason why you made it through the lower arenas so quickly, isn't there? You have to be good. No wonder McLaren are trying to get their dirty little claws into the triumvirate, right? Oh don't look at me like that. You know exactly what I’m talking about."

"So you're smart too. Of course McLaren want in on the triumvirate. They dominate for a reason. Us against all six of you during the group games? Even with my fancy new scimitar, we still don't stand any chance. So if we can get in with you and Ferrari, why wouldn't we?"

"So that's what you want. Us in the triumvirate together, in return for what exactly? Who do you think I want to see?"

Oscar blanches at that. Caught out by a single string of words. There is no deus ex machina here. The road continues to rumble under their feet and they sidle across the cobbled streets on the outskirts of the capital.

Max smiles, shark-like. "So you don't know. But you can still help? Aren't you a little enigma."

"I have contacts. People I can talk to. High up. They can get you to whoever you need." A little edge of desperation comes flying into his voice. Oscar’s eyes meet the floor, watching the dust move along the wooden panels.

"And if I take you up on this offer Oscar, that's all you want? Access to the triumvirate? Mercedes gone? Just like that?"

"Yes."

They sit in silence for a few minutes as Max mulls over his options. His access. The power and the glory of subverting the rules. He could do it all. Have it all. He is the champion. People bow down to him. They should, shouldn't they?

Bow down?

"I'll take it. I expect Lando knows about this. I'll talk to Checo on your behalf. When do you want this to start?"

"Next weekend. If we do it now it’ll be too abrupt. We’ve gotta ease into it.”

”You’re right. Give me a bit of time, and I’ll write to you."

"Sure,” Oscar says, scratching his head.

“Where are you guys staying? We're not all together this time.”

"I think it's called the Audade Villas or something similar."

Max sticks his head out the window and tells the driver to change course. He gets a nod in return, curt and unkind.

"There we go. Put your hood back up when you leave. Orange isn't particularly inconspicuous."

Oscar laughs for the first time in the whole day at that.

By the time Oscar gets dropped off at the villas, the air isn't so drab. Change moves through the atmosphere.

***

Oscar makes his way, hood still up, over to Lando's place. Little hedgerows line the pathway, little hydrangeas growing. They're violet red, but not unkind.

He knocks on the door and waits, rocking on the balls of his feet for Lando to show up, looking the same as he always has. By the time the door opens, Oscar has resorted to counting the pebbles that have been brushed onto the step by many feet passing though.

"Oscar? What's up?"

"Can I come in?"

"Sure. Take your shoes off. I had a note from the housekeeper this morning telling me that I'm leaving it too dirty. Don't really get it, but whatever. Uh, you want some tea?"

"Sure, I'll take some tea."

Lando goes to place the kettle on the gas stove in the attached kitchen. No expense spared. Knowing Zak, it was probably a gift from some sponsor waiting for their turn to become vultures and feast on the bodies of the gladiators.

Lando gestures for Oscar to come and sit with him on the sofa. They're about three feet apart.

"I think we have an in with the triumvirate. I'll confirm it at the ball, but this is good. This is really good."

Lando’s eyes widen with shock. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. I mean it. We're in."

The whistle goes on the kettle and Lando moves to draw two utilitarian-looking mugs from the cupboard.

"You want milk and sugar?"

"Two sugars. No milk."

"Freak." Lando smiles as he says it.

He pours the hot water over the tea bags and brings them back to where the pair of them sit.

"So what does this mean for us?" He asks, carefully watching Oscar's expression as he takes the first sip of the tea. He likes it. Good.

“We're going to have to ally with Red Bull. Before- don't scowl at me like that. Before you say anything, I talked to Max and he seems to be on board. Ferrari could be useful, but you're closer with Max right? If I remember some of the press conferences correctly you two gave when Daniel was still around."

Oh Daniel, poor, stupid Daniel. Breaking his wrist and never being the same. Joining McLaren and falling like a shot dove out of the sky. Lando thinks back to the first time that they met as official members of McLaren. How he, as the more experienced one, would chair the roundtable discussions with the legislature, how the wiser Daniel would sit and ruminate on his failures in a way Lando never could.

"I'm friends with him, I think. The man is impossible to read."

"Got ya. All the responses have come in for the ball, right?"

"Everyone who isn't called Alex Albon, yes.” Lando takes a sip of his overly sweet tea. “I don't know if the FIA will let George and Alex go together. Maybe they'll be scheduled for different times. Different introductions, something like that."

"Wouldn't surprise me."

"Neither. How's the tea?"

"Good, good. We can make the game plan there. Thanks for getting me the phone the other day, by the way. I really appreciate it."

"Some things just have to be done, Lando."

***

Max brushes his teeth in the mirror, looking at the telephone over by his bed. To call for room service, ostensibly. But he could call anyone, right? At least anyone in Williams territory. The freedom would be endless. He spits the toothpaste out before washing his face, letting the water run down his chest as he is stripped to sleeping shorts.

As he goes to sit by his bed, Max grabs the phone off the receiver, not speaking, just holding it. Doesn't make the call to the switchboard, doesn't even whisper into it. He doesn't know about the bugs. He still thinks mosquitoes are the least of his concern, instead of the little gadgets of radio devices and microphones that lie hidden in the inside of his telephone. Put there by the spymasters.

"I miss you," he eventually says, to everyone and nobody at all.

He hangs up the phone before sitting back in his bed, on top of the cotton bedsheets. White and freshly pressed just for him.

His eyes fall closed as he thinks about another warm body in his bed. It could be anyone; man, woman, both. Everyone and everything. His hand comes to lie on his chest as he imagines them looking at him with the same kind of kindness that Daniel used to give to him.

Eventually, he shucks off the shorts, rendering him only in boxers. The fresh air flows over his inner thigh. He shivers just a little. Daniel. Daniel. Curly hair and broad, wide smiles. . .

He palms his hand over the top of his cock through the fabric, as a soft hiss escapes the corner of his mouth. The walls are stone in Williams’ hotels, he remembers. But it is always worth being quiet.

Daniel's eyes piercing into him the first time they ever fucked, long and languid and entirely real.

Another moan and Max’s hand wraps carefully around his cock, working just enough for the memories to let him subsist. The mattress next to him is still empty. Broad expanses of skin, there, just there. He runs his hand across the head, catching the bead of precum on his thumb. Daniel always licked the end of it, calling it sexy. Max used to laugh. He works himself a little bit faster, a little bit quicker. Just as Daniel did.

There is only so much imagining he can do silently. The moans get louder and Max starts to writhe in the sheets, eyes screwing closed. Skin. Skin. Left-right. An endless game of favourites. You're my favourite, Daniel had once said. They'd argued over what it meant to be a favourite.

Surely the games are your favourite? Max moans even harder, remembering how good Daniel had looked with his expensive halberd cutting clean though skin. The violent kisses afterwards in the changing rooms, high off of the adrenaline of battle.

"Fuck- fuck-" he moves even faster, precum leaking onto his fingers. Desire crawls under his skin and makes him whole again.

As he gets close, the images wander away, becoming mindless exaltations. Faster and faster and over and over and when he finishes, thick ropes of cum that blend into the white bedsheets, the last thing he expects to pop into his mind is Charles' piercing stare.

Max opens his eyes again, looking down at the mess he's made and sighs. That wasn't meant to happen.

Chapter Text

It appears as if there is change in the air. Things have been pretty stagnant recently in the Formula Games. Fans and citizens from across the United Territories have been clamouring for fresh blood in the alliance of the triumvirate for years. Only time will tell as to who it will be.

Op-ed: The Games are stagnant, but where will change come from? Joel Radmore, senior editor for the All-Kingdom Tribune. 

***

The soft silky bedsheets are wrapped in and around Max's unclothed legs as he wakes up bleary-eyed. The icy fear of being late sticks to his veins. Then again, if he was truly late, someone would have been there pouring a cold glass of water over him. He rubs the sleep from his eyes with his fingers and sits up, stretching out the cricks in his neck and moving to get ready for the day.

The right hand side of his bed is strangely foreign. The warm, wet heat of another's body to accompany his boring routine is gone. His brushing of teeth and picking of clothes to wear to the arena is silent. At least today the decision is already made for him, where a team sponsor wants him to wear a slim fitted suit and a long, thin cloak. Somebody will lust over him at least. That's all he could ever ask for.

If Max was a more vain man, the reflection that stares back at him in the mirror would remind him of an oversized chipmunk, with just enough acne to still be called childlike by some of the more sympathetic commentators from the other kingdoms. Max pulls at the bags under his eyes, looking at the red slit of bloody flesh that separates his eyeball from the outside world, before taking a long deep breath and getting ready for the day. Group games, at least to him, are always the most exhausting. You fight everybody and everyone, trying so hard to sacrifice none of your own power. The team's points are the primary goal here, even if Checo has been falling like a sack of rotting potatoes to gain any for them.

But Max has people to fight against and those who are good enough to take their performance to the highest of echelons. Charles and Lando. Carlos, if the Williams cheating scandal hadn't have taken them out of contention in recent years. The last time Max spoke to Carlos was in the aftermath of last season's final dinner. They'd all dressed so cleanly. Carlos had looked at him with such perplexing confusion. Charles had stared at the back of Carlos' hair, as if he wanted a piece of it himself. Charles, god. He shouldn't be thinking about him.

Max steps out the bathroom, throws the clothes on, ties his laces, and heads out the door. They eat breakfast at the arena as a team, so it is straight to the carriage for him. There is already some form of a queue outside: a custom he still doesn't quite understand. They all act as if they are travelling without having their own assigned seats.

"Hey Max," Checo calls over the crowd, his small eyes scanning across him. "Looking good today."

"Yeah, thanks Checo. How are you?"

Checo pretends not to hear him. The first carriage pulls up: the one meant for the gladiators.

"You get in first,” Checo offers. He climbs in behind Max. His long shiny scabbard is slung over his back. It hangs over the edge of their seats, plush as they should be. He clears his throat, Adam's apple bobbing.

"I'm leaving Red Bull."

"What?" Max stares at him.

"Christian told me this morning. It's been a long time coming, I guess. Yeah, a long time coming."

God.

"When? I'm sorry man, it's not what anyone would want for you."

"After the ball sometime, when the rest have gone home. I guess they wanted to give me one last hurrah before the inevitable."

Like Daniel never got. Liam's spiked blonde tips float into his mind.

"At least you've got that right? Do you know who's taking your place?"

Checo sighs. "It's Liam. It was always going to be him though, wasn't it? They're too stupid to see how good Yuki is, so they chuck me out for that overgrown child."

Steel sounds hollow in his mouth.

Liam. The kid's done it. Made it to one of the most prestigious teams, the de facto leader of the triumvirate and the home to both the fighter's and the team's championships. The rueful and entertaining game turns anew.

But Checo didn't have to go. He did, yes, but he didn't. The man was so beloved by his supporters across the Red Bull kingdom, so many immigrants from other places. The underdog that clawed his way through the team's structures and performed so exceptionally well that he made it here. There were such high hopes for the redemption that would seal his victorious path. Max beat Lewis all the way back in the days of their rivalry, where Checo had fought tooth and nail to help him.

And now he is gone, dunked in acid and left to slowly corrode on the sidelines. He didn't deserve this. Daniel didn't. There are some people that will never have to deal with such destruction; Lando with his almost familial ties to McLaren, Ferrari and their revelry at the mere suggestion of Charles’ dominance, George, if he hadn't have been so ridiculously stupid.

Max cannot even go and visit George to tell him exactly what he thinks of him.

"Liam's a good kid. He can't have wanted to hurt you."

Lies, and you know it, Max Verstappen. Don't pretend you don't know what you’re doing.

Checo's eyes go glassy. "Good kid. At least my wife no longer needs to wait. It’s all over. There is always time, you know. Always time."

Some day, far in the future, Liam's children, or adopted protégées will ask him what it felt like to step into the hope and the power of Red Bull. To be a leader of the triumvirate and home to the fabled Max Verstappen and his broadsword.

Perhaps they'll ask him what it meant to take the place of Checo Perez. They'll pull newspaper clippings and photographs of this last, most fateful day and whisper that they want to do it some day.

You could always fight this Max. Get him to stay. He's a good lackey. Good to control, your little lap-dog.

Get out of my head, dad. He is a good man. I don't want them to come for me.

They so easily could. So easily. The power and the glory hangs by a loose thread, ready to be cut by the fate itself.

"I'm so sorry. I wish there was more I could do, you know. I'll give Liam a hard time. Not so hard that the rumours start flying again, but just enough."

He gets a laugh. "Ha. Thanks Max. We're here. Come on."

They pull up to the entrance of the fighter's entrance, and the bulb flashes of the occasional photographer burns into the back of Max’s retina. They are not the only ones arriving. The burnt sienna brown of McLaren's carriage has just arrived. Max catches sight of Oscar and Lando, both in matching pressed silk shirts. Expensive taste, a little gaudy, if he was being honest.

Oscar catches his eye and smiles, broad and wide, like a cat. He must be pretending it is for the crowds, but Max knows somewhere inside that it is for him. For the cloak and for the dagger and the inevitability of chaos. Shutters go off and Checo stands by him. Whatever Checo says to him is swallowed by the gaping maws of the camera flashes.

Max gets photographed smiling, looking regal and like the lion he is. Someone steps forward to come take his cloak from his shoulders and Max stands there, looking out in his dark navy suit. Just taking it all in and thanking whatever god predetermined his existence there for the opportunities.

"Max! Max!” some tabloid photojournalist screams at him, pushing his camera right into his face. Too close.

Max shoves them out of his way, fingertips smudging the lens. The FIA will want to talk to him about shoving and pushing, but Max cannot find it within him to care much anymore. He is the leader of the world of fighting and they will bow to his needs for as much privacy as he can muster. He is no honey badger.

They step into the arena's back rooms where the team waits for them, hands holding tall glasses of prepared and preweighed drinks. All that is essential for sporting perfection. Max drinks it, before shovelling a breakfast of peanut butter and porridge down. Time for the first meeting of the day.

The meeting goes as well as could be expected. Some of the PR women want him to go on the record rejecting the whispers coming from the lesser kingdoms that McLaren have an interest in taking Mercedes' place in the triumvirate.

"I don't know anything more than what my father tells me. He is the spymaster here after all. Surely you should be getting him to spread counterpropaganda for us? Right? I've got bigger fucking fish to fry."

A short, stoutly woman stares at him, mouth wide open. She, if the old wives tales were true, would catch flies in there. Maybe one day she'll sprout wings and go and join the others in the colony of shock. Some would say it is an apt place for her to be.

***

Max prepares slowly for the games, taking his time to stretch and massage the knots out of his shoulder, tight and unused from sleep. The games run in groups of five on each side. 2 minute rounds. Hand to hand only. As if they were simple boxers the kind you could find spread across the United Territories, fighting in those unsanctioned dirty divisions.

Liam is fighting first. He’s got Yuki and Kimi (oh how young he is). Pierre and Nico. All on one side. Mercedes are going to relish having unrestricted triumvirate access in these first daily fights. It's Carlos, Alex, Esteban, Jack, and Ollie on the other side. Perfection for Mercedes. Max can feel the edge of a smile coming into his expression at the knowledge of Mercedes' imminent downfall.

George is due to fight later. All the experienced fighting triumvirate will be together. The crowds will explode in ecstatic joy.

He heads up towards the observation deck, looking down on the thoroughly modern arena.

Charles is there as well. They're both fighting each other in the next round, so how and why is he here? The Ferrari ritual preparations take longer than this.

"Are you hiding?” he asks Charles, who doesn't look at him. He is staring down at the ten men.

"Charles?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Max elects to ignore that and settles into a seat a few metres away from Charles. He is already fully kitted. Max prefers it this way, where all can be ready early. There is no point being late to your own funeral, is there? You're already dead. The legacy is already being written.

The bell rings and the fight begins. It's the brawl it normally is and Charles' knuckles whiten as he holds onto the edge of the plush armchairs. Electricity crackles like fireworks through the air. The roof above leaves the arena dark, only the spotlights to light up the scene.

Alex gets a good hook on Esteban, their equal heights giving them their own space. Kimi looks out of his depth, and Max can only sympathise with being so young, so groomed and prepped for this exact moment. Still so terrified to make a mistake.

Pierre looks reserved, with furtive downcast eyes. Strangely so, he thinks. The Alpine blood in him normally screams with frustration. He's got that reputation, after all. Womaniser and slick debonair. Max looks out of the corner of his eye. That's who Charles is watching. That's so strange. There's Carlos too. Right? They were so close before. Why Pierre?

Liam is holding hs own. What a surprise. Checo could have been so good out there, taking his place. In the past of course, he cannot pretend to deny the knowledge he has of the present. Checo is no longer the fighter he once was. There is so little that you benefit from with age in this arena. Muscle atrophies. The nerves become less responsive. But the mind gets sharper. The little things that have to be done to make each kingdom better are easy.

Betrayal is easy. Loving yourself and knowing the power that stays in coiled muscles is yours.

Liam takes a jab to the face from Yuki. Divine retribution. The time is almost up. There is going to be one more round after this, and then the break.

Then him, and Checo, and all the rest of them.

The crowd hollers and yells and Charles sits further forward in his seat, waiting and waiting for the climax to come. The orgasm of blood and bruise.

It rings, finally, and Charles screams down at Pierre. Some cameras click off in the distance, unheard to both men in the viewing platform.

***

By the time the next round is about to start, Lando, suited up in their custom outfits for the weekend, has come to join him. He looks strange, with his tight curls and little stubble that scratches at his chin. He's taller, bolder. More real. Less adolescent.

The others come out, and the cycle begins again. Carlos' team are winning convincingly.

Max can see Lando smiling, the little crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes giving him an age older than his years.

"You know Max, you're about to witness glory."

“What?”

The crowd is too loud. The sound echoes off the walls, creating a den of hyenas that posture themselves as fans.

"Glory Max!"

"Glory?"

"That's what this is right? We fight and we get glory!"

The developing crow’s feet and the older frame on Lando does naught to diminish his childlike hope and genuine commitment to the games. Lando keeps smiling and Max doesn't even bother to look at what he's staring at. He doesn't care too much, not when the weight of his age comes crashing down back upon him

He's getting older and there is nothing he can do about it. Nothing at all. He has glory, he doesn't have Daniel. The ranch on the edge between kingdoms is a faded memory.

A single tear wells up in his eye, the rest having been beaten out of his mind long ago.

Carlos' team wins, having put the rest down to the ground. Kimi simply looks glad it is over. There is so much fear in him. It lingers in his sweat.

***

The announcement of Checo's leaving comes just after Max's games, where Max, Checo, Charles, Lando, and Gabriel beat the others. Another victory for the triumvirate, even though the true story comes during the last games of the day. Chosen weapons from a select bunch, all fighting for ten minutes. This is where alliances are forged; the crucible of battle.

The final group game is just now, about to begin. Max stomps down towards the entrance to the arena, where they all come in together. A journalist steps in front of him, brown hair a little slick with grease. A few days of stubble sits on this man's double chin.

"It's so good, isn't it? To have someone so young and refreshing bringing themselves into the fold there at Red Bull?"

Max peers down his nose the best he can. Interruptions must be faced with the same level of disrespect as the person who gave the interruptions.

"Why are you talking to me? Now, I mean? The press conference is later."

The man sniffles. "I'm with the All-Kingdom Tribune, Max. How’s your father?"

Blood runs like ice down his veins. Alex and George. Alex and George. George had looked so thin. Alex so meek and compliant. He hasn't done anything to warrant such a response, Max keeps telling himself. There’s nothing they can do to him.

"Okay, and what does this have to do with me?" Max asks, trying to calm the shaking warble that has taken over his voice.

"We just want to know your opinions on it, before everybody else. There's a reason why Jos asked us to come and talk to you."

"I'll make this short and I'm only going to say it once, understand? Checo is leaving Red Bull, and will be missed. He was always a steadfast member of the kingdom for as long as he was here, and we thank him thoroughly for his allegiance. He will always have a place amongst the highest echelons of the citizens of Red Bull."

Max can almost feel himself shy away from the cringe in the PR response he just gave. Smile, Max. You're on camera!

The man's smug face only widens with hope. "How close were you? I mean, the photos from the other lesser papers were never good enough to make our front page."

"Fine. I've gotta go, yeah? Hope that was good enough for you."

As he starts to walk away, the man keeps lockstep with him. "Is that everything you want to say Max? What kind of things did you used to say to each other before a match? Was he a good friend?"

The man puts his hand on Max's shoulder. For his efforts, Max shoves him away, causing the buffoon to fall on his ass and let out a squeak like a dog chew toy.

"Do not touch me."

The journalist slowly gets back to his feet. "I only wanted to hear your bit before anyone else misconstrued it. I was born in the same town as you, you know. You have so many fans. Here, have my business card. If you ever want to call, I'll be on the other end. Enjoy the next game, Max!"

The man winks at him before running back to the press pool. Max is already late and now he has to sprint to make it on time, lest the FIA decide to destroy his soul with fines. Where the money goes from those fines is anyone's guess.

He arrives to slot himself next to Checo. Some of the trumpets blare and he's walking out, trying desperately to catch his breath. There's so little time.

***

Amongst all the cacophony, the one thing that nobody expected in the immediate aftermath of that most earth-shattering of news is for Checo to win the last group game outright. For him to battle George for the victory and come out successful. For the little elements of his past to make one final swan song before diving under, never to be seen again.

But he has. The rest of the fighters, including Max, Charles, Lando and Oscar, are on the ground, unable to continue. Even the tall ones of George, Alex and Esteban are so entirely outwitted by Checo in that moment. The triumvirate had lasted some of the longest, before the crowd had booed firstly Lewis off for a bad move he made against Nico, then the rest had fallen like dominoes to the crowd and there had only been the two left.

As the stone plinths are raised in the middle of the arena for Checo to be crowned winner of that day's games, Max curses the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Checo has won, without the need for a spymaster to give the public whippings and lashings to get them to vote for who they want. Ferrari's Tifosi will forever remain unconvinced of anyone who isn't their own, even if they are born and raised under the flag of Ferrari. It is only the legislature and the gloriously divine gladiators that are important to them.

The crown is heavy, pure silver and decorated with glittering diamonds. The setting has been changed to Red Bull's house gem: a brilliant-cut blue sapphire.

Checo smiles as he steps onto the plinth. As it tradition, Max comes to join him and place the laurel wreath around his neck. Camaraderie is the book-defined reason why. Max just finds it a little awkward.

"Thank you for this. I'm so sorry." Checo says, his accent slurring his words with sadness.

"It's okay."

They both turn now to watch the FIA's delegate, head covered in a black hood, present the trophy to Checo. If Christian was nice, he'd let Checo keep it. They already have so many displayed in the glass walls and cabinets in the castle.

A little kindness can go so far here.

***

There's a strange silence as the little girl from Ferrari reads one of the poems in the tome her mother gave her for her birthday. None of the birds are singing.

Myopic

Vulturous eyes gazing upon the rivulets
Muscle pulled taut over skin
Confidence breaking
Fearing

His favourite, adoring the droplets
Wet hair drowned upon water
Naïveté glowing
Hoping

New partnership changed as if light
Arched brow raptured under love
Adrenaline flowing
Discovering

She blows out the candle next to her in the tent.

Chapter Text

“When the sun dips low over the horizon, all secrets will be revealed. When the sun rises anew in the morning, all lies will fall to ash under the truth-telling day.”

Slate 12 (All-Consuming Truths), Lines 2-3, The Veriquestiona.

The Veriquestiona are the sacred texts of the Ferrari house religion. Every family is issued with a copy upon the birth of a child.

***

"Mi lago. Can I talk to you?"

Carlos smiles at Lando. The ball is just about underway, and the last few lower kingdoms are being heralded for entry.

"Sure, come to the bathroom?"

They walk in together as Alex leaves when they arrive, a knowing look on his face.

Under the fluorescent light, Lando buries his head in Carlos' chest, nestling into the soft fabric. Carlos hugs his back as they stand together.

"I miss you," Lando says.

"But I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm never going to go anywhere. What did you want to talk about?"

Lando looks up at Carlos. At his kind brown eyes, his dark hair, his strong features. His smile. Lando kisses him like a first love all over again, all nervous and excited.

Carlos comes back to deepen the kiss, gently moving Lando back into one of the stalls. He closes the door behind him, making sure to latch it closed.

The kisses get more and more frantic now that they're alone and have some privacy. Carlos slips his hand through the open collar of Lando's white shirt. He thumbs over Lando's chest. Lando moans under the touch.

"Be quiet," Carlos moans into his ear. "Be quiet and I'll make it even better for you."

Lando screws his eyes shut as Carlos presses him up against the door. They wouldn't bug the toilets would they?

"Carlos, the bugs. What about the bugs?"

He pulls away. "Shit, you're right. Hold on."

Carlos opens the back of the toilet and peers inside. It seems empty enough for him, before he carefully replaces it and turns back to Lando with uncontained lust in his eyes.

Lando lunges at him, pulling off Carlos' jacket. It falls to the floor and sits in a puddle by Lando's feet. The perfect rest for him.

Carlos moves his head to Lando's neck, nipping with teeth before smoothing over the marks with a long swipe of his tongue against Lando's pulse points. Lando has to bite his cheek hard not to moan so loudly that he can be heard from outside.

Carlos undoes Lando's shirt, swiping his hands across the flat muscle of his stomach, pressing and squeezing just enough for Lando’s back to arch into Carlos’.

"What do you want me to do?” Carlos asks through low, lidded eyes.

"Make me feel good. It’s all I ever want. "

Carlos pulls the belt loose on Lando's court dress trousers. They fall to the floor next to Carlos' jacket, which he's using now as a rest for his knees.

He nestles his head into the sweet thin skin of Lando's thigh and sucks a dark bruising mark into it. They are memories that will last long after all of this is over.

"I love-" Lando is cut off by the mouth around his cock.

Outside the McLaren castle walls, civilians dance in stone-walled pubs. Soldiers share stories around burning bonfires. Restaurants, candle-lit and dim, serve steaming platters of food. Offerings are made in temples. Over in Ferrari, some zealots walk down cloisters, whispering.

***

As the night develops away from twilight, Lando swallows down his whiskey sour, perfectly tart and delightfully alcoholic. He's already had three, plus a secret swig of imported tequila from Checo's hometown as a leaving gift to him. It's not like Lando ever really spoke to him. But the salt and the lime did its job just how it was designed to.

It’s time to go on a little hike in search of that most long lost of lovers. He’s already done the rounds trailing Zak’s feet. Pimped out to sponsors and corporate hacks who only want to devour him and plaster him on even more billboards. Oscar’s face had been pricelessly bored. Lando's feet slide across the floor, slowly and gracefully manoeuvring around all of the other people. Carlos' thick mop of hair has to be around somewhere. Come on! Where is he?

A low-hanging chandelier dangles precariously over the heads of the dancing groups. They're all dressed in their finest outfits. There’s wool and silk and cotton and jewels dripping from every crevice. Court dress, he thinks, always looks the best on the people with the worst of personalities; they’re so vapid and uninspiring that they make up for it with expensive clothes and perfume. As if it could hide the stench of money.

Though, he reckons, he cannot speak on this. Not only is the tailored suit Lando wears more expensive than a months wages for one of the servers, but the fabric pinned into his shoulders — draped sunset orange — make him look like an old Roman senator, ready to stab Julius Caesar in the back. There is something magical about the past, somewhere where all the future is already known. Julius Caesar is dead and the murder was sensational.

George stands by the door to the bathroom, carefully nursing an old fashioned. When he had first set foot in Mercedes’ castle Great Hall, it was the cocktail he used to celebrate. He’d made it from the drinks trolley Valtteri hadn't removed from his side of the living space. It’s rich whisky, a little smoky.

All the crowds smile as the next song continues, as Lando moves his hand around. His leaden weight doesn’t feel quite real. Perfect. Just perfect. Carlos has to be around somewhere, doesn't he? They're all here. All the fighters responded to his messages, telling him that they would be there, even if Alex’s was written in a shaky hand. They would talk politics.

Lando saunters over to him, hips swaying as if he were some kind of model on a runway.

"Lando? You alright mate?"

Carlos comes out of the bathroom to stand behind George, with just a little bit of dampness on his hands. He glances up and down at Lando, drying the last of his hands on his trousers like a child.

"Carlos! Hey- hey Carlos. Did you know I've got a secret for you? Right? A secret."

George and Carlos share a look over the top of Lando's head, where he's tilted it down toward his chest like an old man slumped in an old armchair.

George taps Lando's shoulder and he comes back to attention.

"You have a secret? Now?"

George cocks his eyebrow.

"Yeah. Man, this whiskey sour was good. Come to the bathroom."

Carlos knits his brows. The bathroom? Again?

"Are you absolutely sure you want to be doing this? Now?" George says, glancing to see who is watching them. Everyone else seems entirely absorbed in their own worlds.

Lando takes Carlos' arm and drags him into the bathroom, shouting something at the staff member who is in there to get out. They comply. George follows hot on their heels.

“You sure you’re okay Lando?” Carlos says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You look a little strange.”

Do it, come on. Tell him the big secret. He’s always loved the big secrets. Remember the swimming pool.

Lando raises his arms out wide beside him, like he’s showboating to the crowds of the arena.

“We’re uh-”

George gets a bit too close and Lando stays quiet. It’s only when he moves away that he continues.

“Remember the triumvirate?”

“Obviously, Lando. What are you trying to say? Carlos and I don’t have all the time in the world.”

Lando thinks back to the bugs.

“Did you get rid of the bugs in here? We did- you know.” He giggles. “Earlier.”

Carlos’ face blanches a little.

“There isn’t going to be any bugs in here, Lando. The FIA use this bathroom too.”

George composes his face into a smile.

"Did you know…did you…did you know that McLaren are in the triumvirate now?"

Through the haze of alcohol, Lando can only see George's mouth open a little. Silence. For a moment, Lando think it has all gone perfectly, unaware of the gravity of what he’s just said. Carlos breaks the moment over his knee.

"What are you saying? There was a plan. Who did you talk to Landito?"

Lando smiles wide like a psychopath and looks at himself in the mirror. He’s all blurry.

"Oscar…we're going to be so powerful! You remember the hotel, the…whatever it's called. We all want glory, and this is how we get it. This is how we get it."

George is icy cold. "Who are you replacing?"

"Mercedes." Lando says with a frightening clarity, smiling at George. He isn't sober enough to follow through with the devastating denouement.

"Lando, what the fuck? You're not being serious?"

Lando frowns.

Carlos comes between the pair of them. "George, listen, he's drunk. He can't be-"

"No- No. I am. Oscar told me. He got me the phone call. He trusts me. He does. He trusts me."

The other two men go quiet, shock and awe in their expressions.

"Lando, you need to leave. Get out.”

"You need to go," Carlos supports.

Lando sways on the balls of his feet, reaching into his tiptoes like a criminal trying to stay quiet.

“Get out!” George yells.

George pushes him towards the door and Lando barely registers the movement.

He steps back outside, watching the musicians pick up their steam and play just a little faster. The grand dance must be about to begin. Maybe he'll get to touch Carlos some more.

***

Heartstrings are stretched like a wire. Taut. Fragile. Time moves like a violin string ready to be played.

"Oh god. Oh god.” George’s voice comes out breathless and fast.

He clutches the bowl of the sink, as if trying to grip onto the little future he's got left.

“No- No. This isn't happening. Who would he have even talked to? Lando doesn't…he can't want to get rid of Mercedes. It's Ferrari. It was always going to be Ferrari."

Carlos pinches his nose. "Oscar, no? That's who he said told him. He must, he has to, be in charge of all this. Or maybe it's the principals…I don't know."

"Help me Carlos, why? Alex, he's going to lose all his leverage."

"It's not just the leverage though, is it? We all want to win. That's why we're here. It’s why we fight. He can't come and just fuck with all of that. He fucking can't. He's so fucking short-sighted."

Carlos' hands shake at his sides.

George closes his eyes and tries to imagine a beach.

"What can we do with this now? Convince him to stop? Get him to ruin McLaren? Why are we even here?"

Carlos takes a moment before punching the wall. The skin splits over his knuckles. He cradles it in his other hand before shout-whispering FUCK! into the air.

"You're here for the same reason I am. Do you really wanna get philosophical now?"

"No. I want to throttle him."

"Don’t- Just don't do that George. We can sort this out, no?"

"Whatever you say. We can't stay here for too long. If the FIA gave enough of a fuck about their goal of territorial peace or whatever it is that they do now as they do with who we fuck, the world would be a better place."

***

Lando wanders into the deserted bathrooms on the other end of the dance floor. The slick oil of other’s hands touching him as he moved through the crowd leaves him feeling dirty. Unclean.

Tears, fat, thick, and hot roll down his cheeks as the clarity comes back to him. What did he just do? Did he even want to do that? Oscar trusts him. Oscar is kind. There isn't a way he could shove the air back into his mouth and forget about all of his, is there?

Lando closes himself in a cubicle and rocks forwards and backwards as if he is a child and the invisible hand of one of the gods is his mother coming to rock him to sleep.

The fanfare begins outside and Lando ends up smacking his head against the side panel in his fevered rush to be in his place for the dance. He rubs his eyes and tries not to think too hard about how puffy his face is.

The rest of the fighters are already in position or thereabouts. Lando makes a somewhat grand entrance, bowing to the pretty ladies on the outskirts of the wide circle before taking his place alongside Oscar. He erases the memory of the moment just gone as the music starts, jaunty and upbeat.

He twirls with his hand clasped in Oscar’s as the fighters walk in a large circle. They turn on their heels and walk back the other way. Someone in one of Lando's childhood history lessons talked about these symbolic representations littered throughout the dances. Carlos and George are with Alex and Kimi respectively.

Lando and Oscar come apart, leaving the oligarchies to come and join the fray. The fighters will finish off the song together, as they are the symbols of the peace between the kingdoms in this modern age. Charles is out in his peripheral vision on his right side, looking deliciously fallible.

A knife to the ribs would do just the trick, Lando imagines. Hot jealousy would be their perfect motive. Lando almost balks at his own mind, wishing to rip it out of the top of his head and dropkick it like a child’s ball. Gods, Lando.

What are you doing? Charles isn't worth killing. You shouldn’t even be thinking about this.

He manages to catch Charles’ eye and tries to look preoccupied with something else before his thoughts manifest into action.

The fighters retire to the side as the team principals and their wives or girlfriends come to do their part in the dance. They all look manicured and prepped, as if they are going to be on the cover of the gossip coloumns. They're not interesting enough for that. They get the spaces in the main newspapers, where the legislature under their command picks the scent up and runs with it. Tabloid news is for the fighters and the fighters alone.

Lewis sidles up next to him. He looks like a god. His hair is neatly braided and tied together. Red rubies are clipped into the braids like little fires. Lewis wears a dark, blood-like double-breasted suit jacket, with a raven black shirt underneath. If looks could kill, Lewis Hamilton would be a murderer unparalleled across the kingdoms.

"How are you, Lando?"

It takes a moment for Lando to understand that Lewis is talking to him. He blinks at Lewis once as he cranes his head to his right.

"I’m good. How are you?"

"Oh me? I'm perfect. Would you care to join me for a dance? I think we're due back in the main circle again."

Lewis takes Lando's hand before he has a chance to protest. It wasn't a question; it was a formality. You do not say no to Lewis Hamilton.

They come back to the centre. The fighter pairings from each kingdom have splintered into friendship pairings and probably a host of veritable lovers. Lewis swirls around, taking the role of the woman, if this was a strictly traditional dance.

As they return to each other, Lewis whispers in Lando's ear.

“You're a voice for the future you know. It'll be so excellent to see what you can figure out."

Lando's hands move sluggishly with the alcohol in him. "Thank you Lewis. I-” Lando clears his throat. “I’ve always looked up to you."

As his mind catches up with the words that have been spilling out of his mouth, Lando can only wonder why Lewis has chosen him.

The music begins like another round of the fights and they dance together, leaving just enough rooms to be respectful. The relationship byelaws after all are godly above all. Even for Lewis Hamilton.

Is it sex? Is that it? Does Lewis want to rip the clothes off him? Fuck him raw? Press him against a wall and destroy what little dignity Lando thinks he has left? He looks up and over Lewis' shoulder. He catches George's eye, who has managed to find his way in the dance with Jack Doohan. Back in the Maya Ayam hotel those eyes had been conspiratorial and friendly. They are dead now. Dead to him.

Something has been broken that will never return. Lewis puts his hand on Lando's shoulder. They're about to switch partners as they all move through the song.

"Great things are coming,” he whispers.

Before Lando can respond he is being spun into partnership with Gabriel. Then to Yuki, whose shorter arms make for a slightly clunky dance. At least there are no camera people here.

The song swells. It grows. He spins for on last time, closing his eyes as if he is opening a present on his birthday.

"Carlos."

They take hold of each other. The warmth saps from the air around. When Carlos looks down at him, Lando feels as if the world is about to end, right then and right there. They're as close as they've ever been and ever will be in this system but power slots its thick hand between them and shoves them apart.

He inhales sharply. So close. So near.

The music cracks. The violin player brings her bow up from the strings and the entire room erupts into ecstatic applause. Perfection from all 20 of them.

Lando rushes off. He only looks back to see Carlos stood alone, staring at him whilst various women plaster themselves over him, so eager for a quick fuck and a good story to share with the All-Kingdom Tribune. Carlos rubs his eyes as if there is something stuck in it. Water stains his fingers.

Chapter Text

“Hey handsome. Want the Fighter’s Experience? It’ll be worth your time. Why don’t you come sit with me?”

Shouted advertisement of Olive Rafay (known professionally as Olivia Fox), a prostitute on the backstreets of Argentum, the largest city in Mercedes. 

***

3 Years Earlier

Charles' quarters are so sparsely decorated that some stranger would think a prisoner lived there. All the furnishings may be elegant and exceptionally expensive, but there simply is not a lot of it anywhere. This is, of course, until someone looks inside with any form of magnifying glass and witnesses the humanity spilling over every edge.

Carlos stands at the far end of the corridor to Charles' side, hand curled in a loose fist. He can't bring himself to knock on the door. There’s about a 2 inch gap between his knuckles and the wood. What if Charles thinks he's strange for doing this? He’d ruin all of him, with his imposing stare and tragic backstory. He's contracted there for three years. To be hated from the beginning would be horrific.

In the end, Carlos decides to come back later. He retreats to his side, where the furnishings are plentiful and the fire is roaring. February winds whip and whistle through the castle no matter how hard he tries.

After a pot of tea served in thick stoneware, Carlos leaves his room once again and pads down the corridor again. The dark red painted walls have small gold accents of picture frames showing the history of this team. One day, he'll end up there, if plays his game right. In some ways, it starts with this.

Charles’ door is open this time, a soft yellow light streaming from it. The lamp is lit; the main light off. It is as if Charles is doing some of the rituals of the religious. However, there is no low-slung incense leaving the room sultry and sensuous. The soft thud of the piano hammer on the string creates beautiful melodies that Carlos can hear clearer the closer he gets.

He comes to stand at the doorframe, in a vague attempt to be inconspicuous, though, his frame casts a pretty shadow over the grand piano and over the white keys. Charles peers up, away from the hand-written sheet music. He lifts his feet off the pedals.

"Carlos, what a pleasure. What are you doing here?"

Carlos swallows down the lump in his throat. Anxiety is the marker of a failure in the making. Don't be so afraid.

"I've finished the report for the council on the farmer’s dispute impacting the arena convoy over in Mercedes. We haven't uh- talked that much since I arrived. I thought it would be nice to have a drink. We don't have to make this personal."

Charles' eyes light up.

"Of course, come sit down. I'm just playing."

"I know." Carlos closes the door behind him. "I heard you playing on my way here. Do you do this every night?"

Charles runs his hand through his hair before taking the music in his hand.

"Not every night. I just play whenever this place gets too quiet. I get what the team say, you know, about keeping us calm. Something about cortisol levels. But it is too quiet here. You could hear a pin drop."

The lilt of Charles' voice splits the air well.

"No, I get you. It's why I'm here, I guess. Conversation makes the nights easier. I try not to watch whatever is on the television. The news is never nice to us. You've seen it."

"When they're not extolling us as the glorious deities some of them think we are, they're lamenting our performances."

“Exactly.”

Charles puts the sheet music down and rests his hands against the keys, as if the music is on the tips of his fingers, ready to be played. He presses some of the keys, as if he is experimenting.

"Is- is this something you're working on?” Carlos tries.

Charles stops, before looking over at him with such kindness that Carlos' pants feel just a little tighter. Consider him a man who falls for kindness first and foremost.

"Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. I've been practicing this-" he grabs the sheet music and places it back on the stand. "It's a new song composed by a musician from back home. He said in the Tribune that it reminds him of the ocean. I really miss the ocean."

The swathes of pure green pasture land that surround Ferrari's secluded castle are beautiful. Objectively so. But there is only a small lake, barely enough to take a boat out on. The court of Ferrari are not nestled into the city centre like the modernity of McLaren, nor at the top of a hill like Mercedes. Their seclusion only drives more power.

Carlos sets a finger on the start of the piece. "Play it for me?"

***

The piano keys plink and plonk and are played with such untidy hands, Alex thinks. There's no grace, no beauty in it. The same cannot be said for Carlos Sainz however. The long ballroom gowns of each of the women surrounding him are being trampled on by every other woman. Their heels punch little stab wounds into the chiffon.

His head spins for a moment. That's right, he hasn't been eating well. Sometimes Alex can forget it if he's not careful, especially when twirling and holding the hands of various bored men. Forward, backward, twirl. Smile, bow, again.

Alex beckons for Carlos to come over to him, crooking his fingers towards him like some two-bit prostitute. In some ways he thinks — as Carlos paces over to him — he is. He would be anything for George, anyway. George is so far away, only visible through the barest of glimpses here. That's what isolation is. That is what the destitute cries of loneliness in the Maya Ayam hotel gets you.

"You're looking very refined tonight, Alex," Carlos says. They hadn't travelled together, but they must leave together.

Alex's royal blue and white suit hugs his tall frame in all the right ways. A circlet of diamonds sits nestled into his dark hair. Little rainbows flicker on the walls when he catches the light just right, like a radiant sun.

"Do you know where George is?” Alex asks, trying very hard to school his expression.

"No, and I wouldn't go looking for him. He's had a shit of a night as me."

"What happened?"

Carlos frowns. "We're not talking about this here."

Alex cocks his head to the side just in the way George does: an unconscious thief.

"I want-"

"No," Carlos interjects. "Don't be stupid again."

Alex closes his mouth, before gesturing for Carlos to follow him to the bar. Its tall shelves are piled high with various spirits, liqueurs and bottles. Gin from McLaren, vodka from Sauber, whiskey from Haas, liqueurs from the non-fighting kingdoms. The thin glasses that hold precarious martinis are garnished with plump olives.

"If you're looking for Lando-” he tries, "he's been dragged home by Oscar."

There we go, that'll get him to tell you.

Carlos' face doesn't have the shock on it that one would expect for the present scenario. This is obviously not news. Did Lando say something to him? No, he wouldn't have. He is too sweet for that.

“The team principals are really disappointed with him, you know. I think Zak wanted him to make the finale speech before everyone clears out for the night. Guess that’s going to be his job now."

Carlos grimaces.

"Excuse me," he says.

Carlos walks off back into the crowd, submerging himself in it like a duck diving into water. Only his beauty would make him stand out as anything special. As Alex scans around the rest of the room, just about to receive his classic martini, he overhears some whispering on the far side of the bar. The vermouth being poured is from Alpine, the gin from the foothills, like the love child of complete strangers. That is what trade gets you in this day and age.

Max and Charles are side by side. Max has his elbows on the copper bar surface; Charles has one hand pressed against it for support. What they are actually saying to each other, however, is unable to be determined.

"Here you go, Sir Albon. Will that be all tonight?” the bartender says.

He’s handsome.

Alex smiles, says thank you and takes a long sip. The burn is so delicious. His eyes look perfectly normal. His training from his time with the Red Bull spymasters is paying off. Survival depends on normality.

Charles' face is pitted with frustration, his expression stormy and dark. Max looks almost placating, trying to get him to understand something. There's a perfectly healthy gap between them. No relationship drama there then. Why would there be? Charles is the perpetually unavailable god.

Alex slides down the bar a little bit, shuffling his feet to try in a vague attempt to blend in. His height makes Alex stick out like a sore thumb. His head lingers above most of the rest of the crowd anyway. Despite this, he just does his best to try and attune his hearing to what Charles and Max are saying.

"This isn't going-" Charles whispers.

Alex takes another long sip of his drink. The sound of the liquid in his throat drowns out anyone else.

At least it tastes good, right? Even if he gets drunk, Carlos would get him out before it’s too late. Before he makes a mess of himself and ruins everything. Oh, Charles has walked off. But Max is still there. Liquid courage does in fact make someone courageous. Alex comes to stand next to Max.

Nonchalance is not a good look on his expressive face. Max looks over at him with a disquieting pierce.

"Hey."

"Hey. Good drink?"

Alex gestures to Max's gin and tonic and then back to his own. The ice inside both the glasses doesn't crack.

"It's good."

Long ago, when they had shared the same castle and had slept barely 20 metres from each other's head, Max had been so cold. So uninviting. Alex had failed to live up to the expectations placed upon him as a member of the triumvirate. He's been ahead of George, and to the naïve little child that he still was, this was sensational. George had been languishing in Williams, groomed to find his space in Mercedes. Alex was the firestarter in Red Bull. The roles reversed in the end.

Alex takes the final swig of his martini. It should really be more alcoholic, he thinks, if it was going to get him to escape from the insides of his mind. Something sticks in his head, sluggish and hungry. It wants to be fed.

“Alex? What are you doing?” Max asks.

The stare he gets back is only filled with malice. Though, it is soft at the edges, like a child throwing a tantrum.

"You know, Max, sometimes I get really jealous of you."

Oh, there we go. Ruining it again. Like the night you left for the last time.

Max puts the glass that was just at the edge of his lips down.

"Go on, then.” Max swirls the liquid around in the glass. “If you're so insistent on digging your own grave, Alex."

"I think, and I know I’m not alone, that you've had it so easy since coming to the arena. A father who's a spymaster. Being the child prodigy. Four world championships with more to come. Don't you see how it is for people like me? Who've had to beg, steal, and borrow their limited time?"

"Don't talk to me about sacrifice, Alex. You're tipsy, stop it."

"No, I won't. I’m sorry, but don't you know what it was like? On the outside? Looking in? Walking down the streets of the capital and seeing Pierre's stupid smiling face? Yours next to it? That’s a lot of questions I know."

Putting your foot in it isn't going to change it Alex. George would tell you as much.

Max sighs. "You- weren't good enough. Don't you accept that? You used to freeze during the group games! The group games man, they're the easy ones. Why are you picking a fight with me?"

The group games to Alex are the crucible of all he fears. All the fighters are brought down to base human instinct. If you're not a fighter, you're a victim. Red Bull never, ever, will let themselves be victims.

"I...don't know, Max. I don't know anymore."

Max stays quiet, letting Alex talk.

"Did you ever worry yourself to sleep every night? Scared and afraid? Watching the bruises form on the others and thinking about the bruises you know you had but couldn't see? When there was nobody with you in the worst days?"

"No, Alex, I didn't."

He gets a look. "Of course not. It was the worst moment of my life, you know. The day I was replaced and only had a tiny apartment on the edge of a city to call my home."

"I'm sorry it was so hard for you."

"Shut up, Max. You're not helping."

Alex leaves the vermouth to drip, condensed, down the side of the now empty martini glass. He steps away, bones heavy and eyes glassy. By the time he reaches the bathroom, he's having to hold in the tears that threaten to spill down his face and ruin everything.

An FIA official is stood outside the bathroom. They hadn't been there before. Alex tries to move past them, before getting an arm across his chest. Like he is some child and this official is his overly concerned parents.

"My apologies, Sir Albon. You are not allowed to enter."

"Wait, what? Let me in, please."

"No sir, we cannot allow that. You are free to use the bathroom on the other end of the ballroom." They gesture to a door through the thicket of men and women.

***

Charles watches all of this happen, the tipsy confrontation, the stopping of Alex at the door to the bathroom. Laughter bubbles out of his lips. Alex is funny when he's tipsy, always lounging over every surface that's available to him. But today does seem to be a little different.

"You- weren't good enough-"

Oh, no you don't get to say that Max. Not when you just told me that I'm going to be nothing when Lewis is done with me. Don't ever say that to him.

As Charles continues to stand there, Fred moves through the crowd in an almost desperate attempt to ifind him. He's got sponsor obligations to stick to. There are people who want to see his shining, radiant face amongst their own. Charles giggles, which catches the eye of some random staff members.

By the time Fred has caught up to him, Charles has turned to the ceiling, gazing at the fresco that is painted into it. It shows the formation of this kingdom. It shows how, in the aftermath of the war to end all others, McLaren subsumed the smaller kingdoms on its periphery and created a new constitution to show for it. Arrow McLaren had gone. Lotus had gone. The remnants of Jordan had gone. Ferrari was lucky then, in these regards.

They had been around so long that there was no more kingdoms to subsume. Ferrari were the monolith and they were pure.

"Charles, come on. I've got the vice president of Oyeda here. She wants to come speak to you."

Charles smiles. "Of course."

They walk over, Fred with his hand on Charles’ shoulder. Linda’s greying hair at her temples wizens her face beyond her years, as if she is going to bend down and give a sweet to a sticky child. Something about her reminds Charles of his mother.

"Hello, Linda. I hope the evening has been treating you well."

"Oh it absolutely has, Charles."

Charles plasters a grin onto his face and bears it for the entire conversation.

"What do you mean? You want me to do an underwear advert, for the billboards? No, I get it, but that goes against Ferrari purity regulations, does it not?" Charles says, after ten minutes of roundabout flattery.

"Well, yes. We have cleared with the relevant authorities."

Charles looks over to Fred. He gives an impassive response in his bushy eyebrows.

"Why do you want me to do this? I have a right to privacy, you know. The triumvirate just passed that legislature across all of the house chambers. Oh, you don't think I read up on my kingdom's legislation?"

She speaks like a mouse, "The growing amount of young women who are taking an interest in these games are considered to be some of the most important players in our propaganda campaign against the lesser houses.”

“I’m aware, it was in the-”

“Apologies, sir, but if we keep them from looking elsewhere for work and for jobs and keep them here in the kingdoms, it works out better for all of us, doesn't it?"

"Just because they're young women doesn't mean that they only care about our bloodletting because of who we are. They're taught in schools now about the history of the games. The war. I wasn't alive for it, and this generation being born will have never known the aftermath. If these children don’t love the games, that would be the biggest thing I'd market to."

"Don't be ridiculous, Charles. That's what we're here for, so we can maintain that fighting power we've had since our very founding. You're our future. Remember that."

The music played in the background slows to adagio, the cellist’s string vibrating. The saxophonist takes a drink.

"I will just take this moment to remind you of my status in this kingdom, Ms Rose. I am a prince of Ferrari."

She takes a step back.

"We just want to stay relevant. You need to stay relevant. I was talking to some of the culturas in the temples the other day. They're increasing their strength in the poor areas, but we need your grace to shine through. If we can get the women on our side-"

"I am a prince of Ferrari and what I say goes. The swords and the weapons we use in the games are carried with us, or are nearby, always. You do remember that, right? Not only is it for our own protection, but these weapons are our power. We are chosen to be here. We fight to be here. And we will continue to fight until the day ends and the sun rises in the new, truth-telling day."

Charles' smile widens just a little as Linda and Fred both wither under his dutiful aura.

"Now, I am willing to do what needs to be done. I'll wear your costumes. But do not ever lecture me about relevance. I am going to get my cutlass. Excuse me."

"Charles-" Fred starts, but Charles is already gone.

He stalks like a dog hunting prey over to one of the attendants, asking him with enough politeness as he can muster to go and get his sword for him.

The attendant who beings his sword back to him holds it in both hands, gloved as all court dress is. There is something to be said for being demure, dressed in floral designs and so unmanly.

Charles straps the scabbard into his belt loop and glances up to see a fair amount of the remaining crowd starting at him, enthralled by what this man can do. Lewis is watching too. He tilts his head down in an almost imperceptible nod, before returning to his conversation with Jenson Button, Nico Rosberg and Mark Webber. How extremely strange.

All of them have their weapons as well. Charles walks through the crowd that parts for him. Jenson has his sickle, handle bound with dark green cloth from his home. His age and years of hard training are finally catching to him; his stance is a little more stooped than his fighting days.

Charles heads back to the bar to order another drink. A gin and tonic, inspired by Max's choice. The bartender is not his type. What a shame. A quick fuck would have made for some amazing PR, at least when it is only gossip and there are no bugs here. Some would call that freedom.

The FIA president, some diminutive man by the name Mohammed Ben Sulayem, joins the retired fighters in their little commune. His head has the crown of the FIA on it, so precariously held, so near collapse. Jenson or Lewis could touch it and the world contained within it would fall and shatter on the marble ground.

Betrayal. That is what it is, not to push the crown. To stand at attention and pretend that the FIA cares truly about what they're saying.

"You know, boys, this plan that we have coming out of the council meetings is going to be beautiful. You won't need to worry anymore, 'cause we're going to take care of all of it."

Mark nods, before turning and whispering something to Nico, who turns his body away from Charles. He takes a sip of his drink.

"-sounds excellent." It's Nico's voice, clipped and clear above them all.

The tonic is perfectly bitter. Charles rests his hips against the counter and surveys the scene. Yuki is about to leave with Pierre, who, if Charles is not mistaken, has a hickey down the left side of his neck.

Oscar and Lando are gone. Carlos just looks tired, like he is Atlas and the world shifts its weight to hold onto his shoulders. There isn't going to be much of him left by the end of this one, is there?

Sauber's team principal is talking to Alpine's. More people are dancing, and the sight is as pretty as the piano back in his rooms. The lights are bright and yellow. But nothing is real and nothing is right here. McLaren is not home, and never will be. The tapestry and the fresco should be more red.

"Care to join me on the way home, Sir Leclerc?"

Lewis’ pretty face has no expression on it at all.

"Of course." The fake smile is back on his face. "I take it that the carriage is coming around now?”

"Of course. I expect quiet on the way back. It's been a long night."

They walk out hand in hand, weapons brushing.

Chapter Text

When a speaker proclaims the glory of Mercedes in our halls, they are to be exalted in the method of the old gods. By the glory of Priteran, our god of the Mercedes houses, anoint the speaker with rosemary oil, warm and nourishing. Clap naught, for as the leadership describes ‘they are one with the past now.’

- we might not be religious anymore but this is cool innit!!!

Original method for anointing speakers in Mercedes after speeches, complete with original graffiti by a bored chorister (name unknown) of the Trentau Temple. Date estimated to be 1712, before the Wars of Potential.

***

On the long, winding drive up to Mercedes’ castle, the houses morph from ancient, to old, to modern. There are stone walls older than the entire civilisation, markers of a community and a culture long since past. Houses built of old timber aged and seasoned like the finest meats served in the city-centre restaurants host families laughing and smiling around the tables, children with schoolbooks full of notes, parents with their old military uniform hung in the backs of their wardrobes. Some of the modern houses for the rich have wall to ceiling windows. Their interiors have the classic Mercedes style of silver and turquoise stained glass.

The streets are cobbled down in the suburbs, laid in a careful hand by some ancestor from years past. Smooth paths are still a relative unknown to most people. For the poets that sit on the edge of the Hamilton gardens, these paths are a microcosm of the entire city. Some are paved and smooth, long and luxurious, where the traditional carriages that are drawn through them benefit from these most modern of luxuries. When the games return late in the season to their home territory, the flocks of walking crowds march down these suburban streets. There is always a fun game for children to play, hopping and skipping between each stone.

The castle itself, if you don't get lost in the alleys and the small side streets, stands tall on the hill over the entire city. Its square shape casts funny shadows, leaving some gardens entirely burnt in the summer sun, whereas others are perpetually small and underfed.

If you zoom in even further, to the wide windows, where the lattice metal frames provide stately decoration, a pair of sad blue eyes look down over the training grounds. Kimi’s sword cuts and swings.

George holds his tall mug of coffee in his hand, pinky finger under the base for support. The heat holds him close under this dreary day. If George weren’t so lazy this late March morning, he could always stoke the fire. Yet, there is something so pretty about wood and char burnt down to near its end, where the heat is trapped within and the cracks flicker orange and yellow.

Kimi stops for a moment to take a long drink of water. Some kind staff members brought it to him in proper glasses. Low fog is just brushing the top of the castle, where the flag flies. He'll have to come inside soon.

If he's good, he'll win the championship in a couple of years. George takes another sip. There's just enough sugar to even out the bitterness.

You have to win the championship this year.

He takes another sip in his effort to rationalise his own thoughts, a strange action to him now. He should really be preparing for the speech he has to give later. The coffee is too good for that though. He peers down into the cup and blinks at his eye looking back at him.

World champions are always a member of the triumvirate. Their team partners are not, so if the unspeakable happens and Lando's plan does go though. No- was it Oscar's? It doesn't matter. If this most unspeakable, most destructive plan goes through, there is only the grace from the gods above.

George kind of understands why the Ferrari zealots raise their fighters like deities. He kind of understands why they can bring glory single-handedly to the kingdoms. He kind of understands why a good fighter from a new fighting kingdom can change the entire world. He kind of understands why the death of a fighter in the arena is the death of glory mourned so publicly.

Perhaps, if he had a more sick sense of humour, George would die in front of the crowd in the legislative chamber today. He's got a speech to give. Handwritten under his sodium lamplight, about the fervour of Ferrari. Its impact on the games is the subtitle to this. For a kingdom strangely devoid of religious fervour, Mercedes sure does love to gossip about the people who paint their faces red and sacrifice their children in the name of a better result for Charles. Or something. George isn't quite sure.

He finishes his cup of coffee, the glaze starting to crack a little bit on the bottom left side. The cup is set back down on his table, next to the final copy of his speech. He'd been making some notes in the morning when he had heard Kimi get up and clatter about, still the young child unafraid to make noise. Unafraid to be seen.

So he goes and gets ready in clothes just less formal than court dress, in a pretty uniform, similar to his entrance costume during the Mercedes home games. Silver brocade and shiny shoes. It is time for the main event.

***

The green room is a little small, with low ceilings. Green room, George thinks, may be the wrong term. It is a cattle pen for people, and the green room is for television interviews, not that they're particularly common. Some makeup and preparation staff knock on the door, a little sheepish.

George lets them in, still in his socks. At least the carpet is plush. Their kind faces crowd him like seagulls to trash and begin the careful work that needs to be done to make George look fabulous, sweet cheeks, as one of the staff notes.

They go on, dabbing and touching. Pressing and pulling. Straightening and lengthening and forward progress has never felt so distinctly satisfying before. George’s hair is brushed and manipulated and gelled and teased and moved and adored by someone in the background who he cannot see because his head is pressed forward into a brush of powder to make him less shiny under the set lights, but he isn't on a set and this isn't a green room and Alex isn't next to him like they were as children and and and-

"All of you, can you please leave?" George says, clearing his throat.

"What was that?" one of them says, barely looking at him, too busy sorting various bits of equipment.

"All of you. Out."

You spoke like this to Lando, remember? They aren't like him. They're just trying to help you.

Quietly, they all pack up their things and leave George to his own devices. He catches his eye. At least, George thinks, he looks good. There’s his stiff white collar showing off his long neck and refined face, now that he has actually grown into it.

He presses an exploratory hand to his shoulder. No wince of pain follows. The bruises have finally dissipated.

Alex always called him reckless and a little stupid when George came sauntering back towards their shared home covered in bruises. This was, of course, until they had both made it into the games and became shorn at the tips. Pushed into different kingdoms, different trajectories of life and sat down to be told in no uncertain terms the meaning of their status as princes. To be the icon, the figurehead of each kingdom. To have just enough political sway and that golden touch, but to never know what it means to be free.

But these are the sacrifices they all made at such tender ages. George knows that if they were given the option, they would make the same choice every day. The decisions they made keep them just arched under glory, prostrate and reverent. For they are merely vassals for the citizens.

Back in the medical centre, the night these most recent of bruises had been born, the nurse who kindly looked after him had wide eyes. Stoic, but wide, as if he was shocked that the fighters would do such a thing to themselves. He must not have watched the games growing up. This is what glory looks like. Lando had said that to George once. He hadn’t been drunk that time.

***

The technicians had come in to the medical centre room a little later and sat down like a committee in front of him. They'd talked about George’s staggering success so far despite his still relatively young age. Mohammed Ben Sulayem had come in after. Sweetness turns to sourness if you leave it out for too long, and that man oozes rot like an old apple.

"Do you know why these games happen, George?" He had asked.

“You know we are taught this in school, don't you? The games were established to maintain peace through mutual and reciprocal bloodletting every time we fight. We created the princehood to let the states that hadn't transferred to democracy maintain their monarchy, in some way."

He gets a smile back. "You're exactly right."

George almost keens under the praise.

"But that is not the only reason why we do this."

George's face drops.

Mohammed continues, "These games rely on young people, don't they?"

"They do now. They didn't used to."

"Why do you think that is?"

"We're better fighters. We're more appealing to a wide audience than some of the old military generals going at it."

"It's about legacy George. You have to know how many people look up to you. Look up to Lewis Hamilton and Charles Leclerc. Alex Albon even."

His eyes betray him.

"These games, George, are the culmination of peace. The legacy of these fights are all any of us will have left by the time we die. The FIA has to maintain this, no matter what, and none of you will stand in our way. You're the head of the union. We will always respect that, of course. But it is important to remember."

"We're all pawns in the game."

"There we go my boy. You're getting into the swing of things. Now, enjoy the rest of your games this weekend. I look forward to seeing you beat Pierre. His new rapier looks mighty strong. I think I saw in the one of the local papers that it is basket-hilted."

***

Someone eventually comes to collect him, smiling with enough warmth to melt the ice in his glass. George thinks this is like the walk to an execution. Head hung low, dressed in whatever you are told to wear. His life, if he had to think about it somewhat, would be ending over two things.

The first being his love for Alex, all-consuming and terrible. His second being the decision to go to Mercedes. It had, as it is for so many other children around the territories, been his dream. He had posters on his wall, pushed in with metal pins, of the fighters of the past. Those who had died and those who had succeeded in the arena. They looked so at home.

Mercedes is his home, in a more literal sense now. George’s bed is a gorgeous carved piece of oak and his view is of the city. Yet, Mercedes’ triumvirate status is going to go, because of the decisions of a few people. The ones George had grown up with and the ones he had said his most private of fears to on the scary nights before their first matches with sharp weapons. They may destroy him.

If Alex had never existed, he wouldn't have been there to be ruined. He would have been perfect.

They've arrived at the legislature chambers now. Some photographers shout at him to give them a smile as George walks quickly into the entrance. Toto is there, dressed smartly, though not as formally as a prince of the kingdoms. He smiles kindly at the waiting staff.

"Ready, George?" He asks, turning to walk side-by-side with him.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know about the triumvirate. Those smile lines nested into his skin don’t know what is about to come for them all. The riots and the protests on the street that are going to follow.

But you can fix this, George, you’ve done it before. You were so young when you got yourself into the Mercedes echelons. You can avoid collapse. You just have to talk to Max. Or Liam. He’s part of Red Bull now, isn’t he? Does Kimi know Liam?

George nods, looking at his shiny brogues.

“Are you sure?” Toto pushes at his side, friendly.

George swallows, shoulders tense. “I need to talk to you after this.”

Toto’s face drops. “What about?”

“If I told you now, it would ruin the entire speech I’m about to give to the chamber. We can sort it out afterwards.”

“George-“

George brings his hand to his head, smoothing down some stray hairs that have sprung up.

“Just let me do this. The world isn’t going to end in the space of a 20 minute speech. I need to do this. Are the cameras going to be in the chamber today?”

“Yes, they are.”

Alex can see me talking. He can see me again. I’ll be doing okay.

They step into the chamber hall to applause and smiling faces. Every single person is on their feet to serenade one of their most precious commodities. The ceiling is tiled with turquoise and silver squares, reflecting the light back down.

***

The sound of the television is a low murmur in the corner as Lando and Oscar lie sat, under the pretence of working together, but have instead moved to a quiet conversation. George’s face is on the television, but neither of them look over to see him.

“Does any of this matter, Oscar?" Lando asks, shrinking in on himself in his plush armchair.

"Does it matter to us, or does it matter to the world?"

"Both. Because I don't understand how any of it does. We fight, and we can't love."

Oscar puts down his pen.

"It's important because it stops us from going back to war again. You remember, from school?"

Lando flicks through his childhood memories to try and remember those long-ago history classes. He'd left school at 16, too young by the modern standards, but when you're a growing fighter in the junior circuits, nothing else matters.

"I don't remember. I just- ugh. I want to love again."

"You do love, though, right? Your parents and your family back home. Whoever you have on the side. These problems are not just our own."

Lando smiles wanly. "Just make me forget it all."

"What do you want me to make you forget?" Oscar says, standing up to stoke the fire. They're both in Lando’s quarters. Two days have passed since the ball. Lando still hasn't gotten his court dress cleaned. The sweat stains on his trousers smell like Carlos.

"What have I done?"

Oscar comes back to his seat. "I don't know, Lando. You won’t tell me."

“I can't. You'll hate me if I do."

Oscar pinches his nose, hands shaking just a little. "You know what it feels like to be lonely, don’t you? We all do."

"Sure, Oscar. I know what it feels like to be lonely."

"Out there, on the big stages? Watching the world watch you? Do you wonder to yourself whether the people whose lives are so small to the McLaren council will have their lives improved if we win this year?"

Lando thinks back to a little boy he met from one of the far flung towns, near the border with Red Bull. His clothes had been made out of wheat sacks. His feet were dirty and Lando didn't have any shoes to give him. His own were too big. That little boy, though, did see his games. His school had a television, just big enough for him to sit in front of it, along with every other young, destitute child from his area and watch the games go ahead.

His eyes had been so kind despite the horrors of poverty. So, when Lando is lonely out there, fighting and living through his fears of pain, he knows that little boy still cares about whether he wins or he loses. There are stakes greater than these squabbles.

But the triumvirate is not a squabble. Carlos said he had a plan. His love said he had a plan and Lando walked in there, drunk off of whiskey and high off his own ambition and destroyed it all. Spilling his brain over the sinks and the tiled floor of the bathroom to the pair of them.

"Oscar- I’m so sorry. I told them."

The shocked silence is back. It lingers, holding them both in its arms. Oscar stands, almost without thinking.

“Told them what? Don’t tell me it was about the triumvirate.”

Lando nods, slowly.

"Who did you tell, Lando?"

Lando swallows, bringing himself back together. "Carlos and George."

"Oh god, Lando. Why?" Oscar moves to sit on the balls of his feet, crouching down. Lando can hear him start to sob. “We had it. We had it, god why?”

Lando moves from his seat to sit cross-legged on the floor opposite Oscar. “I was drunk, and I missed Carlos. I was so, so stupid. We have time to fix this though, don’t we?”

Oscar’s face is a state when he meets Lando’s expression. “I got you the phone. We could have made it better. Lo-”

Logan. Oh Oscar.

"Oh Oscar. I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry. We'll fix this. I can fix this. It's all under wraps still. I don’t know who else would know."

"Max, Lando. He knows; he said he was going to sort this out on his end. I can get him to call it off until later."

A knock sounds at the door. Lando and Oscar get to their feet. Oscar turns his head away from the entrance so that nobody sees his puffy, tear-stained face.

"Excuse me sirs. I think you need to see this."

"What?"

The staff member holds his arm up to reveal that morning's edition of the All-Kingdom Tribune.

"No. No no no. Oh god."

***

"Our status as one of the premier military forces across the entire United Territories cannot be understated! We know here in the courts just how important it is to each and every one of you to see our prowess succeed. Some of you even fought in the Wars of Potential."

McLaren made out like a fucking bandit from those wars. Calm down. Finish the speech.

"This military might, however, is of course not our only relationship with our most esteemed neighbours. Some of McLaren's finest researchers are over here working on new medicines each day. Our timber is exported to them. There is so much hope in these world, if we can just harness it."

George is stood behind a birch lectern, speaking with his head held high and his chest out. Posturing.

Deep in his chest, he wants to scream at the top of his lungs that all of this is just a sham. That McLaren are going to cause an uprising unlike anything previously seen on the streets. Because losing means less and less power. Less room on the bargaining table. No space missions. Bread will become more expensive. There will be no circuses to keep them entertained because Mercedes will become the circus themselves, where the clowns and the jokers laugh at them. Not with them.

SCREAM!

"These games are the culmination of peace! Given the growing rise in religious fervour in the Ferrari heartlands, we are redoubling our efforts to talk to the religious leadership there. It is imperative that we maintain our trade links and cultural connections with them. I will be visiting Ferrari on a delegation visit in the coming days. I expect good progress to come, especially in my talks with Charles Leclerc."

Scream! THEY ARE GOING TO DESTROY YOU!

"And with that, my most esteemed hosts, I thank you. Fighting on the world stage for Mercedes is a joy unparalleled by any other. To be one of many fighters of the past, along with our future in Kimi Antonelli, is glory itself."

George polishes off his speech by nodding his head down. There is a brief respite before the room explodes into shouts and hollers. They are not allowed to clap; it is unbecoming of a legislature so old and so developed. Ferrari could do with taking some notes.

Toto comes to stand at his side.

He has the bowl of rosemary oil with him. George has always found this is a little bit strange. Each guest speaker has their hands anointed with rosemary oil after a speech or proclamation. The smell always lingers, though, perhaps that is the point.

George clasps his hands together like he is about to pray and Toto places the bowl down. He ladles one spoonful over each hand, before passing over the dark grey towel for George to dry his hands.

The smell is so nice. In some ways, it reminds him of home.

***

By the time George has gotten back to the castle after schmoozing with the court members, his ankles hurt. He must be getting old.

"Sir Russell, there is a letter for you. It was counted as urgent. Would you care to follow me? I will show you to your chambers."

George follows his guide like a dog following the scent. The letter is in his private chambers, just as Carlos' was previously. It is once again Carlos writing to him.

Dear George,

What are we going to do? I don't have the time to be polite today, nor do I have the paper to tell you my true thoughts and feelings. We need to sort something out before the world explodes around us.

Have you told Mercedes yet? Or at least Toto? The spymasters can come and help get secrets where they need to be. I don't know whether I should tell Williams yet. They know something is up, or at least James does.

I guess I'm just afraid that if we let it slip that it was Lando who sold McLaren out, he'll have something happen to him. I don’t think the FIA will do anything, they're not just going to exile someone without cause. It's everyone else that I'm worried about, you know? You've seen how Max gets when he's angry.

Please write back as quick as you can. You know, and I don’t mean to be rude, but you have really, really screwed us over by getting caught with Alex. I cannot come and visit you. This is going to be how it is. Get the spymaster for Ferrari to talk to your spymaster and see if they can sort something out between you and Charles. A united pair would be useful, for now. I don’t trust Lewis as far as I can throw him.

I guess our plan with Ferrari is going to have to wait. I hate this sport and everyone in it sometimes.

With all my kindness,
Carlos Sainz, Prince of Williams.

George exhales as he finds himself holding his breath. Carlos writes like a man running out of time, as if the words inside his head have nothing else to do but to be told. As if this is his life's work and he has been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

George sits at his desk and grabs the paper. It is thick and luxurious. He is no longer a child scrawling on the back of his notebooks.

The letter in return to Carlos tells him two things.

It tells him that George is going to talk to Toto as soon as this letter is finished. He tells Carlos that he hopes they can craft the right kind of strategy to deal with McLaren and everything that the press is going to throw at him. He scratches and scrawls along the page.

The second thing he tells Carlos is that he might not be right to trust Lando anymore. No matter the past, only the future is important now. Lando is a liability. Somewhere in his head he knows Carlos is not going to listen to these messages. He is just going to read it and think, 'but what about you and Alex? You loved each other to the extent that you almost got exiled for it.’ And George will have no response.

But he writes and he writes anyway. He adds to the bottom that he is trying to get Toto to convene a military council in secret to talk about what is happening with Ferrari, after his diplomatic mission next week. There are bigger games to play than simple diplomacy.

In the case of riots, and especially if there are going to be attacks from Ferrari freaks who want to take advantage of Mercedes’ collapse, they need to be ready.

Signed, it says at the bottom, your most faithful servant, George Russell.

In the end, he seals the letter in the envelopes he keeps in the drawer and takes his first breath of relaxation in the whole day. He puts some wax on to melt, leaving it on the desk.

His gaze flicks over to the old astrolabe hung from a hook by the window. The brass has a nice patina to it. He reaches out to touch it, but it interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Toto? Come in, let's talk."

He swings his head around almost nonchalantly to see Kimi stood there, his brown curls looking like a ferocious halo.

"What are you doing George?” he asks, holding a newspaper in his left hand.

"Oh, I was just finishing a letter."

Kimi's face is pale, almost pallid.

"Kimi? Is everything alright?"

Kimi wordlessly holds up the newspaper. The big and bold headline of the All-Kingdom Tribune stands out. The date is today.

"Whatever you're doing, whoever you're writing to, it's probably too late.”

RED BULL EXCLUSIVE: CHANGE IS COMING TO THE ARENA IN TRIUMVIRATE SHAKEUP

George snatches it from Kimi's hands, who takes a step back.

He scans through the pages before dropping to his knees.

It's over. All of it. Over. The wax has just started to bubble.

Chapter Text

“Hello! This is the Mercedes Switchboard, how can I help you today? Oh, of course, I’ll transfer you over immediately Sir Hamilton. Have a wonderful day!”

Overheard conversation between James Uruqhart and Sir Lewis Hamilton in the Mercedes Switchboard. 11/3/1969. Archived in AFIA, 2/4/1969, day of publication of the ‘Verstappen Announcement’. 

***

RED BULL EXCLUSIVE: CHANGE IS COMING TO THE ARENA IN TRIUMVIRATE SHAKEUP

Max Verstappen of Red Bull has claimed that Mercedes have been rejected by the triumvirate fighters, to be replaced by McLaren.

Verstappen, in a sit-down interview with Joel Radmore for the All-Kingdom Tribune described the triumvirate as in need of ‘new blood’.

His comments come at a time when Mercedes has been unable to fulfil its previous intense domination over other fighters, as was seen in the days of Lewis Hamilton. Verstappen, a four-time world champion, defeated Hamilton in the 1965 Gazella Gladiatorial Games, held in the Land of Gazelles in Fighting Bull’s kingdom, to great controversy. Since the replacement of the game director in early 1966, the FIA has had a distinctive ‘hands-off’ approach to the fighting, particularly during group games.

“Yeah, you see, there has been a lot of debate over what would happen to [Mercedes] now that Lewis is gone. No disrespect to George or whatever, but Mercedes are simply not what they used to be. Our kingdom alongside McLaren have been discussing changes for quite some time,” Verstappen said when pressed for the reasoning of the princes.

When approached for comment, Mercedes did not respond.

“Ferrari have always been a part of the triumvirate, and we do not want to ‘step on their toes’. But the arena is in desperate need of some new blood. We cannot be the only ones fighting together in this pact to any level of power.”

Ferrari claimed in their response to our questioning that they did not know these changes were to be coming to the arena, but that the hoped under the grace of all the fighting gods that this would bring success into the kingdoms of all shapes and sizes. McLaren did not respond to comment.

The next games are due to be held in neutral territory within Chip Ganassi. Given the magnitude of this announcement it is expected that there will be protests taking place outside of the arena. The Ganassian State Police force, in a press briefing held early this morning, stated their intent to increase police presence around the arena, though they expect the protesting at the arena to remain peaceful.

Protests are highly likely to break out across Mercedes, with potential violence being feared by those in the fanatical ‘Sempre’ faction of the tifosi, who are known for their attacks on other kingdom’s citizens.

Given these monumental changes and developments across the United Territories, it will be curious to see how the FIA takes these changes. Please turn to page 12 for a detailed explanation of the role of the FIA, as well as opinion pieces from our editorial board on what this could mean economically and socially for the kingdoms.

***

Charles puts down the newspaper with shaking hands. His white shirt is a little dirty; he hasn't changed it in two days, for he has been so feverishly trying to wrestle control over his own life. The news has been out for less than 6 hours. There has not even been a whole day of this world-shattering revelation. Some people, somewhere, will be scrawling slogans on protest signs and building effigies of Max to burn on the streets.

They could come for Ferrari next; McLaren and Red Bull. If they tried hard enough. They could whip up support in the heartlands and force the religious with enough propaganda to march on the castle. It would be like the old siege warfare, where the castles of a kingdom are only a prince’s home temporarily. Eventually the food would run out or they would all cannibalise each other.

All fighters are fundamentally at the mercy of the people. Charles stands and tries to find a phone. He has already been in discussions with Fred and Lewis about what this means for them. Some of the zealots that comprise the tifosi religious council had asked what it means for trade with the other kingdoms that border them. Charles just wants to call someone. It could be anyone with enough of a voice to pick up and talk to him, besides Red Bull and McLaren of course. They are too far gone.

Charles pulls his corduroy trousers a little higher up his waist. He doesn't have a belt. On his search he finds that there are no telephone connections in his room at all. He pulls the low white sofa away from the stone and sticks his head down the back. All of the lamps in his room are wires directly into the wall. No plug sockets. No holes.

At least there is nowhere for the spymasters to hide bugs, right? Why didn’t I pull this room apart before?

He leaves his room and pads down the corridor, over to Lewis' side. The square stone floors muffle his sound of his socks. Lewis’ door, repainted in Ferrari Rosso, is swung wide open, like he wants to be seen. Max’s father always made sure to close the door behind Max, when they were children and he would knock on Max’s door to argue.

Before he even gets a chance to reconsider his actions, Charles pokes his head inside to find the room empty. The rest of the fighter’s wing of the building is silent. Nobody could find him. Charles takes an experimental step forward, careful not to slip on the floor as it transitions from stone to polished hardwood.

Lewis doesn't decorate like Carlos does. The large chandelier is still there, having been returned after Carlos left. While it looks like it could be on the cover of a magazine, it looks too much like someone was paid to design it. Someone probably was. Charles has never been allowed to enter Lewis’ side before.

His bed sits off in a side room, where the curtain divider has been pulled halfway back on itself. Carlos' music collection was taken with him to Williams, so the tables are pretty bare. Lewis’ fighter’s championship trophy is there, however, on its own plinth. Charles looks around quickly for a phone. There isn't one in the living room, but as he turns his head for the final time, he takes a look into Lewis' bedroom and sees a rotary phone on a rolling table.

You're not allowed one of those. They took that rule from the Veriquestiona. Slate Six, line 12.

Talking comes from the soul. It can never be destroyed.

How the culturas — those assigned for the interpretation of the Slates — came up with that rule, Charles does not understand. There are some things that they are not meant to know.

Charles goes into Lewis' bedroom, where the windows have, in Charles' opinion, the best view of the mountains in the distance. Their peaks are still snow-covered. It has been a colder season than anyone had thought. He brushes a finger over the red plastic of the phone, dislodging it from its original position.

A piece of paper, very old and a little tatty, sits folded underneath. He knows he couldn't call from this phone despite how desperately he wishes for it. Lewis is not stupid. He will know who has called from this. To have it so brazenly out in his room, though? He is either reliant on the staff being barred from entry without permission, or he doesn’t care about being seen. Charles takes the paper between his fingers and unfolds it carefully. Tears mean discovery.

Futura, it says, written in turquoise blue ink. The number starts with the code needed to call someone in Mercedes.

Like a cat, Charles keeps his ears primed for the slightest of sounds. There is still a small silence. He traces his fingers over the ink. Fountain pen ink, if he can guess. Handwritten, not typed out with a typewriter.

He must have been carrying this for some time. The paper is yellowing, like unbrushed teeth.

There, on the periphery. A step. A voice.

Charles scrambles to place everything back exactly where it was meant to be. He sprints out of the door to Lewis' side and back to his own. The stairs come right to the middle of the corridor. To be on the wrong side would be to reveal too much. Did he put the paper back exactly where he found it?

Charles carefully composes his breath and his screaming heart. He stands almost too nonchalantly at the door, watching to see who is coming up the stairs.

"Oh, hello Fred,” Charles says, cracking open one of his brilliant smiles. “Is there something you need? We still have the emergency meeting later, right?"

"We've managed to get them all here quicker. Lewis is on his way right now. They cancelled his outings for the day."

"Did you manage to get any of the other triumvirate members there?"

Fred sighs. "No. We're going to have to wait until they get our letters for that."

"Did the culturas not grant us an exception to call them?"

"They did not."

They're getting too powerful. If those words were to be spilled out loud they would probably cost Charles his princehood and he would be relegated back to the simple child he had been by the ocean. But it is true. There is only so much good that religion can do in this world.

"I think I can get Jérôme to get us some access to Toto and Christian tonight. I don't know where we'll meet, but it'll be a hard ride down there."

Jérôme d’Ambrosio. Former fighter turned spymaster. A known commodity. Lived experience. Charles kind of likes him. Under the right circumstances. Anyone who becomes a spymaster willingly cannot be trusted with the hope that friendship brings.

"It will be," Charles says, moving towards the stairs. “Come on; let's get this over with."

***

The roundtable, sequestered away high in one of the towers, is affectionately known to the staff that maintain this wing of the castle as 'The War Room'. Some of the old maps from the Wars of Potential are still there. The diagrams are still in the drawers, detailing who to kill and who to assassinate publicly. There are no windows.

Lewis sits opposed to Charles. Both of them look worse for wear, but sit with enough commanding attention to hold a room in the palms of their hands. Fred sits nestled between them. Two members of the temples, and the spymaster d’Ambrosio have just arrived.

War is about to begin.

"So, what do we make of this?” Fred starts. "From what we can gather, the claims Red Bull have made were not communicated to us beforehand. Red Bull had no interest in talking to us about what they were going to do. The Tribune has just taken their words as entirely true.”

Jérôme takes a copy of the All-Kingdom Tribune in his hands. "I told them no comment as soon as any of this was about to be published. As to the information contained in the article itself, there was no communication from Red Bull. It is very possible that Verstappen told nobody in Red Bull about the announcement he was going to make. They may be as blindsided as we are."

"Jos," Lewis says. "Jos Verstappen would have made it the case that they took their words as holy. He holds too much weight over there. Too much power over Max."

The Gazella games hang over Lewis’ head like a sword.

So you’re thinking about him too, Lewis. You’re not as smart as you think, Charles. Or is Lewis smarter than everyone else in this room, all by himself?

"You're probably right Lewis. Christian is slowly losing his grip over the fighting parts of Red Bull. Jos looks poised to try and get something." Fred scratches his face. "Do you remember if it is standard for Mercedes to make no comment about something like this?"

Lewis shakes his head.

"I thought as much. Mercedes have always been on top of everything, since their first days. Being quiet now means something is desperately wrong."

Charles raises his hand. "I think that Mercedes and Red Bull might not be that far apart. They could both be taken aback by it, right?"

"What do you mean Charles?"

"What if neither of the teams knew before the announcement was made in the press? This could have just been an agreement between the fighters themselves. Max and Lando most likely; they’re friends, still, aren’t they?"

He gets nods from around the table.

"I'm going to go speak to George, when he shows up for the diplomatic trip," Lewis says, smoothing down his already smooth braids. It has to be some from of a nervous repetitive habit.

Do you have something else you want from him? You were never that close before you left Mercedes. Unless you were what me and Carlos were. Or is it Carlos and I? Does it even matter? The world is falling within itself.

Jérôme is the next to speak. "That sounds like a good plan. Until we can get some more information, it is worth holding a tight leash on any public information coming from us. I'll tell the press pool that we have no comments to make. This depends though on whether there are going to be any riots."

Charles nods toward Jérôme. "I could visit one of the temples. Try and calm them down with my presence?"

He cringes at the end of the sentence but tries to play it off smoothly. He's had enough years to try at it.

Fred smiles like a proud father. "That would be a good idea, I think. We already have Lewis' schedule fully booked. If you don't mind, Lewis, we're going to adjust it slightly to make you a bit more public facing. Put you in front of some more cameras."

The temple leader speaks up. Charles can barely remember his name. "That would work perfectly for us. The temple in Aynors are dying to receive a visit from someone as esteemed as you, sir. They haven't had a visit since the time of Kimi Raikkonen. It’s about time, right?"

Peter. That’s his name. Come on, Charles. Focus!

"I'll visit first thing tomorrow, after the morning meeting."

There is a silence. Charles takes a drink of water, Lewis looks between them all with narrow eyes. He almost looks like a cartoon villain, but he isn't. He wouldn’t be so obvious.

“Do you think Checo leaving had anything to do with it?” Charles asks. “With any of this? Or even Liam being promoted? They could have been preparing to fight stronger opponents then simply George and Kimi. No disrespect to them of course.”

The other temple leader speaks this time. Charles doesn't even know where to start with his name. "How could you possibly disrespect another fighter? Don't you remember Slate 1?"

Ah yes, of course. We are the leaders of the future most virtuous and powerful. Remembered like a recited rhyme.

“I think Checo's departure was a long time coming, Charles." Fred says. The wall behind his head has a pretty map of the castle’s surroundings in red and blue. Charles thinks it’s some persistent reminder of what it is that they fight to protect every single day of their lives.

"I would agree," Lewis says, staring directly at Charles.

"But, it is not a bad idea. Jérôme, could you check up on your contacts in their court and see what they report on? More information is always going to be useful.”

"Of course."

"We have to be careful where we poke our head, Fred.” Lewis is almost suave in his delivery. “What if they catch us? They will know that we are weak."

"No, Lewis. We're doing this."

"Do you not care to hear my opinion?"

The tension grows thicker, an argument on the tip of all of their tongues.

Peter interrupts, cutting through the moment. "The next games, as you both probably are well aware, are going to be vital to maintaining the status of Ferrari across the kingdoms. George's visit in the next few days are going to be crucial as well. The people outside of the cities only get their news through the newspapers and through the occasional television broadcast, if they even have one. Your pampered lives here are all well and good, but you forget just how powerful the Veriquestiona makes you. If these people catch that things are going to become a lot worse, or even just more unstable for them, they will buy less. They will consume less.”

***

The walk back up the stairs to Charles' room is silent. This time, he is not looking towards Lewis' room to find any kind of secrets that could be hidden within the walls. A state of shock overcomes him and he has to wipe the clammy sweat off his face.

He pushes through the door and collapses on his bed, waiting for someone to come and take him towards the next crisis. Another failure of one of his friends. Riots on the streets, people calling for his head. Charles could never have predicted this.

The triumvirate was such a preposterous idea. Three teams that represent power? How could this even have worked?

When you get too comfortable in your position you become soft, vulnerable to slaughter from the young.

He rolls over and bends down to get his carrying case for his cutlass. He takes it out and holds it in his hands like an offering at one of the temples.

The last time you used this, you won. Not against Max, but you did win against Oscar. You can win against McLaren again.

What is Max doing? Up there, on his throne of glass, looking down on them all scrambling. Like some kind of god. He could destroy them all. He is a world champion. There is no economic instability that would ruin him forever. He will always have power, if he knows how to wield it correctly.

Chapter Text

In the end, there will only be memories.

Slate 1 (All-Knowing Selves), Line 1, The Veriquestiona.

***

“So, Oscar, do you know what I am about to ask you?”

Zak runs his hand up and down the side of his mug full of tea. The bright papaya orange paint tinkles as he taps it with his nails, as if his patriotism to his adopted kingdom must be demonstrated in front of everyone. He sits with his elbows on his desk, leaning forwards.

“I don't, Zak. All I know is what I’ve read in the Tribune. This is good, right? We have been vying for a place in the triumvirate for years. When I joined as a prince on that contract, you mentioned how getting rid of Daniel was going to be good for us. We were dropping a dead weight in our battle for the triumvirate. This is just the logical continuation of that, no?”

“Yes, yes. I remember what I said. But I'm here to see if you can tell me. Tell me who.”

Oscar tilts his head to the left, before waving his hand in a show of confidence. “Go on, Zak. What do you need from me?”

“Who told Verstappen about our intentions? I need to know who leaked it. The FIA are coming and we are running out of time here.”

Zak presses the palms of his hands flat against the desk.

Lando has to be somewhere. If he was smart, he would have run far, far away. There is only the grace of the people who consider him kind and intelligent that will save him from being torn apart by the pack of wolves that comprise McLaren's fighting council when they find out.

“You think this was leaked, Zak? Surely it would be a logical next step after George weakening the view of Mercedes to the rest of the houses. The Tribune has been talking about their position for weeks!”

“But the Papaya Times didn’t say a word. Local news influences decisions too, Oscar. I know Verstappen didn't come up with this alone. Someone had to have been helping him. Someone had to come from the inside.”

Paranoia. I remember what that feels like. The way it creeps into your bones and destroys them from the inside out. Slowly mutating your mind to become uncontrollable.

“Would it even make a difference, Zak? I don't mean to step on your toes, but you'll remember that I told you Red Bull wouldn’t like us coming in and changing the status quo. There has to be something bigger here than just the actions of one of them. Why have they changed? What made them change?”

Oscar had been pulled into this room almost physically by the force of the voice that told him Zak was expecting him. After that poor staff member had shown both him and Lando the copy of the newspaper, Lando had pushed past them and fled down the stairs. As to where he is now, Oscar has no clue.

“You're smart, Oscar. It's what I have always liked about you.”

***

Logan laughs as they come to a stop, a sweat building on their brow. “You're always the smarter one, Oscar. Things never get past you!”

“Hey, Lo, we both made it here, didn't we? Isn't that enough for you to finally admit you’re smart too?”

Oscar and Logan stand shoulder to shoulder at the maw of Mercedes’ arena. It's Logan's first games here. He had never fought in these during the junior ranks. Now, however, it is their first game in the first group of the Formula Games.

“It's so quiet here.”

“We are here at 1 in the morning, of course it’s going to be quiet.” Logan jostles Oscar’s side, causing Oscar’s head to turn towards him. “Let's go exploring.”

Oscar laughs back at him. Logan turns his head towards the architecture too quickly for him. “We're not kids anymore. Exploring?”

“Oh, come on!” Logan responds, his accent clipped in the cool air. He takes Oscar’s hand in his own and drags him forward.

Logan's blonde hair is short and cropped at the sides, letting the light shine through in a way that reminds Oscar of a halo. In so many ways, Logan is an angel come to tell him the wishes of the fighting gods from Oscar's birthplace back home in Sauber.

As they step through the place, looking in every room they can get their heads into, the giggles between them turn into full belly laughs as each joke cascades into another. By the end, they're hanging off each other laughing so hard their stomachs hurt and they're clutching them in pain.

Oscar and Logan end up falling asleep in the back of the carriages that take them back to their hotels for the weekend, Logan's head on Oscar's shoulder.

***

“You've always had a knack for seeing the things that nobody else does. You won your games every single year in the junior ranks, all the way until now.”

“I was on the sidelines for a year. I am not perfect, you know this.”

Zak's face contorts into something wet and slimy. “I expect you're going to remember who told Red Bull, though, right? Your memory can't have disappeared!” Zak taps the side of Oscar's head with a firm finger.

Oscar moves back in his seat and stays quiet, letting Zak run through his spiel.

“This is going to help us, so much. Who knew that Mercedes were so weak! We have so much opportunity here. You're a part of it Oscar. Always will be, under the right conditions, of course.”

Zak stands up from his side of the desk and walks around to the front. He comes to rest himself against it to Oscar's right.

“I don't know who told them. I really don't. Do you not think they could have thought of this themselves?”

Go on, spin it out into a good lie.

“Red Bull have some of the best strategists in the entire United Territories. Surely one of them could have decided to drag us along with them to get rid of Mercedes. It's a bit like rubbing salt into the wound for the Gazella games.”

Zak frowns, his head tilting over the top of Oscar. Oscar has to crane his head up and look through his eyelashes to meet his gaze.

“That is not the answer I wanted to hear, Oscar.”

This attention is necessary, isn't it? Right? Don't doubt yourself now. The triumvirate is your chance to get him back into your life and back into the arena. Some pains must be beared.

Zak continues, “We can get Lando to come in too. We spoke to him after the ball, so he should still be around the castle; he isn’t on public service today. I don't mean to domineer over you of course, but the FIA will be investigating.”

“What could they possibly be investigating? Aren’t these matters delegated to us? You know the history. I know the history. The conflicts and protests from changes in the triumvirate have never, ever been investigated by the FIA. This is our autonomy. I will not play second fiddle to anyone.” Oscar curls his fingers into the corners of the chair.

“A breach of the peace.”

Now that is something serious, and unprecedented. What on earth is going to cause that?

Oscar's expression is incredulous. “A breach of the peace? The last time that happened was —well I don't even know when. There is not a chance that this shuffle is anywhere near that.”

Zak smiles. "When teams collude behind the scenes to cause uproar in Ferrari and poverty in Mercedes, surely it is their duty to step in and investigate? Nobody has to be hurt over this. I just need you to tell me."

Poverty in Mercedes? They've had years of prosperity. They took Brawn. Brawn’s lands are fertile, so they should be fine. After the wars they have to have stockpiles. Toto wouldn’t be so stupid as to let this go?

Christian must have told Max about what is to come. About the Breach of the Peace. George and Alex are small fry now in the eyes of the FIA. Or, at least, Alex is. George is the golden child of Mercedes after all. He will be hurt over this, if they get their way.

Oscar has only talked to George a few times in their shared life as fighters. There are the union meetings that last into the early hours of the morning, but George never had eyes for him. They were always for Alex or the topic at hand. Mercedes and McLaren had their trading agreements and even a military alliance back in the years before McLaren fell to the wayside in significance. Williams had taken their place; a father dominating a child, even if that child is a kingdom older than the father.

George is kind, though, despite everything the arena has to offer them. A pearly-white grin that could shock and awe simultaneously gives him the beauty needed to hold himself in the minds of the bored. His words give him the air of a man invincible. When his hands move as he talks, some part of him is conducting an invisible orchestra, playing a slow marching tune for him, ready to step forward and take a hold of his future.

“I don’t know, Zak. I have training now, and you wouldn’t want me to miss it, would you? The next round is soon, and if we are going to take our position as a member of the triumvirate, we have to make it count for everything that it’s got.”

“Training, Oscar? I thought training was in the evenings, right?”

Oscar swallows. A thick lump sticks in his throat.

“And besides, don’t we have that meeting later?”

The one with the council. You should have remembered! He knows you don’t want to be talking to him.

“Yes, of course. I simply- I booked in some extra training time in the new fighting pits.”

Zak waves his hand in dismissal. “Fine. I will see you later for the meeting.”

Oscar’s shoulders drop in relief as Zak turns away from him and back towards his chair. He gets up as quick as his leaden legs can carry him and walks out. As the door swings closed behind him, old and wooden with a steel ring, Oscar presses his back into it and sinks to the floor.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

He jumps out of his skin. A tall woman with a mass of black, coiled hair is looking down at him with a concerned smile. She offers her hand and Oscar gets to his feet.

“I’m alright, thank you.”

“Of course, what is happening in there? We’ve had people coming in and out all day. If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Have you not seen the news?”

“They don’t let us see the news.”

She smiles with a forlorn sort of gaze in her eyes. Oscar doesn’t know what to say in response, words stuck at the bottom of his throat, mixed with bile.

He starts with the only thing he wants to do.

“I need you to commandeer a car to take me somewhere.”

She starts walking through the corridor with Oscar hot on her heels. “Where to?”

“There is an old school building in Bureyhail. It’s a hotel now, I think. Can you get me two nights there? I need a private room.”

***

Logan and Oscar come back early the next day, this time with a few more people floating around. They are decked in their finest, as they prepare for the crowds to arrive.

You have never been interesting enough for him, you know Oscar.

Logan comes up behind him and presses his hands into Oscar’s shoulders.

“You ready for this Oscar?”

Oscar tenses just a little before relaxing at the touch. “Yeah, ah, sure I am.”

“I’ll be right out there with you. Always will be. We’ve done this for our entire lives, haven’t we?”

As Logan pulls away, his fingers brush Oscar’s neck for a moment. They’re cold, a little dry and so perfect, for fighting and the needs of life.

Forever and ever, forever and always.

Chapter Text

McLaren appear to be particularly vulnerable to internal strife. They have faced mounting criticism from their fighters over the years, particularly during the recent time of Fernando Alonso and Jenson Button. Their position as a coastal power, through their particularly strong navy — though not as powerful as Haas — bodes well for potential battle, but their relatively porous borders leave them uniquely vulnerable to infiltration. 

Outside the Triumvirate: A Plan for Battle, page 34. Put together by leading experts at the behest of the FIA to discuss the territorial integrity of all nations in the United Territories. 

***

There are three pieces of carrot floating in the vomit Lando has just thrown up into the toilet. Lando watches with a detached kind of curiosity. It is the kind of curiosity a child has watching someone they do not know die on television, unaware of what this means. What the processes are. What grief feels like.

His stomach churns and Lando braces against the side of the white porcelain for some form of comfort. By the time he has vomited for the next time, he can count twelve pieces. Under the haze, he wonders when the last time he ate carrots was. Dinner yesterday? Lunch? It doesn't really matter. The smell is too nauseating to think over.

The soft white-grey bile floats as Lando wipes his mouth and stands. He doesn't look at it when he pulls the handle to flush it all away. The sound his rapier makes as it scrapes against the floor forces a shudder through his chest. He’d grabbed it from the weapon store, having left it there to be cleaned.

Staggering slowly over to the sink, Lando clutches it at the sides. A jet of cool, rushing water blocks out the noise of the spinning ceiling fan. He sticks his head underneath it, washing his face and swallowing down as much water as he can muster. He ends up throwing up again into the sink and has to repeat this small ritual all over again.

The hand soap smells like caramel. Or is it just sugar? Lando closes his eyes, mentally blocking out how it makes his hands pungent. Too much of a good thing and he is going to become nauseous once again. When he opens his eyes, the reflection that looks back at him is a little pale, with sweat on the brow. It, at least, is him. The person that he saw in the mirrors in the ballroom bathroom was not his own. They were hijacked by some stranger who does not understand the value of secrets and security.

Eventually, he ends up sat cross-legged on the floor and he takes some deep breaths. The psychologist he had visited secretly a few years ago had told him about his propensity for extreme reactions. With his kind eyes, the psychologist also taught him the techniques he needs to overcome episodes like this.

Nothing has ever come close to this. Triumvirate changes are so few and far between. To be the catalyst for the next one is to have your name written in history books. The Wars of Potential were 70 years ago, give or take a few years. Most of the veterans are dead. Their ashes are scattered to the winds that take all. Most of the original generals have their names engraved on seating stands around the various arenas. Juan Manuel Fangio and Alberto Ascari. Mike Hawthorn and Jim Clark, a little later. The age of fighters has come down through the years — it is no longer the domain of the old. The future of humanity is still to come, but there is so little time now. There is so little time to make one’s mark upon the world. Can someone even claim it as their own?

I need to leave. How long is the ride to Williams? Past Retun, past Weather, so far away. I could make it past the border, surely. A prince has power. Would they know who I am, though? Get there and you’ll figure it out. A day and a half of riding should do it.

Lando drags himself back to his feet and slips out of the toilet. He tiptoes down the corridor and out through one of the side doors, making his way to the stable entrance. The stable hands know that Lando is proficient enough to make his own way with Cedar. They also, seemingly, do not know what is about to come upon them. They do not know the joys and the responsibilities of managing the horses of a triumvirate team.

Cedar's long mane welcomes him as he saddles her up and prepares to leave. She bends her head down towards Lando and he pats her side in response. His father had bought him his saddle before he had come to the first group of the Games. When the drafts were being put into place for the establishment of the games, cars were not widespread. Horses reigned supreme as the way to transport everything together. Now, despite the uptick in cars for the growing rich, the fighters are still bound to that contract signed between kingdoms.

All fighters and essential staff are to use horses, maintained by the kingdom.

Ferrari had jumped at the chance to keep this culture as a part of their society. They are called the Prancing Horse after all — each fighter rides into their coronation on a jet black stallion. Lewis' coronation had brought out the best and the worst of Ferrari culture.

He took your hand, his diadem glittering. You've got to get out of here. What if he knows what you said in the bathroom? The FIA could come and catch you.

Cedar whinnies a little as Lando hops onto her and pulls away from the stables. It's a quick route out of the castle grounds and into the city, through the small forest that keeps them separated from the public. He presses a checking hand to see if his survival kit is still attached to the horse. They have to have one; it’s official McLaren policy for fighters. It will stop them from dying overnight. Someone will always come and find them if they go missing for too long. Lando does not remember this fact.

He heads out, cloak pulled up over his head. The guards who patrol the gates of the castle know better than to ask questions of those on horseback. If they had asked him what he was doing however, he would have simply flashed his rapier at them, hung on the belt loop of his breeches. Lando does not take food with him, a mistake that will cost him later.

The forest is calm but the wind is strong. So little grass remains. Someone a few years ago had the smart idea to replace it with ferns. Lando never bothers to listen in the legislature discussions that they are permitted to sit in on. Fighters do not get to decide everything, for a decree with a number too long to pronounce had declared a separation between fighter and state. For their own good.

The city proper, however, is the true star of the show. Cedar barely protests as he picks up to a canter, taking the back alleys and the roads less driven. Few people would dare to interrupt a senior official on a horse. Nobody would believe that it is a fighter instead even if Lando bared his curls to them and flashed a grin.

Cedar’s hoofbeats change as he comes to Astra, a more affluent area of the capital. It was named for the stars. The old cobblestones are still there, having never been replaced, even after the wars. A couple of people look up at the strange cloaked man perched on Cedar’s saddle, but Lando’s hood is so far drawn down that he merely looks like a spectre floating through the air. Cedar holds her hand up high. She is majestic.

On the streets that are lined with white-painted houses, countless people reside in them. Apart from a few addresses. Those numbers do not have a house corresponding to them. There is simply a gap where the houses used to be, burnt down to ash and dust, a strange memorial to the spaces in their lives. Some would argue that those gaps in their lives have been filled by the gladiators. Others would argue that their vegetable patches — that have been well-maintained — are enough for anybody.

People have to eat after all.

Lando wipes his nose against the wind and breathes in the fresher air of one of the nearby parks. As he turns down a boulevard, his eyes catch some blue and orange graffiti.

Never again. Rise! It says with an image painted of a broken sword next to it.

He closes his eyes and swallows.

Don't think about it, come on. Williams and Carlos will wait for you. Mi lago. Is there a lake around here?

No they won’t, brain. Don’t you remember what you did to him? Don’t you remember the terror that had crawled onto his face? You’re never going to get that back. The world is split now, forevermore. Into the before and into the after. He is never going to come back the same way. You’ve- no I, have thrown the Territories into turmoil. Children are going to go hungry. Children are already hungry — remember the boy? Or was that all lost in the vomit too? I did this.

Lando spurs Cedar on faster. The wind whips against his hands and he watches them turn red with cold. He is so woefully unprepared. Solura is starting to dim lower on the horizon, pale pinks penetrating the atmosphere. Just enough for this star they call Solura to paint the sky.

As he hurtles through the crowds, manoeuvring deftly, Lando can understand why the echoes of the streets have been one of forward momentum. Oranges and citrus fruits are on sale at a street stall. They hadn’t been seen since McLaren lost their trade agreement with Mercedes. The triumvirate would bring them luxuries and freedom from want. Freedom from fear and freedom from pain. But Lando is not naïve enough to think that. The world does not change its axis merely because some fighters in a pit decide to group themselves differently. It is only the collective choices of the entire United Territories that makes a difference.

But I said the plans too early! I told George exactly what was being planned. No — what Oscar was planning. It doesn’t matter who planned it. There has to be some way of changing this without ruining another state for it, doesn’t there? If those stupid men all those stupid years ago hadn’t bound the triumvirate with human blood, we wouldn’t be here.

On Lando’s final school trip before he joined one of the private schools that the fighting children went to, he had seen that document, bound in blood and torment. It had a title Lando was meant to know for an exam. He’s never bothered to remember it. All of the fighting kingdoms — a new designation — had signed it on one half. The neutral kingdoms had signed it on the other half, unwilling to give up their citizens to fight. Prosperity in the fighting kingdoms has dragged some of the pacifists back to the table, asking, no, begging the FIA to take them in.

The dark brown blood on that old document looks too much like dirt, as if their decision to sign off on the fighting pits and the arenas had been signed with a dirty hand. Ferrari cares so much about purity, as does Mercedes. If one of the religious members sees that document, they might just collapse and die. George has always joked with a slight edge that McLaren is the scruffy child of the arena, despite being the second oldest. Lando’s never understood why, until he sat through a myriad of boring dedications in the chamber to some of the fighting gods. Religion is so boring.

They didn’t have the grace of Ferrari or the domination of Mercedes. Lando was only a child when Red Bull came bursting on the scene for the first time in their history, having been granted the chance to join the arena that year by the FIA. It was the first time year that all the games were televised. Previously, only the All-Kingdom Tribune and local newspapers reported dutifully on all of the actions of the arena. All of the secrets and the intrigue, all of the rises and all of the falls. Fernando had won that year. The angry beast he is.

Fernando retired. To be back a few years later is unheard of. Unprecedented, the newspapers had called it. He maintains the story that it is in an attempt to reclaim the same kind of glory that had pushed him into the history books when he was younger. Unfinished business, he had called it. Lewis’ face had been plastered all over the newspapers when they announced it. He’s never liked Fernando and his face makes for amazing content.

His father had told him once, Lando remembers as he gets to the outskirts of the city, that leaving something unfinished was no way to resolve a problem.

To ride off into the sunset is stupid. Don't you wanna see how it all ends?

Fernando has placed his name and the name of Alonso into the hands of the historians now. The Norris name hadn't meant much really before Lando had been chosen to join the Young Fighters Development Academy of McLaren. His father is still so proud of him, calling when he can, always talking about solidifying the family name into the annals of the future. To do wrong by him would be to ruin everything Lando is working so hard to create. The sunsets can wait, even the ones he still hopes to share with Carlos one day, long after their time in the arena has passed.

***

The town just outside of the capital — Pantganete — has always struck Lando as being a little strange. It fiercely claims independence, but retains such close connections to the city proper. Cedar stops by the flowing river that bisects the centre to get some water. She has slowed now down to a trot. An information sign stands proudly next to it, warning that with any water, there is a drowning risk. It also tells any perusing tourist a little about the history of the town and the significance of the water flowing through the River Idrin to the people who live here.

The paths have now turned to compacted dirt. There are pavements on the side, however. Lando pulls his hood down and the cool breeze runs over his sweaty neck, wet from the wool.

A couple of children about to be teenagers play on the street corner that is paved with the smooth asphalt the rest of the town doesn’t get to have yet. One of them has a large stick clutched between both her squidgy little fingers. The young boy she's playing with has a thin stick. He's waving it around like a particularly flamboyant fighter, making the ultimate show of his intent. Lando ducks his head away as they look up with big round eyes to stare. The girl’s eyes blink at him, before jabbing her brother with her stick and shouting that she’s won. The complaints he gives her in response are swiftly ignored. Her eyes were on his rapier.

A mother with a baby in her pram walks past them. Lando subconsciously expects them to not stop fighting, or to be a nuisance, but they stop and stay quiet as she walks past. She flashes them a kind smile through the deep, dark bags under her eyes. Where did they learn that? It couldn't have been from their parents, that kind of militaristic stance must have come from somewhere else.

A chorus of screaming children cuts through his thoughts like a hot knife to butter. Lando turns his head to the direction of the sound. Over the nearby bridge, high school gates encircle a school courtyard. They’re made of wooden posts painted in multicolour. They pledge no individual allegiance to any kingdom or any man. Children do not have to worry about such things unless the worst of humanity comes for them.

Lando heads back over to Cedar and further into the centre of town. He crosses the river with the school on the other side and here horses are more widespread. A few people give him a nod but respect the black hood he pulls high over his head again.

Old people walk to and from the greengrocer and the butcher. Fresh baked bread sits piled high in the painted window of a bakery. A billboard selling ice cream that tastes good even in the middle of winter casts a shadow over some flower beds. People do not grow their own vegetables in these ones. Lando spurs Cedar on further. She complies, to Lando's surprise. It's been a long day of riding already and his thighs are starting to burn.

Just as he exits the town, a row of billboards and posters on shop walls call to him. Only one of them catches his eye.

It has a full image of Ferrari's castle plastered on it. The words Here For You, Whenever You Need A Little Glory are written above. There is only that as decoration. The Ferrari sigil sits at the bottom, with a telephone number to call when people arrive in the kingdom 'if they need assistance'.

Lando stops Cedar dead in her tracks. The Tifosi symbol is there next to it, blood red, angry and his mind is already spinning like the wheels of a bike.

Aren't phones banned? They called it the Vericest- Werikes-

***

“Charles! Charlie boy.”

“Don't call me that, Lando. What's up? When's your match?”

“3 o'clock. You should have called me man. I saw the news that Sebastian was leaving.”

“Oh, I thought you knew. We're not allowed to call other kingdoms. It's letters and documentation only. Has my letter not arrived yet?”

Lando’s eyes narrow at such a revelation.

"That’s stupid."

Charles laughs. Lando does not know whether Charles is laughing with him or at him. To be honest, it doesn’t matter which.

***

He doesn’t even remember getting off Cedar again. She quirks at his collapse to the floor and steps towards him as he rushes off. Lando paints the ground off by some low bushes green with bile. He doesn’t even have a sink this time.

Does this mean that they know? When he called Charles? What kind of agreement could we- is he hiding a phone? He has to be. Where else would he get it? He's not so stupid to go searching the castle for one, right? Surely the switchboard could have been listening in?

The sun is dangerously low now. Lando wipes his face the best he can with the corner of his cloak and takes some more of those grounding breaths. He runs through the information that he knows. McLaren’s internal switchboard does not listen in to the calls that they make outbound. Only inbound. The public who call domestically do not have any bugs at all. They are not Red Bull after all, or Alpine. Ferrari has never made any of their information on surveillance public. So, he has to assume the worst. If this is the case, then Ferrari could know that Lando wanted to speak to Carlos. They would know that they have an agreement, and that Charles is using phones without permission. As to what this means for Charles at the end of the day, he is unable to conceptualise.

What he can conceptualise however, is the flowing water of the river trail he has been following. Whilst Lando has never paid attention to the religious history of McLaren and the surrounding territories, he paid attention to the Earth science module he was forced to take. The river leads to the border with Williams at its estuary. The Urthce Ocean sits between Williams and Haas, where Haas has an exceptional naval force.

He walks down to the shoreline, careful to keep his feet away from the sharper rocks. The thick, cloying sound of the flowing water rushes through his ears.

Taking a moment to roll up the sleeves of his black shirt, Lando dips his hands in the flowing water. The current wants to talk them with them, flowing down towards the city. The day's accumulated grime washes away as he presses and rubs at the skin there. There has to be something holy about water, he thinks, in the way it purifies and pays no mind to human intent. It simply exists.

When his hands start to hurt from the cold, Lando takes them out and holds them between his thighs to warm them up. He gets the fabric damp but doesn't care.

I should let it take me far, far away. Through the capital and back to the source. It is tidal after all. Eventually it'll wash me back out to the estuary and I'll be submerged in the hinterland between us and the far territories.

Lando sits cross legged before moving to his back and looking up at the rising moon. The last vestiges of the sun dip under the horizon. He's still got that flint and steel in his survival kit. He should probably make a fire, but he should really, and he knows this deep down. He should head back into Pantganete and find an inn for the evening.

They'd have food and kind people to take his horse. The night is unseasonably warm, but Lando barely registers the knowledge that if he stays there with his cold hands and now slightly wet clothes, he will still probably freeze to death.

What on earth did you try to do? It's okay. Pick yourself up and head back to the town. They will be kind. This is not the arena. This is not the end of the world.

Lando sits back up and moves with the last of the sunlight to Cedar, who looks profoundly bored and tired. She doesn’t want to move anywhere, but she has to, for her own sake. Lando brushes off the dirt from his trousers and looks back up.

He doesn’t see anything remarkable. It is what is not said and what is not spoken that scares him. The sound of hoof beats grow louder.

Lando unsheathes his sword and rushes to dart behind a tree. The only people who would know that Cedar is a royal horse are those with the keenest of eyes. The royal farriers put their marks on the horseshoes but nobody would be stupid enough to try and lift her foot up.

They get closer and closer and Lando's throat tightens with fear. He holds the rapier to his chest, ready to dart out and fight like he doesn’t believe tomorrow will come.

It could be someone Lewis sent, or Carlos, or George. Or even Alex. Alex is too kind. Carlos would never hurt you. Focus. Remember your training.

The person — as he can only hear one — gets off their horse, Lando stops breathing entirely. It could just be a concerned citizen, or a thief or a murderer.

“Lando?” the voice calls. It's muffled, as if their mouth is covered. He stifles every movement and every action.

They step closer.

Chapter Text

“Envy.”

Andrea Stella, to an interviewer during the 1968 Ferrari Games, when asked what the defining characteristic of a fighter is.

***

Breathe, Lando. Breathe. You know what to do. You know how to defend yourself. You’ve been doing it since you were a child.

"Lando?" The voice calls for a second time. Some twigs crack like whips under the infiltrator’s feet.

"It's Andrea."

Lando, without thinking, jolts forward. In a more stable frame of mind he would never, ever do this. But this stranger sounds just like Andrea Stella. The voice is masculine and fatherly in a way Zak’s has never been. The closer the voice gets, the more it sounds real, less like a fake. Right as that voice stops, Lando steels himself for what is about to come if he is wrong and he steps out, fingers gripping his rapier.

Andrea's crinkled face shifts from one of fear and concern to one of pure relief. He runs over to Lando, whose face cracks upon seeing him. He sways for a moment, before sitting on the ground and pressing his head into his hands. His rapier is discarded at his feet. There is no more need for violence. Andrea holds a yellow-tinted battery-operated torch in his hand. It casts strange shadows on his face.

“How- why are you here?” Lando asks, clutching his arms in a strange kind of hug.

Andrea comes to kneel on the floor in front of Lando. His clothes are wrinkled and he is not as well put together as normal. He doesn’t have his normal cloak, and is instead in a soldier’s uniform, displaying the rank of a captain.

Who did he steal that from?

“We received a phone call from someone in Pantganete who saw you wandering around. There aren't many horses out here you know. What on earth are you doing?”

Lando's big brown eyes glass over as he meets Andrea's concerned gaze. “I needed some air.”

Air, Lando? You needed some air? Gods you’re a terrible liar. He’s come to take you back and you know it. Are you going to fight?

That gets a sharp laugh. “Okay, but what are you actually doing this far out? This is the path to the- oh. Were you trying to go to Williams?”

So he does know. He does know. Those stupid spymasters know everything and they aren’t afraid to show it. Was it all a lie? Andrea’s kind words amongst Zak’s drivel? Think, Lando, think. Run it all through your mind before it is too late.

Carlos Sainz, Prince of Williams. Lando Norris, Prince of McLaren. So close, yet so desperately far. Lando realises as Andrea asks it that he doesn’t even have his passport. It has almost run out of pages, having stamps from kingdoms as far as Ducati and Toyota, who are beyond Haas’ territories, to that of his own country. He cannot leave. This is all that there is. The cold floor and the stupid castle and the night and the day and Oscar’s stupid laughter.

I’m being mean. So they’ve changed me. Contorted me. Have they broken me? I don’t…know, anymore.

“I was just- I can’t do it right now. I can’t do anything right now. Let me go, let me go far far away. I can’t-” Lando gestures to the ground around him. “I need to go. Don't pity me, Andrea. I deserve this. I deserve everything that’s coming to me.”

Andrea's face quirks but he doesn’t show shock.

“Lando, what did you do?”

Lando swallows and looks at the stones on the ground. "I can't tell you. It's about the triumvirate. But I can't. I just can't. There's other people involved. If I speak, they burn.”

They’ll burn like a moth to a flame. Like a dry forest in summer. Like your heart when you see Carlos.

“It's okay.” Andrea opens his palms in kindness. He has nothing to hide. “The triumvirate can wait, alright? Let's get you back to the castle. Do you feel like you can ride alright?”

Lando nods and starts to get to his feet. Andrea puts his hand on his shoulder.

“This will be okay, Lando. I'll make sure of it.” Andrea’s face steels into hardness.

As he gets to his feet, looking at the shadows cast by Andrea's torch, Lando blinks away a couple of tears that threaten to spill down his cheeks. Cedar bends her head towards him, tired and a little grouchy, but more concerned with the encroaching cold. She deserves some apples when they're back.

Andrea roots through his survival pack before pulling something out. Lando cranes his head to see what it is. An apple. Perfect. Lando doesn’t take a bite, instead holding the apple up to Cedar, who gobbles it down like a hungry child.

Andrea’s face contorts into a strange sadness. “That was for you, Lando.”

“I know, but I can eat something back at the castle.” Lando shrugs his shoulders. He starts shivering without intending to in barely controlled fear and cold. “If that’s where you’re taking me.”

“I’m not taking you anywhere Lando. How could I? You’re the one with the rapier after all. Are you cold? You look it,” Andrea asks, pointing at the thin layers that cling to Lando’s bony shoulders. His cloak is not designed for the nights that freeze you.

“I can’t feel my hands anymore.”

Those words drop from Lando’s lips without thinking. It is as if his brain wants to live to see the sun but his heart so desperately does not.

The sound of ruffling as Andrea takes his cloak off and puts it over Lando’s shoulders muffles the whisper of the wind. Lando swears he can hear words within it. Within the trees and within the damp ground. He has two hoods now and the trapped warm air is already insulating. Lando shoves his hands under his armpits and winces as the pain of hot blood flows through them again.

Andrea hops back on his own horse — a white Arabian. He's called Joseph. Lando has always been a little jealous. This is not to say that Cedar is a bad horse, not at all, but the majesty of Joseph’s perfect coat is very obvious if you look for it.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home, hey?”

“I don't…want to go back there, Andrea. I can’t do it- Just leave me here, yeah?” Lando screws his eyes shut “There's too much."

Andrea look down at him. To anyone else it would be purely arrogant, that stare. But on Andrea's face, it is kind. But it is knowing. He knows something that won’t divulge until the time is right and the moment is perfect.

“Is this about the All-Kingdom Tribune? Did you tell Max?” Andrea asks, pushing the hair back from his forehead.

“I- um-”

“Actually, don’t tell me. Plausible deniability is going to help us both with the investigation. They’re going to want to talk to us when we’re back. Do you have any ideas for an excuse as to why you went running away?”

Investigation? What investigation?

Ferns covered in sticky sap sway across the ground as the breeze picks up. Condensed breath from the pair of them fills the air. A spider spins its web around a fly caught and captured. The torch Andrea holds has no fire. It is never going to warm them up. If Lando is to be left alone, he will slowly become one with the ground, frozen skin rotting into the rocks.

“Investigation? They’re-” Lando swallows. “They’re- I can’t get the words out. Who? You? Is that why you’re here?” Lando begs to know, taking a quick step back.

No no no no no. Not now. Not now. We’re about to get some glory. I need to find Carlos. Gods gods gods. Why are we doing this? What are we doing here?

“I’m not investigating, Lando. Why would I? I think — and don’t say this to anyone — this is good. I don’t know how he knew. I don’t even think I want to. If you or Oscar are meddling in something you’re not supposed to, I cannot stop you even if I wanted. To impeach you would be ridiculous at this stage. There aren’t any good replacements.”

“Who then?” Lando’s face says with quickening breath. “Is it Zak?”

“No Lando. It’s the FIA.”

Blackness, whole and entire and perfect, consumes him.

Lando’s face blanches. Andrea continues.

“Zak might be furious, but the official line is that we are as shocked as ever by Verstappen's decision to publicise such a thing without the ‘due care and foresight needed for such a momentous announcement'.”

“What are the FIA investigating? Me? Oscar? Carlos?”

You fucking idiot.

“They’re investigating us, Lando. Only us.”

Andrea’s response does not show whether he has considered the meaning of Lando speaking of Carlos. It only widens the chasm Lando finds himself falling further into.

“But that's not true, is it? There has to be something greater than that? We've wanted in for so long and now that we have it-”

“No, Lando. Think. We don't have anything at all. The FIA can get rid of any of us, if they so wish. It is up to the pair of you to make that choice. You and Oscar. You have to force your way into the triumvirate. The fate of the kingdom falls upon you two out there. That is why Verstappen saying something or even just anything at all is so strange. I don’t think he actually wants to work with us. There has to be some kind of ulterior motive.”

Sweat builds on Lando's skin as he climbs onto Cedar's back. He pats her flank and spurs her on somewhat aimlessly, pushing her to a gallop. The wind whips through his hair as his cloak billows behind him. A second pair of hoofbeats resound as well.

Andrea follows Lando’s direction. His every move.

"You see?” he shouts. “It’s just like that. I follow what you do. I follow where you go.”

The kindness that moves through Andrea’s voice cuts the spiralling in Lando’s mind. He is not alone.

***

Silence punctuated by the sound of many hoofbeats and deep breaths turns to noise and sound as Lando and Andrea flood back towards the city. Oppression filters its way through the grass. The moon, high in the sky, watches with a careful eye as the street lamps illuminate their path forward. Lando wants to do nothing more than turn Cedar around and try booking it to the border. Cedar would hate him for it, but it would be escape.

When they reach the outskirts of Leslia — the capital — Lando asks, “Why are you doing this Andrea? You could have left me out there. I've got the survival pack, so I wouldn’t have frozen.”

Andrea, who pulls Joseph up to stop just behind him, looks over at Lando with the careful concern of a father who is about to tell life lessons to a young boy. He pinches his brow, frown deepening.

“It was the right thing to do. If someone else had found you-“

“I can hide Andrea. I’ve been trained at McLaren since I was a boy. A child. Thirteen years in those schools. You know what they teach. What they teach in the fighter's academy. How it sets us up for survival anywhere. Even after exile.”

Andrea comes up next to Lando. The sights of the city come into view from the hill they are stood on. The tall steeple of the main church beckons Lando in with an outstretched hand, to say his confessions in front of the fighting gods and beg for forgiveness.

“I would rather it be me. I would rather be the one to find you and bring you home. Because that is what McLaren is to you, right? This place is home?”

Lando does not respond.

The city, as they come closer to it, is bright. The suburbs are full of life, teeming from every swung open door, back room brothel and family house. Some of the newly built apartments in Tangent, the newest part of the city, sport a window tapestry woven of different coloured lights. Lando breathes in the air; it is not as fresh as he hopes it would be. The two men on horses get stares from everyone who is still on the streets. From the drunkards to the religious priests. The priests follow his gaze up to the church; they turn back to each other and say something Lando does not want to hear.

They pick up speed to a trot, and the crowds thin as they get closer to the centre of the city at this darkest of hours. Those who are walking all appear to be going in one direction: the castle.

His chest tightens a little and Andrea looks over at him, who begs to breathe a little harder. A little faster.

The two men slow as they turn down the main road leading to the castle entrance.

“Gods,” Andrea says. “Lando…”

Thick, dense crowds line the gate, almost overwhelming the guards who push them back with batons and hands. Bulbs flash periodically as the camera people point their lenses towards and through the gates. Lando stops Cedar dead in her tracks.

“What is this? Andrea?”

He set this up. He set this up. He set this up!

“I- don't. I don't know. Journalists? So many of them? How did they even get here this fast?”

He comes forward to sit on Joseph, next to Lando. Nobody has seen them yet. If they’re smart about it, they have just enough time to formulate a plan. If Lando had had this time before that devastating news was spilt in the All-Kingdom Tribune, maybe he would never have ended up in this mess. This destruction of ego.

“Give me back my cloak,” Andrea says. Lando complies without thought, welcoming the cold. It feels like how pain is meant to feel; cold, real, horrific.

Andrea puts the cloak back over his shoulders. “Pull your hood up tighter. If we are smart about this, we can make it through without being noticed.”

“You’re wrong.” Lando's breath picks up again. “They're going to know it’s us. I know it.”

“Trust me. I don't want this any more than you do. Let them take their photos. We can slip through.”

Someone in the crowd turns to them and shouts.

“Horses! Horses!”

The cameras turn and point and they are seen. They are known.

Bulb flashes burst like fireworks across the street. Some people run, others walk, but the crux of the universe is on Andrea and Lando. Andrea shouts at Lando to move. He freezes.

“Lando! Come on! We don't have a lot of time!”

Lando scrapes his jaw off of the floor at the speed of some of the photographers and moves to speed cedar through the gates. They have to slow, though. There are simply too many people. Someone tries to take a hold of Cedar’s reins and Lando kicks his foot out, barely missing their head.

“He's got a sword!” someone says.

"I think it's Piastri!” says another.

Lando closes his eyes. When he opens them, a dark blue uniform pokes out of the crowd.

Who is that? It can’t…it isn’t-

Lando turns over the side of Cedar and has to swallow down the bile that rises from his stomach.

The searing white of the FIA logo sears into his retina. They are here already. Watching.

Andrea shouts at them all to move apart, gesturing at the guards to let them in. The gates open and Lando moves Cedar as quick as she can go. She protests. Lando finds deep within him that he does not care what she thinks in that moment.

Squeaking open, the gates offer a path to what should be sanctuary if this were any other time. Under this early April morning nothing is true anymore. Lando is simply replacing one kind of discovery with another. For when you are inside of the kingdom of McLaren, fighting under their flag, there can be no secrets. There is only discovery, pure and simple. He hurtles up through and into the forest.

Chapter Text

“Oh Foseline, Oh Foselina, we move through you. Oh ardent being, Oh Foseline!”

First line of a classic sailor’s song sung during treacherous weather on the Urthce Ocean. It is believed that by singing this and confessing their secrets to the goddess of honesty, they can overcome Duyalike’s adversity. 

***

Something smells wrong with the interior of this car. It is too new, too fake and not at all like the horses George has been riding since he was a child. He's been out riding horses a lot the past few days, desperately visiting the homes and towns across Mercedes’ territory. The shouts and the screams of the crowds as he arrives has only numbed his mind and heart to shock. Picking up the pieces of Lando’s failed attempt to impress Carlos is simply too much to bear sometimes.

Despite it all, George is clinging on to the only kingdom where he has ever been known. Understood. Loved like a child and like a saviour. This is the only kingdom that has welcomed him with open arms.

A drop of water slowly trickles its way down the window, chasing another down. They are racing and George watches them like he used to do when he was a little boy. Little boys have to grow up so fast when they are in these most important of moments. The fate of the world rests on his shoulders, now more than ever. If he focuses, he can still smell that rosemary oil on the palms of his hands. It has long since been washed away, but the memory is there.

George is alone in the back of this car, besides the driver. The official delegation is just him. His palms are stuck to the brown leather seat, sweaty with an emotion he cannot quite name. He curls his hand around the thick binder of notes, forms and briefings he has been given. Someone told George — though he cannot remember who through the thicket of people — that his skills are needed now more than ever.

He looks down towards his feet, at the carrying case that holds his sabre, gripping the cardboard of the folder a little tighter. The road rumbles underneath him.

Vista-like scenery greets him on this winding drive. Ferrari’s regal home is so secluded, so unlike any of the other kingdoms. They were the last of the monarchies to turn to democracy following the Wars of Potential. Where McLaren has always centred their castle in the centre of the capital, Ferrari seclude their highest religious figures and their most important staff in the middle of nowhere. Nobody could hear him scream if he were to be attacked out here.

There are some molehills that would make a good burial ground. George shudders at the thought of being buried under there, in just the smart suit he is wearing. The dress shoes, pure leather that they are, would probably rot first. If he was in traditional dress, maybe the cloak would keep him warm. He tries not to think too hard about that.

The castle comes into view before he realises, with its high towers and strange shape reminding George of some old gothic buildings. The dark metal gate that borders the castle swings open without a pause for breath. As the car passes through, George looks at the guards. Their uniforms have been retained for hundreds of years in Ferrari’s house colours of scarlet red and canary yellow. The black plumes that stick out of the top of their metal helmets remind George of Charles’ horse.

“We will be arriving at the castle shortly, Sir Russell,” the driver says, looking into the back mirror at George's thunderous blue eyes.

The driver if he wanted could corroborate whatever Ferrari said if they were to do something to him. Whatever the zealots in charge of the Veriquestiona would say would surely be taken as the whole truth, at least under the spin the spymasters would put on everything. They could simply say that George ran away to exile himself for the impending disaster looming in Mercedes. There are already some sporadic protests on the streets, but at least now it appears that the public are waiting to see the outcome of the next games. They are in a week’s time.

No, George. Come on, you can fix this, the time is not over yet. The bell has not rung. Have some faith in yourself.

From what he can see, there are some people walking through the castle gardens, out by the lake. The castle is just up the drive and George watches the full delegation stood there. A camera is rolling. Sensational. This meeting is going to be broadcast all throughout the United Territories. Why the television companies chose this visit, he does not know. There is so little that would be special about this delegation.

This is apart from, of course, the end of the world, but George does not want to get so distinctly melancholic. It is too early in the morning for that, but the irrationality of death lingers low and true.

The car pulls up to the entrance and a camera clicks. A few photographers and reporters linger on the edge of the entrance, feet dipping into the stones. George takes a long deep breath and pushes open the door. Lewis’ carefully managed face greets him. George flashes a smile that betrays nothing about him. Alex coming to visit him has always lead to these fake smiles, plastered on to hide the love that threatens to pour out of the cracks.

“Welcome to Ferrari, Sir Russell.” Lewis' voice is distinctly different to the ways in which they used to talk to each other. Lewis has always been soft spoken. No more. No less.

Charles comes to stand next to Lewis, extended his hand in a show of kindness. George shakes it and another click of the shutter resounds. Lewis’ hand squeezes just a little too hard.

“It is a pleasure to receive you in the arms of Solace, our most important saint. Care to join us inside?” Charles says, and despite the rehearsed edge to his voice, there is some truth within it.

George does not know then whether Charles has fallen to the Ferrari religion either, or if he is simply playing the long game. He takes Charles’ hand and shakes it. Charles smiles then, it pulling from the corners of his lips. There is something knowing about that smile. The clouds dull the shine of his tiara, diamonds pointedly flat. Both Charles and Lewis are not in court dress, but instead military uniform, scarlet.

Toto will almost certainly not be smiling when he arrives later that evening. Despite the tedious and time-consuming work of the spymasters, they are still no closer to understanding just why McLaren have made this bet with Red Bull. They seem poised to gain nothing from it. Red Bull trades primarily with their 'sister kingdom' in Fighting Bulls. The bull logo that is stick on the side of the boxes is just about them.

Trade is not the reason why.

George has sent a letter to Lando. It is meant to be a simple 'hey man, what the fuck are you doing’ letter, but despite everything, there is still some kindness in there. They fought together as children. Of course there is going to be some kindness.

You do not throw away goodwill and kindness like that. George scrutinises Lewis’ face as the thoughts finish.

The director of the live broadcast waves his arms to get their attention, gesturing for the three of them to move inside. Fred Vasseur, that most crafty of man, is not deigning to show his face to the cameras. He is to remain secluded inside.

The letter that is now in Lando's possession asks for the pair of them to meet outside of the scope of the castles and official meetings. The FIA, as he has put so politely 'can get fucked'. The head of the fighter's union will do what is necessary for the sport, even if it means another potential exile. George simply has to do this. Even if he falls, things have to happen. He cannot sit and wallow in the pain of a bed anymore. Alex would want him to do this.

Through the camera lens, which has just a little scratch on the bottom left hand side, the grainy image of George still manages to make him look defined and regal amongst all else. His profile is in shot as he pats Charles on the back while they walk into the grand spruce doors.

This shot is on display in a classroom at a university, just on the outskirts of the largest city in Mercedes, Argentum. A political science student, her curly hair tied neatly together with gold bands, watches with bated breath. Her PhD is on the youth and violence contained within the games and its potential to leak into education. She still does not have an argument contained, but hopes that this viewing will get her somewhat closer to an absolution.

When she sees George shaking Charles' hand, somewhere deep down inside her she knows that there is something deeply, deeply wrong.

The beauty of the two men does not stop the steam-powered freight train from pummeling the citizens of the city into submission.

The camera pans to a wide shot of the castle itself. The flag of the Tifosi flies alongside the main flag of the kingdom. A dirty red against the prancing horse. The wide, circular stained-glass window hosts an image of Solace within it, her hand clutching an olive branch, her feet shackled.

She notes down the need to ask her friend in the television sector who is in charge of the news broadcasts today.

***

When the door closes on the first meeting of the day as an aide slips out, there is no sound. George, Charles and Lewis are deadlocked in thick conversation. Undrunk tea sits on the table, some lapsang souchong grown in Chip Ganassi. Their jungles and highlands make for the perfect conditions to grow the bushes.

George wonders whether this tea is intentional. Considering the next games are to be held in their territory, the tea reminds him of just what the triumvirate is and how it devastates anyone who dares do wrong by it.

“You can't be serious, Charles,” George says. “We still don't know why Verstappen did this. There is still too much at stake for us to be sure. If we get this wrong, I don’t know what is going to happen to my kingdom, to me personally as well. Ferrari and Mercedes have had a rocky relationship, but considering that Lewis is now a part of your kingdom, I hope this can alleviate some of the pains we have had in the past.”

A Ferrari official stands at the far corner of the huge hall. A rectangular table, carved of pure, unadulterated marble sits square in the middle. The three fighter princes are crowded around the end like schoolboys concocting a plan to harass a girl to date one of them.

Lewis’ crown is on the table. He's taken it off now. Charles’ smaller tiara, which he chose today over his full crown is still stuck in his hair, wild and free like a bird's nest.

“May I remind you,” the official says, “that this is to be a meeting about the trade agreements designated for tourism.”

The three of them glare at the man.

“Fuck off,” Charles snarls. George almost jumps at the ferocity of his tone. Charles does not normally speak like this.

Lewis' eyes flicker with a momentary joy. He plays with the golden signet ring on his pinky finger. It has a symbol on it different to either the Ferrari or Mercedes sigil.

The official steps forward, brooch of the Tifosi symbol catching the light. Charles leans back a little in his seat. He releases a long, whistling breath.

“Prince Leclerc, we are here to assist you in any way you may require. Turn to page 25 for some details of the agenda of the day.”

The official steps back, into the shadows. Charles does as he is told. George sits and watches this tableau in a stunned kind of silence, tracking through his memories for any indication of Charles' aggression that he can remember. Nothing in particular comes to mind.

“We can do this later Charles,” George offers.

“No, George. We do this now. Have you not seen what is happening out there, on the streets? They want blood.”

His face looks similar to that of him in the arena, covered in little flecks of blood. Healthy, gleaming, violent.

Charles turns to the officials who are slung around the sides. “All of you, get out. Now.”

“Yes, please leave,” Lewis says. “Remember your place amongst us.”

“Slate 3, line 4?” Charles asks, meeting Lewis' gaze.

“Of course.”

As the official's feet patter against the ground, Charles pulls his chair closer to George. He crosses his right left over the left and leans forward.

“Now, back to business. I do not want to see you chucked from the triumvirate. McLaren may have taken your place-”

“They haven’t done anything yet have they, Charles?” Lewis says, tone carefully undermining him.

“No,” Charles responds, barely acknowledging the truth Lewis is throwing in his face. “But they will. I don’t think I can back you. Not if it comes to it.”

Carlos wants you to back Charles. You've got Williams on your side, so you can stick with Ferrari until the time is better. But why doesn’t he want to back me? There’s nothing to be gained from chaos and change.

There we go. Feed off of this. Don't you know how to?

“Charles, work with me here. I need your backing in the arena. Gods, I need your backing in public as well. I need you to promise me at least that. Remember when we used to fight as boys?”

Lewis tilts forward, heels raised against the ground. Charles looks a little green.

George continues. “This is about the survival of our kingdoms, isn't it? So you know what that feels like. I know what Mùnegu is like now, what with the breakdown of Ferrari's influence causing it to lose its grip on its wealth. Deep hells, even Maranello is feeling it. Do you really want that to happen here, to the castle? To you?”

Of course he doesn't.

Lewis interrupts just before Charles gets a chance to reply. “And what do you get out of this George? You were never an altruist. Not when I knew you. Not now.”

Those times George and Lewis spent together in Mercedes were strange. They were polite. So cordial. So unbelieving of each other. So fake, like the inside of the car George arrived in. Everything was just a little too new.

“I've been doing this for longer than you can even comprehend, George. I know the stakes, even if you don't to want to accept them. Don't you think I don't know what you're doing? Your little games aren't going to work with me, and they will not work in these walls. Ferrari have given me the chance to solidify a my name in history and I will be damned if that goes because of a bad decision I make backing you.”

Lewis stands up and paces over to the entrance. His footsteps echo through the hall. He pulls on the door, double checking it is locked. The sounds of the radio one of the cleaners has on a windowsill while they clean is silenced. The voices explaining the purge that is taking place in Red Bull isn’t heard by anyone.

“Now. We're alone, aren't we? Come on, convince me, Georgie. Convince me of your great plan. But then again, you never were very good at being alone.”

If he is bringing up Alex, because you were so stupid to think people would forget, then you fight dirty. Play the game and win. Fight and win. You were born for this.

Apotheotic duty courses through George's words. “If you don't back me, this is the end of the triumvirate as you know it. McLaren are too modern. They want to remake this in their own image. Is that what you want? You came to Ferrari after all because of the tradition. You revel in it Lewis.”

“Why should I care about that?”

Charles gets to his feet now, George quickly following.

Charles says, “You aren't a villain Lewis. Don't act like one.”

“Let me tell you a story, the pair of you," Lewis starts, pacing back and forth, his head held up high. The red trim on his suit drips like blood.

"When Fernando and I were both princes of McLaren back in the day, we did not like each other. I still do not like him. He has too much of an ego.”

Like you don’t Lewis. You're kind but so arrogant.

“The public fallout between us destroyed what was going to be a pivotal change for McLaren. After Jenson won that horrendous battle in Sauber, the decline started. You remember it, don’t you? The match that took four hours?”

Charles nods.

“That decline started because of Fernando and I. If you want to stop things, you get to the root of the problem. You want to stop the rot in Ferrari? Or in McLaren? You chop the weeds at their root. You slice the head of the snake off before it has a chance to strike.”

Both George and Charles speak at the same time.

“So you're saying we need to do something about Lando and Oscar?”

Hold the line. Toe it. See what Lewis is willing to do. Is it worth betraying them both? They aren't bad people, Lando and Oscar. But if legacy is all that Lewis cares about…

“Of course it is. Don't you listen? See who is controlling them, who is whispering like the priests around here.”

There is a single beat of silence.

“You can't say that!” Charles yells, voice reverberating.

“You don’t want to listen to what I have to say? Fine. Go and hoard canned food and bottled water.”

Lewis throws his hands up and unlocks the door. He storms out, leaving Charles and George alone together. Perhaps this is the first time two fighters have been in the same room alone since George and Alex were discovered. George has only just regained his strength from his isolation.

“So what are we going to do?” George asks, scratching the back of his neck.

“I don’t know! What do you want me to do? I have a kingdom full of people who have lived under prosperity for decades. I can’t turn my back on them just because of you.”

“I was never asking for that, Charles.”

“No, but you are asking me to back you. If I do, and we lose in the next games to Red Bull, we aren’t going to have much of a triumvirate left.”

Charles walks in a wide circle around the table. George follows him with his eyes, feet rooted firmly into the ground.

“Whatever you do, Charles, I’m going to fight for Mercedes. Kimi has a future in that team that I won’t let go. So you’re either with me, or against me.”

A bulb flickers on and off in the chandelier in the ceiling.

Push just a little bit more. A little bit harder.

“George-”

“What if there was no triumvirate at all?” George probes, pushing the subject.

“That is never going to happen. Don’t be so short-sighted.”

“But what if, Charles?”

Charles sighs. “The triumvirate is what keeps the nations and the kingdoms of this world moving forward. It is all we have.”

The tone is rehearsed once again.

“But what if it wasn’t?”

This is treason, George. What you are saying is treason.

He goes further, salt into an open wound. “It doesn’t have to be like this. If we stop McLaren, we can change things. I can change things.”

Charles hangs his head low, making his way back to him. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Regret what?”

George is attacked with a hug, almost violent. Reluctance seeps through every pore.

“This.”

Charles stuffs his hand in the pocket of his jacket on his chest and pulls out a letter. He stuffs it into the belt of George's trousers as quick as his hands can hold.

“Do not, under any circumstances, open it outside of your bedchambers. You can guess who it is from. If you hurt him, I swear I will destroy you, George. This does not mean I will work with you, do you understand me?”

Alex? How the hell is it from Alex?

Charles stands back now, smoothing down a crinkle in his shirt that does not exist. “Thank you. This has been a clearly fruitful discussion.”

George stares at him, mind seemingly processing the events that have transpired.

“You know, George, sometimes I wonder-”

“What Charles?”

“If this is worth it at all.”

The door swings open once again. Toto stands there with Fred at his side. Both of them have a face like thunder. Charles and George take a further step apart and stare at the both of them.

Fred is the one that starts. “What do you two think you're doing? Being alone in a room like this? Don't you know what the FIA are doing in McLaren?”

Charles' face contorts into confusion. “No, what?”

"A breach of the peace investigation. You, George Russell, are a very stupid man thinking you can be alone with Charles. Get out, and we will talk later.”

George’s skin burns with deceit as he storms past both Fred and Toto. A breach of the peace? Fred has to be lying. He has to. But if he is being truthful, McLaren might already be about to fall. Lando and Oscar are walking a tightrope thinner than they ever could imagine.

As he pushes through the workers on the way to his chambers for the weekend, George watches Lewis talking to some of the religious figures that inhabit this castle. George does not say anything.

When he pulls that letter open in the evening, under the glimmer of candlelight, two things happen.

The first is a dreadful sense of fear. The world of Williams Alex describes is one of chaos, confusion and misunderstanding. Carlos is spiralling and James is plotting. Alex is merely living. The letter is torn at the top, meaning that it was attached to some letter Alex sent to Charles. The fear swells as George reckons with what clandestine conversations they could be having.

Some hope, however, does still linger. Alex mentions somewhere within the third page that Williams want to become the fourth most powerful team, assuming the fall of Mercedes still happens. Any team that has left the triumvirate takes at least a decade to return to prominence, based on historical data. Williams are on the return, pushing back into position. Mercedes will fall to who knows where in the fighter’s and kingdom’s championships and the money for winning will run dry. There will be nowhere left to turn.

If Mercedes can cling on to power in some way, and McLaren can fall by the wayside, this might be good. If they do become the fourth-most powerful, Alpine are basically in his pocket. Charles giving him this letter can only mean something beneficial, perhaps enough to convince Pierre to join him.

The blue-tinged ink confuses George as he reads on further about Carlos, though. It appears that he has not told Alex about what has happened. The horrific events that transpired in the single McLaren bathroom. The string that ties and binds George’s thoughts together about the plans and rebuttals and fights pulls just a little tighter. Oscar did something with Max that caused Lando to believe McLaren are in, Mercedes are out. He told George and Carlos. The world is ending as a result. Alex seems to think Carlos has something to do with the plans Max made, based off of their time together in Fighting Bulls. George has to stifle some laughter.

Alex finishes the letter by saying that they need to meet at the ‘old place’ at 6pm next Tuesday. Alex has ‘got a plan’. George doesn’t know whether to believe it or not. But he chooses to. For his own sake and the sake of everything else.

Something has to change. Something huge and monumental. McLaren, maybe? Their silly little games are going to ruin lives. But who controls that? Who established the triumvirate? The FIA. There are games bigger and more important than even George dares to consider. But he can’t do this, can he? Destroy the powers that be? He can’t destroy the barrier between him and Alex? Their childhoods were not for moments like these. Love withers under the watchful eyes of tyrants.

He simply has to try. George burns the letter in the fire. There can be no trace of rebellion.

Chapter Text

"Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!"

The shouts are almost in time with the beats of the drums that echo and bounce off the walls of the Chip Ganassi arena. Blood glitters against the sandy ground as the last few fighters pick themselves up, dust themselves off and decide whether to come back together and finish off the game. The time is 9:30pm. This is a night fight under the blaring floodlights and all is lit up.

George has his head against the sand, body tucked over itself. A darkening cut on his forehead has sand stuck to it, the pain ebbing and flowing with his movement. Through the bleary sight, he watches Fernando hunched over. Fernando's fighting green uniform hides the worst of his damage, but for a man over 40, age is catching up to him. He is no longer the ferocious upstart who proclaimed that the reason Michael Schumacher stopped fighting during one battle was because he had a wife and children at home.

The shouts continue, spiralling into unintelligible words. George closes his eyes.

The strange slapping sounds of skin on skin continue as Lando and Oscar, the last two men standing, turn away from the shackles of kingdom life to fight for victory. Defeat sounds through the rest of the fighters on the ground. Max is about to lose his grip on the lead of the championship and somewhere in the stands his father sits in wait with bated breath. George knows this.

George sits up and hangs his head low, shying away from the lights, gaze carefully poised on Ferrari’s beautifully violent fighters. Lewis looks a little out of it; he must have taken a blow to the head. The medics will be wanting to look at him. Charles is covered in blood, but none of it appears to be his own. He is the last to fall then, before Lando and Oscar.

Oscar yells, "Leave me alone!"

George has to stifle a laugh.

Red Bull, during this group game, has mainly fought Ferrari, ignoring both McLaren and Mercedes. For being so outwardly excited by the prospect of change, they are delightfully coy to the crowds about who they will come out and support. Max is an outlier, naturally. He always has been. Liam looks isolated to George on the sand. He has just enough to look regal, but too little to be anything but pliable, given the right kind of direction.

In all respects, George thinks, any of the rookies are. They do not know what it means to fight and play politics for your entire life, not just yet.

Lando throws Oscar aside, with some difficulty, barely catching a grip on his leg, sweat making his body tough. Oscar hits the ground and grunts in the way a dog does before death. Low and strangely human.

The rest of the fighters are in a strange ritualistic circle around them, as they often are. Through the glasses lenses and the cameras, the triumvirate as a concept looks to be cracking under some form of pressure. They are pushing and pulling just a little too much, a little too hard.

Without the three kingdoms wresting control from the others, these fights are merely a free for all. It is only in the major games, one-on-one, that any form of truth is told. If Lando does end up leading the championship, he will be the first non-triumvirate fighter to lead it for ten years. There are some children in the stands who have not known a leader who is neither red, nor turquoise blue, nor navy. Orange is a strange concept.

As Oscar grapples, he flails his arms around for purchase. Lando pins him to the floor and waits for the inevitable submission. He is not in the way of death and destruction today. There is a raw physicality to him that George has not seen before, as if he has unlocked some part of himself he keeps hidden away.

A squeaked out breath comes from Oscar's mouth before he finally erupts. The crowd goes wild.

The blazing gaslights of the lamps on the sides and edges of the arena paint Lando's face in ecstasy. This is the first games he has ever won. Even if he loses the one-on-one matches tomorrow, he will still have enough points to secure victory for the weekend. All of the other fighter’s borrowed and begged-for weapons lie strewn on the ground, daggers and sabres and swords everywhere.

George presses his fingers to his temple, carefully assessing for a headache. The recovery from this is going to be terrible. Some movement from next to him startles George out of an internal reflection.

Lewis, a long gash on the side of his arm, pushes himself off the floor and to his feet. He faces Lando, whose smiling, beaming face basks in the crowd and within their screaming praise. Lewis staggers over, blood trickling in a thick syrupy line down his skin. The shouts burst open as he raises Lando's arm, like at the end of the underground, unsanctioned boxing matches. George cannot comprehend why he is doing it.

It’s a stake in the ground. A marker of war. It is the end of the world. It is the beginning of forever and the death of the present.

“And with this first victory by the leading prince of McLaren-” the voice says. Oscar cringes a little from his spot curled on the floor. “-We have a new championship leader! Lando Norris!”

George doesn't think much through the haze of pain as he leaves the ring of the arena, returning to the dark looks on the faces of the team members in Mercedes. Neither Kimi nor George are going to be leaving early tonight.

With the acceptance of McLaren by Ferrari, this may just be it for Mercedes. Charles can't hold down the ferocity of the Tifosi unless he comes up for breath. He is either with George, or against him.

George stews. Max, watching from the other side of the arena, glowers with anger melting like lead into his veins. Losing the match is one thing, but this? This should not be happening. There are plans within plans and words unsaid but entirely felt.

The thick screams of protestors and rioters on the streets outside the arena punch holes through the fabric of society, weaving their own way into history. A Sempre member of the Tifosi punches a teenage boy in the back of the head, instantly killing him. Panic pursues its way through the crowd. The news helicopter that circles above captures an image with a telephoto lens of an FIA car speeding away from the arena.

Chapter Text

“I swear to uphold the tenets of the FIA in all duties, present and future. I swear to uphold fraternity, peace, honesty and ruthless discipline to serve the needs of the United Territories.”

Oath of all FIA workers. Taken upon completion of training.

***

Wax shines well in light. Especially when the wax is interspersed with tiny bits of glitter. Oscar traces his calloused finger over the seal. This letter is from none of the kingdoms, none of the people who have a vested interest to destroy him. No, this letter is from Logan. All of his letters were delivered in bulk to the hotel in Bureyhail.

Logan was not hand-delivered with these letters. In those two days Oscar spent there — hiding away as the world collapsed in McLaren — he has read every single one of them. Besides, of course, this one. It is the most recent, having been delivered a week before the announcement Max made in the All-Kingdom Tribune. It has been a month since then. The protests are worsening and the religious in Ferrari are talking about instituting the final slate rules, the names of which Oscar has never bothered to learn.

He slides a dirty nail under the seal, trying not to break it. It breaks anyway.

The paper is thick, the penmanship neat and refined, as Logan's always has been. He writes kindly.

Dear Oscar,

I know it might be a while until you get this letter. I have a match with the children two weeks from today, on a tiny little ground not far from the border with Alpine. You'll know which one I mean. There are only a few of these kids that would have a chance at making it into the games, and they remind me a lot of us when we were young. There are these two boys, Luca and Francisco, you know the ones I'm talking about. One of them fights with a short little sabre, just like I do.

But I'm not just here to talk about the coaching. The gods know that this is boring when this is your entire life. I took a group of them, maybe ten of us, to watch a movie at the cinema on the outskirts of Auda the other day. It was some children's film I don't remember well, but it was such a good way to forget about the world a little.

When those kids laughed, man. I don't really know how to describe it, you get me? It was as if the world just disappeared. There were no weapons in this world on the screen. It was just happiness.

I know I said that I wouldn't talk much about fighting, but we're already here aren't we? I'm going to be sending this to the hotel, you're eventually going to be picking them up. If you ever write back to me, remember this one.

Those kids don't deserve a world like the one you're still in, Oscar. It pains me every single day and every single time I see you on that screen, getting more and more wounds. You’re my best friend for all that it's worth. You shouldn’t have to go through pain. Those kids should not have to worry.

They deserve to feel passionate about something other than fighting and bloodshed. I've seen the talk in the newspaper. About some changes that might be coming. If you end up ever in the triumvirate, Oscar, promise me you won't turn into Lewis or Fernando. The world deserves more of you than that.

Are you still going to leave Lando out in the dark if it comes to it? I know that is a bit of an abrupt change to the way I've been talking, but on the television in work (it's new, thank you), Lando has just come on the lunchtime news. He's been out in town today. He looks excited at least. You two look happy together, you know. I know I've already said it, but thank you for getting him to call me.

In the future, the past won't be the only thing we rely on. Our friendship doesn't have to be stifled by your ambition. Sorry if that's mean. You know what I'm like. I should probably stop writing now. You definitely have things to do.

Sincerely,
Logan.

PS. Daniel Ricciardo called me at work an hour after I finished writing this. He wants to talk to me, did you give him my number?

Oscar traces a finger over the word friend. He tries to pull the essence of the meaning from it and fails to come up with anything. Something stirs that tells him to burn it. The seal is broken anyway. Roaring fire would do just the trick on it. Yet the joy of communicating with someone so desperately needed overcomes rationality and Oscar slumps back into the sofa, clutching it to his chest like a schoolgirl.

Outside the doors, some staff members prepare food, polish weapons, meet to discuss trade and agriculture, and the defence panel are already in their third meeting of the day. Conversations are had all over the place, but none of them are bugged.

All of this would be so much easier if I wasn't so addicted.

Addicted? You're not addicted to anything, you're just fighting to win.

To win what? Two nights in Bureyhail while people are searching to find you? To be shouted at by Zak for something that shouldn't even matter?

He sighs in a display that nobody will see.

But what about Daniel, he thinks. Daniel is Max’s friend in the same way Logan is Oscar's friend, with too much said under the surface and so little truly known behind that megawatt smile and kind voice.

He furrows his brow. If Daniel is trying to get to Logan, he has probably already met him. This was a month and a week ago.

Someone walks up the stairs. Oscar holds the letter tight in his hand as he launches into a sitting position. It could always just be Lando, asking him to come to another fighting council meeting where they will yet again dissect Lewis' actions and Charles' apathy.

The door is not knocked. It is pushed open with some force, slamming against the stonework on the other side of the hinge. Some dust falls on the floor.

"Mr Piastri, would you care to join us?"

It's the FIA interrogator who is on rotation during this investigation. Oscar swallows.

By the time he is lead into the cold, slightly damp room at the bottom of the castle, nearly the dungeons that have not been used in centuries, Oscar has shoved the letter into his pocket. Just as Lando's postcards burnt a hole into his thigh, this letter burns a hole too. Too much and too knowing.

Three leather chairs welcome him, but there are only two people in the room. Him and the interrogator. Her name is Christine Flowers and the grey streaks in her hair give her a severe look that would not be out of place on a headteacher. That thought drags Oscar back to the burning hole in his pocket.

“Mrs Flowers, how can I help you?”

“Would you like some tea, Oscar?” She asks, gesturing to the tea in a utilitarian metal pot.

“Ah, no thank you.”

She settles across from him. "So, Mr Piastri. I know we have talked before.”

“We have.” Oscar cocks an eyebrow.

Her face is impassive. “I won't keep you for long. I know you have kingdom business to attend to.” She waves around what looks like a copy of Oscar's schedule. “I saw on your schedule that you had two days cleared from it about a month ago, correct?”

Bureyhail. Stupid idiot you.

“Uh, yes. That is correct, why?”

Maybe she doesn't know where you went. But you should have left without commandeering someone to organise a car. Like Lando. Comfort is never as important as secrecy. Come on, you know this.

“You went to the Firtun Hotel, correct?”

So she does know. Does she know about the letter? Is that why she hasn't mentioned anything about it yet?

“I did, yes. I thought it was prudent for me to detach from the moment and let the legislature formulate a plan to deal with Verstappen's announcement.”

How on earth does she know about this?

When Lando and Andrea made it back from wherever Lando ran off too (he didn't say to Oscar), the mood had fallen from ruined to angry. Pure vitriol had flowed through every word Zak spat out at Lando, who just looked tired. Nobody seems to care that Oscar had disappeared. None of them bothered to ask why he left or why he went to Bureyhail, if they ever got that far.

Failure and pain was all pushed onto Lando's slight shoulders, holding the weight of Zak's words and his terrible beady eyes. They haven't talked much since, both generally confined to their rooms, thinking about all the stuff they shouldn't. Lando has probably been stupid and tried to contact Carlos.

“If you were in Bureyhail, why? Surely you knew of what was happening here in Leslia?” She pushes.

“Of course I knew. I told you everything I know.”

Christine leans forward, head resting on her interlaced fingers.

“So you admit that you had no good reason to be in Bureyhail then? Surely you should have come back and assisted immediately. Or did you have people to meet out there?”

“Listen, Mrs Flowers, I don’t think I have to entertain this.”

“Oh but you see, Mr Piastri, you do.”

Oscar gets to his feet and walks over to the door.

“You haven't locked this have you?”

That would be such a terrible decision. There has to be some kind of law against kidnapping a prince of any kingdom by the FIA.

“Oh, gods no. Why would we ever do that?”

“So I can just go?”

“Why would you ever do that?”

Oscar pauses for a moment and shivers. Eventually, he lets go of the handle and walks back to the chair, like a dog with his tail between his legs. Defeated.

“Perfect, now, let's continue. Under the 2nd section of the code of conduct…”

***

“George Russell, have you had any contact with Alexander Albon recently?”

“What are you implying, Mr Saïd?”

“I am not implying anything, George. I am simply just asking.”

The interrogation here is simultaneous to the ones in McLaren, Williams, Ferrari and Red Bull. Though of course, the fighters themselves do not know this. There is no chance to call anyone, or send a letter if you are bound by Ferrari rules.

“Of course I haven't. After isolation, why would I?” George lies.

“Are you sure?”

Following on from the letter, they’d met in the back rooms of some strip club in Ducati's capital. Such freedom and relative security had been liberating, though not in a way George had intended. Mr Edvard Saïd takes his horn-rimmed glasses off his face and puts them on the table.

“We have done nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

Fight George, don't back down. They don't have any information on you.

“Nothing.”

Edvard gets up and walks out, leaving George shivering in this dark room, where only the natural light of the slowly dimming sun warms him.

The thing about strip clubs is that no matter who you are, bugging them would work against everyone's favour. Not only this, but a strip club in Ducati? They are almost invisible, watching the men with wiry muscles and the women with flat stomachs fling themselves with zealousness over anyone who pays them enough.

Thumping bass lines had given way to the two men sat shoulder to shoulder, George's long fingers tracing patterns into Alex's waist out of view of everyone else. He'd asked Alex to work with him against McLaren and then the FIA in whispered words pressed over kisses on his neck. One single strange look of incredulity from Alex was enough for George to slip over his words in that most desperate of efforts to please.

Lando was Alex's response. Why would he want to destroy Lando and his life for something that he was never really a part of? Lando may be at McLaren for the rest of his fighting days, but he has never loved them. Alex had mentioned — before taking a shot of tequila — that Oscar had written to him informing him of the next point on the agenda for the union meetings.

McLaren's place in the triumvirate and the dominance of Ferrari.

Scrubbing his mind clear, George takes a long sip of the water on the desk that separates him and Edvard, pulling a little at his collar. Why has he disappeared? Is he waiting for someone to come and drag him away to prison? Exile him?

No, George, focus. Panic isn’t going to do anything.

Alex's tan skin shone beautifully under the golden lights of their private booth. He'd responded to George's protests against Oscar’s agenda with a kiss and a whisper.

“McLaren are the ones who need to find their place.”

“What, George? How can they? You know what is coming, don’t you?”

Alex's pushback had been expected if not a little disappointing. George had hoped somewhere within him that the game was one Alex was willing to play. He had been the one who took George to that hot tub that started what some would call the inevitable decline of Mercedes.

“McLaren cannot be part of the triumvirate anymore. Zak is a disgusting little man.”

Alex had cocked a brow at that. “Your problem is with Andrea Stella and Zak Brown, and not Lando or Oscar?”

“Alex, who was I talking to the night you came and found me?”

“Carlos and...oh. Lando.”

“Exactly. We were talking about these relationship rules. You have to know Lando and Carlos have been fucking since they were at McLaren together. The only reason I haven't ratted them out is because of what we have. Nobody deserves that."

The door to the chilly room swings open again and Edvard paces in with a thick sheaf of documents in his hands. It reminds George of the daily briefings he orders from the legislature, bound and sealed with wax. Ever since the day of Charles and George’s conversation there had been such formality in the meetings with Ferrari. Boring discussions about trade and business.

“Sir Russell, I will give you one more chance to tell me. Have you and Alexander Albon had contact recently?”

“Like I said. No.”

Mr Saïd pulls a piece of paper out of his file and places it on the metal table. It claims in typewritten text that Alex Albon tried to gain access to a bathroom during McLaren's ball. The document describes him trying to overcome the official, not with violence but with words. It sounds a lot like the man George has known for his entire life, hidden under an air of apathy.

When they had gotten up to leave the strip club after that conversation, the way the word George had spilled over Alex's lips felt like honey. Liquid and sweet. They'd held hands like a couple at the temple during their wedding ceremony and stood tall against everything.

“George,” Alex had said. “Promise me you wont get yourself hurt again. Promise me.”

“I always will. No matter what, the things I do are to keep you safe. The things that are going to come might not make much sense, but I promise you I will be thinking about you.”

“What do you have to say about this, Sir Russell?” Edvard prompts, pushing the golden light of memory out of George's mind and back to the present.

“I don't know what this is trying to show me, it just seems that Alex was denied entry into a bathroom. There is nothing more than that.”

A smirk twitches at the corner of Saïd’s lips.

“That is all. You may go. I expect you will have plenty of meetings today.”

Ah yes, the riots that are spiralling. The ones caused by this triumvirate and their hegemony over trade and culture. Don't think I don't know that Mr Saïd.

George rises from his chair and storms out of the room, desperately itching to contact Lando. He still hasn’t responded to the letter George sent a few weeks ago. Getting a hold back on their friendship could be the key to taking everything down and destroying it.

“Oh George?”

The voice is Edvard sticking his head out of the door to his office, in the very highest room in the whole castle.

He turns on the balls of his feet. “Yes?”

“If you have been lying to us, expect that Mr Ben Sulayem will be hearing about this.”

Chapter Text

Ximenia is an unknown force outside of the old religion. Her influence is great, but given the lack of surrounding mythology, we do not know her origins. I suspect her mythology is being steered by the culturas. Burn this letter. 

Letter from Horace Murphy, Emiritus Professor in Ferrarian Studies at the Institute for the Ancient Kingdoms, to Gregory Horsh, PhD candidate at the institute.

***

The headlines follow Charles around the room as he paces to and fro, from the fire to the door and back again.

SEMPRE THUG KILLS BOY.

RIOTS ESCALATE FOR SECOND NIGHT.

EMERGENCY TRIUMVIRATE FIGHTER’S MEETING TO BE HELD.

Deep-seated issues with the world are just now revealing themselves in the midst of chaos. When you clutch at what is still available, you may end up grasping onto sticky, corrosive rot. Charles is already there, clutching onto Ferrari and the Veriquestiona like a child holding their mother's hand. The rot is already starting to seep through his strong fingers.

Page twelve of his personal copy of that most sacred of books is open on the desk. The preface to every copy handed out to families on the birth of a child contains a foreword by the current leading prince of Ferrari. For now, this is Charles.

The time when he got this copy however, it was Sebastian. His words littered over these pages are just too stark a reminder of the legacy that threatens to trip them up each time they come and go from their prancing horses. Charles comes to look out of the window again, and nothing has changed in the sky. No more birds are in murmurations and nothing is more than before. Only the training for the soldiers has increased, but he is lucky enough not to bear witness to that.

If the final slate rules are instigated, this could be the end of a free Ferrari.

Some days, back in the age of Carlos Sainz, they'd spend a few hours reading quietly, an open expanse of land rolling underneath them. If he were here now, his calculating mind could simply be relied upon to fix this situation. His supple and lithe body could be called upon to renege control and hold Charles under a kind of glory so unlike victory.

Carlos would have done so much more than what is happening now. Charles steps into his bedroom, through the wide open door that separates his piano and study room from his bedroom.

The air drips with nostalgia as he presses a hand into his silk bedsheets. Carlos. That's what it is- there.

He presses the cavern of his cheek into the ivory fabric and inhales. Memories of lonely nights and bored mornings flood back. Of Carlos bringing him coffee, asking about training. Reminiscing on the scant times they interacted as teenagers before the royal courts showed their hands.

Strong muscles as Charles was fucked languidly into the sheets. The tears that threatened to spill out of the corners of his eyes.

How one night, Carlos had asked him to stay quiet. He’d pushed his hand through the curls in Charles’ hair like he did so many times with Lando, friendship growing under the arena light. His mind had been so far away. If he remembers correctly, he could swear that Carlos had muttered Lando's name under his breath as he climaxed.

Yet nothing compares to that first time, six months into their partnership as princes of Ferrari. Scared and so desperately alone. So tired and so angry.

Charles lifts his head back up. Those times are over. Carlos was ripped away. But he also tore himself away. The time for reminiscing is over. It is not coming back.

If McLaren want in, to have the power to control the outcomes of this world, they will have to stop him. Because when Carlos' back had arched and his breath had become ragged, he was enraptured by Ferrari. Not McLaren.

Stalking his prey down the corridor, Charles calls for one of the staff members to get him a meeting with the leading cultura and some of the regional leaders of the councils, who are here for meetings about the final slate rules. Protests of 'but they are busy, Charles' are clamped down with scathing statements.

Two hours later, having walked a lap of the entire castle in anxious wait, they arrive. The robes of the cultura leader, Peter, catch the dirt on the ground. Gold clasps pin it all together with an air of confidence.

"Welcome, Peter, this way."

Charles walks off, Peter hot on his heels. He is a little lap dog.

They reenter the great hall, where so recently, George had broached the idea of rebellion to him. Hopefully that letter from Alex is enough.

On the table sits some flowers, a thick notebook and a fountain pen.

Charles sits opposite Peter. He starts, “The others will be arriving shortly. Now, I require your undivided attention.”

“You will always have it, Charles.”

Peter's impassioned response feeds the ego necessary to win fights and weekend matches.

“I require two things from you. I need access to a phone. Not bugged. The second, no matter what happens, McLaren will not have the support of Scuderia Ferrari. Do you understand?"

Incense burns from a hanging pitcher in the ceiling, its thick scent drifting through their clothes.

“Charles-”

“Do you understand me?”

Before Peter can respond the large double doors are opened again and the regional members who Charles has invited are here. Only five of them have deigned to show their face.

“Ah, Charles!” One of them starts, taking a step towards him.

The rest follow from this man's footsteps, dipping their head in reverence of the deity-approved fighter in front of them. If they knew that the reasons fighters are given places and had places taken away from them was because of their game scores and not because Solace or any of the gods cared, they may simply disintegrate.

Charles ushers them all around the end of the table. It’s crowded.

“As I was saying just before you all arrived, things have to change in this kingdom if we are to retain our position. I require the use of a phone, at least for the foreseeable future. I also require access to join the military council meetings, as has been agreed.”

Charles has done no such thing, but he does well to school his expression.

Jérôme, ever present as spymaster, steps forward from his position just outside the main group.

“Charles, if we grant you this, what do you gain from it? What kind of things have to be done through a phone call that cannot be done with a letter? You have the full capacity of the spymaster network already. What more do you need?”

“Rapid response. Alliances. We will only stagnate if we stay here. I appreciate the work you do, but in this moment we have to be faster, more responsive, more sensitive to what is going on around us.”

Peter raises his hand to stop the murmurs of discussion that rise. “This will cause chaos in the wrong hands Charles. We have barely quelled the Sempre for now. If they — or worse, if anyone outside of the kingdom — catch wind of the internal strife that can come from a decision like this, we are ruined."

“Don't you think I know?”

Shouts emerge from the regional leaders. Placating them would be the wrong thing to do here. Charles takes a step back, breeches and tunic spun with glittering fabric.

“Don't you think I don't know what goes on outside these walls? I may have a life of luxury in these parts, but when you call me the predestined it is my responsibility to understand this kingdom, even where you refuse to. Back home in Mùnegu, despite everyone’s absurd wealth, we still have some people hiding their poverty from their friends in the name of maintaining standards. Do you know how much it costs to buy milk? Any of you?”

He gets some blank stares. They are finally, blissfully silent. If his past was here, he would be smiling.

"Thirteen Crowns. That is half an hour's wages for someone on the lowest rung of the ladder. This is ridiculous! I do my reading, but it seems like none of you do. I can be a religious figure sure. I can play the games and talk about the triumvirate and try to bring glory to the gods, but these riots are not about me as much as they are about food and poverty.”

He is bellowing at the end of the speech, back bent, arms outstretched.

Click. There in the corner is a member of the FIA, who has come to take a look around the castle. They've caught this moment on camera. All heads turn on a swivel and stare at the foppish boy with limp, brown hair who has interrupted Charles.

“Get out,” Jérôme says, pointing at the door. He forces kindness into his voice.

The boy, barely looking the age Charles did before he entered the arena for the first time, walks out, long, expensive lens slung around his neck. This will end up in the All-Kingdom Tribune tomorrow.

Jérôme turns back to him.

“I can get you what you need Charles,” Jérôme says. “But you have to follow the final slate rules.”

He takes Charles’ arm and leads him just off from the cultura and the regional leaders, who are tittering amongst themselves, discussing the FIA.

“Things are getting dangerous here, sir. If you want to make the culturas happy, so they don't try and do anything fun with you, you better follow the slate rules.”

The final slate rules, also known as Ximenia’s rules, after the god of chastity and virtue, detail the rigorous conditions a prince of the land has to undergo in times of upheaval. Even before the Wars of Potential and the establishment of democracy in Ferrari, these rules have been there to highlight the religious significance of the Tifosi and their status within the kingdom.

Charles leans in. “When can you get me the phone by?”

“Twenty minutes. I will leave it on a rolling desk in your room.”

The pair of them turn back to the group of men and smile, knowing that their plans for success are now rolling in motion.

***

Under the azure sky, squelching mud is the soundtrack to a walk. One leather boot is stuck in the mud, before being pulled out and washed in the lake. Charles is out by the water, itching to write a letter, but unknowing of what he should say. Max is the first person on his list of potential contacts. There are so many questions for that horrendous enigma of a man.

Some frogs ribbit. Ducks waddle on the banks of the lake, mallards with shining green feathers. Charles steps forward again, having shucked his socks and shoes off, submerging his toes in the edge of the water. It is clean, pure and untouched by the pollution of the major cities and states of Ferrari.

If his goal is dominance, Charles thinks, Max is doing a terrible job. He could have been sneaky and subversive about all of this. Discussing plans that have not been confirmed in the All-Kingdom Tribune is a terrible idea if you want things to happen. Change does not come about in these circumstances by screaming and shouting.

But what if he doesn’t want dominance?

Max had told him something back during the ball, where it seems something fractured, though what that was, Charles does not know. He told Charles that he would be nothing once Lewis was done with him, does he mean Ferrari? Or the triumvirate? These are the questions that require answers to them.

From what Jérôme has told him in various briefings, the purge that is currently happening in Red Bull is at the will of Jos, who was not asked to do it by Max. The aim is to clamp down on information being leaked, or at least find the person who convinced Max to tell the press. Leadership does not seem to care about who Max could have collaborated with in McLaren. He is their golden boy and golden boys do no harm.

A cool breeze flitters over the tall reeds on the other side, just catching Charles' attention enough for him to notice Lewis walking towards him, feet in tall waterproof walking boots, red trousers on too. He looks akin to sometihing Charles would have seen in the fashion magazines of his youth. Refined.

Charles steps back as Lewis catches a glimpse of him and walks over. He doesn’t know whether to run or to hide, but it is too late. The peace has been shattered.

He raises a hand in greeting. “Charles! How are you?”

“Oh, hey Lewis. I'm all good, just out for a walk.”

Lewis comes to stand next to him, looking out over the water’s ripples. “You know, I just received a letter from Max. Thought it would he worth you knowing.”

“Really?”

“I mean, of course. We are a partnership are we not? The people love our relationship already.”

“They do, do they?” Charles smooths down his clothes, even though they have no wrinkles. “What did he say?"

There is a slight knowing edge to the look Lewis gives him. Charles does not trust it.

“It detailed his plans to include McLaren. The whole thing.”

“Why would he tell us this? He doesn't gain anything from it. Have you told anyone about this yet? Fred? Jérôme?”

Lewis takes his shoes and socks off, wading into the water, now equal with Charles.

“Only you, and he doesn't.”

“So what did he say? Is there anything useful we can glean from it?”

“Ah, oh, I don't know yet. I still need to read it in its entirety.”

Find out what it says Charles. George would want to know about this. If you give him a bone, there is still the option of backing out later to save your own skin.

The cloak on Lewis' back gives off an almost pink shimmer under the sky. In the sense of its existence, it reminds Charles of a conversation he had with Pierre, back in Williams' arena.

Lewis starts to take off his trousers. Charles turns his head away. Pierre, that simple man at heart, has been his confidant, friend and reluctant eye candy, since they were children. Though, this strange juvenile crush doesn't mean anything now.

Carlos and him were the destructor of that little hope. Even relationships — if they could have been called that — between teammates are hard to carry. Pierre and him would probably have been exiled. They would have been the next George and Alex, no matter how much spin their PR departments try to put on their relationships.

Pierre asked him under the glaring spotlights of the arena whether Charles plans to do anything with his power and influence in Ferrari. Whether he wants to make change in their world. Dominate the sport like Max, or lurk in the shadows like Jenson, Nico or Mark. Charles did not have an answer.

With Lewis wading into the water, Charles thinks that sometimes you have to clutch onto the rot and cleanse it, even when it does not seem possible. The value of power, however, is meaningless if you destroy yourself using it.

Lewis looks like something out of a romantic comedy, all toned muscle and decorated hair. He knows how to wield power from the dark. He got rid of Nico Rosberg, or at least, that is what the whispering courtiers say. It involved some work with the spymasters and the dissolution of a friendship.

Pierre had pushed him, when Charles had given no answer, to wield his influence over the culturas. He has done so today. He is succeeding.

“Charles, care to join me in here?”

He finds that he cannot say no. He carefully folds his clothes, placing them out of the reach of the mud on the bank of the lake and swims up to Lewis.

“It doesn't matter what either of us think about this letter Charles, as long as we are united.”

Before he can think, Charles says, “So why did you raise Lando's arm in Chip Ganassi? What do you gain from that? It was stupid.”

That arm raising is exactly the kind of thing Pierre would have wanted him to do. After that match, they had all been sequestered and almost evacuated from the surrounding area because of the riots. Muscle cars had whisked them away at speeds none of them have ever driven at. They did not get a chance to talk face-to-face. Charles’ is still waiting on a response to his letter.

“I did it, Charles, because I agree with Max.”

“You do?”

“I do. Why do you think I moved to Mercedes? They're stagnant and they don't care about innovation in the way we do here. It is time for change.”

I don't believe you.

“We are, how do I put this in words — we have different views, Lewis. Upheaval isn't just about us, it’s about the whole world.”

“The world is what is in front of us.”

They both dunk their heads underwater, Charles glad for the clean water. It’s refreshingly cold.

When they rise again, his hair is in his eyes. When he pushes it out of his face, Lewis winks at him.

“There are some plans, Charles, that are better off if only one of us knows. I like you.”

You told me I couldn't speak to you. Really?

He continues, “It is better if you are ignorant. For all of us.”

Splashing interrupts the moment as Lewis presses back to the bankside. Charles simmers with the need for espionage. To find something that would put him back on top. To make him win. To prove Pierre's theory right, elevate him to the level of Carlos' strategy and convince George that he is enough to be an ally with.

He already has Futura, whatever that means. He just needs to find out who it calls.

Chapter Text

History of the Triumvirate:

1960-1969: Red Bull, Mercedes, Ferrari

1941-1960: Renault, McLaren, Ferrari

1930-1941: Williams, McLaren, Ferrari

1929-1930: Williams, Lotus, Ferrari

1920-1929: Tyrell, Lotus, Ferrari

1900-1920: Mercedes, McLaren, Ferrari

Events preceding 1900 are difficult to ascertain. The triumvirate logs were destroyed in a severe fire at AFIA in 1905. Records are scarce. It is believed that the end of the Wars of Potential gave rise to an amorphous triumvirate, though records suggest a stiffening of the triumvirate to three members by the end of 1880 Territorial Era.

***

One of the finest things the spymasters teach Ferrari fighters holds that espionage cannot be won. It will always be a game to be survived. You are always alone in spying. In secrets. In the great knowing of pain. If you tell anyone, they will destroy you, if given the chance. You survive by being the most isolated.

These lessons have been absorbed and harnessed by Charles for as long as he has walked the sacred ground of Ferrari's home castle. Maranello stands far off in the distance. Civilisation means nothing under this old form of knowledge-gathering. Lewis' room contains the object of desire; the dirty fingers that will search through it are remnants of this dark age.

Lewis’ schedule calls for training currently, glaive gutting and beheading dolls, practicing finales and endings. Charles comes to the edge of Lewis' door and carefully pushes it open, similarly to when he found the old note for Futura. Some crisp of evidence that will let him understand a weak point to exploit.

That small rolling desk with the telephone on it has disappeared from the bedroom. The chandelier has more collected wax on it now. Charles' own telephone hides, sequestered away in the darkest corner of his chamber, behind the piano, behind the photos of his mother. He’ll be seeing her at the end of the season when Ferrari have their own games. He has used it to call George once. They talked so pitifully. It was probably bugged. But the communication lines are there. He needs to call Max soon enough.

Charles’ agreement with Lando may now be easier to complete given that he has his own phone. He does not have to bribe the lowly intern in the back rooms of the communication department with the gossip that some of the culturas say anymore. She controlled the internal princes switchboard. The information that feeds the pages of the All-Kingdom Tribune drips like a tap that will now be repaired.

Deft, strong fingers pull open the drawers of the desks that don't have much on them. Barely enough to be considered personal. The old fighter’s championship trophy leers at him in the corner, spiralling designs protruding like acne.

The first drawer contains socks and trousers. The next, nothing at all. Charles moves onwards, quickly and with practised grace. He moves to the bed, wide, four-poster. The left hand side contains a notebook and pen that Charles does not touch. There are some things that should be left private. Futura will be enough. The right hand side contains a stack of letters. Each one fits in, organised by its seal. Some from Aston Martin, some from Alpine. The newest one: Red Bull.

Charles pulls it out. Max's figurehead splays over at the top, with his titles. Sir Max Emilian Verstappen, Winner of the Fighter's Championship and Lord of the Kingdom.

Charles' eyes scan over it. He gasps, but swallows down the shout he wants to release.

This letter says nothing about McLaren, or even anything about the triumvirate. Lewis has an agreement with Max that only they should know about. Different to the one Charles has with Lando. It doesn't say words about who, but Max has told Lewis that he can get him in contact with someone from his past. This Futura, who Max seems to know the true identity of. A knowing edge clings to his words.

Something takes a hold of his heart and squeezes. Almost like pain. Almost like a heart attack.

Lewis will never be a god. Not with this.

Why this thought passes his mind first he will never understand. Lewis has never pretended to be anything other than a king. Godhood remains Max’s domain.

But the letter reveals so much. A probable lover lies caught in the bounds of this world in the same way as it has been for so many other fighters. The bonds and the hold of eternal glory leaves love by the wayside; fraternity poses as the goal of the Formula Games.

Charles glances down at the note about Futura. It doesn't reveal much.

The signature at the bottom has no kindness. With love , or with respect are gone, only:

Best, Max.

Remains.

Charles' satchel weighs heavy on his shoulders. The Polaroid camera would be perfect.

Physical evidence would be an immutable object of destruction. He pulls it out of the satchel and takes a photograph of the letter. The bulb flash startles him out of his swirling thoughts and brings him back to the present.

When the photo eventually gets spat out, Charles leaves it to develop in the dark safety of his zip-up pocket of his satchel. It will be safe there. Nobody would dare to steal a bag off the shoulders of the prince of Ferrari.

The satchel contains some essentials. A water bottle, glass and fragile. His book for the plane. It's a fantasy story about futuristic automatons and serial killers. Kind of pulpy, but he enjoys it anyway. Some fruit in a little aluminium box. Enough to live on.

An emergency triumvirate meeting will be held in Alpine today. This meeting may be the final chance he has to talk to George before any alliance choices are made by Ferrari collectively. Something rotten moves through the air. Sneaking around while he should be training in case of any bad actions or protesters who manage to breach the grounds in Alpine. But information holds power in itself, more than muscle and more than words.

Under the letters, Charles looks at a photo of Lewis and his father smiling after some sort of victory. He looks a lot younger there. Charles smiles, pauses, and then puts back the letter exactly where he found it. He shouldn't be able to tell that his privacy has been compromised.

Squeaking parquet floors give away his position, but nobody hears Charles creeps back to his side of the chambers.

Under his breath he whispers a brief prayer to Epartic, the god of secrets and mystery. Whether he will hear his prayers remains to be seen. But when you are in a religious kingdom, there can be no harm in at least trying.

If anyone comes and asks to search his room while Charles plays politic in Alpine — even if the cleaners and attendants agree to it — they won't be able to find anything so outwardly defiant against either the FIA or Ferrari. The photograph stays with him. The letters he keeps from Carlos and Pierre and even occasionally Yuki, are underneath a loose rock in the floor, underneath a table leg.

For all that he has prepared, however, there that can be done to stop the FIA from trying. Personal space already runs scare, and to have their hands pushing and pressing in causes an unconscionable violation. Charles almost laughs at his objection to them while he has violated Lewis’ own space. But espionage will always be in the name of the greater good.

Charles grabs his carrying case for his cutlass, double checks the maintenance kit and rushes out of the door. He has five minutes before the car commandeered for these special occasions will be waiting impatiently. The fighters meeting will not wait for him to arrive. Plane flight should take three hours.

As he rushes down, Charles finds no trace of Lewis, only someone offering him a cup of sweetened spiced milk. He takes it, though for reasons he doesn't understand and downs it. Time to face the music. Loud and cacophonous.

***

Plane flight still remains a relative unknown for the general public, but the planes that do exist are supersonic. Their booms crack like whips over the empty lands.

While most of the people that princes meet on a daily basis have no recollection of the cocktails served on their national airlines or how seats are configured, Charles and Lewis travel in an entirely separate plane from the rest of the senior leadership delegation. The same holds true for all kingdoms. The elite must travel in safety and security.

As a relatively new innovation from the grand leaders of the FIA, it provides the union members — of which all fighters are — with a chance to discuss and formulate plans and discussion points in their own space before union meetings. Though, today of course, they are rush to emergency.

The minutiae of the games falls to the wayside when the kingdoms that sanction these games themselves are failing.

Charles sits across from Lewis, two hours into this flight. The main cabin has barely ten seats. A single flight attendant sits on a jump seat behind a curtain, reading a book she has brought with her. Charles' photo lingers at the bottom of his satchel, in that pocket. If Charles listens carefully, the ink bleeds through like the branding of a captured thief’s mark. If it has developed, he has no idea.

“Charles, what do you want to talk about in the meeting?” Lewis asks, eyes not leaving his view of the cloudy skies over Ferrari. They are about to leave the grassy plains at the border, stretching their open hand towards Alpine.

“I don't know. This can't be a normal meeting. The agenda will have to be scrapped. But you already know that, do you have something else in mind?”

“George will be leading it.”

“I know that.”

The cabin falls quiet. Charles picks at his nails. He looks at his knees.

“What do you mean by that? Why bother telling me something I already know?”

“You know, Charles. He probably will go on one of those idiotic spiels again. About something. About the leadership needed to band together as a triumvirate.”

I thought you liked George.

“So these things aren't important to you? I thought those interviews you gave in the Tribune were straight from the heart.”

Charles smirks. Lewis doesn't look at him.

“You're either joking or you're more stupid than I thought. Do you really think I cared about what happened with the team or with George? All that ever mattered with us was victory,” Lewis says.

“And you have it.”

“Not what I deserve. That was taken from me.”

Ah yes, the Gazella games. The stolen championship. The victory that never was.

“Charles,” Lewis continues. “Can you promise me something?”

“Why would I do that, if you think the only important thing out here will be victory?”

“Because you will not get what you want unless we do.”

Charles catches Lewis' eye as he tears his gaze away from the rolling clouds.

“Do you promise me?”

I can't promise you anything. Promises don't mean anything. Pierre promised that he would never leave my side, but he did. Carlos promised me the world and never delivered it. But you are not a romantic partner, so why should any of that matter?

A romantic partner? Charles, you’re getting formal. Don’t want to turn into George now, do we?

“What do you want me to promise you?” Charles asks.

“After our conversation at the lake, I need you to promise me a united front.”

Lewis turns on his charming voice at that. It makes Charles’ skin crawl. Lewis Hamilton probably talks in that same sickly-sweet, charming way to his sweetheart Futura. Who lives in Mercedes, or, at least, gets phone calls in Mercedes. That Max has an agreement with. Who Lewis probably loves.

Who isn't in the games at all. An outsider, looking in. Watching them on televisions.

His hands shake as he runs through whether to agree to Lewis' terms or not. It would be good for the kingdom to be united. But it would not be good for him. If Lewis thinks there are bigger games a play, then this question was not asked because of altruism. It was done through necessity, like a refusal would be. Necessity. What a horrible word.

Cycles contained within cycles contained within questions and secrets.

“Charles?” Lewis prompts, tilting his head to the side. It reminds Charles of something that George does.

George's juvenile love problems might not be so dissimilar to Lewis', or to his own. But he isn't having illicit love affairs.

Nobody said anything about Lewis having one.

If you go against him here, now, before the cards have been played, you risk losing some of your most valuable information. An asset, as Jérôme would call it. You can’t convince George if you reject Lewis here, and you have to.

Who knows when the next time you get to see him will be. Mailing him that photograph would be the worst thing you’ve ever done.

“I'll back you, for now.”

“Thank you Charles. That wasn't so hard, was it?”

“Yeah, sure. Are you under the final slate rules as well, Lewis?”

Lewis turns his head back towards the window.

“No. What are they?”

“What are they? You would have been told about them as a contingency during your induction into the kingdom.”

“No, I wasn’t. What are they?”

The final slate rules means that Charles cannot be seen in public anymore. He will be seen through official channels only. Horse-riding cannot be for him, only Lewis, apparently. The slates describe the rules as showing the appropriate level of divinity necessary for a state to survive a crisis. Castle walls are now his domain and his sanctuary. Until he goes searching for data that would destroy the very person il predestinato must ally with, for now.

“The final slate rules keep us pious and religious enough for the public to think we are deities. There should be more about it in your pack of information.”

But you aren't even under those rules. Perhaps they don't trust you to be pious. I don't trust you to be pious. That's a horrible thought.

“I will have a look. Does this change anything about the upcoming meeting?”

“Actually very little. But it does mean that you are going to be taking up my public facing duties. I think Fred sits waiting to see whether it will quell some of the anger from the Sempre. So, sorry.”

“It's fine. If you'll excuse me, I’m going to the bathroom.”

Lewis brushes past him as he walks away, hip touching Charles’ shoulder.

If George will be my ally, he will expect me to back Mercedes over Red Bull and McLaren. Touting their history and their victories. Their chances in Kimi Antonelli.

But Lewis isn't with them anymore and the rot that seems to be making its way into Ferrari has to be manifesting in it as well. There will be upheaval no matter what happens and no matter who comes out on top.

Ferrari has to be protected of course, but what if none of the others can protect us? We’d be isolated and alone. Vulnerable and afraid. Food costs are already rising. Inflation rises quicker too. The Sempre are reopening their soup kitchens that are basically propaganda farms on the outskirts of the city.

Charles digs through his satchel to pull out the photo as well as some of the reports from the foothills of the mountain ranges. They're some of the poorest areas of the country, but also with the highest rates of involvement in the Tifosi, and particularly the Sempre.

Overta faces shortages of imported cheeses. Not bad, not good. Manageable. Goscia faces rising wheat costs. The streets are currently under the duress of a lot of protests against their mayor. Charles frowns at that.

He puts the documents down and takes a look at the photo. The development has worked. It hasn't been crinkled.

You know, Charles. Out of Pierre, Carlos and George, only George can say with his chest that he hasn’t been involved romantically with you, at least in some way. That can’t be a pleasant thought, can it? Pierre was the one you kissed drunk at that party as a kid. You know the disaster that Carlos was. Romance leads to terrible things, doesn’t it?

That's a horrible thought. If my life only involves romance and no platonic relationships, are they even romantic? I can't think about this right now.

He brings the photo closer to his face, peering at the words. The size makes it perfect to see Max’s word and his signature. So formal.

They can't argue fake or forgery. Not with the confidential letterheads that are not public information. Not even Max's home newspaper that Jos leaks information to knows what these look like.

Polaroids are good enough.

Lewis comes back out of the tiny bathroom, hands damp still. He pushes the door to the bathroom closed and takes the seat opposite Charles.

Shit.

Charles stuffs the photo into the top of the documents. He doesn't have enough time to sort it out. The top right of it still pokes out.

“What do you have there, Charles?” Lewis asks, smiling. He looks like a cat.

Charles blanches. “Nothing. Only a photo of me and my father. From back home in Mùnegu, you know. When I was a kid, my dad always used to get my mother to take photos of us. To remember the moments and the fun things we used to do.”

You're a liar. And using your father's name?

I have to. I am not lying about dad.

“Your father must be proud of how far you've come.”

Charles' father died before he got the call up to join the first group of the Formula Games. He doesn't like talking about it when he doesn't have to. He won’t tell the story to Lewis. He probably already knows.

Through his sweaty skin, clammy and damp, Charles agrees. He crosses his ankles and takes the documents back in his hands, pretending to shuffle through them.

Lewis takes one final look at the corner of the photo. He doesn't show anything on his face, even if he does know more than he lets on.

“Gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts, we are about to land.”

***

Mountainous lands pepper the Alpine landscape: cool in the summer, icy and snowy in the winter. Ialtat castle sits on the side of the most beautiful mountain range in the entire country, dark with its almost gothic inspiration. The airport spills over one of the plateaus, relatively high above sea level. When the plane carrying Lewis and Charles lands, a black car waits for the pair of them.

Charles steps out first, satchel on his shoulder. A firm handshake with the driver greets them and they are off, speeding down the relatively quiet highway to the castle.

“You know, Sir Leclerc, I know Pierre,” the driver pipes up after a comfortable silence. “If you don't mind me asking, you two were friends as children, correct?”

“We actually are now,” Charles says, watching some sheep eat some grass on a rocky outcrop.

“My apologies. I work with him at the moment, you know; I’m his driver between the kingdoms when he can’t use his horse. Did he tell you that the FIA currently have him for interrogation? All the gossipers at the castle are talking about it.”

Lewis leans forward. “Why are you telling us this?”

“Oh, not for anything nefarious, Sir Hamilton. I thought it was interesting. We don't get told much in the castle you see. It's always kinda fun to get a bit of information from one of the fighters. Or in this case, two!”

Charles rolls the top of his window down. Cool breeze whips through the car. If he were smaller, he could slip through the gap and out into the open air. Escape would be so close, at the tips of his fingers.

But Pierre remains under the horrific hand of the well-paid interrogator. As to why the FIA want to interrogate him being, Charles doesn't know. He's not a member of the triumvirate. He's got nothing to do with any of this. Alpine should be like Aston Martin, or Haas, or even Williams. On the side, alone, unseen. Their moves made in silence.

Perhaps he has the same kind of fighter-ending information that Charles does. He'll survive interrogation. They're not in the way of torture yet.

What was George thinking about on his way to Ferrari? In the backseat of a car like this, waiting to see what the world holds for you. Maybe he thought about Alex. But I don't know if they're even dating anymore, or if they were in the first place. Nobody knows, just conjecture. That photo showed nothing.

Perhaps the isolation of Ferrari scares him, with our castle and our rules. I mean, he did look nervous stepping out of the car.

By the time the rolling mountains give way to the castle itself, Charles finds himself fed up of travel. The stickiness, the boredom. Lewis makes for terrible company. The gates swing open and as their car makes the final journey to greet everyone, Charles closes his eyes and imagines a quick kind of oblivion.

Fanfare doesn't greet them as the doors are opened to the stoic faces of Mercedes and Red Bull. Kimi and Liam look small and out of place. Rookies have no place in discussions like this, but alas, here they are, playing at realpolitik. George stands tall over the rest of them, Max on the other end of their line.

Charles steps out, Lewis on the other side of the car. The cameras that George had on his arrival, and that Charles had during his visit to Haas aren't here. Only the wind gives any indication of sound. He shakes George's hand, who grasps it like a long-lost friend, meeting his eye and smiling.

When Lewis catches up to George as Charles makes his way down the line, the force of his squeezing handshake forces Lewis to recoil.

“What a pleasure to see you,” he sneers. Lewis has already moved on. He isn't convincing anyone.

Formalities over, they pace into the reception hall, with its dark blue and pink trim. Thoroughly modern. A chaise longue presses against the far wall. McLaren have not been invited to this.

A little stand has been set up for the customary triumvirate photographer. Lewis has been in so many of these over the years that a seasoned historian could tell his story through hand placement and his proximity to Nico Rosberg.

“Sirs Russell and Antonelli, here please. Sirs Leclerc and Hamilton over here…”

Those columns are so gorgeous. I think they're in the style of the old Mercedes masters. This, I can get behind. Pierre doesn’t get to see that right now. I need to make sure he’s okay.

“Charles?” George asks, beckoning him to come and stand in his assigned position.

This photo will probably end up in the All-Kingdom Tribune soon, along with some think pieces about the state of the triumvirate and the riots spreading through the kingdoms. Max and George stand on opposite ends of the frame. Whether this has been intentional or not remains to be seen, but judging by the grimace on George's faces, Charles finds it likely. Every single fighter has their hand on their weapon. Liam holds his quarterstaff like he’s ready to pounce on the moment. Max flashes his sword against the light.

“Now that we have all of you here, we just want to say that it will always be a pleasure to host you here in Alpine. We understand this may be a little ostentatious for you, Sir Leclerc, given your adherence to Ximenia’s Rules, but we hope you are satisfied nonetheless,” the legislature leader remarks.

Do you think I care much about that? We have bigger issues.

But he did call them Ximenia’s Rules. He must have grown up in the heartlands.

“You are too thoughtful. This will be perfect.”

Charles should have remembered his name. But he hasn't. The legislature leader seems pleased anyway.

“Three, two, one…there we go. You are free to go, gentlemen.”

Carlos did that once, in the past. The first time they met. Stuck his tongue out at the side whilst he was taking a photo. The present subsumes into time itself. The past remains only a fraction of its true form.

As the officials lead them to the grand hall of Alpine, where a large stone roundtable sits in the middle, painted like a roulette wheel of blue and pink. Charles cracks his neck with his head and prepares himself for the politics that are about to make or break Ferrari's alliance with Mercedes. Everything depends on Max and his strangely elegant ways of thinking.

***

Some rituals are not only for the religious. They are for all the fighters, friend and foe alike. Removing the bugs from the rooms they enter is one ritual they can all get behind. Such a strange truce is their only time in which they aren't actively trying to get something from each other. Love, sex, blood, victory. Glory.

Charles gets to work with the rest of them in uncovering these bugs. The Alpine spymaster — Flavio Briatore — with his insipid looks and unpleasant demeanour would have had them hand-placed there. But they can look through plug sockets and plant pots to find them.

Charles bends down to pull at his third plug socket on the far right hand side, when George slides up next to him. Too close for comfort.

“It's now or never Charles. If you don’t reject McLaren in front of the rest of them I don't know what else we can do. I can't convince the rest of the kingdoms to override you guys. It’s not that easy. It hasn't been done for centuries.”

Charles stands back up. From far away, as he was when he arrived, it wouldn't be noticeable, but there is a bruise on George's neck. It does not look like a love mark. More like strangulation.

George notices his leering look and says, “It was from the games Lando won. Recovery is a nasty bitch.”

They walk back towards the desks in the corner for typists and translators during the big summits. There hasn't been one in some time.

“If I work with you George, it’s going to have to depend on the outcome of this roundtable. I can't just throw caution to the wind and expect it all to fall into my lap. The culturas would never have it. Lewis wouldn't.”

Charles pulls a bug out from the underside of a drawer. They aren't being subtle with them, leaving them so exposed.

“Charles we're running out of time. It's now or never. We don't have time for you to think like a philosopher about what you should do or what anyone would say. If McLaren gets in — it’s the end of my way of life. The end of Kimi's future. We can try and change the system but it isn't going to happen here. Not now. A little bit of tradition has to stick around until we can gut the triumvirate entirely.”

Do you tell him about the photo, Charles? Would he even think it was real? Your satchel with all the other bags in the big box by the door. You can't go and root through it and pull out the photo.

Make your choice. Now.

“George,” Charles says, clearing his throat before speaking in a whisper. They walk away from the desks. “I think I have something on someone that would bring them down if I need to. I bet a lot of the rest of them in here have similar information. I know Max will. He's too smart for that. Why me over anyone else?”

“I don't believe you care about the religious side of Ferrari.”

“Who do you have dirt on? Why would you even do that? I never took you for a fool Charles. Don't tell me you have it in physical evidence.”

Charles can't stop himself from looking towards his satchel.

“You have it here? Charles? You're lucky our bags weren't searched upon entry. You’re so fucking lucky.” George spits out the last words.

“Charles, George, I think it’s time,” Max calls from the other end of the room, gesturing vaguely to their assigned seating.

Each seat has its own little card, hand-writtten. Sir Charles Leclerc of Ferrari. Sir Andrea Kimi Antonelli of Mercedes. So formal. So necessary. Charles’ placard puts him in direct opposition to Max, like the House of Representatives that comprise Ferrari's attempts at democracy.

“So, everyone, thank you for being here. As leader of the union, I think it only prudent if I am the one to lead this meeting. We have Liam as our scribe for today.”

How formal.

Liam waves before realising that waving a bit stupid and leaning his head back towards the typewriter.

“For those uninitiated into the notion of triumvirate meetings generally, we start with a discussion of any agenda points not talked about during the meeting last time, which was…”

“Before your photo got released,” Liam says. “I was still at Fighting Bulls.”

All of the fighter's heads turn on a swivel at that. Liam holds his head up high, not bowing down to the pressure of their eyes.

George cocks his head to the side. “You're right.”

“Before Checo was replaced too. Have you put his name into the book yet, George?” Max says, gesturing to the tome that is in the middle of the table. It holds the names and achievements, along with a detailed history of the triumvirate and the member nations within it.

“Gods. Can we just a talk about what needs to be talked about?” Charles interjects, temper coming into his words. “There’s no point calling this an emergency meeting if nothing is going to actually happen. We should have met three weeks ago. But no.”

George smiles. “Thanks Charles. You’re right. We can talk about all this later. I know McLaren are there to make their case, but because they haven't been inaugurated as a new member of the triumvirate, they have no right.”

“What do you mean that they have no right? We back them. Prospective members are allowed to be here.” Max leans forward.

George clutches his sabre under the table, where nobody can see it.

“That would only be the case if the member that they were replacing had agreed to the replacement in the first place. We haven't. We are not weak.”

Kimi speaks up then, thick accent coming through. “We haven't fallen to the wayside as McLaren did less than a decade ago. You know how terrible they were. I used to watch them on television, when they had the highlights and Fernando was cursing out the team at every opportunity. We haven't gotten that bad. So we’ll fight, right George?”

Thick tension moves through the room.

George nods at Kimi before continuing, “And for what it’s worth, Max, why the fuck did you announce your intentions in the Tribune in the first place? That's never been how this is done before.”

“Oh, I don't know George. Use your brain. You're a lot meaner behind the scenes you know. I know what you're been saying in those letters to me.”

George’s face contorts. “And you’re a liar.”

“You should be happy that you at least got to know before any official alliances are made-”

“What do you mean?” Charles asks, diverting attention away from the pot that is about to boil over.

“None of this is official yet. You thought we’d do official agreements between us behind the scenes? That doesn't work for any of us. Least of all you. Because you support McLaren-”

“You have no idea who we support, Max. We haven't done anything yet.”

Kimi and Liam share a glance over the table.

George pushes in. “If you haven't done anything official yet, and McLaren haven't been invited, surely it is just your word against ours Max. We are not going to get anywhere like this.”

“Charles, what do you think?” Max asks, staring him down. He looks majestic in his confidence.

“What do you mean ‘What do I think?’ What do you want from me? Capitulation?”

Lewis sits back in his chair and watches this all play out.

“Do you remember back when I pushed you out of the arena we were in as kids? You gave me a black eye.”

“That's not what we're here to talk about,” George says. He fingers the pommel of his sword.

Charles furrows his brow. “I do Max. It's fine- George, it’s fine. Go on, what are you trying to say?”

Take something from this.

“It's like Mercedes, isn’t it?” Max laughs. “Mercedes say they're fighting back when their own citizens are pushing them out of the arena.”

“That's not what's happening Max,” George says. “That's just the propaganda. Kimi would know, he’s helping generate it.”

He gets a nod from Kimi, whose single dagger is on full display on the stone table.

“If the public believe the lies we spin and the words we say, the entire world can change in a moment. So of course we've been spinning propaganda that everything is failing in Mercedes. It makes our weakness the right kind of cover.”

Max swallows, unsure of what to say.

Lewis interjects for the first time in this conversation. “Max, what do you get from this? Before we make any decision.”

But the decision is already made. Charles opens his little drawer on the bottom side of the desk. He pulls out the fountain pen and paper.

“We get a force worth fighting. A real enemy to fight.”

“So it’s personal? You just want better people to fight? Why all the panic then, why the public posturing about the need for change? You could have just let Mercedes fall apart.”

“So that's why you left then, is it?” George sneers. “You could gave had it all. You could have had everything.”

Did those two ever fuck?

What in the name of the gods Charles? Write down what you need to say. Come on.

Charles scribbles down something for George.

I need you to trust me on what is about to happen. Just trust me. Remember what I have that can help you.

He folds it neatly in two as Kimi and Liam say that the rookies don't want any more chaos. Both of them are nervous, a little passive, but enough of a threat that Max and Lewis listen. Or, at least, they pretend to listen.

Charles passes it next to him.

George closes his eyes for a split second as he reads it. But he doesn't say anything.

“There is only one team that hasn't made their decision. It's you, Charles. What are you going to do?”

Max stares at him as he finishes saying it.

“I will only tell you alone.”

“No. No I won't let that happen.”

“It's either that or I walkout.”

“You can't do that.”

Max gets to his feet, a hand on his sword. The rest of them dart up. Ready. Poised. Angry.

“You and me. Alone.”

Max stutters. All eyes are on them.

“Answer me Max. Yes or no?”

“Charles what the fuck are you doing?” Lewis asks, hand on his glaive. He has it cocked back behind him.

“Lewis, you asked me something in the plane here. I said what I’d do. Trust me.”

Play the both of them. You can survive if nobody knows anything about you.

“Charles-”

“Lewis, do you want a brawl? Max, do you want us to leave? No? Then face me alone. The rest of you, get out.”

Max steps forward.

“Don't you dare.”

George pulls his sabre out of its hilt and holds it to the tip of Max's throat. “Don't try me. Do not ever try me.”

“Fine. Move the fucking sword. Charles, I'll speak to you alone.”

The shocked silences that come from the other's mouths only grow as Lewis curses before storming out. Kimi and Liam follow on his heels, George not far behind.

When the door closes, the air runs thick.

Charles and Max are opposed on the table. Hands gripping blades. Light low, weapons deadly. This is just like the arena. The moment descending on them.

“You're stupid to leave the safety of the group, Charles. They could have kept you safe.”

“Don't talk like we're in the arena again Max. There isn't anything to be gained from it.”

“Oh, there isn't?”

“If you kill me the rest of the world will just kill you, and you won’t get what you want. Because that's what this is about at the end of the day, isn't it? Just about getting what you want.”

Charles twirls his sword in his hand. It's beautiful.

“And what about what you want Charles? Have we not talked about that yet? Or are you simply too pious for any of these dirty, disgusting politics?”

“Don't fucking talk about me like that.”

Charles and Max circle the table like vultures about a carrion corpse.

“You'd never hurt me Charles. I know you.”

“Even in the arena, we capitulate. We always capitulate.”

Smoke twirls up from the candles.

“Come on Max. I'll agree to McLaren if you fight me. Come on, come a little closer. I want to see how you feel.”

They circle again. Once more. Another twirl like a ballerina.

“You will?”

“I will, I know you just want to do it for attention.”

Tell him something wrong and he'll correct you. Remember what the spymasters have taught you.

“Attention? How stupid do you think I am Charles? I get enough attention in every single aspect of my life. Everything.”

He's shouting. Can they hear us?

Max goes on, moving closer to Charles. “People rely on me for this, you know. I need this.”

There we go. Someone needs him.

Charles and Max are now stood mere feet apart from each other. Charles steps forward, closer.

“What are you doing?”

“Don't you understand Max? I will work with you. Get you what you want. Fight.”

If only for it all to come crashing down later.

Max looks into his soul. Through his eyes and through his mind.

He pulls his broadsword out and it brushes against Charles'. The sound moves through the air the clanging of steel in the arena. But it's softer now. Just barely. Charles shivers.

“Max, what is this?”

“If you back me, do you know what will happen?”

They say nothing. Nothing at all. The room is silent.

Charles lunges at Max before he can think about it. They tumble to the floor, wrestling and grappling with each other. Neither are gaining the upper hand.

Max rolls Charles over to kneel above him.

“Max?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Max's lips press into his, harsh, painful, entirely real. Like the first cut of a match, the first grapple on the ground. Another kiss. Anger crystallises into lust.

Max and Charles move with a reckless abandon, weapons discarded at their sides. Max's hand snakes up his side like some prostitute Charles fucked when he was lonely. Neither of them care about whether they are heard or seen.

Skin presses into skin. Lips press against lips. Time is short and Charles pushes him away from him.

“What are we doing?”

A moment of clarity.

Max pulls back. “Sorry.”

“No. Keep going. The fear is fun.”

Charles pulls Max down to meet him halfway, hands slipping under the pale blue fabric of Max's collared shirt. He trembles at the touch. Max returns the gesture with a ghosting hand over his trousers.

A jerk. Another kiss.

“We don't have a lot of time, Max. Come on. Make it worth it.”

Something flips. A switch. Max flips Charles over with strong hands. That force could kill a a man if he isn't careful.

Max bends over Charles' back and holds his hands against his sides. He is entirely trapped and entirely his. This is what capitulation should always be.

As he gets himself into position, Charles shivers at the cold ground.

“Come on- come on-”

“Shut up Charles.”

Max undoes Charles trousers and marvels at this sight. Charles, entirely undone underneath him. Made into putty. Manipulable into any shape. Any being. He’s Daniel for now. He’s at least as beautiful.

Pierre, now tired and nursing the after-effects of the slap the FIA interrogator gave him, manages to make it back to his side of the building. There is only the winding, spiral staircase to go. One foot in front of another.

Max kisses around Charles' backside, bruising and healing with every breath. The writhing of pleasure that comes with it hardens Max's dick. He's not thinking straight but he does not care.

There's 250 steps between the bottom and the top of the tower. Pierre is a fairy tale character.

Step one, step two. My face hurts. She was meaner than normal today. I wonder how the meeting is going.

Max lathes his tongue over Charles' hole, obscene and disgustingly hot. They're not going to have time to finish. They can't be in here forever. Better to leave him wanting.

The windows that lined he staircase face into the Mountain Hall’s wide windows. On his look down, Pierre watches some doves fly away, and on looking into the darkness…

Charles aches with everything Max has ever loved about Daniel. Rugged intelligence, needing love. He's in his prime. His element.

Vomit rises in Pierre's mouth, watching Max and Charles. He grips the bannister of the staircase and can't turn his head away. What the fuck are they doing?

Max pulls back and tells Charles that he is going to have to wait. Charles whines like a needy puppy. The thick scent of sex pulls them back in for another kiss.

Pierre vomits on the staircase.

Chapter Text

“And this over here is the largest and grandest of the stately homes we have in Williams. Though it has no specific name, many people just call it ‘the Home’. On the far side, we have the kitchen gardens, where staff prepare and grow food for our fighters. Ah, yes, what was your question?”

Pocket recording of an FIA staff member on a guided tour of the Williams home grounds. 

***

Flicking through his old notebooks, Carlos cannot help but wonder what on Earth his young self would think of him. Where he has ended up. Falling from the sacred and holy lands of Ferrari to the old hat with an identity crisis at Williams.

Maybe he'd be happy that he has even made it to the games. Won four match weekends. Gone toe to toe with Charles and Lewis and Max. That he has two custom artisan swords of his own. That fans of him and his fighting flock to the streets every time Carlos comes and shows his face.

Carlos opens the little pouch that contains Polaroid photos in the back of one of his notebooks. The masking tape that is starting to peel on the cover said it was from 1961 of the Territorial Era. The year he entered the games. The ink changed abruptly the day Carlos had entered Fighting Bull's halls for the first time, a little wide-eyed but no less vicious. They'd been called Toro Rosso then, in a symbol of their former alliance to the lands of Ferrari. Before the Wars of Potential and the dissolution of that.

Most of the pictures are just the pretty things he saw during his time there. Some opulent food, the occasional building. He's always loved taking photos of architecture.

Max appears in a couple of them. He hadn't yet grown into his face. But now, with the lion's mane of hair and a sword to match, he is nothing less than a deadly weapon. He is not to be wielded in the wrong hands. He’d pin someone down and throttle them if it meant he got what he wanted.

Carlos puts the blame in some regards for all of this chaos and mess on himself. If he had never fallen in love, Lando would never have gotten his grand ideas about the future. The journal from Carlos’ years at McLaren — with its bright sunburst orange — sits ominously on a pile of other books. It sticks out like a sore thumb.

Eternal glory — Lando had called it during the throes and the passion of their love. They were always so much more optimistically naïve than during his sex with Charles. But less about that.

Carlos stares out of the window, head resting on his hand. He has to go and do something. There has to be more to panic than just military meetings and discussions about the need to start stockpiling food in houses for the children who cannot work for their feed. What a desolate series of events this is growing into.

Alex’s bedroom is on another side of the building. They're not in direct opposition as far as he was with Charles. Their opposition to each other is more acute. It takes a careful mind to remember the path from one side of the building to another. There’s a quicker path through the staff entrance that Carlos takes sometimes, to feel something bigger. So, when Alex pads into Carlos' room, looking ready for a walk, his interest is piqued.

“What do you want me to join you for? Is there something I can help with?”

“I think a walk would be nice, right? Getting all cooped up in here like the chickens in the kitchen gardens is a waste of our time. We can talk strategy if you think it would help you not be bored.”

“Who said anything about being bored, cabrón? Come on, I’ll meet you down at the entrance.”

“Oh and Carlos-“

“Yeah?”

“Bring your daggers.”

Carlos doesn't know what to respond to that with, so he nods and moves to get ready.

Williams hasn't yet been so intensely interrogated by the FIA, not in the ways that George has been saying Mercedes have been subject to. They've even gotten Kimi involved. He's not even been in the first group for six months yet. But alas, the lingering malaise of the FIA stands out in the looks on the staff's faces.

Carlos has both his stiletto daggers in their hilts, one on each hip. They're a comfortable weight and a comfortable protection as he steps out into the opening to the wide, beautiful gardens that surround the William's collection of stately homes. Headquarters of training and military strategy are off to the left. The kitchen garden is to his right and further down the long path is the staff lodgings. They’ve got their own place.

“You ready?” Alex asks, spear strapped to his back. It's almost as tall as him, and just as thin. But it is not weak. It's perfectly made, perfectly balanced and Carlos can't help but smile knowing that for once Williams has two fighters that can hold their own.

But Logan never deserved the painful removal that he had. The rumours of tears and needing to be escorted out stuck around for weeks after. Oscar still looks furtive every time he is surrounded by too many men.

“Let's go,” Carlos says, already starting to walk towards the training grounds. It's muscle memory after all, like the twitch his fingers do towards his blades when a stick cracks like a whip.

A large swathe of land lies just on the other side of the training ground and military strategy building. It's got carefully maintained ivy on it and Carlos always thinks it looks most beautiful in the early autumn. There is still so much time left before the beauty can return to its rightful place.

Alex strides along with purpose, not having said much. Carlos follows intently, but with no subservience. He isn't one of the insipid, whispering culturas over in Ferrari. He's got better things to be doing.

Alex's spear sways with his movements and Carlos cannot help but think he looks almost as graceful with it as Charles does when he swings his cutlass around. It will serve him well. Along with his height. The military strategy lessons James insisted he had when he came to Williams have clearly been paying their dues.

In the distance, a table comes into view. Three people are sat around it, and Carlos has to squint at it to make out who it is. It's James Vowles, Claire Williams and Pat Fry. Three of the most important people in the fighting side of the legislative system, sat in the middle of a training ground that they have no place in being. The President of the Fighting Division, the daughter of the man who gave his namesake to this kingdom, and the technical officer in charge of development. A match forged in necessity.

“Alex, what is this?” Carlos asks, gesturing to the three of them. They've got a bottle of fine wine between them. It'll have to be from Aston Martin. They've got the best vineyards.

“It was the only way that I could have gotten you to come along with me.”

“Alex-”

“What?”

Carlos stops in his tracks and spins on his feet. “Why are you lying to me? We have an agreement the day I arrived. For the good of the kingdom, we wouldn't lie to each other. Not about relationships, not about friendship, not about alliances. What's changed?”

“Everything has changed Carlos. Can't you see what we are on the brink of? War.”

“Don't be so fooled by the newspapers. We're not going to war.”

“You think I don't know the difference between propaganda and the truth Carlos? You may be a few years older than me, but I spent a year outside of the arena entirely. I know exactly what it meant to be spoon fed exactly what they want you to hear.”

“Sorry- sorry, I forgot. Forgive me.”

Alex's expression morphs to a placating cheerfulness before Carlos has the chance to tell him that he has the right to be pissed off. “It's fine, come on.”

The pair of them walk through the gravel to the table, where James gets to his seat as they arrive. His shiny leather shoes and crisp white shirt get a little dirty with the dust that his thrown up, but he doesn't seem to mind.

“Carlos, Alex, what a pleasure it is to see you.”

Carlos shrinks back a little, receding into his walking cloak, which is just a little thicker than necessary, given the weather and the layers he has on.

“What can we do for you? James. Claire. Pat.” Alex steps forward and rolls his shoulders. He does that a lot.

Carlos places a hand softly on one of his daggers. Malice and short attention would make someone think that he is going to attempt to throw it at one of the three. No, instead Carlos runs through his mind for the remnants of the plan he has been formulating whilst self-exiling away from everyone else. Just to think.

Strategic masterstrokes, is what he would call it.

“We have a plan that we need you for, the both of you. Would you like to take a seat? This might be a bit of a roundabout explanation,” Claire says, gesturing to the table.

Alex submits, Carlos shakes his head politely and remains standing. Ready for anything.

“You know-” Carlos interrupts, upbeat. “I have some ideas about what we can do to subvert trading routes and other sectors if Mercedes fails to hold their own in the triumvirate. It's looking likely that they're going to fail, if what the spymasters are telling me is true. We can capitulate on the chaos to establish ourselves like Chip Ganassi with the non-fight-”

“That's wonderful Carlos,” James says. He looks like a sad father, wrinkles and desperate signs of age nestling into his tired face. “We need you to meet with Lando.”

Everything stands still. The birds twittering in the cherry blossom trees that make up the ornamental garden go silent. Carlos stops breathing. The wine sloshing around in Pat's glass descends into nothingness. Lando? Of all the people in the world, it has to be Lando? The man Carlos hasn't had the chance to see or to confront since the ball, all that time ago? The man he hates to love and loves to admire?

Alex looks over at him, clearly spitting the blanching and the rising panic in Carlos' overly expressive face. If he could communicate with telepathy, Carlos can only imagine he would be saying, don't reveal anything. Nothing about Lando. Nothing about your time at McLaren. They don't know.

So he schools his expression and turns back to the three of them.

“Why?”

Pat smiles and says, “The entire United Territories knows about the pair of you.”

Carlos' fingers go white.

“I'm sorry?”

“Oh you know, your friendship. Carlando, or whatever the trite gossip rags are calling it nowadays. We asked James to ask you if you could use it for our advantage.”

Because of course they do, nothing is ever sacred in this damned arena. Foselina is looking down on them all, her pearl necklace burning her skin with shame, because she is the god of honesty, and these politicians are the sprites sent to damn her.

Claire speaks then, her voice kind, if a little disconcerting under the blue, cloudless sky. “We need you to get some information from him, for us.”

“What kind of information?” It's Alex speaking this time. “And why can't you use the spymasters?”

This is what Carlos liked about Williams when they were courting him to poach from Alpine and Aston Martin after being told he was to be replaced with that living god, Lewis Hamilton. Defiance, at least internally, is not something to be feared.

“We don't have access to McLaren anymore. It was tenuous at best even when we did have it. Now though? It's gone, completely. There’s not a lot we can do about it.” She almost bats her eyelashes.

Alex goes on, animated from his strangely reclining seat. “And what about the FIA? You can't expect them to just allow Carlos to see him? We're not allowed to visit anyone by ourselves.”

Carlos stifles a laugh. What a hypocrite. Carlos knows Alex shuffled off one night to visit someone. Alex had come back smuggled on his horse like a thief stealing the crowns and the jewels in the Counting House Vault. What a stupid man.

“We will figure something out. I know we will,” James says, his face shining a little in the sunlight.

Pat turns towards Carlos then. “So are you in or are you out?”

He doesn't have much of a choice does he? It's either he accepts the subtle knife of Williams' espionage, or he rejects it and becomes a pariah to their cause in their time of need. Neither of these are options that he can bear to take.

“Before I agree to this, what is happening with Mercedes? Or Red Bull? I've seen what the tribune is saying but you know…”

James says, “It's bad for us. We think Charles has agreed to work with Max, dragging Lewis along with him. It's blurry and the intelligence we've gathered could be a lot better, but it is still something.”

Alex stands up then, suddenly. He jerks back.

“It's going to be war, isn't it?” he says, head looking up towards the emptiness.

The four of them look at the fear that paints his face.

“It doesn't have to be war,” James says. “It would do us well to remind ourselves that the triumvirate are not the only kingdoms who take part in these games. There are seven of us, six if you don't count discount Red Bull — who have the power to make change. George is the head of the union. Carlos, I think you'll be part of the union soon, right? We can do things that are more than enough.”

“But what if it is too late? Ferrari haven't let Charles be seen in public in a week. They've got those stupid final slate rules. Those stupid rules that are going to cause them to slip into terror if they're not careful.”

“Alex. I need you to trust me. We have a plan.” Claire sighs; she's too composed. She's probably hiding something large and horrendous in her chest, some dark and piteous hole that she bears no interest in discussing.

Carlos doesn't know what to think, honestly. Being used for friendship and political gain is one thing. Loving someone just to use them is another. Seeing him after all this time isn't going to be enough to repair the fracture. Mi lago. My love. Corazón.

Lando still hasn't responded to any of his letters since the ball. They'd danced around in circles and Carlos had been left there, stood on the dance floor. The girls had hung their limp bodies over him, sweaty with perspiration and Carlos had felt nothing but the wallowing shame of desire.

For the future, yes, but more so for the past.

He hates that all of this implies that Ferrari are not dangerous in their own right. As if Charles and Lewis and Fred will not have their own agenda that they are sticking to. Because of course they are. Nothing happens in that sticky little kingdom without it being known.

“Alex, I'll go to see him. We can subvert war until the first sword is drawn and the first cannon fire is volleyed. There is time.”

James beams. He proposes a toast to which Alex downs the ruby purple liquid too quickly. It spills down his throat like blood.

“Now, Carlos, would it be possible to see you train? I believe I did ask Alex to make you bring your daggers.”

“You want to see me train? I'm not in my training gear.”

“Oh, don't worry about that. I had one of the staff bring it down for you.”

Alex looks at his feet like he isn't there. Like this silly, messy world isn't happening to him.

Carlos goes and gets changed into the sleeveless tunic. Like back in the Maya Ayam hotel. Made bare.

When he gets to training, James shouts praise. Claire and Pat slink out to the sides. Politicians have work to do.

“All of this is to prepare for the worst, Carlos!”

What's the worst that could happen here?

Carlos throws one of the daggers into the eye of one of the training dolls.

A siren resounds over the court. He whips his head around, not watching where the second knife lands. It gets the other eye. Blindness.

Something is wrong. So very, very wrong. This is the panic button.

Chapter Text

“What did I just do? This is going to destroy everything.”

“I can protect you, but you will owe me. It’ll be sometime when I most need it.”

Recording excerpt from AFIA, restricted section. Dated 12/12/1964. Voices tagged as TW and JV.

***

When sirens ring, they bring danger. Bloody and bruising, capable of destruction. Carlos turns his head to the daggers that stick out of the training doll’s eyes and prepares himself for the worst. A surprise attack from Alpine, enemies of the state traditionally. A terrorist attack from a crazed Sempre member. The death of a fighter. 

He pulls his daggers out and sprints toward the front of the main building. The sun is at its peak in the sky, burning marks onto scorching ground. 

“Alex? Alex, what's happening?” Carlos asks.

Trust him. He knows what this means.

“This is the military one. We never test it — gods.” 

He rounds the corner just after Alex, stopped dead in his tracks. A sea of men clad in Mercedes military uniforms awaits him. All of them are taller than Carlos; most are as tall as Alex. This is enough for slaughter.

Alex pulls his spear from his back and holds it ready. Carlos puts his hands on the hilt of his daggers and tries to ready himself for what could be the end of everything. 

There could be about 500 of these men. No sign of any official, or George, or Kimi. 

How did they get here?

“Carlos!” A voice shouts from his right hand side. He whips his head around. 

Toto walks towards him. 

Williams borders Mercedes on its right, if you look from the ocean. McLaren is on the left, the estuary of the river Idrin giving them the border. They must have snuck across. But 500 men?

Surely not. 

Alex and Carlos stand back to back. Alex's eyes are trained on these potential assassins, knuckles white with pressure. Carlos faces Toto, who walks towards him with a confident swagger. He is in military uniform too, but not combat fatigues. Formal dress. Silver brocade and a long coat. His own sword is hung at his hips, as if he is going to knight a new member of the kingdom. 

“Be prepared to fight,” Alex says. “I'll be here with you.”

The wide curve of Mercedes, McLaren and Williams on the coastline makes them vulnerable to attacks by sea. But nobody would ever be so stupid as to walk 500 men secretly though the border. Why didn't anyone stop them before it was too late?

“Carlos, Alex,” Toto says. “We need to talk.” 

“Talk? You call this talking?” Alex pans around to carry his words in the right direction. “This could be considered a declaration of war, Toto. What the fuck are you thinking?”

Toto places his hand on his sword. The air thickens. 

Red Bull doesn't have ocean access. It relies on that river between McLaren and Williams to travel by sea, bends curving into the border of their land. 

“Are you here to declare war?” Carlos asks, spitting the words out. “I will fight you. If I must.”

For his adopted home; for the chance to see Lando again. 

James runs to meet them, clean pressed shirt a mess with sweat and fear. 

“Toto? Toto, what are you doing?” he shouts. People mill around behind him, all eyes trained on the men lined in neat rows of twenty-five. 

“I’m here to talk.”

“This is going to be war, if you are not extremely careful with the next words that come out of your mouth.”

Carlos watches them face off, leader to leader. Man to man. James and Toto were both at Mercedes together, before James left to join Williams. They have extremely similar broadswords. Turquoise fabric binding on the handle, a long, flat plane of a blade. It would gut someone well. 

“We are here to discuss terms for a deal.”

Carlos whips his head back to the rows of fighters. George's tall frame passes through them. He looks like a real leader, dressed to murder. Carlos shudders.

“Without us, you can rest assured knowing that our entire lives will be over by the end of the day,” George continues. He comes to stand next to Toto. Three against two. 

James almost laughs. “What is this? Are you going to bring Kimi out?”

Alex and George stand across from each other, shell-shocked expressions criss-crossing over their faces as they stare each other down. Lust, or something similar, runs in the undercurrents between them. The last time Carlos looked at Lando like that, the night had ended with a drunken confession.

“Why would we bring a child to war games?”

Alex doesn't hold his nerve, fingers shaking and legs swaying despite himself. He looks like he did on his first time in the arena, waiting for the bigger fish to swallow him for feeding. 

In so many ways, his worst fears are coming true. To be on the wrong side of a war. Mercedes against Williams. George against Alex. These are wrong choices, clearly, to make in life. And he chose to be there. Carlos chose to be here.

“You owe me a favour James.” Toto smiles with too many teeth.

James goes as white as a sheet. He doesn't move to anger, only a dismissive kind of resignation. Some things are greater than fighters and their actions. Some things go back decades. 

“I don't owe you this much,” he says.

“Oh, you don't? Don't you remember the promises you made my kingdom?”

“It's not yours.” 

“And neither is Williams yours.” Toto steps in a wide circle. “I’m here to cash that favour. I will use force if you don’t want to listen to me. Don't make me. You're a good friend. I don't want to start something we cannot go back from.”

It is then that Carlos is thankful nuclear weapons were outlawed decades ago. The single itching trigger finger of a man could cause the end of the world. 

George speaks then, Carlos’ eyes darting amongst everybody. He gestures at the staff sargeant of the fighting force to tell his men to stand down. “The FIA are almost done with their investigation.”

Alex furrows his brow. “But this is a war conversation. The FIA have never stopped us trying to go to war.”

“This is about more than that. They've interrogated you, haven't they, Alex?” George's eyes soften just a little as he says it. He's playing at politics. “They're about to announce the outcome. We are here to stop the worst from happening.”

James and Toto walk in a circle around the three fighters, circling their prey. James glares at George and says, “What does this have to do with us?”

“They’re going to make it official. Toto, me and Kimi are gonna be charged with a Breach of the Peace.”

“No— no they wouldn't. For what?”

“We don't know. None of our spymasters have been able to get a hold of any good reason. McLaren have something to do with it, or Ferrari, or Red Bull. I don't know. But if we fall, you fall. Our crops will fail and the people will not have the bread of for their circuses.”

If only you had never come here, George. 

James stops where he stands. From every balcony of the main building's beautiful architecture, staff members and civil servants and espionage workers watch this scene with clenched jaws. 

“We need to talk privately,” he whispers. “Away from the crowds. This cannot get out.”

Carlos, Alex, George and Toto follow behind James to the military headquarters, a large imposing thing even against the grandeur of the main building. Its domed glass roof catches the sun and causes it to sparkle like a diamond. They walk in.

“All of you. Get out. Now!” James yells. 

He never yells. He’s never like this. 

The 50 people in the main entrance hall rush out like rats from a sinking ship. James grabs one of them by the arm and barks at him to round the rest of them up to leave. They need the main hall to themselves. 

Statues of past fighter's championship winners from Williams loom large over them all, along with Frank Williams, the founder of the current Williams fighting division. There are names here that Carlos has only read about in picture books. 

If this is how his world is going to end, so be it. 

Everyone has left before Toto speaks again. “We're alone. Now talk.”

“Why now, Toto? What do you think you're going to gain from a potential declaration of war? The favour I owe you- that debt I have to repay, it was never meant for something like this.”

“I had to get your attention somehow, didn't I?” 

“Sure, fine, whatever. What happened? Was it something from the emergency triumvirate meeting?” James asks, looking at George as he says it. 

George steps forward in that way he does during union meetings. “Yes. Max and Charles agreed something behind the scenes. They had to have fought, or done something. I don’t know what. But Charles said that Ferrari were willing to work with McLaren. Against us. Against the only true dominators of this stupid, fucking sport for the past decade.”

Alex holds his spear, tip pointed into the ground. Peace. “What? Why?”

“Power- something. I don't know. I punched him in the face when he said it. They dragged me out of the building after that. Alpine wouldn't accept it if we caused bloodshed on their land. That's for the arena.”

George turns to look up through the dome, where a few wispy cirrus clouds bend the light. 

“So that's what this is, you want a military alliance? A cultural one? Something else? You could have called us- sent a letter-”

“No, James, we couldn't,” Toto says, smoothing down his trousers. “It's now or never. If the FIA go ahead with whatever this is, there is nothing we can do. We do not have any allies if that happens. And if we are found guilty, no bargaining chips for us. We lose trade agreements, we lose smart people, food is going to go up. It already is…”

Toto swallows and goes quiet. His imposing, 6’ 5” frame shrinks a little. It would be a devastation unlike any other. 

Carlos looks at these men of states and nations, fighters and lovers. George's face sings with devastation, betrayal, of a man grown up too early. Alex fears something existential. Death, sure, but also the ending of comfort and peace. He fears pain. Toto and James jerk back against the change of the tide. Of McLaren and modernity. Of the ruin of fortune, as if they are the pirates that plunder the furthest reaches of the world. 

Carlos itches with the need to scream. Alex itches with the need for comfort. George itches with the need to rebel. 

“We don't know what kind of war would happen if this does come to pass, Toto. You can't seriously expect us to agree, like that.” Carlos snaps his fingers. It echoes.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Where’s Kimi, really? He's half of your fighters. He's too young to play politics but too old not to be put in the arena, huh? Blood isn't as sacred as alcohol then.”

“You get it then, don't you?” George sneers, walking freely through the statues. “Agreeing with us will stop Kimi having to lead a battalion into battles that will kill him.”

You manipulative bastard.

“None of us are going to win, George. No matter what happens. People are going to be hurt. McLaren, me, you. Ferrari. Someone will be.”

“We won’t get what we want,” Alex chips in. 

“The only winner from this if we don't do anything is the FIA. They're the only ones who win no matter which kingdom rises or falls. Do you really want to let that happen?”

James and Toto share a look.

The air comes to a stillness, light catching the dust in the air. 

"So, are you going to work with us or not, Carlos, Alex?” Toto looks unimpressed.

You have an agreement with him, don't you? To destroy Ferrari, give the retribution for Charles. But what does he get?

“What do you get from this?” Alex steps between the pair of them, a protective hand on George's arm. He's being bold. 

“Alex, stop it.” Toto brushes him arm off. “I don't want to have to burn you for seeing that.”

Alex barks out a harsh laugh. “So that’s what this is. You're bad cop, George is good cop? The carrot and the stick, or something as stupid as that.”

“If you're going to fight, I’m going to fight too.”

The three fighters, grown children into men now, come and stand in three. At the end of the day, that is all that they are. Expendable beings. Alex cocks his spear ready. James and Toto put their hands on their swords. 

“Woah, woah. Alex, calm down,” Carlos says. “Listen to them.”

“Why?”

“What other choice do we have?”

George smiles at Alex, love pouring from his face. Something breaks within him.

Alex gives up first. “I will work with you.”

James almost shouts with joy. He's got something more going beneath the surface. 

Carlos agrees as well. The thick tension sloughs off his shoulders and dissipates. 

“The next games are here in Haas, Carlos. I need you to back us in the match. I think the triumvirate aren't going to include Kimi and I so we need to force McLaren to shut up.” 

“Sure, fine. It's just more bloodshed at the end of the day.”

George puts his hand at the base of one of the plinths. The smooth dark marble cools his hand. 

Toto stands next to him, shoulders tense. “We’re strategising for the group games back home. We might be able to twist Alpine’s arm to work with us. Jack and Pierre are easily manipulable.” 

“But what about Charles?” Alex asks.

“Charles is a non-issue. Yeah, they're friends but it’s not like they see each other enough, now is it?” A crack of a smile shows on his face. “Haas, Sauber and Aston Martin are just opportunistic. So if we can show them that we can win, then they'll follow us.”

“A coalition of the willing.” 

“Sure, whatever you want to call it George.” 

The conversation continues in circles, talking strategy, alliances, necessity and honour. 

Eventually, Alex asks George with a pointed accusation. “What about the FIA? Aren't you going to do anything about them? They've got us in a barrel like a fish who’s about to be shot.”

“I mean, defiance will get you killed. At least now. Some fucker from the internal communications department would declare you a threat to security and send a hitman.”

Alex hasn't talked to George about defying the FIA. Never this much, never so openly. The hidden love of the hot tub has given rise to this new kind of man. 

For once, however, they are thinking alike. 

George’s and James' faces are shocked, in a new kind of way. One filled with hope.

Alex takes this as a bad sign, however, and turns to leave, like a child running away from his problems. 

“No- Alex, don't go. Please don't go.” 

“George, shut up.” Toto blocks the sun with his head, casting a dark shadow over Alex. “Why would we ever go against the FIA? So publicly? Do you want us to be killed? Or worse, exiled?”

Carlos looks down at his daggers and wonders what it would feel like to have one put through his heart. Or worse, have them ripped away from him and melted down for scrap metal. Identity shorn at the tips of your fingers. 

Carlos laughs when Alex speaks next. “When as the last time you saw you wife, Toto? Or your kid, huh? You think they're happy with all this? Those men outside would have enough to start a war if you weren't careful. And you weren't careful.”

James paces back over from his looming position closer to the statues then the door. “How did you get here? Sorry- sorry. That's not important.”

Alex steps into the kind of leader Williams has to have. Bold, visionary, still blind. But enough. For now. 

“Don't you dare talk about her. This is not about me.” Toto sneers.

“All fighting is ever about is personal lives.” Alex straightens up, shoulders down. “All of this started because McLaren felt like destroying you over a single photo of George and I. We hadn't even done anything!”

He's angry, fists curled in a tight ball by his side. “It's all so petty! Don't you see that?”

Pride sits in George's face. 

Toto placates him by raising outstretched palms. “Despite your righteous anger, nothing changes.”

Alex collapses to the floor. George rushes to his side. Toto does not let up.

“This doesn't change that the fight and the bloodletting that you chose to do are the way that the world stops from collapsing. You chose to be here, didn't you? Nobody forced you to do this.”

Alex starts crying, George squats down beside him, face red with anger. Toto keeps talking.

“You're being selfish. All of you. You think we can take down and destroy the thing that gave you meaning? Careers? Enough girls to fuck on the sides for the rest of your lives? Anyone would want what you have. We are trying to avoid the end of society. Your silly personal squabbles aren't my concern.”

Carlos speaks then, because he has to. Alex is too good to be insulted. “And you don't think, Toto, that one day they will come for you too? When the time is right, they'll get rid of you. Put a sycophant in and say goodbye?”

Changing the triumvirate, Carlos realises, will only hurt the people who want to love. George presses his forehead into Alex's shoulder. He too is suppressing tears. Carlos wishes it was him and Lando there together, despite everything. “George- George?”

He doesn't lift his head up. “What?”

“Accompany me. An official summon with Lando. To McLaren. The FIA won’t think you're doing anything wrong- yes, Toto, I am going to McLaren, don't be so shocked. I might be able to convince him to stop this.”

But the strings of intertwined love and fate are not held by the gods. They are held by Oscar Piastri and Max Verstappen. Carlos, in the haze of the moment doesn't consider this, only selfish glory that Lando craves for himself. 

He gestures for George to follow him outside, telling the rest of men to wait. They step in time, like soldiers, towards the kitchen gardens. It smells like rosemary. 

The reasons of men are all similar, at the end of the day. Love, money, power, glory, desire, boredom, a need for affection. A need for control. They reach some tomato plants, just starting to fruit. It has been so long since that first match in Toyota's territory — five months? More?

“Carlos if we do this…I don’t-”

“George. Trust me.” Carlos takes one of his daggers from its scabbard. George doesn't flinch. 

Brave. 

He cuts the sigil of his cloak out from the fabric. “This is for you. It's proof of my existence, and my willingness to work with you. We have to destroy the bad things, don't we? I only need a day. I’ll break into McLaren if I need to. But I am going to talk to Lando.”

George passes it over his fingers, nails catching on the embroidery. 

For Carlos, it's about so much more than war and peace. A bird sings in the trees in the distance and the staff only hide the staring in side-eye gazes. Love has to come from betrayal. Self-love. He doesn't know if he can forgive Lando, after the end of everything, but knowing what is about to come, love is the only thing he can cling on to. It is the only thing worth clinging on to. He has to make it work. 

A traditional symbol, James taught him, in the non-triumvirate kingdoms involves the passing of a weapon over one's chest. It shows respect, holding a weapon so close to one's heart and trusting the other not to kill. 

“This will be enough, Carlos.”

Ferrari, Red Bull and McLaren are allies. Williams and Mercedes are now forged brothers in the crucible of crisis. Love conquers ambition in the battleground of the heart. The next games are in Haas. It is now, or never. Carlos buzzes with excitement as he shouts into the air that they are bonded. 

Chapter Text

“Oranges are getting more expensive. Milk too. We call these potential indicators, after the wars. Our exporting industries rely on these indicators as signals that the government will institute autarkistic policy soon. Don’t panic. I don’t think we’re going to get anything like this. The FIA will protect us. They’ve done it for the past hundred years or so. Just have to get rid of the bad fighters.”

Man to his friend in a coffee shop, revising a module on New Macroeconomic Policy: After the Wars.

***

“You've seen what's happened in Mercedes, Zak. They fucking invaded Williams! They're falling to shreds. We haven’t done anything!”

“Yeah, two days ago! And Williams haven't done anything about it! There hasn't been war. So we have to assume the worst. I don't think they understand how stupid it is to try allying with a failing kingdom.” Zak's shirt tugs at the skin and fat around his stomach. He’s sweating.

Andrea's eyebrow raises. “What, you think the FIA are actually going to listen to our suggestions? The only thing we’ve done is send them that letter. They're not going to listen.”

The candles on the stands around their private room flicker. This is Zak's private quarters. The walls look akin to a dungeon, dark stone damp with condensation. A doughnut-shaped lamp sits on the low coffee table, flanked by a pair of leather-brown armchairs. 

He continues. “So what have you done Zak? ‘Cause by that look on your face, I don't think I want to know.”

They're stood, backs pressed against a wall, having shunned the pair chairs sat in opposition. Zak has a penchant for opposition in interior designs, if his office is anything to go by. 

“I spoke to Ben Sulayem. Got him to come round, you know.”

“You did what? You managed to get an audience with him? I mean, I know he likes to stick where his nose doesn't belong, but privately? How did you do that? They've been investigating us, for what it’s worth.”

“He wanted to scratch my back, I wanted to scratch his. It was all very simple-”

Andrea laughs to interrupt. “Simple? This is politics Zak, nothing is simple.”

“I asked him what he wanted from us.” Zak shrugs. “What we could give him in return for flipping the investigation onto Mercedes.”

“What have you done?”

Zak smiles then, slick, like oil dripping out of the side of his mouth. "Andrea, my friend, don't you think that the boys would be good faces for the FIA? Especially if we’re a part of the triumvirate now. Which we will be. Of course we will.”

"What? What are your plans for them?"

Andrea balls his hands in a fist at his sides. Quelling anger. Quelling anger.

Zak puts his hand in camaraderie on Andrea's shoulder. "Oh don't look at me like that! They're, what's the word I used? Paragons. Neither of them would dare sully the name of fraternity. They're not George Russell."

“They’re not toys, Zak. We barely got Oscar here. You think Lando is going to take that? He’s spent so long trying to be independent, not relying on us anymore, he isn’t going to just agree to everything that you said.”

Like when he was dragged back, by you, no less, from the edge of the river. Do you really think Zak believes the lie you told him? Do you think he is a traitor? Do you, Andrea?

“They’re whatever I need them to be.”

“Don’t you know about what George did to Charles? If you get on the wrong side of George…I don’t know what he’d do. He’d kill, I think. If he needed to. Any of the fighters would.”

“Oh be quiet. Mercedes are going to be destroyed. We can take them again.”

Andrea goes a little weak at the knees. “You're not suggesting that we're going to get a repeat of the Wars of Potential, Zak? You’ve seen how terrible it was. The games are about peace.”

“Of course I'm not suggesting that. But it we can get Mercedes at our knees, then why wouldn't we? We don't need a war for that. We just have to show Toto and his stupid face that we know what we're doing. We are no ally of theirs anymore, scrounging off their scraps for a little bit of feed.”

“We still don't know who told Max about all of this. They could be working with Mercedes. That could be why it was released so early. Did your interrogations mean nothing?”

“Don't think they weren't useful. They got me closer, but I need some more time.” 

“You've had months; the legislature is getting antsy about all of this. They don't want to see us look weak. Not now.”

For the first time in this conversation Zak looks like he's struggling. Like there is something underneath that hideous image he wears as a face. 

Andrea brushes Zak's hand off of his shoulder. "Time isn’t enough. We need results.”

“When I find out who sold our our plans to Red Bull, I will destroy them. They’ll erased from this kingdom. From life. They can go find redemption in the fucking Sempre for all I care about. They are not my problem.”

“You’re trying to tell me that you’re going to exile them? It could have been a mistake. Did you consider that?”

It could be Oscar or Lando. If its them...what do I do?

After Andrea had brought Lando back screaming into the castle, the swathes of press fast on their heels, he'd worked to get a meeting with Red Bull. Beyond Zak's words questioning where he was — though he said nothing about Oscar — Andrea had promised him progress with Verstappen. 

Christian Horner, even more of a sleaze than Zak, welcomed him with teeth. They'd been so cordial, there in the strange borderlands of Red Bull’s castle. 

“What can we get? You know- for your fighters. We need some influence here,” Horner had said, greying hair almost white in the light.

“You don't need anything, Christian. You're on the cusp of a fifth championship, and Max is the best fighter for a generation. Lando and Oscar aren't going to give you what you want."

“No, but you can. What's the expression they use in the illegal pits? Twisting the knife? We know that you want to work with us. Well, it’s more like you have to.”

“If I give them a push in the right direction, what do you want from them?”

Something drips slimy malice as Christian leans forward and rests his hand on the teapot that separates them. “I will get Max to push hard for McLaren being a 'force worth fighting'. We've already been making him parrot this in in the media, you’ve seen it. His father is very good at changing his mind, you see. He knows how to get to him. In return, you will get Lando and Oscar to take a backseat in the triumvirate when you get in. We’ll give Max the edge for a few more years, and then when he retires, it’s time for your boys.”

“They won’t accept that. You have to know. They’re both capable of winning championships. Lando is leading this one, for what it’s worth remembering.”

Christian doesn't finish his monologue as Andrea speaks. “This would give us both enough to push for Ferrari to agree with us.”

“You mean getting Max and Liam to argue with Mercedes? Or do you want them to turn their attention to Ferrari entirely? We’re not going to be in this meeting, so I don’t know what you want."

“Max is going to turn towards Charles. We've kept an eye on some of the messages coming in an out of the castle, and Max is already talking to Lewis. I suspect those letters are going to help us.”

In the end, Andrea had been concerned. Cornered into an agreement. Manipulation of the children within their care. Because that is who Lando and Oscar are, really. Overgrown children, given knives and a chance at survival. 

“Zak, you know what happened with Red Bull. You think we should be doing more than we are now? They're not puppets. They don't just do what we want them to, because we ask.”

“We need to push them harder then, mould them more. You've already seen what im doing in the fighter's development academy.”

“More? Didn't you listen to a word I just said?”

Neither Zak nor Andrea know that the reason Max has ultimately managed to convince Ferrari is not due to this meeting with Christian. Nor the illicit backroom discussions. 

It's obsession. 

“George punched Charles. If you think Andrea…think. Come on!”

Andrea pushes his face into a cartoonish expression of thinking. 

“George never would have punched Charles if Toto wasn't grooming him from the side to become as vicious as Max is. You get me, right?”

Viciousness then. Andrea's face falls. There has always been a part of him that has hoped Zak sees Lando and Oscar with the same hope that he does. But he doesn't. Clearly. 

Through the air that's getting warm with anger, through the stone, through the wooden door that separates privacy from public, a man stands on the edge of the door, listening. It's Lando Norris. That boy fighter. 

He's got his ear pressed to it. Shaking like a leaf, he never expected Andrea to be so conniving.

So ready to fold up like a chair and lay at the feet of Zak. He presses a hand to his stammering heart and forces himself to breathe. Slowly in, slowly out. Strong people don’t panic. They find a solution. But what is the problem?

This is nothing he shouldn't have expected since his arrival in McLaren has a boy. When his father dropped him off for his first lesson in the development academy, he’d told him he'd be a star one day. 

But Andrea has always been so kind. He brought him back from freezing to death by a lakeside. He told him he'd was proud of everything Lando had ever done. Said kind words and did kind things. 

This crisis was never meant to be like this. It was always meant to be a bloodless changeover. George was not supposed to punch Charles. Zak shouldn't be shilling them out to Red Bull. He shouldn't have had to listen by the door, when Lando couldn't find them out in the castle. Like Oscar, this eternal glory should have only meant the fall of Mercedes. Though, fall is too harsh a word.

They should have protected George and Kimi. Treated them like Williams or Fighting Bulls. They should have reduced them to little siblings who need some time to learn to walk again. But should is a silly word. Should implies that they have a duty to others, to the world around them.  

The triumvirate system, however, is never going to allow for such a thing. The squabbles of men who only care about the immediate future leave the citizens, the fighters, and the boys and the girls destroyed when they are ripped away like this. The name of the game is peace, but there is no peace in the arena. There is no peace in bloodshed. There will never be peace in bloodshed.

When Red Bull joined the triumvirate to replace the kingdom once called Renault (now Alpine), despite all the anger and the sadness, Renault had capitulated with grace. It was truly bloodless. This will not end in joy. Back in the dungeon room of Zak, Andrea pats his arm. Zak doesn’t notice. A thin, nearly transparent wire flows up and through to his chest, where, attached to his skin, a little microphone sits. The red light, hidden under the back of his suit, is on. It’s recording. 

“I get you Zak. I just don’t understand what I can gain from this. What do I have to gain from seeing Lando and Oscar made into pawns?”

“You get to be by my side as we wrestle for control in the triumvirate. Eventually, once Red Bull have been taken care of.”

“So it isn’t just Mercedes.”

“It was never only going to be Mercedes. Ferrari are the final one to go, just because it is going to be so hard to convince them that their precious Charles is really just a failed attempt at a championship-winning fighter.”

Lando doesn’t know what to do, with any of this. Oscar isn’t here. He’s gone on a mission to some backwater temple, with a look in his eyes that told Lando that he was going to see Logan. He’s out of the game. The investigators of the FIA are meant to be impartial, but if he tells them what he’s heard, there’s no chance they wouldn’t tell Zak. Exile would be the only option for a treason such as this.

Whilst he’s not stupid, he is naïve. Lando knows that no matter what he does, Andrea and Zak are working against him. He is alone now in McLaren and it is his fault. 

He presses his forehead into the wood of the door. It creaks a little, and he pulls back, scrambling to his feet. Inside the room, Andrea asks, “What was that?”

By the time it swings open, Lando has barely made it to his feet, standing about three meters from it. If you were not paying attention to the man, you’d never know the depths of his espionage. Andrea, however, hides the shock that would normally plaster his face. He knows, somewhere, that Lando is playing a game similar to his own. He presses a button hidden on his shirt to pause the recording. 

“What are you doing here, Lando? You’ve surely got more to be doing then wandering around the dingy parts of the castle.”

Lando holds his own. “Yes, of course. I was just meaning to ask actually, the next time I saw you — for the training-“

Zak comes out next, and Lando quietens. “Lando! How good to see you. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. Yeah.” He trembles.

“What are you doing down here?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

The dusty speakers in the walls blare. Lando jumps. Andrea holds his hands over his ears like has done since he was a boy. 

“Intruder alert. Intruder alert. All guards report to the front entrance. Prepare for battle.”

“What's happening? Lando, what did you do?”

Zak presses against Lando with a thick hand. 

“I didn’t do anything. I didn't. I-”

“We don't have time for this, come on. Both of you. Lando, get your rapier. Now!” Andrea’s face contorts as he says it. 

Outside, on the gravel path that greets those who have made it through the forest, George and Carlos burst through. They're being chased by guards on foot, but their thoroughbreds are good enough to outrun anyone. They've been pushing hard for two days. Weaving, convincing guards with George's strangely magnetic charm and Carlos' beauty to let them through. 

They've made it. Time to get to Lando. Lando, up in his room, heaves with exertion as he rounds the final stairs and grabs his rapier. Deep down, he knows that even if this isn't war, the end of the world is about to begin. 

"Let me see Lando!" Carlos shouts, hand resting on one of his daggers. "Come on. Do it now."

"Carlos? Carlos, don't you remember me? From when you were in McLaren? What are you doing?"

This comment, from a staff grad who has probably got fonder memories of Carlos in McLaren then he does himself, is enough to throw him out of the haze of anger he has worked himself into. But just as quickly as it has gone, it returns. 

War is coming. War waits for no one. 

Lando launches through the window of the Coronation Tower, so called because it is public-facing, towards the main courtyard. It is where Lando, Carlos, Oscar, Daniel and so many others received their crowns and their warm welcome into this burning cesspit.

Down, so far down, Lando watches Carlos push his dagger closer to one of the guards who has tried to stop him. George jumps from his horse as they are surrounded by others. Zak and Andrea are just arriving. 

“Let us talk to Lando,” George says, sabre drawn.

“We can't let you do that.”

“You can't stop me.” George presses his sabre into Andrea's shoulder. He yelps in pain. Blood trickles into the grooves. 

“Stop! Please!”

Carlos cranes his head, and the sight of Lando, screaming at the top of his lungs, looks enough like a god that tears form in his eyes.

Chapter Text

“Reveal yourself in the court of souls. Find me! I hide within the words unsaid!”

Line 12, Gwendoline and Epartic. 

Gwendoline, a noblewoman from the ancient, supposedly real nation of Sinz, sought to take revenge on an ex-lover by invoking the wrath of Epartic. Epartic proclaimed that she should bring the lover to the temple, and promised to provide the revenge she craves. For destroying the secret between them, as Gwendoline told a friend with glee the wrath her ex-lover will have, Epartic punished her by cursing her to never again be able to say what she means.

***

On the other end of the country, away from Leslia, the people are kinder and politics pronounces itself only on the large billboards to the side of the roads. Oscar walks slowly down the street. The pavement is new; the streets are bright and colourful. Stucco walls greet him, freshly cleaned and shiny white. 

It's picturesque, if this means dirt and grime isn't allowed. He paces down towards the temple, large and imposing in the centre of town. It's one of five in the immediate area, each designated for a few different gods. Generally, the competing factions of religious groups pair the gods as opposites. Duyalike, the god of adversity, is paired with Yerana, the god of victory and success. For those that still follow the old religion — the religion of Charles and Lewis — Solace is paired with Jemis, the goddess of war and fury. Jemis always has a special place in the Veriquestiona. Oscar has always preferred Epartic himself, but he cannot be a beggar.

Logan is going to be there, in that building at the end of the street, with its high ceiling. At the top, a weathervane spins in the shape of a pair of crossed swords: the symbol of the FIA. Oscar glares at it and has to smooth out his clenched fists, lest Sander thejournalistwhatapleasuretomeetyouoscarnomrpiastri interrupts. Again.

No matter what the press ends up saying about his official trip to this little town, they will not get access to their private meetings. Not even the journalist, with his overly gummy smile and hacking cough, will write about anything other than the pride in the mayor's face. One of McLaren’s fighters has come to grace Apetit with his presence. That’s the real story. 

In Oscar’s case, the story is the 'prayer and reflection' time he has scheduled in the temple in about…five minutes. His journalist, Sander, a strange man who doesn't speak much, trails a polite twenty paces behind, eyes transfixed on the micro movements that Oscar makes. The subtle flex of his fingers as Oscar thinks about what is to come. The way his shoulders tense as a breeze rolls over him. This part of McLaren, away from the coast, is a lot cooler. Solura doesn't want to show her face today. But no matter. Any light is enough to blend into the stained glass that faces him.

A horse trails behind them both. It blends into a travelling caravan of people on foot. There aren’t many cars in this part of McLaren yet. Oscar doesn't notice it, despite turning his head back and forth to check for tailers. 

The sigil at the bottom of the man’s cloak is that of an FIA investigator, stitched with his name to the side. Mr Edvard Saïd. Now, as to how he is there, and how he is trailing Oscar turns to a conversation between the investigators, back in the FIA headquarters, three days ago.

***

“Edvard,” Christine Flowers had said, placing down a dark mug of coffee, “Oscar Piastri is going to Apetit. Don’t give it anything formal yet, besides just the reporter you tapped for the Papaya Times.”

“Okay and what does that have to do with me? Sander is the one giving us the useful information. Oscar is not compromised in the way we know Albon and Russell are. So your point is moot there, Christine.”

“Did you include that in your report?”

“The report’s not due for another 3 days.”

“Always good to stay on top of things.” Christine turns her head with a jerk to her screen. The steaming mug of tea she put there has now gone cold. 

Edvard grimaces. “Who was it that you said gave you the information? I didn’t think the briefing had come from Investigations yet. I can’t head out without it. Should we even let Oscar go do this? It seems strange to just let him go. He shouldn’t be alone. Sander isn’t exactly going to be a master at surveillance.”

“Nobody gave me the information, Edvard. I got it from Janine, who got it from-” She checks her file. “Andrea Stella. He gave us permission to tap him in a conversation with Zak. And of course you should go. Letting them think they can stay on top is useful. They’re putting the order of things at risk, greater than they realise. We can’t afford war, so we should get rid of the ones at hand.”

Incredulity scratches across Edvard's face. “You're kidding. He gave it to you that easily?”

“That easily. These stupid men think they know how to play us.”

***

In Apetit, Edvard hitches his horse to a post on the far side of the road. Horses are a little more common out here, even if cars are the preferred option for most people. The FIA logo should be enough to scare away any stupid adults and nosy children. He has a job to do and Edvard scratches his greying beard. 

The cameras are ready for everything. 

“Please go. I need to be alone,” Oscar calls to the journalist. The journalist stops in his tracks and pulls out his notebook. The cover is green, and a piece of masking tape says ‘the Prince Fighters’. Oscar has never liked that term. It implies that royalty is something that can be earned.

“I can't do that, Sir Piastri. You know this. I have a report to write.”

“You were given my schedule, Sander. This was always going to be a private affair.” Sander shakes his head. “Come on man, let me have this. The Papaya Times can get their hot gossip on me later.”

He's on a step above the journalist. The journalist shuffles his feet, looking down at the white toes of his walking shoes. 

“You know what? Sure, Sir Piastri. How long will you be?”

Informal.

“I’ll be no more than an hour. Come and find me if I’m not done before then.”

And there he is, chained to the schedules of other men. So lost and so afraid. 

Sander nods his head and steps back, letting Oscar open the wide, wide doors into the temple. It's gorgeous, in an objective sense. Soft grey marble runs lines through the floor, twisting and turning like vines. The ivy pattern pulls his eyes up to the ceiling and back down to where it frames the window. The stained glass image of Duyalike, who this temple is named for, holds his resplendent image. Even in adversity, he's beautiful in a juvenile sense. A curled mop of dark brown hair frames Duya’s face, and as Oscar looks down, away from the light streaming in, there he is. 

Logan Sargeant. Lo. The back of his head is all he can see, but his hair has grown. The dirty blonde reaches down to the nape of his neck. It’s beautiful and Oscar can do nothing but smile. The doors slam shut behind him. He jumps. Logan turns his head. Something in his eyes feels wrong; he waits for a shout to follow the slam. 

Up in the highest corner of the temple, nestled between the curved ceiling, a single camera zooms in on the pair of them. Neither of them notice. 

There are less restrictions on fighter/non-fighter interactions in the FIA’s sweeping mandate. Yet when war looms on the horizon like the spectre of death it is, sometimes it is worth keeping those you love hidden away from prying eyes. 

“I missed you,” Oscar whispers. It echoes.

He knows it's true. Beneath the skin, Logan's blood burns with a lingering malaise. This is the first time he has seen Oscar since the end of his time in the arena. Since he screwed up too many times and watched his little legacy go up in flames. 

“Hey. Oscar.” He enunciates each syllable, stretching them with his drawling accent from a land far from here. 

Logan gets to his feet and Oscar takes a sweeping look over his body. His dark-washed jeans and his flannel. He looks like something Oscar would have pinned to his wall as a kid, next to his posters of the arena.

He looks older, more mature. Less of a child. More of a man. More virile. In so many ways, he reminds Oscar of Lando. A man grown into something he should never have been — no, he should never be. This is the present, after all. Oscar thinks they should have remained as those children scrabbling at the feet of greatness, never getting to touch it. 

“This is quite a place, isn't it?” Oscar says, pulling his cloak off his head, flat brown hair falling into his eyes. 

“Yeah.” Logan’s dour. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in one of these temples, Osc. Why bring me to one?”

The muscles Logan has spent so long preening over are diminished in size. Oscar still hitches his breath when Logan scratches his neck, finishing his sentence. 

“Oscar?” Logan smiles with half his lips, the other half unresponsive to his plea. It’s the first time he’s smiled since he left Williams. “Hello?”

He's rooted in place. The world outside no longer exists, not when his best friend is here, in front of him. Healthy. Alive. 

“I- We’ve missed you.”

“You've already said that.”

“Pray with me?”

Oscar is not particularly religious. Never has been. But there is something divine about this moment. Kindness in a kind place. Logan's longer hair and his own fledgling victories. 

Oscar steps forward, to the altar. Some people leave offerings of tangerines as a reminder of the success that the Games has brought to peace, especially in what was a war-torn region like Apetit. Lando mentioned to him, when he came back from Bureyhail, that there would be shortages of tangerines soon, of they didn't get the triumvirate sorted. And he’s right. There are less tangerines. There’s more burning sticks. The ones that smell like cloying spice.

Logan kneels next to him. “Who are we praying towards? I heard that Yerana’s been getting a lot of attention recently. Must be Lando leading the championship. Want to pray to her?”

Oscar looks out of the corner of his narrowed eyes. “You still follow the championship?”

“Of course I do. I fought with you for so long, so why wouldn’t I?”

“Lo, you know exactly why.”

Wailing tears. Why me, oh why. Am I not good enough? Not seen enough? A fist through a wall. Cursing out Mercedes. Pain hidden in painful silence. These are the things Oscar saw. 

“They destroyed you in there. I saw it with my own eyes. I held you when you cried and for what? You to respond to my letter? I don’t get anything out of this.”

“You never had to show up.” Logan clasps his hands together. “Let's pray to Epartic. It'll be useful. You’ll get something ‘out of it’.”

They kneel in silence in front of the large, wide altar. Oscar doesn't know what to say. Their thighs touch.

He could wish for more victories and a chance at the top of the championship — Lando leading is the worst thing he could have had happen. He could wish for peace. That would be the right thing to do. But no. He wishes for Logan's safety, over his, over anyone else's. He is the importance.

Logan, to his side, scrunches up his nose like a child. Oscar can't tell what he's praying for, but given the dour expression he's held the entire time they've been talking, it's nothing good.

A beat. Oscar asks Logan what he prayed towards, and Logan simply shrugs. No response. They stay on their knees. 

Was it me he prayed for?

It wasn't. 

He doesn't miss him. Not like that. He hates him for leaving. As if he had the choice, some small remnant of his inner voice yells. Williams was still in the midst of the aftermath of the cheating scandal with whoever it was that caused the crazed mess of the Gazella games. Some guy relegated to the pillory. Pelted. 

Outside, Edvard climbs a maintenance ladder that is attached to the side of the building. Someone from the FIA came calling and asked the worker who cleans the stones to leave it there. Of course he agreed. It's the FIA. 

The top of the ladder opens into an ovoid walkway that traipses around the outside of the roof. The base of the dome is lined with square windows. If he crouches, he can look in.

He sets up position and takes a look down. It is only by sheer luck that the pair of them praying together, backs to Edvard, is what saves them. 

Logan's eyes crinkle when he looks at Oscar. He isn't squinting. Just looking. Nobody in this stupid world would have a crush on a man who will never be able to love him the way he wants, right? No princess in a tower would fall for the prince in the novels she reads. 

If he were to ever act on the strange emotions he has yet to call love, it could destroy him. Oscar doesn't believe that George and Alex have actually done anything. His view leaves him reliant on the throne of thorns of a championship. There is no room for love. 

Oscar, truly and wholeheartedly, does not believe anyone would dare violate the rules. It would be personal and social destruction. Lando can fuck who he wants on the sides. Foselina’s grace, of course he is. It’ll be some girl from a backwater city.

Oscar's knees are starting to hurt. 

Find something to say! 

“What do you think of Duyalike?”

“That's where you're going with this Oscar? Are we really about to have a fucking religious conversation? I haven’t seen you in so long. You haven't met the kids I teach. You don't know anything about me anymore. And you want to ask me about Duyalike, and out of all of them you picked the god of adversity. Some sick sense of humour you've got there.”

He pulls away. Oscar craves the touch of their thighs and says, “I don't want them to know.” He's whispering. 

The conspiratorial gaze hard-baked into even retired fighter's souls comes out then. “Know what?”

“Things are bad, Lo. They're so bad. We're going to lose the entire system because of Lando.”

The god of adversity. The god of adversity calls. Beckons.

“Things are getting terrible in Mercedes. So much worse than you think. I got a letter in the post telling me to report to my local station for military training. I'm not even a citizen yet. My citizenship cross-examination isn't for another four months!”

Oscar stifles down the rising bile in his throat. Vomiting on the velvet would be terrible. He hoped, however pitifully, that all of this would go away naturally, like some sort of bad smell. Decomposition. 

McLaren should just be accepted. They are so much more organised than Ferrari or Alpine. Mercedes have nothing anymore. Their star fighter abandoned them and went to be swallowed up in the wallowing of Ferrari. So here he is, reverent to a god who should care, next to a man jaded with the passion of a disbeliever. Despite, religion calls. 

I'm so sorry Lo.

“I’m so sorry, Lo.”

“You can't say you’re sorry Oscar. You can't. My children aren't going to be hurt. I won’t let it.” 

Oscar’s plans are going to get people hurt. It comes to him: a bullet arcing through the morning sky. It lands in his temple. He winces. Logan notices, but doesn’t say anything. 

Logan goes on as Oscar stays silent. “Did you know I met with Daniel? He's not happy out…there, in the big wild world. He wants back in, and I don’t think he cares who he tramples to get to it.”

Edvard takes out his camera and snaps a photo of the pair of them, facing each other. Logan is on the left. Oscar on the right, still on their knees. 

Oscar remembers the end of the letter that sent him into a spiral. The phone call. “No I didn't, Logan, what in the hell? I didn’t give you his phone number. Something’s wrong about this.”

“Gods I've missed you too, Oscar. So much. You should have been there. I- well, the world isn't going to give us what we want, is it? We can't have our victory, and have our joy as well. He talked about Max a lot too. They must have been really good friends.”

They must have. Max is a ball of vengeful wrath that will explode soon. He's easily manipulable, in that sense. A man controlled by emotions. I am not one of those. 

Daniel’s woeful tale ends with the breaking of a bone and a phone call detailing his exit package. 

Daniel’s replacement at McLaren by Oscar broke him in ways Oscar does not wish to comprehend. He is more than a mere fighter. He should be a man to be feared, and he wants the world to know that about him. His time in Fighting Bulls, so far from his halcyon days at Red Bull were cut short due to the actions of Oscar at the thirty-second games held in Red Bull. 

He pushed his enemy — his friend — his compatriot in arms — away from a blow that would have killed him and took the price for it. Because he was always kind. He is not dead, Oscar tells himself. He IS kind. Daniel is the kind of man to have enough radiant smiles on his face to rival Solura. He was never going to let a boy die at the hands of another. Who would have killed him is not important. 

What is important is that he wants back in. Something has changed in him since the day he left, head hung low in a kind of shame of exile in all but name. But Max is an ally. 

“There is something so bitter in him. I don't think coming back to the arena would solve it, but here we are anyway.”

Oscar whispers fuck, before repeating it louder, almost a screech. 

Logan flinches away and- 

“Don't-“ Logan takes a breath. “Please.”

No, no, no, no. This is the first time you've made him scared of you. 

He closes the gap between them and wraps his arm around his shoulder. This is the kind of action that would be applauded by the FIA. The right kind of fraternity. Even if he wants so much more. 

“Are you going to take us to war, Oscar? Or is it just going to be chaos till the end? ‘Cause I can't deal with that. Don't make me deal with that. You're my best friend and your hatred of Mercedes isn't going to change my mind.”

Oscar's mind is shot through with strategy. 

Manipulation is the first thing a fighter in McLaren is taught. Make the most of any situation. Know what you have to do to get another to work with you. 

Is this why Max was so eagerly waiting for someone to propose a chance at war? So he could mould the world in his image and make it to bring Daniel back to him? It has to be. 

You've made a terrible decision. 

But how else will Logan be safe? If I am powerful, nothing can happen to him. 

You're a protector of nothing but your own ambition, Oscar. You have to know this. 

Edvard watches with a vested curiosity at the shouting that just happened. He's not proficient at lip reading; that kind of stuff is saved for the hacks on television, but Oscar clearly said fuck. About something. 

He pulls out his own green notebook and writes this down, next to his notes on everything from details of Pierre’s interrogation to the prayer cycles of the Sempre. 

“Lo…look at me. Isn't it a good thing that McLaren are going to be in the triumvirate? Isn't that what all of this is about? Winning over someone else? It has to be, right? I can keep you safe if we get in. I can make this a painless transition.”

Logan presses a thumb into his wrist. “I don't think you understand what you've set in motion. I came here because I wanted to convince you of something. You don't have to be the greatest maker of change in the world. It can go on without you. Luca and Francisco? Those boys, they're better because of me. They're two children.”

He goes on, fists balling up at his sides. “Even the end of the world wouldn't stop you though, would it. Nothing is going to stop you.” There are tears at the corner of his eyes. He stands up and goes back to the stone blocks that stand in as pews.

Logan takes a step back. Another, like he's doing his signature move in the arena of forcing others to follow before cutting into them with his sabre, watching them bleed. 

Oscar gets to his feet, muscles stiff and sore from being leant on. He grasps hold of the altar for reassurance and somehow doesn't collapse back to the floor. He's always been tenacious. 

“You don't understand what I’m trying to do.”

“That's exactly the problem, Oscar. I don't. All this sycophancy about ‘necessity’. All this talk, and it gives me no better understanding of who you are. You've always been closed-off, but you're the person I care about most, you know. Despite everything you’re doing. And if I can’t understand you, what about the people rioting? Do you think watching their friends and lovers die in the war you’re starting is going to make them understand you? Do you really?”

He cares. He cares about you!

Scream! Do something! 

But Logan turns away and presses back towards the door. The camera in the corner pans toward Logan's retreating frame, and Oscar rushes to catch up. 

“Please don’t. Sander’s outside. He's going to see you, and I can't be exiled.”

Edvard takes a step back from the window, heading back down the ladder to where his horse is hitched. He's gone, ridden off into the distance before anyone has a chance to tell Oscar who's been watching. 

“I have to go. You see any other exit here? I can't be around you while you're like this. I just can't. You're not the kid you used to be, and it's turned you into something terrible.” 

Oscar reaches out and wraps himself around Logan’s body. Logan freezes. 

The final time he left the arena, short sabre strapped to his side, Lewis Hamilton had come to find him. He'd hugged Logan and told him that eventually the world would be the kind of one he'd want to live in. The fear was immense. 

“Oscar get off me.”

Oscar springs back, regret in his posture. “I'm so sorry. I- it's- you're the only one I’ve got left.”

“And you deserve it. I'm sorry.”

Logan steps out of the temple, wind catching in his hair. Some of the other press are there, Sander amongst them. Oscar walks out after him, flushed face as composed as he can make it.

Daniel is back. He's going to ruin it all. Logan will come around eventually. Lando will get with the programme. Whoever is on the side will have to live with the fact that the kingdoms are going to need to change. He can always be with them in retirement, after all. 

“Sir Piastri? A comment on your prayer with Mr Sargeant?” Sander asks, notebook poised. 

He holds his breath. “We both prayed to Duya, wishing for a successful resolution to this current conflict. As with Sir Leclerc in Ferrari, the importance of religion in mediating conflicts cannot be ignored.” It spills out so quickly he doesn’t realise what he’s saying.

Someone, some citizen, comes running out of her house, screaming, “They've invaded! They've invaded!”

“What?” Oscar yells, pushing through the crowd of journalists. They’re all holding recording devices.

“Mercedes! They're at the castle gates! It's on the news!”

Oscar doesn't think. He runs to his horse, pushing past Logan as he sprints. Sander’s hot on his heels. It's a four hour ride to the capital. How fast can he push Pastry? Enough? Logan’s tears fall fast as he sees him run. His cloak billows. 

He gallops off into the far distance, Logan already out of his mind. The kingdom is at stake.

Chapter Text

“For wounds, treat them in the way our ancestors always have. Time, rest, bandages. You know the drill by now. The boys in the arena are used to being battered. Have you got the antiseptic?”

Doctor Kave Morecombe, senior physician to Sir George Russell, in discussion with trainee doctor Juliana Hersham, during a treatment following the 1967 Toyotan Games.

***

Andrea shrieks in pain, crumpled on the ground. Lando scrambles away from the balcony, blood pulsing in his ears. The shiny metal of his rapier clangs against the walls as he rounds the bottom of the stairs, scraping the skin off his uncovered shoulder. His steps echo in the corridors as he runs down. He has to be faster. Someone will die, and it will be his fault for not stopping them. He crashes through the main door, where about a hundred staff members and guards cower at the sight of a ravenous George Russell. He isn't alone. 

Lando screams as he shoves past the staff. “Carlos. Carlos, stop. What are you doing?”

George pulls his sabre away from deep in Andrea's shoulder, swinging it around to his arena stance. Guards don't normally wear armour. They've not been attacked for decades. Not since the Wars. There has never been a terrorist attack from the Sempre either, at least not on the castle. George steps towards Lando, sword at the apple of his throat. A single bead of blood meets the tip.

“Lando,” George spits out, “Get your horse."

Fight.

Lando rushes at George and shoves him to the courtyard ground, George’s steady stance toppled by anger. George falls with a thick thud and shoves back, sabre flung to one side. He gets a punch in to Lando’s face, and the thick crunch of a broken nose fills the air. Lando curses, rushing to catch him again. Make him bleed. 

“You could have killed him. I can’t let you do that, George. I can’t.” For a second, he pulls back to cup his nose, hands shaking with adrenaline. It’s enough.

“Fuck you Lando. You’re going to get someone killed.” George slips out of Lando’s grip, wriggling around.

Someone hauls Lando back from where he lunges again, hands reaching to scratch at George's face. “This is war George! You’re going to-”

The guards stand silently behind him, swords and shields limp. One of them is crying, face damp with fear. Lando whips his head around to look, and the guard stifles his emotion, quickly wiping the tears away. He relaxes his shoulder and stands taller. He looks younger than Lando.

This is for the fighters now. 

He turns his head and thrashes as someone shushes him. This mysterious someone whispers in his ear. 

“Corazón.” 

It's Carlos, muscular arms the only barrier between him and pulling the flesh off of George’s bones.

He's so strong now. He’s with George. You’re getting blood on his hand. Focus. 

“Get off me. You’ve invaded my home, Carlos. You can’t do this.” He pulls away and Carlos’ arms only get tighter. “Let me go.”

Hold the tears.

George cackles, dragging himself to his feet. His height gives him strength. “You're being such a fucking child. I'm here to stop our kingdoms going to war. You don't want war, do you? No, thought not.” He spits out some blood. “Get your horse. We’ll talk more in the forest.”

Carlos whispers, “Get Cedar, we need to be alone.” Lando freezes on the spot. They're here for him and he's about to ruin everything. Blood spills into his lips. But he has to fight. 

“'You can't make me. You can't- I won’t let you — Carlos get off me. Let me go.” He’s almost babbling. He can’t hear himself think. 

George wipes his face with the back of his hand. “Carlos, drag him if you have to. But we have to go. These guards aren’t going to stand there forever. Come on!”

Zak interrupts by walking up to them all and starting to speak. George ignores him.

He’s always had a flair for the dramatic. He barely registers what he’s done. His sabre is ready at the flick of a wrist. The shocked gasps of the staff that surround them only make George smile more, teeth bared like Max’s when he’s about to hurt someone.

Lando shakes Carlos off, not daring to look him in the face. He can't. He is something bigger than himself now. Manipulation is the aim of a McLaren fighter. Following George can only help with that. But Carlos-

“I'll get my horse.”

Zak shouts for him to stay where he is. Lando shakes his head to try and get rid of the noise. 

“No. Use mine.” Carlos gestures to his own, voice still kind. 

They ride off, speeding down the road, into the thick underbrush. Lando simmers with his need to make them suffer. But all of this is, at the end of the day, his fault. His stupid drunken ramblings got Mercedes investigated. Shouldn't he be with them? Fighting? Doing whatever this is?

But what is it you said you wanted Lando? Eternal glory? You think you can get that now? With Andrea and Zak working against you? You really think so?

The pair of them pull up alongside George, Lando’s arms wrapped loosely around Carlos’ toned stomach. “Why are you here, George? They’re going to destroy you.”

“You think you’re the only one who can cause a bit of chaos, Lando? Pretending to be crazy just makes them less likely to follow.” George’s smile is horrifying.

Lando looks behind him. None of McLaren decided to follow. Zak must be getting Andrea some help. Or he is waiting to pounce, to see if Lando will sell McLaren out.

“So you allied with Carlos?” He says.

The harsh, barking laughter comes back out. George must really be going crazy. “No, Lando. Mercedes allied with Williams. Didn't you hear? Didn't sweet baby Oscar tell you?”

“I- what? They have? Why?”

“Why do you think? You think we’re just going to let you into the triumvirate?”

The shouts and screams of the staff have faded into the distance. It's blissfully quiet, only punctuated by the heaving breaths of the horses and the drumbeats of his heart. 

I could do this forever. 

No. You couldn't. You think McLaren are going to let Mercedes get away with this? You think the FIA will? Stop being such a child. 

Confusion overcomes him in a way it hasn't before. He rests his head against the title of Carlos' shoulders and screws his eyes closed. This isn't real. 

George pulls his horse up to stop against a small clearing. The sun trickles in through the canopy. They don't have a lot of time. He almost drags Lando to the ground, but Carlos puts a placating hand on his shoulder. 

“Come on, let's talk,” Carlos says. He’s grinding out kindness. Despite.  

They hop off and for a moment, everything is quiet. The three fighters stare at each other. Life should never have come to this. 

Carlos breaks the silence, turning to face Lando. His face is shadowed by the plants. “You need to ally with us. If we go to war our entire lives are going to be ruined. We are all going to die.”

Carlos doesn't look like the man he once loved. He still loves him. He does. He has to. 

“Carlos- I- we aren't going to war. Of course we're not. Nobody is going to die.” 

Liar.

George shoves Lando to the ground again, pushing past Carlos to do it. “Get it into your thick skull, Lando. Of course we're going to war. We’re being investigated for a breach of the peace. Now I don't know about you — get up. I don't know about you, but you think I want to see myself exiled?”

His mouth curls at the side. Carlos doesn’t move. 

Lando spits out the blood in the back of his throat. “In the hotel, all those months ago, you said that we could have destroyed Ferrari by getting Alpine to work with us. So what, you’re just doing the same? Why don’t you just beat me in the arena?”

The Maya Ayam Hotel calls back to him with the scent of love. 

Carlos speaks, batting George away. He kneels down. “Lando, I love you. If we go to war, I can't be on the same side as you. The FIA are already about to exile George, and I can’t see you die for this. I have to live.”

Lando is on the floor, blood caked on his face. “So that's it then? You think all of this will just be easy? I'll get on my knees and take it?”

You're destroying it.

Pain shoots into Carlos' face, but he’s stoic.

“All of our plans are gone, corazón. All of them. I can't stand here and say I love you, and that makes it any better. It doesn't.”

“What do you mean that George is going to be exiled? This isn't about you.”

But it is, you liar. 

George paces back and forth. “Someone has gotten the investigators to pin it on us. Something is happening behind the scenes and it’s going to destroy everything we have. We don't know how to stop them.”

“You think I can help you. Why not Oscar?”

The door. The dungeon room. Zak and Andrea. 

“Because I know you,” Carlos says. “You aren’t a bad person. We just exist in a bad time, like a blunt sword or an empty arena. Do you want to be a star Lando? Or do you want to tell the truth? Come back to me.”

His mouth gapes like a dying fish, teetering on the edge of saying something. 

“Tell me what you know, my darling. It's okay. We don't have to fight anymore. None of us have to fight. This can all be painless.”

Carlos is so beautiful when he's manipulating you. 

He's not. He's not. He loves me. I know he does. 

Then why are you being quiet?

George knows something’s wrong with his silence. “Lando, what do you know? I’m here to stop war. If you know something, and hold your silence, we're going to die on the battlefield. Because Mercedes isn't going to take this. They won’t. And I will stand with them. I must.”

This is it. This is all you have ever been trained for. Is it McLaren, or is it Carlos? Choose. 

“I can't- I- Carlos-”

CHOOSE.

Epartic moves through him. 

“There is nothing to tell you.” He pushes himself off the dirty ground, blood stained hands on his knees. “McLaren have nothing to do with the investigation.”

When he last spoke of something before the perfect time, Lando destroyed his friendship with George. Something now would just make it worse for him. Because he is selfish. 

His world fractures and between the cuts of the subtle knife of espionage, Lando gazes back into everything that has come before. 

The day Carlos had arrived in McLaren, only a few days after himself, Lando had smiled with a radiant look and welcomed him in with open arms. He was young, but he was going to be mighty. Carlos was always going to be a friend. He had no clue as to what they would become. 

His own naïveté had enamoured Carlos to him as the friend he always wished he had. Under the stuffy rooms of the old training pits, the laughter they shared made the bruises better and the evenings warmer. They were best friends. Marketable and easily recognisable to the masses. Then Carlos' muscle had looked more than just desirable. It looked attainable. He could have it all to himself. 

But Carlos was the one to fall first, he admitted one night, after crawling in to Lando’s room. He whispered under the bedsheets that it was hard and painfully tender. Lando's strange standoffishness had left him wanting. He's always been so afraid of hurting. Or having the FIA slung upon him. He had such grand ideas. 

Carlos, now, away from his memories, gets to his knees and sobs. They'd kissed in bed that night, hard and painfully tender, and promised each other not to lie. There is some bitter irony here that he can taste with his bloody mouth. 

“You're lying.” Carlos looks up at Lando again and his words are left hanging. He is so selfish. 

Hoofbeats echo off the trees. Someone is coming. There is no more time for love. 

“It's over.” Carlos screws his eyes closed. “It's all over.”

“Carlos…” Lando reaches his hand out. Carlos almost punches him with his force pushing it away. 

“This is all your fault.” His voice is getting louder. “You did this. You know something.”

“I don't.”

“Liar. You little snake.” Carlos is screaming at him. The strategic mind he's always loved has gone, replaced by anguished hate. 

“I love you. But I’m not yours anymore.” Lando holds himself together. 

Carlos stands back up and turns away, walking with George back to their horses. He doesn't say a word. 

“Carlos, I love you. I always will.”

“There is nothing you can say that will change what’s about to happen. I’ll see you in the arena.”

Both of them ride off through the forest as the sound grows to its apex. Zak is on a borrowed guard's horse, and the horse almost bucks him off as he yanks at it to stop. 

Control your breathing. Zak will find out if you don't, and all of this will have been for nothing. This is for the good of McLaren. It's for your future!

“Andrea's bleeding out, Lando, and you’re here alone in the forest. You let them go!” Zak’s slimy kindness is gone. He's positively disgusting when he smiles.

He grabs Lando's bloody arms and tries to drag him back to the horse. Lando pulls back. Zak jerks and Lando slips to his knees. 

“Get up. The games are in three days. You have to train.”

“Zak- please. We’re going to war.”

“Not if we dominate in the arena.”

“We need to be training for war. I can't lead the military if I’m training for theatrics.” 

You sound like a real politician now. Doing well, Lando. 

“Oscar will be the one to lead the military. Why would you want to? Do you have some plan?”

“What? Why would I have a plan, Zak? I'm just here.”

“Oh, oh.” Zak smiles. “Lando,” he says, gripping his arm tighter, “What have you been doing with Max?”

“Nothing, Zak. Nothing. You know this. You know where I’ve been this whole time. There isn't anything to hide.”

“No agreements? No clandestine meetings?”

“No, Zak. I already told you. You know what I’ve been doing.”

“Then why did you speak to George and Carlos instead of staying with us? This is some kind of diversion tactic. It has to be.”

“Don't be paranoid, Zak. Let me go.”

Some of the other guards show up then, ready to fight. He feels like a prisoner then, ready to be led in chains down the street and called a traitor. But he is protecting McLaren. He's done the right thing.

It's all so recursive. Prisoner to one, prisoner to another. 

“I don't believe you.”

“Where's Oscar then? Huh? You think he really went to Apetit? He could be doing anything with anyone.”

“Oscar is a man I trust. Now come on, let’s go have a conversation in my office.” He drags Lando behind him. 

Lando doesn't even have time to think.

***

Oscar hurtles through the streets of Leslia, before he sees Carlos and George steaming in the other direction. 

“Hey! Stop!”

George looks deranged, holding his sword like he is going to hack children down. Carlos points at him and says something he cannot hear. They stop. Oscar canters over, sweaty and rushing. 

“Are you invading? Tell me.”

“Invading?” George smiles. “You wish. No, actually, I was trying to stop war. But there’s nothing I can do. I hope you’re happy.” 

He spits at Oscar’s feet before speeding off. Carlos looks behind him as they go, a strange kind of pity in his eyes.

Chapter Text

When choosing, come to know the divine through you. Know that they sanctify. They protect. The passions of the heart mean naught in the world of the real. 

Slate 2 (All-Knowing Worlds), Lines 17-21, The Veriquestiona.

***

The telephone in this room is porcelain. It was plastic in the other room. Charles guesses that the public display of humility and compassion for the poor means little, given the opulence of the room he's in. The fighters are both dressed to the nines — him and Lewis. Their collared shirts are stiff with starch and shoes are shined to within an inch of their life. 

He traces a finger against the metal pins that hold the upholstery together on his chair somewhat mindlessly. This is a conversation between Lewis as the new divine figure and leading cultura of Watershield Spat, one of the most religious places in the entire kingdom. This is the perfect time to see where the rot hides. 

They're talking about — if Charles could be bothered to listen — the new alliance with McLaren. It's all so boring, having to relay the same jaw-dropping information amongst so many new people. The fun edge wears off after a while. The world-changing implications become a part of the day-to-day. It is probably dangerous. 

“Charles, what was it you said to me the other week? When we were on the way back from that meeting? About the price point of cheese?” Lewis asks and Charles has to hold back an eye-roll. 

Cheese. Parmigiano Reggiano. Raclette from Alpine. Havarti from Haas. Death to cheesemongers. Victory to anyone who can free him from this boredom. 

“Given the export premiums that we're seeing from the non-fighting kingdoms, especially Ducati, we think they're gearing up to impose the kind of policy we see in McLaren during times of war.”

Autarky. The word slips around his lips like sugar. 

“Yes, autarky,” the cultura says, swirling a tall, thin glass of wine in his hand. Charles bothered to learn the man's name this time: Samuel Devans. He made an effort. 

Though, realistically, none of it will mean much soon. But he can't afford to be that apathetic. 

“George Russell appears to have been extremely disappointed with your behaviour after the triumvirate meeting, Charles.” Samuel smiles with a strange look. “Why?”

Charles narrows his eyes. “I punched him, but that's not relevant. He has every right to be disappointed. I mean, his kingdom is going to the dogs and McLaren are going to get all the rewards with none of the risk. They won’t risk war if they can help it.”

The punch had been hard, but not enough to cause George any real damage; it was just enough to teach him a lesson. George probably doesn't trust him anymore. He should. How does he think he can succeed without someone supporting him from within McLaren? Lando and Oscar are too insular. 

“Everything is relevant now, Charles. Especially as you're under the grace of Ximenia. We can't have the public think you're flying off the rails.”

“It wasn't in the news.”

“But you know how the spymasters work.” Samuel nods to Lewis. “Jérôme and him have been working behind the scenes.”

They have, have they?

Charles gives a grimace and thinks about lunch. He's hungry. 

Lewis toys with his expensive watch. “It's nothing big. We just wanted to make sure they're not getting too bad in the heartlands. We don't want this to come back to bite.”

Samuel, under his breath, mutters something neither of them pick up. 

Honeypots and honeysuckle are the perfect accompaniment to cheese. They match the sharpness of cheddar. Max is the cheddar. He is the honey. He is sticky and attracting flies. Because Max will do something with this, Charles realises, watching the two men in front of him pretend like they are ignorant of the world around them. Nobody saw them do what they did, so they can still solve this problem. 

Someone knocks on the door sheepishly. Lewis tells them that they can enter. It’s the same photographer from the FIA. The foppish boy with the camera too large for him. The one who interrupted his shouting at Jérôme about the price of milk. 

“The FIA requests you return to the castle immediately.” The boy is entirely too formal for the gravity of what he’s saying. 

Samuel scoffs. “You think the FIA have jurisdiction here?”

“They have jurisdiction over the princes no matter where they are.”

The room stagnates as Samuel takes the brunt of this. He scoffs again, but Charles and Lewis are already standing up. They know what it means if someone defy the FIA. Charles can feel Max’s bruising fingers lingering on his skin as they walk back out of the private office and down through the temple.

The temple is very well-maintained, with stone walls and a large stone altar at the front, with the image of Ximenia there. The photos and images of the gods get changed depending on the state of the kingdom. The ushers that brought them into the building are the same ones that lead them out. There are six in total, in the long, pure white robes of novice Truths — leaders of temples. Each of them carries a large fan of ostrich feathers, carefully fanning the two fighters as they leave. If it weren't for the humility that Charles has to show in reverence of Ximenia, he would be carried on a plinth of sorts, arms outstretched, head pointed towards Solura.

The wide doors swing open and there stands Mohammed Ben Sulayem, flanked on all three sides by guards dressed in the FIA black. Charles and Lewis bow. It is the traditional thing to do. 

Ben Sulayem steps forward. He is not kind. “You are aware of what is happening at McLaren, and you're here in this backwater?”

Charles opens his mouth to speak. Lewis places his hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Now would be a bad time. 

“We've been here in Watershield all day, so unfortunately not. It isn't a Sempre attack, or something, is it?” Lewis asks, taking control away from Charles. 

“McLaren have invaded by Carlos Sainz and George Russell.” 

That’s peace done with. War lingers. All those military meetings have been for nothing.

“Did they bring the army?” Charles asks, voice cracking. 

“No, not from what our investigators have gathered. Mercedes brought a military delegation to the gates of the Home in Williams two days ago. We kept an eye on them, but never expected this.”

Oh no. Charles hates himself for thinking that this is interesting now. But Ben Sulayem is revealing too much. The FIA are never normally like this.

He continues, "Andrea Stella seems to have been severely injured. We don’t have all the details but he was slashed, or hit with something.”

Charles shakes. “I— I need to go. My troops — they're going to need me. This isn't going to end well.”

Each fighter has a faction of the military assigned to them. Some are religious. Some are not. Some of these are Sempre members. Some are fathers and mothers and precocious teenage boys. He is to lead them into battle, as every fighter prince must do, even if they were not born in that kingdom or look anything like the people they are fighting with. They are the state and the state is them. And what is war if not the state expanding itself into the lives of the personal?

“You can't just leave.” Lewis turns to him. “We need you here, don't we?”

Ben Sulayem smiles closed-lipped, as if showing his teeth is too much effort for a man below him. 

“I have to.” Charles paces away from them and the ushers follow. His horse, Leo, is there on the side, tacked up and ready for a quick escape. “I will meet you at the castle. I promise you we will talk there,”

He’s got a grand plan. He could try to find a way to get in contact with George. He could give him the letter, to bring Lewis down. 

It will get the eyes off of me for now, and maybe get the FIA to pin all of this on someone. 

Lewis blocks his exit. He too is flanked by the guards surrounding Ben Sulayem. “Stay.”

If he goes, if he pushes past Lewis and rides off back to the castle anyway, he will probably never see Max again. Some part of him can't deal with that. It is more than the acknowledgement that Max is the best person he has ever fought again. No, this lies in the shaky breath Max made when he kissed him. The sound of pleasure.

Does he destroy his own burgeoning something, that he does not dare to name, for a chance at saving his country? Or does he love, against the rules, against the faith he has known for his entire life, and reveal himself later? He does not know. But he has to choose anyway. 

Lewis looks down at him with big eyes that do not show any emotion. Perhaps fear, but he does not know whether he is just guessing. Perhaps he is. But perhaps isn't good enough. 

He is Charles Leclerc and he is the prince of Ferrari.

Some of the more zealous Sempre members, the ones that follow the fighters around as they visit — the ones that lead dances outside the arenas — shout their names. One of them has a camera, but her hand is pushed down by another. 

They can hear them. "Death to Mercedes! Death to Mercedes!"

Both of them turn and face them. Choice delayed. They walk over slowly, Charles behind Lewis, and he half expects Lewis to tell them to stop, in respect of where he has come from. 

He does no such thing.

Lewis smiles with his knowing smile; it is the one the interviewers in the press pit get. It's venomous. Charles doesn't know what to do. He's rooted into the ground, watching the saviour of Mercedes' hopes in the triumvirate smile and take photos with the group who wants to destroy them. Out on the news, Mercedes citizens have been asking for Lewis to support them. This destroys that, and in the minds of the citizens, Lewis holding Lando’s arm into the sky means nothing. All in the name of war gods who are too fickle to care about them. 

Charles turns away and pushes past the FIA, walking back over to Leo. He gives a discreet, polite wave to the Sempre, who erupt into flames. Ximenia is his saviour. 

Leo greets him with his black coat. All Ferrari horses must have black coats. He saddles up, as quick as he can muster, and walks off. The Sempre wave as he canters back down the road. Some of his minders make their way back too, about 500m behind. They leave him to it. 

***

As Charles pulls through Maranello, only an hour from Watershield Spat, thousands of people line the streets to greet him and shout the news he has already heard. Some children, clearly vacant from school, watch, lingering at the back, like a bad omen. Mothers, clutching newborns, are tearful and try and touch his horse. The stalls that line the street market are devoid of their normally overflowing produce and the price of milk has risen again. 

Others perform the ritualistic dances of the arena-goers. This is rare; Charles has never seen so many of them before, all following in the same severity of religion. Most must just be scared. 

When he returns to the castle, some hours later and with sore legs from constant movement, Charles reckons with the same thing he has been doing for the entire trip. No matter the choice he made back there, watching Lewis smile with killers, things are irreprably damaged. The world isn't ever going to be the same again. 

Not even in the history books have things been so obvious in Ferrari. The hatred has always festered underneath the surface. In the terror attacks from the Sempre, the occasional pipe bomb from a deluded fan. They're publicly executed. It used to be stoning, but no longer. Firing squad now. For the worst of crimes, and only the worst. 

Now, at the gates, with the rising horses leaving the customary dark shadows, Charles finds a purpose:

Destroy credibility. 

He leaves his horse with one of the stable hands and makes his way back to his wing of the castle. His and Lewis' actually, but detachment is easier. 

He had told them, “Please leave me now. I will speak to Fred in a moment. I have to pray.”

The young girl managing the foyer smiles and lets him go. He wonders whether she is a Sempre member. 

Up in his room, he collapses to the floor and sits cross-legged. He holds his head in his hands and breathes for the first real time since he left Watershield Spat. He has work to do. He must protect Ferrari from its own, self-cannibalising desires. Even if it means the ending of his relationship that isn't one at all.

The phone, his phone, looks at him form where it is hidden. He shouldn't do this alone. He picks himself back up, dusting non-existent grime off his trousers, and paces over. He feels heavier, in a sense of the word. 

The rotary phone springs into position as he dials for Carlos. He'd know what to do here. He forgets what he's just been told, in his haze to destroy. 

Even if Ferrari is his entire world. Because it is. It always will be. 

“Sir? You haven't hung up the phone yet. Who are you trying to call? It came out slurred.”

Charles startles back from the inside of his mind. “Carlos Sainz of Williams.”

There is a pause. “I know you have called him many times before, but for your sake, sir, I feel it is important to remind you that international phone calls without permission are likely to be intercepted by malicious actors.”

“I don't care.”

He does. 

“Very well.” Another pause. 

Carlos does not pick up the phone. “We cannot find Carlos anywhere. The Williams switchboard have said that he is undertaking the work of the kingdom and will be available for contact soon enough. I apologise.”

He will be hiding away, somewhere near the river Idrin, living off of nuts and berries and whatever he brought with him. With George, who he trusts not to ruin his life, and who this credibility destruction is for. To prove to him that at least someone in Ferrari cares about the fate of Mercedes. 

“It's fine. Thank you.” Charles hangs up the phone and lists through everyone he knows. 

Pierre. They've not spoken in a few weeks. 

“Hello again, sir. Who would you like to contact?”

“Sir Pierre Gasly of Alpine.”

“Of course. One moment.”

The phone tone changes and he knows he's calling into the mountains. Raclette. 

“Charles? What are you doing? Haven't you seen the news?”

“I have. It's why I'm calling.”

Pierre scoffs, and Charles knows that his face is scrunched up with his accent. “So you want to call when it suits you, but you didn't bother to contact me after my interrogation? Did you even think?”

He curses. Charles had simply punched George and left in the back of the car he arrived in. Pierre was out of his mind the second he came to his senses following Max. He was so enraptured by love that he ignored one of his oldest friendships for it.

“P. Pierre. I'm so sorry. It was all so much, you know?”

“All so much, ha. Yeah, sure.”

“P? What's going on?”

Pierre knows something, but Charles cannot figure out for the life of him what it is. 

“Do you want me to be your ally, Charles? In whatever scheme you're doing? Because I am not going to sit here and watch you destroy yourself. You're my friend, but you're also the stupidest man I've ever met.”

“I'm not asking you for anything. I just need advice.”

“Gods, Charles! Can't you focus on anything other than yourself? You fought with Max—” he stops.

He knows something. Something truly awful.

“Pierre. What do you know?”

“I know you and Max had sex on the floor of the hall. Why Charles? Why would you do that? Don't you know he kind of person he is? He isn't ever going to get over you."

Charles sits on the floor, back against the desk. “P — how did you even see that?”

The cat is out the bag. You can never put it back in.

“I was on the steps — I'd just come out from interrogation. I waited to see if you'd find me. Obviously not.”

Charles doesn't say anything and Pierre's words just cut deeper as he tells him that he can't trust him anymore. There is nothing left of the man who he grew up with, who had a terrible haircut. 

“I have to go, Charles. Do not contact me again. I will contact you when I feel ready. Do not get exiled.”

Pierre hangs up. Charles listens to the drone of the dial tone. 

He puts the phone in his lap and wrestles with the day.

Everyone is being manipulated by everything. I am manipulating George. Pierre is manipulating me, right? That is what he will have been taught. So who is manipulating Max? It can't be Lewis. Oh. Max is manipulating Lewis. So is it Daniel? His old friend?

None of this makes sense. Charles curls up on the floor and watches the window, paralysed by the pain of having nothing. Nobody.

I deserve to be alone. This is all I get. 

He's in the foetal position, but it provides none of the comfort that he hopes for. A crystal chandelier hangs above him. His piano gathers dust in the corner. 

There is still one. 

Charles sits back up and asks the operator to call Sir Max Verstappen of Red Bull.

“Hello?”

Chapter Text

“There. Right between the eyes. That's the killshot.”

Training conversation between a child of the Red Bull development programme and Helmut Marko, director of the programme. Told to a journalist in an interview, as of yet unreleased. 

***

Sweat drips down his chest and into the sweaty pool of his clothes as Max finally reaches the phone inside his rooms. The person who handed it over to him was kind about it at least, when they interrupted his training. He'd been training in the military style. Formal. Rigid. Jos had been watching from the distance, before pacing off, finger pressed to his ear like one of those terrible spy books. 

He curls up next to the wooden table in his chambers and cradles the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Max. It's Charles.”

“Charles? What are you doing? You're not allowed a phone.”

“I know, it’s complicated. I managed to get my spymaster to let me have it. Thought it would be important.”

Max is panting over the phone, and he can hear Charles swallow. He can’t tell whether its the sweet sound of arousal or fear that Max can hear. 

“I need your help.”

I need you, is the words unsaid. Or, at least, that is what Max convinces himself of. He is indispensable. The lion-faced leader. 

“What do you need?”

“We're going to war.”

He freezes, hands gripping the phone with pale, white knuckles. “You're joking.”

Charles curses. “Of course we're not joking. This is bigger than all of us, even you. There’s no chance you don’t already know that.”

“Why? I mean, I know Mercedes and McLaren don't like each other anymore, but come on. They’re not going to get anything out of it.”

Christian has been doing a good job at keeping him busy. Not telling him the things that he probably should have. Letting him focus on winning the championship. Because winning the championship means money. And money is power. And power is love. And love is the meaning of life. 

But he isn’t stupid. He knows that something is on the horizon. Though, it is worth seeing what he can get out of Charles before the inevitable. Something that could save both of their skins.

“Don't tell me you haven't seen the news. Or gotten Jos to tell you. Or something. You're not ignorant.”

“Don’t tell me what I am and what I’m not, Charles.”

“Fine.” A pause. Charles adjusts something. “This is all my fault.”

Max thinks he sounds like the same kid that he grew up with. So desperate to please, so needy and so hungry for influence. 

“You didn't make the announcement in the tribune. None of this is your fault. None of it. Not even what we did in the roundtable. I shouldn’t ever have made you do that.”

“You didn’t make me do anything. I wanted it just as much as you did.”

“Charles. You can’t just say that. I shouldn’t have left you in the dark after.”

“No. You shouldn’t have. Why did you announce the change to the Tribune, Max? You could have let this all work out. I wouldn’t be calling you. Not now.”

He doesn't have a good answer for that. Why did he? To force Oscar into a position of change? To cause chaos? To watch it all crash and burn so he could return to Daniel? These questions float in his mind like a swarm of vultures. 

“I— I had to. There's no point leaving anything in the back rooms is there?”

“Politics is the backrooms. We could have done this like the rest of the changes in the triumvirate. You know how Red Bull took Renault’s place.”

Max closes his eyes and presses the side of his head to the desk. 

“Max?”

“I know. It was going to work. It is going to work.”

“If it was going to work I wouldn't be calling you.”

Max gets to his feet and drags the phone in his hand, long cable still attached, across the room. He starts pacing. His room is a bit of a mess, desk with a fridge next to it in the corner, fighting championship trophy on the top. 

“You need to be quiet.”

“You can't tell me what to do.” The voice is tinny and small.

“I can, and stop sounding so much like a child; it's beneath you. You know why you need to be quiet.”

He presses a hand to one of the curated photos on his wall. He didn't choose them. “So what, do you need help with something?”

“Yes. I have something that's going to change the entire face of this conflict.”

“You can't just tell me that and not say what it is.”

“I can’t— it's— you— the FIA wouldn't like it.”

“What do you mean, Charles? If it’s that bad we need to end this call here. I can't have them listening.”

He's being paranoid and he knows it. There have been no FIA visits today. Nobody would have bugged a phone. He'd know if they had. Of course he would; they’ve been purging the unloyal for months now.

Is this about Daniel? Max stares at the photo next to his bed, and walks over, taking it in his hand. He only saw him yesterday. Is it wrong to meet someone who isn't in the arena anymore?

“Charles, the system we have works. There hasn't been war for decades.”

“Max.”

“No. What do you think that causing chaos is going to get you? Respect? You're already practically a god. Gods know you act like one. McLaren and Mercedes can just battle it out in the arena.”

“You don't get it. Williams and Mercedes are allies.”

“And? George brought those two together years ago, when Mercedes took him under their wing while he was still there. This isn't new information. Of course they’re going to be allies.”

“How ignorant can you be? How naïve? Can't you see something has changed? The people were praying in the streets. Today. I'm under the final slate rules. I shouldn't have even been in public. It's so bad. You’re smart, so don’t pretend like you’re not.”

Max ignores that statement and looks at the photo of him and Daniel, both in full court dress, crowns and all, stood in front of the bright red metal bull statue outside the castle gates. They're smiling, arms hung around each other. Daniel has his laurel wreath from his winning games in Ferrari. The ones he won against all odds.

“This is about more than just peace Max.”

Daniel has always been the one to rely on. To win no matter what. Three days ago, Daniel swung his sword around with reckless abandon, showing off to the children. He was on a delegated visit, at the request of Helmut Marko, along with Max, to visit the development academy for the young fighters. Max was never in that academy. He doesn't want to know if it is worse than what he grew up with. 

Christian had been there, dressed up, showing authority as the man who could determine their futures. Something in him tells him that Christian knows who they are to each other. Or what they were, if that means anything now. He keeps quiet nonetheless, and did so during the meeting with the children. 

Max rationalises this as a mere pragmatic approach — who wants to lose their best fighter to exile rules? 

Daniel's classic fighting style had wowed all of the kids, little jaws hanging open in shock, little feet mirroring his poses. It was simple. No, it is simple. He is still a fighter. Become the honey badger, he howled. Let them in, entice them with your whole body, and then take them down, dragging them with you if you must.

Max only caught half of his words when Daniel was talking, mind preoccupied with an FIA meeting he'd had some days before. 

“I know it's more than just peace.” He has to keep talking, keep it all stringing along. “But what do you think this is really about?”

The FIA, or to be more specific, a strange woman by the name of Christine Flowers had told him that they've got a plan to get everything sorted for Red Bull. They only care about stability, and if their investigation can get things back to stability, then they will do all they can. 

“I think this is about love. Fraternal, obviously. But also not.”

“Don't. Not on the phone.”

“They're not listening. I promise you. You remember how all of this started, don't you? With George and Alex? What do you think they're doing now? It was Carlos and George who invaded McLaren, but not Alex.”

“He left his little lover at home whole the big guys did all the work.”

Charles scoffs. “You're being diminutive. Carlos had to have been there for a reason. Either Williams sent him, or George needed him.”

“Why? Oscar is working with—”

“Stop. You shouldn't have said that. Don't make me get anything else on you.”

“You have dirt on me?”

“Uh, no. No. The dirt is on Lewis.”

Oh gods. Not Futura. If it's Futura, it leads back to him and Daniel will be the least of his problems.

Charles and Daniel are so similar. They entice people in, then destroy them, body and soul. If their information is on Futura…

“What is it?”

Charles doesn't respond, but the line is crackling anyway. He's still connected. 

“Hello?”

“I need you to support me, no matter what happens. Beyond country lines. Even if it means that McLaren aren't going to be in the triumvirate. Even if it means some short term pain. I can fix this. I can fix all of this, if you just trust me.”

Max knows he cannot do that. The entire reason he's here is because of attraction, something coiling in his gut that told him trying to win Charles over would make him happier. While Daniel was gone. Daniel is back. He is, and he has to stay. 

If he supports Charles, no matter how much he finds him attractive, no matter how much he wants to be known and held under the illusion that love in the arena provides, he would be betraying the only man who has ever seen him for more than just a fighter. 

“Charles, I can't. I don't know what you've got. But you're playing a terrible game. A terrible, terrible game. The people you're messing with aren't ever going to stop once they know it was you that did this to them.”

“You'll protect me though, won’t you?”

“I'm not a mercenary. I'm not your lap dog either. I'm not sure you get that.”

“You acted like it on the floor in Alpine.”

“So you think that is all I am?”

“Then who else are you? Because all I know of you, behind the bravado and behind it all is that you're terrified of your father and enjoy playing with the cats around the castle.”

Max puts the picture back down. “Don't appeal to me like this. It's all alliances in the end, Charles. Love is an alliance.”

“It doesn't have to be. I don’t want to do this without you.”

“You have to.”

Max sits back where he started on the floor. Nothing has changed, and here he is, telling a man who loves him in the way a wolf loves a piece of meat that he can’t.

Charles goes quiet, whispering. “I can't be alone. Everyone is gone.”

“Charles, you made these choices. You made the decision to be there. I can't save you from what you've created. I have responsibilities too you know, to people greater and bolder than myself.”

He doesn't know if that includes Daniel.

Charles doesn't push the subject anymore, breathing down the phone. Max knows he could push on the pain and get some kind of sexual release from it. Turn Charles into a masochist and force him into the love of the sadness the arena gives him. 

He just apologises and hangs the phone up, taking the phone away and picking up the picture of Daniel again, clutching it to his chest. He doesn’t know that it is the mirror of Charles’ image.

Chapter Text

We return to our place as a member of the fighting kingdoms, sequestering ourselves away from the association commonly known as the Triumvirate. Renault will no longer be a member of this group, and will not attempt to seek reintroduction for 99 years.

Excerpt from the Renault Accords, a document formally ending the membership of Renault (now Alpine) as members of the triumvirate. Considered the Bloodless War by contemporary historians. Original document held at AFIA.

***

They line up, two by two. Fighters on the left, assigned handlers from the FIA on the right. They could link arms, or even hold hands, and the FIA would have no qualms. It appears that the only issue they have is when fighters love other fighters. Haas is no Ducati.

George, with a sore body from a military-escorted flight across the Urthce, cranes his head to see the wide gates open. Time to enter the arena. The sound disorients. It is probably designed to, given the protestors who have followed the kingdoms to the games. Most of the citizens out there are not Haasian. They are Sempre, or even just simple Tifosi, and the worst of Mercedes are being pushed aside from the smug faces off the McLaren supporters. 

They are supporters. George doesn't consider them much of citizens. Citizen would imply kindness. The group walks forward. Burly men in dark blue uniforms push the protesters back. The FIA haven't given them a private entrance. Not this time. 

They are to be seen in public as if there is nothing wrong. Ostensibly, there isn't. There is no war. The games are doing what they intended. They are promoting peace. The leaders of the championship are at the front, Lando getting the worst of the assault of the senses. Some people throw flowers at him, splattered with dark ruby red fake blood. These violators are quickly tackled to the ground.

George closes his eyes and tries to think about how Alex is coping behind him. He will be in as much of a state as George. 

Another thick squelch hits the ground. Someone has thrown a fake torso, with the uniform of a McLaren soldier, bloody onto the ground. For a moment, George thinks it’s real and tries not to vomit. They're screaming obscenities in a language that sounds like it is from Toyota or Ducati rather than Haas. Even the non-fighting kingdoms are involved. He swallows. 

Lando ahead stops dead in his tracks and paces over to the person, no, not the person who did this. He doesn't run, George notices. The hand of Edvard Saïd curls around Lando’s bicep and stops him from going any further. Pity. For a man who is so content at going to war, he is so unwilling to fight the FIA. 

They are a terrifying force, of course they are. But confronting a man or woman who has just thrown a bloody effigy at your feet? It's the least one could do. 

They make their way to the end of the walkway and into the arena proper. It is excessively modernist. It's white; tall sides curve down before ending in spikes that simultaneously look like crown's edges and swords, pointing directly into the arena. 

They split then, no words allowed, into two groups of ten. They're in one of the holding pens. The carriages will come for them later — it is only in the morning of the Friday that they have to walk in publicly. Alex, for what George finds it worth, is on his side. 

So is Lando, but George ignores any trace of him. Max and Charles and Lewis are on the other side. He can't tell why the FIA split them this way, but if he knows anything about them, he is going to have to be careful.

Before he gets a chance to talk to Alex, body already turned into his direction, a deafening call resounds, like the echolocation of a bat, punctuated with a guttural glottal stop. 

Everything stills then. This is new for Haas. Then, despite the crazed sound that just came in from the main arena itself, men and women clad in the distinctive FIA uniform come out, each holding the crowns of the kingdoms on velveteen cushions.

“Alex,” George whispers, “Did you know they were here?”

“No. Be quiet.”

Mohammed Ben Sulayem appears, the white sunlight of the grey sky backlighting him as he walks in through the main arena entrance. 

“Now, boys. Listen. I get this might be a little strange. We apologise if this offended your peace. But you all know what is at stake for these games. We expect you on your best behaviour. Given this, the rituals and team meetings that are scheduled for this morning have been pushed later, to this evening. It is time for your community service.”

He gets a scoff in response from Liam Lawson. He's always been a bit of a bully. “You what?”

“Your community service, Sir Lawson.” His smile doesn't reach his ears. “Now, you will see that your crowns have been so graciously donated by the kingdoms for this purpose. You are to go and meet the protestors and supporters outside.”

Murmurs arise. George stays quiet. He eyes Lando out of the side of his eyes. Lando is as pale as a sheet. The torso must have thrown him.

“Now then,” he continues, “It is time for you to do what you have always been made for. Workers, get them ready.”

George gets a tap on his shoulder and a man with dark skin doesn't speak. He only holds out George’s crown. He's always found it beautiful, in the way the simple tungsten and silver holds blue amethysts in it. 

But it is exceptionally heavy. It weighs his head down. Perhaps that is the point.

He takes it, puts it on and dismisses the man, who doesn't go. 

“You're okay. I don't need you to be here anymore.”

The man pretends to stumble, shoving another letter, just like Charles did, into his pocket. 

“Go in grace for the kindness of Solace.”

Ferrari. He hadn't really been thinking of Charles, not after he punched George in the face and stormed off. The note that he gave him must have meant nothing at all. Until now. 

He is ushered out, along with everyone else, back the way they came. The shouts only increase. They stay in their assigned groups of ten. One takes the left, the other the right. He doesn't know what he is meant to do. Should he wave?

He waves. The Mercedes supporters smile and holler. The FIA handlers come out then, escorting them. He tries to make a beeline for the rest of the Mercedes contingent, but his handler drags him over to the Sempre. What a terrible, terrible idea. 

They shout in his face as he tries to speak, hands reaching out.

He steps back. They reach out, pushing for his crown. One of the guards shoves the Sempre member at the front back, hand meeting chest. This only sends them into more uproar. 

“For Ximenia! For Ximenia! Glory to the holy! Death to Mercedes!”

Everyone is looking at him, he realises. Max and Charles and everyone else. He is seen like this. He is at the culmination of everything. 

“Do you know anything about me?” he tries, stepping forward despite his fear. 

A little girl stares back at him, with a boy that looks like her brother holding her shoulders. “You're George Russell.”

He crouches down. “Yes I am. What's your name?”

“Delilah. This is my big brother Alex.”

George stands back up then, too quickly. His handler notices and puts a hand on his shoulder. In another life, like this child and her brother, it would be friendly. 

He looks down. She's sweet. “Thank you for being so kind.”

The hand stays on his shoulder, turning him away from the Sempre, leading him towards some McLaren supporters, rioters, something. The little girl doesn't say a word in response. 

***

Alex tries his hardest not to cry when he sees a sign calling for the death of Mercedes. He’s looking at George, as is most of the rest of them as he tries to deal with some of the Sempre. The terrorists. 

His handler, a man who interrogated him in the early hours of a morning, whistles. Like he is some kind of dog.

He doesn't understand the humiliation. They already have them under their thumb. They punished him and George for being in a hot tub together. But not everything since? Why?

He shakes the hand of the few Williams supporters who made the journey. They're a smaller kingdom than the rest. They're kind, an elderly man pulling him in when he shakes his had a nod telling him to 'give them hell, my boy.' Alex can only smile. 

The fake blood is all over the floor. He has to go back inside. They can't be out here for long. 

Then the sound of pain cries itself over the crowd. Alex whips his head around. 

It's the McLaren citizens. They're fighting with Ferrari. But why?

Girls slap girls and boys kick boys. It is all so juvenile. But George is there; he's a martyr, trying to break them apart, despite having nothing to do with the anger and the pain.

***

"Let me go." He sounds like Lando. “I can’t watch another boy be killed.. not while I’m the head of the union.”

It's chaos in front of his eyes. His crown slips down onto his forehead, like the circlets Alex wears. 

He wrestles out of the grip and rushes over. He doesn't know where to start, so he puts hands on limbs and starts pulling, sword dangling at his side. 

Someone grabs it. He doesn't know who. Delilah?

No, her brother. George kicks out, to make him let go. A foot meets a head and the thump of a kick echoes.

The boy collapses. The fighting stops, silenced by his action.

George falls to his knees, cradling the boy who shares the name of his love in his arms. The boy cries, oh he cries, but he will be okay. 

Cameras flash and the moment is captured. But the boy is alive. 

George stands up, boy in his arms, sabre on the floor. He puts the boy back down gently on his feet, who runs off to join his sister. The tears roll down his face, red with pain.

That same shrill caw echoes. The handlers drag them almost forcefully back inside. The time for pageantry is over. It is time for the main event. The bloodshed and the battle.

George doesn't know which way is up. Someone comes and gives him his sabre, a little later, when he is washing off before the meetings. It is dirty with the fake blood.

***

Touring arenas is a necessary but boring part of the opening to a match weekend. Checking to see if anything has changed is the goal. (It has not.) Seeing where the best vantage points are. (Everywhere.)

George paces down, hands interlinked behind his back, to the edge of the arena with Toto next to him. Kimi has taken some time to go and find the best starting point for the solo matches. 

“What did you do out there?” Toto asks, face burning with thunderous outrage.

“I thought one of them was going for my sword. I thought they were going to kill each other.”

“It's McLaren and Ferrari. You owe them nothing.”

“But they're people.”

Toto stops then, facing George. “You owe them nothing. Did you not hear what was talked about? The report is coming out at the end of the weekend.”

“Who told you that?”

“The spymasters have been sending in some decoy workers. I can tell. They don't know the difference between arc data and data on feet positions.”

“They've been conspiring then. Which ones”

“I think Jérôme from Ferrari has been doing something. Jos is too much of a sycophant to worry about. Our own have been working too, trying to gather what we can about the internals of the investigation.”

“Got anything?”

“Besides detailed character references on Flowers, Saïd, and Poplar, no.” 

“So what can we do instead? Will fighting them be enough?” George asks, as they make their way to the apex of the arena, the very furthest from the entrance. 

“Unless you can do something with the fighters, no.”

You can call a meeting of the union. How long has it been?

George stares into the ceiling, where the rain cover has been drawn. “We have precedent today for the union, don't we? After the trick they played with us in the holding pen.”

Toto smiles, like George is his child and he's told him something spectacular. But then his face sours. 

“They won’t all agree to come.”

“They will,” George says. “None of them want what is about to come.”

Toto steps away from him. From George's angle, his head is surrounded by the spikes of the arena. Like Carlos’ knives. 

“This is the only chance we have left.”

***

Alex traces his hand over the thick pile of reports on his desk. The teams is debriefing Carlos on everything that happened with Mercedes and in McLaren. They're not calling it a crisis meeting. But it is, and he knows it. 

Now that Mercedes and him are formally entwined, with a ceremony due to be held on the Tuesday after the games, Alex can only hold his breath while the others talk. 

Carlos says nothing about Lando, only mentioning that George spat at Oscar’s feet when they managed to escape. James pushes him. But Carlos stays quiet, only claiming that Lando was never going to work with him. 

The meeting ends with the pair of them alone, ready to train in the afternoon. They're not the main event. The schedule, long and detailed it is, will be out in an hour. Everyone fights everyone, but it is the FIA who decides who fights who. 

He knows it will be Lando and George fighting. Oscar will probably have to fight Kimi. They're both so young. Kimi still takes his maths lessons alongside fighting. 

The training space is off to the side of the arena, filled with dummies for them to hack at and rings for them to practice their grappling. It is remarkably desolate. Alex can guess that there is nobody who wants to play at sport while the world is going crazy around them. 

“Alex, want to spar?” Carlos asks after finishing his warm up. 

“Weapons or not?”

Carlos finishes tying his shoes. They look too tight. “We're going to see enough blood for their rest of our lives soon. Grappling can wait. Got your spear?”

Alex nods and grabs it from its long leather carrying bag. They stand at the ready.

Sparring is quick, punctual, perfunctory. Neither of them are really thinking about their movements. They know their strengths and they know each other's weaknesses like the backs of their hands. 

Strategy, carved into the religious words of the Veriquestiona, or the sacred hymns of the Williams houses is where they find themselves residing. The pantheon of gods is a closed box. 

Carlos bares his arms wide, hands white against his daggers. Alex has both hands looser on his spear. The ring is smaller than Alex would like. He's used to making space. 

So they clash, Carlos adept in dodging. Alex makes space, as Esteban and as Fernando do. Spears work with Espadons and machetes in the way that a pair of daggers works with a rapier. 

By the time they end, they're being watched. Max is there by the entrance, hand on the pommel of his sword. He's regal like that, but he will kill them if he has to. Both of them stand back up, facing him. Carlos narrows his eyes, watching. 

He waves his hand, letting them go on. Carlos and Alex lock gazes, but nothing in them wants to do what they do whilst under the spectacle of another. Training is a private affair. 

So they end, weapons stowed in their bags and as they pass on the way out, Max puts a hand on Alex's shoulder, telling him that he is a better fighter than when he was at Red Bull. 

Alex grimaces. Carlos pulls him along. They have a union meeting to get to. The night is drawing in, long and dark. 

***

Fernando Alonso is a man who has been to too many of these meetings to bother writing notes anymore. They normally say the same thing. 

I hate how Ferrari gets to do their religious rituals right as we're planning to train.

The FIA are making our lives hell with their new announcement. 

But what about their hands off approach? It's helping make the games more dynamic, isn't it?

He yawns as he files into the little room. George is already there, Carlos and Alex alongside him. They're pulling the bugs out of the walls. Haas are sophisticated though. They know exactly where to hide them, so even lanky sons-of-bitches like Russell can't reach them. 

Fernando doesn't say a word. 

He takes a copy of the agenda. Simply titled, it is The Triumvirate. The agenda was suggested by Oscar Piastri, he can see. Interesting. That man has more going for him than he thought. 

So he takes a seat, stretching out over the end. He can't wait to see what comes. Lance takes a seat next to him a little later and they talk politely about the things that are coming. 

Aston Martin is the nation of the rich. Always has been, with a heritage that is has. If war comes, they will profit. 

Let the games begin.

***

Carlos closes his eyes as the final people walk in. Of course it is McLaren. Lando is officially the last, taking a seat in the back. He looks strong. Lithe. Ready to kill.

He hushes them all, these boys turned men and writes down the first thing on the agenda. 

There is only one thing on the agenda. 

Charles, the appointed scribe from the bottom of a hat, sits patiently in the corner. Carlos aches then, as his hands type. He looks like he does when he plays piano. 

“There is obviously something on everyone’s mind. Who wants to start?” he says.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. Nobody wants to talk. That is, until Nico Hülkenberg, of all the people that there could possibly be, speaks. 

“Why are we doing this, Carlos?”

George puts his hand on Carlos' arm as he speaks. He pulls it away without trying to show how uncomfortable it makes him, glancing at Charles. “Why do you think, Nico. You've been here longer than any of us. Almost as long as Fernando.”

“These things didn't involve bloodshed before. What's changed?”

“Oh, I'm not sure. It isn't like your photo got us banned from seeing each other. They're going to make it permanent. But that isn't even the worst of it. Your weakness in Mercedes is going to bring about something we haven't seen since the Wars of Potential. And we're here, talking in a room.”

George looks to Carlos for support, who merely nods. 

“Go on then. If you want to fight, we will fight.”

Chapter Text

“Those same lips, protected from harm,
spit viruses of words
straight into my eyes

Until I no longer see 
anything apart from the replicated virus
cycling anew, flaring tendrils, machined and incorporeal.”

Excerpt from Sugar Cubes; poem by renowned author Jenni Calderon. Won the Aston Award for best poem of 1899.

***

When Lando walks into the room where it is all about to happen, the kind face of Carlos Sainz scowls at him. He knows he's late. He's always been the late one. 

He takes a seat at the back and tries not to tell them all that they should just be training with their respective militaries, or calling their families, to hide away from everything. Eventually the violence of war will disappear from their mind and when the metaphorical cannon goes off, the world they know will end. Nobody will be prepared.

Carlos and George, as the leaders of the UFPA — the United Fighter Princes Association — take an imposing frame in front of a large green chalkboard. Nico is arguing with them, telling exactly what Lando is thinking. George points at him after a few words. 

“What about Lando, huh? You all have to know what he wants out of this.”

Lewis cranes his head behind him and watches Lando with a strange eye. 

“I don’t want any of this to happen. We deserve a place in the triumvirate, you all know that. But this doesn't have to involve war. Mercedes, and you in particular, George, have to understand. There is a reason why it has always been three. Always. We have traditions for a reason. Traditions you don't seem to care about.”

There is a silence that separates them. George bares his teeth. “You have no right to say that,” he snarls.

“I have every right to say that. If it wasn't for you and Alex, none of this would be happening the way it is.”

“You're all vultures in McLaren. You know what you're doing. Don’t you remember what happened in the forest?”

Carlos tells him to be quiet. George waves his hand in dismissal. 

Lando glances at Carlos before returning his look to George. “Vultures? The people out there are vultures! We choose to be here. Don't say you don't like the benefits it gives you. Worlds change. Lewis knows it.” He gestures to Lewis. “Fernando too. They've seen changes in the triumvirate since Oscar was born. Since Kimi. We aren't kids anymore.”

He gets to his feet. The gulf of the other fighters keeps them apart. 

Oscar gets up too, but he grabs a chalk stick from the box by the blackboard in this room and scrawls something down. 

Change. He underlines it with a swish. “This is all about change isn't it? George fears change, Lando and I don't. You know that change is good. What about the rest of you?”

Pierre glares at Charles, who is typing furiously away, before saying, “Change destroys us here. If it wasn't for the FIA bringing those rules in back in March we could have hashed all this shit out between ourselves months ago. Wouldn't have needed any of the spymasters to do it.”

Lance opens his mouth. Pierre responds, “Oh don't say that they don't exist. None of us are stupid. We might be awful people who enjoy the flow of blood, but we aren't stupid Lance. Not even you.”

Lando paces over to Oscar, who is a few feet from Carlos. He doesn't look Carlos in the eye. Zak and Andrea's conversation haunts him. But what else is there if not the triumvirate? War? He doesn’t even believe himself.

George faces the room, hand gesturing to the word on the board. “Raise your hand if you think we're going to war.”

The room pauses, nobody wanting to be the first one. Lewis, in the end, raises his hand. The others, the rookie fighters, Isack and Liam, raise their hands. Oscar looks at Lando, before raising his hand. Pierre raises his too, almost ashamed that Charles does as well. 

In the end the room is split. 11 who think war is going to happen, 9 who don't. In the naïve camp, there is Gabriel, Lance, Fernando, Esteban, Ollie, Nico, Yuki, who normally seems only to follow in Pierre's footsteps, Jack, and Alex. George’s mouth opens a little when Alex raises his hand. Nobody makes a sound. 

George scrawls the names down on the board, a line drawn through them. “We're separated by more than just kingdoms, aren't we? I mean look at you. Don't any of you see that this is all a waste? War is an inevitability. Even if we stoped it, even if we turned around and suddenly capitulated to McLaren, this isn't going to stop the Sempre. Or the citizens. There is nothing we can do.”

Lando unsheathes his rapier. Everyone freezes, hands at their hilts. He puts it down on the table and walks out the door. 

Carlos runs after him. “Lando? What are you doing?” 

A cool breeze runs through the outer circles of the arena. “Lando! Wait.”

He turns his head to face his old lover, his new adversary. “What do you want? Huh? You are not mine. I am not yours.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Because I have better things to be doing than wasting my time watching you and George try and play politics better than the fucking politicians. We have the rituals in two hours. People are already here. You are out of time.”

“Why do you want this? I don't understand. You talk about eternal glory all the time, but what is it worth to you?”

“My entire life. I've been fighting for longer than I have ever known you, Carlos. Don't be so selfish.”

That sentence stops Carlos dead in his tracks. Lando stalks off into the evening, back to McLaren. 

Carlos stares at his receding form, dumbfounded. He'd throw away it all for a chance at success? And he calls Carlos selfish? For loving? 

The door behind him is still swung open, and the rest of them inside are talking loud, almost shouting. The decorum is gone. Carlos pulls one of his daggers out of his hilt and looks at it, tracing a finger into the grooves that he knows will be full of blood soon. It sickens him.

He paces back inside anyway, pushing past Charles and Max. George places a placating hand on his shoulder. He whispers that he is currently trying to convince the rookies. 

“Isack, what do you want, huh? You're not so stupid as to think war is going to be a good thing?”

Isack doesn't respond, talking to his idol, Lewis Hamilton. He commands the room without even having to do anything, long black tunic draped over the folding chair. Max, amongst the chaos, drags Charles out with him. He doesn't need to type out the muttering of everything. 

Just outside the door, where the windows have their curtains pulled, shadows of the men inside are almost scary.

“You raised your hand. You did it. Why?” Charles presses a hand to Max’s chest, pushing him away from him. “We’re going to lose everything.”

Max swears under his breath. “It doesn't matter who raised their hand or not, Charles. Look at them. The kids they are. The only thing that matters is that we are aligned. McLaren are going to be good in the triumvirate.”

“No. No, Max. I can't just let chaos reign.”

Max takes a hold of Charles' hand, who pulls away like he’s been branded. “Don't you dare.”

“Oh come on, the report is going to be out at the end of the weekend. Everyone's been talking about it. You think a little bit of oh so platonic handholding is going to make them change?”

“Still.”

“Still what?”

Charles traces his fingers around each other. His face is positively wet with anger. “I am not going to let this happen.”

“You can't change anything.”

“Just watch.” Charles turns his head, watching George hold Carlos back while he shouts at Alex. 

“Charles, what have you done?”

***

Lando storms into Zak's office at the back of the McLaren sector. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, Lando, come in. I'd be happy to.”

“Make me win. I will do anything.”

Zak pulls his shirt down. “What's changed? What happened in the meeting?”

“None of your business.”

Zak stands up. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll stop. There is going to be a reckoning this weekend, isn't there? No matter what the FIA says?”

“The FIA aren't going to do anything to hurt us.”

I know.

Lando smiles. “Then get them to make us win.”

For the first time since Lando has known him, he can actually see Zak smiling genuinely. He's got something stuck in his teeth. 

“Come with me. We won't have a lot of time.”

“Who are we going to see?”

“MBS. Where's your rapier?”

“I left it in there. I'll get someone to bring it.”

So they walk, beating at the floor. Lando takes hold of the reins of his future and prays to one of the gods, any of them, that this decision will make the world better. 

The FIA quarter is not a place Lando has a huge amount of experience in. He has never had to explain himself to the interrogating stewards. Not like George and naïve Alex. Offices line the corridor, near where the television stands are. 

Some of the staff flit around, but most are working to get the broadcast for the evening ready. Zak stops suddenly; Lando has to put an arm against he wall to steady himself. 

“Here we are. You first.” Zak ushers Lando in.

It's a beautifully awful space. There is no personality in it. 

“Lando, my friend, come in.” Lando steps forward. “How can I help you today, son?”

“I need you to help us win. If we don't, the war that's coming is going to be so much worse. Mercedes will have a reason to invade us. They will be able to whip up support. We can't let it happen.”

The eyes that bore into his own are so unlike love.

“You are aware of the gravity of what you are asking, are you not? We are investigating you, just as we are with every other fighter. We are not your friend. We will never be your plaything, Sir Norris. Before you confirm you're sure, I want to remind you that we own your image.”

Lando thinks of nothing at all when he says, “I don't care. Do it. Come on, you know we are going to ruin everything if you don't. There is no politicking that can fix this. I'll do anything.”

Zak and MBS share a look over his head. “Follow me.”

Lando leaves Zak alone in the room and paces behind, scraping his feet against the ground. They weave their way back through the FIA space, to the places fighters aren't allowed. When they stop this time, at a door with no number, it is smooth and languid. It's too warm. 

“I will give you one out. You can turn back. You can leave this, and the rest of the fighters can take you back in.”

“Do it.”

MBS unlocks the door, guiding Lando hand on his back, into a dark room. Two men sit in front of wide screens, watching everything in the arena. 

“For what you want, you have to give me information.”

Lando pauses then. “What information?”

“On the fighters. You can be our inside man.” He smirks. There are shelves behind him with thick binders. He cannot make out the words. 

“No— I—” he turns back towards the door. “Isn't that a bit much, man?”

Reaching behind, the door is locked. He blanches.

Zak and Andrea. Carlos and George. Alex and George. Who else? Oscar and Logan? Would you destroy him? Would he destroy you? Would Carlos destroy you? Would he kill you, if his life depended on it?

Swallowing down, Lando paces forward. Flickering screens show the public streaming in towards the grandstands for the viewers. Police fight with some people outside. The holding pens are empty. It is all being watched. Only the meeting room isn't, where they ripped the camera out of the wall. 

“Who— um, who do you need information on?”

“Carlos Sainz. We have enough on George and Alex to keep us occupied for years. Lewis and Charles are already going to collapse in Ferrari. It isn't our place to interfere with that. Red Bull, well, they are something of an enigma, aren't they?”

Do you think love persists? Despite? Persistence means nothing if you destroy the undercurrent of love. Who is he to you? The man you adore? The fighter you defeat? The man in the way of your dreams?

“I can do that.”

“Wonderful! Now, let's get you back downstairs. I'm sure you will have a wonderful weekend. Go in the grace of the gods.”

That's a non-fighting phrase. Ducati and Toyota are never so callous and crass as to announce the names of gods. So MBS isn't from here. He fought, but he isn't from here. Mohammed Ben Sulayem knows nothing, but he is Lando’s last chance.

***

The meeting collapses. Fernando insults Lewis, who in turn, insults Lance. Lance gets defensive. Carlos gets between them, but is ignored. George stares at Alex. Alex stares at George. Neither give up. Eventually, they all stream out, whispering things about 'better things to do' and that they should 'fight it out in the arena'. Only George and Alex remain, with the traitor’s rapier between them. 

“Why?” George asks, taking a hold of Alex's hand. Sweat runs down the back of his neck. The night is drawing in. 

“For as long as I've known you, for as long as we've been together, we have loved despite. If we go to war, that all ends. I know you think it an inevitability, and pretty much everyone else here does too, but I can't lose you. Not to this. You invaded my home. You stole away to McLaren to try and convince Lando of something he was never going to believe.”

“It's the only way I can manage the outcome. I can control it. I can protect you. I know I can.”

Alex squeezes his hand. “You spent all that time in Williams. You know that won’t work. We are always going to be on the frontline.”

Tears well in George’s eyes. The shell breaks. “This doesn't have to be like this.”

“Then do something.”

George pulls his letter out of his pocket. It's crumpled; the unsealed red wax of Ferrari is still there. 

“George?”

“Tell me I shouldn't do it. Tell me I shouldn't annihilate someone. We are going to war, but I don't know if I have the strength to get rid of some of us while we're at it.”

Alex looks around; there are no cameras. “Open it.”

A seal breaks and the flood arrives. As their eyes scan over the paper, both of them hold their hands over their mouths. Something like this would destroy Max and Lewis. 

“George— this, would it stop what's about to come?”

He places the letter and the photo down on the table. "I don't know. This isn't about McLaren."

“But would it cause enough to cause a change in focus?”

“I have to hope so.  But Lewis…I… When do we release it? Can we trust the Tribune anymore?”

“They are the only ones who seem to be concerned with telling the truth. Release it on Monday.” Alex presses his finger into the photo. “It shouldn't take some of the steam out of the investigation, right? And you'll win on Sunday.”

“Don’t say that. You can't know.”

“I have faith in you, George Russell. You play properly. It'll mean you win.”

Everything rests on Sunday then.

As they suit up later in the evening for the rituals, George hides the letter in his personal kit bag. It'll probably smell of sweat. But sweat is better than blood, isn't it?

***

Pierre watches as the world seems to be in this arena. The screaming is so much louder than normal. In the time between the ritualised humiliation of this morning and now, they've put up netting that will stop someone from throwing things into the arena. 

The Haasian men, Nico and Ollie, get ready to do their dancing rituals. None of them are focused on it. Everyone is staring at each other. When Pierre observes Charles, he cannot tell anything about him anymore. 

The performance ends in applause and Ollie, the tall lanky boy he is, basks under it. In another world, this would be a lot more common for him. But he gets to enjoy this anyway. 

The rest of them get to work, performing their pretend fights. Pierre pretends with Jack. Lewis with Charles. Max with Liam. Even here, Pierre can tell who would win if it really came down to it. 

They come apart again and return to bow to the crowd. Lando cuts a disgusting figure in his uniform. The orange washes him out, so the tan he has just looks plastered on. 

Alex and Carlos clasp their hands and raise them to the crowds, bowing. They are the only ones to do that. Someone must have suggested it. To play at their hearts and make them believe that there really is some kind of love that can exist in the arena.

Chapter Text

“So, Sir Alonso. We are here to discuss the terms of your insurance payment. Can you detail how your injuries have impacted your health and lifestyle so far?”

Conversation held between FIA staff and Sir Fernando Alonso, following a devastating injury during the 1959 Ferrarian Gladiatorial Games. 

***

If a battler slices someone the wrong way, their spine can be severed. Paralysis is the most valuable injury a fighter can get, if they can get a payout from the FIA as the result of permanent damage during a fight. Scars and bruises do not count towards this. No fighter boy cares. Scars are cool, man. 

Charles stretches out his calves in the same way he always has. Back when Fred asked him to go to Haas, he had been doing the same kind of warmup. The world has spun so far off its axis that the traditions he holds don't mean much. The economic state of a periphery territory like Haas is an absolute waste of a focus. 

The tannoy nestled into an eave is tinny and whiny. “Fighters, there are three minutes until the first group game. Those involved, please take your positions.”

Charles grabs a hold of his chosen longsword. He didn't get much of a choice in the selection process, the mad scramble it is to choose between the assigned weapons. Lando and George had almost fought over their choices. No matter, he thinks, for this is hand to hand combat. 

The wide doors open out into the arena proper and the crowd goes wild with joy. Charles is in his group as the only triumvirate member, and the horrible realisation that crawls over him is that he is going to have to battle Pierre here. But no matter. Pierre is the least of his concerns now. He has to win. 

Lando and George are to fight opposed later. Single combat will determine all.

He steps out when his name is called, arms outstretched high above his head. A victory celebration with no victory to follow. Those who follow Yerana and her myths of victorious battles would adore this display.

As is traditional, the fighters throw their weapons behind them and get into their circles. Yuki shakes out his arms. Liam and Gabriel glance once at each other, knowing that to win is to rely on their unique abilities. Charles himself is closest to Alex, whose tall spine bends forward as he prepares to strike. This is a good group. Aggression, elegance, height, agility. 

I should have stretched out my torso. The carriage was so painful. 

“Victory to that who can battle unopposed. Now, are you ready? Let the games begin!”

Battle position. Hands flexed. Three. Two. One. 

***

It’s brutal. Lando holds his head in his hand as the sound of a fist hitting skin echoes across the arena. 

He's in the observation zone, surrounded by the other ten men who are yet to fight. All of them stand, transfixed on the moment. It is battles like these that determine the outcome of the later games. Saturdays are for group games after all, and all gets shaken out in the end. 

George lingers in the corner of his eye, crown perched on his head. They all have to wear them today. The FIA made them do it again. No court dress. It is too hot for that. 

Charles hurls a punch before getting one back square in his face. Lando instinctually holds his hand over his own nose. He's still got a plaster and small splint there after all that went down in the forest. He isn't the bad one. Andrea is still in hospital, having taken a pint of blood already. He can’t dwell on this.

The shouts are cacophonous. Pierre sweeps out Liam's feet. The Sempre go wild. The McLaren citizens smirk. They have no need to worry. Oscar and Lando are later.

The bell rings, first round over. Esteban screams, bitter, ragged, harsh. The overgrown children in the observation deck wave to the cameras on the side, who flash brightly, snapping at their ankles.

Carlos is on his right. They say nothing to each other. Lando can't tell whether he should apologise for everything, in the vague attempt to get some kind of information. No. He isn't going to stoop that low. He has already given himself over to the men at the centre of it all.

By the time he gets back down to see the technicians and the conditioners in the McLaren hub, he can't think about what is to come. 

***

Sweat trickles into Charles' eyes as the bell resounds for the end of the first round. Two minutes goes too fast. Too fast. He can't tell if they're getting the upper hand or not. There is too much salty water in his eyes to be able to read it off the face of his companions. 

Ferrari staff come and greet him with towels and beautifully crisp, cold water. He doesn't have any major injuries yet. Relatively unscathed. Time ticks. Someone scrubs his face with a cloth. Through bleary eyes, the distorted image of a placard reads out. 

For us all, for the glory of us all. 

Glory, huh. What a silly little concept. There is no glory in this. 

“Fighters, get ready. Return to positions. Second, final round.”

He thanks the staff, who runs back, arms full of data and water, to their assigned place. Time for it all to begin again. 

***

George glances down at his feet from his chair in the ostentatiously decorated viewing deck. Is it correct? He cannot tell. He is not superstitious. 

“Ready? Go!” The tannoy is fixed. Less scratching. More refined. Slick and polished, like blood off a sabre. 

Him and Lando are curled up in each other's arms, in the eyes of the fraternity at the centre of the games; they are fighting on same side next. They wont get to face each other until tomorrow. Liam punches Gabriel, who stumbles. Liam kicks out to take advantage, hair plastered to his forehead. 

It's brutal. George wonders whether anyone else thinks so. Of course they don’t. They are probably strategising about the best ways to kill him. 

Waiting is the most terrifying part of the day. He's used to the pain. He’s always given the small cocktail of drugs that allows the pain to disappear afterwards, after the medieval treatment is over. Traditional treatment would leave him in pain. 

In some ways, he thinks that the pain would he the most useful thing here. It would sharpen his senses. Give him the edge he needs for tomorrow. 

But the world does not spin on its axis just because George Russell asks for it, and when the game here comes to an end, Charles' team victorious, someone comes to collect him. Alex, down there, looks up to find George smiling at him, nothing at all behind his eyes. 

Alex finds himself hugged by his team members, James too. The creases that have worked their way into James' skin have for once, disappeared. They disappear when he smiles. This is good, at least. 

He doesn't think about war. Nor George. Only joy, in the wonderful glory of victory. 

***

The break lasts for thirty minutes. It's enough time to set and establish a new space. Clean and rerake the dusty ground. Suit and ready oneself for the epitome of what is about to come. 

Fernando sits next to Lance, who has come back inside from the loss. He smiles at him, brushing a bit of dirt off his shoulder. 

Fernando tries to be placating. “We aren't the main event. Don't push yourself too hard in the group game later. You need to save yourself for tomorrow.”

“Sure, whatever you say. We still lost, though. We aren't triumvirate members, and we don't have the strength to hold our own, with what's about to come. You know this just as well as I do. We can't just act normal.” Lance doesn’t want to hear it.

Fernando takes a swig of water. “What else is there to do, Lance? Wait? Scream?”

“We could choose sides.”

Fernando gets to his feet and paces over to the entrance to the arena from the Aston Martin side. “Out there, there are no alliances. I've been here too long. Too fucking long. It's yourself, or nothing at all. Nobody is going to save you.”

Lance merely shrugs before being led away to get a dark bruise on his arm looked at before later. Fernando merely scoffs. What children they all are.

He is in the second group game. Max will fight alongside Lewis on the opposing side. He is lucky enough to be paired with the new mortal enemies of Lando and George. Though, this is not the interesting thing, he considers. Carlos Sainz is also on the opposition. 

Strategy and politicking can work so well when one is outside the arena, but when you are faced with your closest friend? What will happen is not something that can be predicted. Not in a time like this. 

Fernando pulls his dark, evergreen shirt on and checks himself over. It's always worth being in position a little early. 

***

Carlos puts his fingers in his ears to block out the sound of the crowd outside. There are three minutes left to the next game, the voice disembodied, announces. 

Whoever wins this day, of all random days in the universe, will have enough of momentum to launch into tomorrow and battle it out with Lando. It wont change the championship just yet. They still have Ferrari's games, and all the others. 

But when war threatens to derail all, whoever dares to fight last, wins. 

They pace out, a carbon copy of the events earlier and prepare. Lando and George are on opposite sides, George's hands in a tight curl, Lando ready to dodge and slide. 

Silence. 

A single holler. Shushes. 

And they fight. 

Carlos rushes forward, arms ready to grasp Max by the shoulders and pull him to the floor. He misses, torso ducked under his grasp. Lando brushes past him as he is tangled with Kimi. His skin is warm. 

Trickles of adrenaline flow through him. He sticks his leg out and trips Ollie up. Perfect. Ollie smacks into the ground with a thud. 

They grapple, Carlos above him. Ollie's long arms give him enough room to keep Carlos just away from landing blows. He gives up and rolls away. Ollie isn't to be his main opposition. 

A quick glance to the scoreboard. Points are equal. Performance is equal. George and Lando tag team to drag Lewis down and hold him while George pummels into him. Age is no marker of experience then. 

Carlos flicks around at the sound of shuffling. Too late. He hits the deck and pulls his arms up in a practised manoeuvre. 

His hair is in his eyes. He can't see. He can't see. A foot flicks out and the person falls to his side. He can see now. 

Lando. 

They scramble apart from each other and merely stare. 20 seconds left to win. Lando looks conflicted, and Carlos can't help himself if he wants to tell him that it’s okay, they don't have to fight. But that is futile, so Carlos up, brushing himself off. 

He launches himself at Lando and holds him to the ground. Lando barely fights back. This isn't normal. 

He's not okay. Beat him. You can wait for him later. There is no more waiting now. 

Shouting turns to clapping at the sound of the bell. As the rest of them pick themselves up to be looked at by their staff, Carlos keeps Lando pinned to the ground, hands on his shoulders. It isn't until a McLaren technican hauls him off that he can see the deep half-moons of his nails that have left their marks in Lando's shoulder. 

Someone hands him some water, which he takes gladly. Another gives him a headband to hold his hair back against his head. A third tells him that Lando is his best bet at proving their side good enough for a victory. He nods. 

All so practised. Lando is a bottomless lake. Lago, Lago, Lago. 

It's all too short and before he can conceptualise the poetry of water, they're stood again. No longer lovers. No longer friends. This is what has to happen.

***

George's side loses. He can barely hang his head in shame. Just enough to watch Toto walk towards him and shake his head. 

“Do you remember what I told you, all the way back when you bad ideas got you suspended? We can’t hold you back from bad scores forever. Not when the stakes are so high.” Toto's gaze is too kind for the words coming out of his mouth. 

“I have something.” An attendant gives him a crown and he can barely breathe as it crushes his head into his neck. “A photo.”

Toto grasps the words he's saying and leads him, like a schoolboy again, into the corners of the Mercedes area. Kimi follows just after. 

“I need you to release the photo now. It's in my kit bag upstairs. You'll know the one. Nobody can bring this to you. You must get it yourself, do you understand? Use one of the spymasters to release it to someone from the tribune. We need to cause chaos. Now.”

Toto passes George a towel as people flit past them and through them. “Now? How bad is this?”

“It's enough to ruin a couple of people. It will give us enough of a diversion to be able to focus on McLaren. Come on. Do it, now. We don't have a lot of time before the final round. I need to get in a cold bath.”

They split, nods given as farewells. 

George does not smile. He does not even breathe. He just watches the dust settle from where the last person has come in from the outside. 

Now or never. Alex's patience will get them nowhere.

His elected choice for this final group game is a longer sword than his own sabre. It's a little unwieldy in his hands, but George has to grin through it anyway as his crown is carefully put back on his head. The arena circle opens its wide, gaping jaw and the fighters walk out to do their final piece of brutality. 

It's man against man. The true and the glorified. There is a reason he used to be called Mr Saturday. He could always make something work in a group game. Against all odds. 

All of them turn around as an attendant, a different one to the chaos of yesterday, takes their weight off. They prepare themselves.

No countdown. Only a single, sharp pulse. 

And then it starts. George hangs back, watching and waiting for the moment to arise. Lando is already moving on him, pacing through the distracted others to come for his very soul. The fight will not wait for tomorrow, it appears. 

George turns into a run around the outside, begging Lando to join him. He takes the bait. 

George squeezes the pommel and Lando arcs his chosen short sword high into the sky. He's trying to look terrifying. It's a simple counter. 

One by one, the others begin to fall. This time, it’s Isack first, taken out by Lewis. Then Liam, Alex after, who George tries so very hard not to stare at. Lando clashes with him again before scurrying off to join the fray. He's good at this, and he isn't afraid to show it. 

Something warm and wet hits his face. Blood. From the cut flung at Lance's chin. No matter. Not important. He’s caught up to Lando again. George catches the back of his calf with the edge of his sabre and the scream of pain that erupts from Lando's open mouth is perfection. 

Lando turns, stumbling, waving his sword around like the children do in the junior pits. Scared. Scared little boy he is. 

George drops his sabre; it’s no use anyway at such a short distance. They lunge, scrabbling like they did outside a much more noble place. Angry. Bitter. More bodies, limp and weak fall to their sides. They must be close to winning. 

Someone shouts. Destroy him. Destroy him! For Mercedes George! 

The distraction comes too late as Lando smashes his skull into George’s solar plexus. It is the crushing blow. 

George screams as his arm is pinned down by his side. “Capitulate you fucker. Come on. I have to do this.”

George holds on, waiting. His arm bends further. Any more and it will snap.

“Let me go.”

“No. Capitulate.”

Wrenches further. 

“Fine. Fine. Stop it. Stop.”

“What a weak little man you are.”

***

Lando smiles with a bated breath as George finally gives in. He's one step closer to cementing himself as the leader. The FIA are at his back and he is about to get everything he could ever desire. Mercedes will never risk war if they know hat he would win anyway. 

Oscar, a relegated thought to him, comes to raise his arm. Just like Lewis Hamilton. 

Crowning takes place soon after. But he doesn't care. Not when the journalists are rushing to talk to everyone but him. The pit is awash with strangers. 

“Charles! Charles! Thoughts on the rumour we have just heard?”

“Verstappen! What do you have to say in response?”

“Lewis! Lewis! Don't abandon us! We pay for your lifestyle! Oh come on, I didn't mean it like that!”

Oscar taps him on the shoulder. 

“What’s happening?”

“Something big. Bigger than you.”

A microphone is pushed into his face. 

Chapter Text

“We all tell ourselves lies. It is what we do with them that matters.”

Slate 12 (All-Consuming Truths), Lines 6-7, The Veriquestiona.

***

“I don't know what's happening. Tell me.” Lando begs to the smiling face in front of him. The name tag calls him Joel Radmore, senior editor of the All-Kingdom Tribune.

“It appears your victory in the group game has been usurped by a letter detailing some illicit dealings between Sirs Max Verstappen and Lewis Hamilton. I haven't seen the original document, but what are your initial thoughts, sir?”

The lights are too bright. His shoes are too loose. His hair is sticking to his forehead.

Lando’s handler lingers at the back, blonde ponytail slick and mean. She'll drag him away when she finds out what is really taking place, but for now he just has to hold on. 

“Illicit dealings are exactly what they are, right? They're wrong. We in McLaren pride ourselves on being honest people here. I hope that the culmination of the report by the FIA at the end of this weekend will give us a better idea of how they intend to deal with us. It should make Verstappen and Hamilton reconsider.”

Oscar comes from behind and taps him on his arm. He turns to look. A member of staff from the FIA walks to him. It’s the same one, from way back when he was cold and tired, next to Andrea. He can almost smell the river.

“Ah, Sir Norris,” Joel Radmore starts, “You're needed by the FIA. We will leave you to it. Oscar, sir, how about we go on with you? I see here that…”

Lando paces towards the staff member. It's not an interrogator. Just that same strange lady with waist-length, flowing brown hair. She pulls a little card out of her pocket and reads from it. 

“Sir Lando Norris of the great nation of McLaren are invited to a meeting of the council of fighters in the FIA wing. Your attendance is mandatory. They are waiting.”

So why call it an invitation? Velvet over steel, apparently. 

Lando knows he cannot say no and follows behind her. He's still sticky and hot from the fighting. Whatever they’re dragging him towards, it has to be important to ignore hygiene. 

***

Lando has mere hours to change the world into his own image. Night creeps in. Up in the dark, dusty corners of his mind, Lando ticks down the seconds until the games start for the Sunday event. The results of the fights are going to determine everything. 

Winning the championship won’t mean anything if the countries involved are fighting anyway. 

Him against George. 

Kimi against Liam. 

Charles against Max. 

The world waits. Lando paces forward. The word has come from the FIA. Perhaps this is what initiation is like: clandestine and opposing. 

At the door to Mohammed Ben Sulayem’s office, two guards taken from the FIA posted outside, Lando draws in a breath. He has not been told who is going to be there. But it is almost certain that he will not be alone. Of course he wouldn't be. They are never alone. 

The door swings open, both at once. Some elegance in such an unrefined place. Breath holds in his chest. 

“Ah, Lando. Come in. What a pleasure.” The voice is familiar.

Oh gods no. Him? Lewis Hamilton, dressed sharp and ready to win. He’d left the press pit early.

“What is this?”

“You are finally becoming everything I thought you would be. Come on, have a seat.”

Lewis takes Lando by the arm and leads him to a large mahogany table, set with a green runner down the middle. It almost looks like Aston Martin's colours. 

That is not he important thing. What is so significant is the people. Old fighters. Jenson Button, hair greying at the temples. A chair is set, file in front of it. The inhabitant isn’t there. Daniel sits next to them. Daniel Ricciardo. 

“Daniel? What are you doing here?”

The slightly unkempt face that looks back at him grins widely. “So you made a terrible decision too, huh?”

Lando swallows. Everything has been terrible. But my choice will get me what I need. I know it will. I have to be decisive. For once in my useless life. 

“I made a choice, Daniel. So did you. How's retirement treating you?”

Daniel's mouth purses. “Fine.”

Ben Sulayem strolls in from a side door, hands in the shape of a politician. Everyone rises, Lando included. He speaks. “There isn't much on the agenda today, gentlemen. Though, as you can all tell, we have a new member with us today. Lando’s information should prove to be extremely helpful.” 

A toast resides, water glasses held to him, and then back to MBS. They take their seats after. 

“Lewis, we always start with you. What have you discovered from Ferrari?”

Ferrari. He's selling them out. Did he do the same thing to Mercedes? Is this how they became so weak? Is he the reason I'm here in the first place. 

“The Futura project is going beautifully. I find that there is little opposition by the culturas to their increasingly unstable presence in the court. Charles is none the wiser.”

Lando’s hand shakes and there is nothing that he can do to stop it. Lando shoves it under his thigh and takes a deep breath. This has to be a test. It has to be. 

There is no way that they are just explaining all of their plans, secret, evil, disgusting, out into the world. He could run back and tell — he isn't allied with anyone anymore, is he? Carlos hates him, George wants to kill him, Charles is so enraptured by himself that he doesn't care. 

The best he has is Oscar and that is worthless. Oscar only cares about Logan. 

Daniil talks. “So, Norris. What've you got?”

“I- um. I don't have a lot right now. I've been fighting so much and training more.” It's a good enough white lie. Carlos is hiding away from him. The rest of the fighters don't want to talk to McLaren about strategy. 

Lewis smiles. “That we can accept for now. If we are to make you victorious here, and show the world that mercedes are not worth backing in a fight, we will need confirmation of information by the end of the day. Do you understand?”

Daniel peers over at him, curls in his eyes. “Go on, you can't say no.” The cheerfulness is gone as Daniel's lips close. 

“What happens if I don't? I mean, do I have more time?” Lando asks, tracing a finger carefully over the rim of his glass.

MBS snaps his finger and an attendant, stood in the far corner, eyes cast to the ground, brings along a manila file. It gets slid across to him.

Photos. A transcript. Signed affidavits. People are implicated in this. He turns it over. 

No. No. Oscar and Logan. In Apetit. Them too? His last ally? There’s so much in here. Photographs he should have noticed.

“You're going to ruin all of these people?”

“Of course we will.” Lewis smiles as MBS takes the file back. “And they will know you’ve caused this.”

“Why? What do you get from this? The fighters, they- we don't like this system.”

Daniil speaks then, long face and cropped hair showing his age. “It is the only system that works. It is the only one that works.”

He cannot argue with them all. He has to protect his skin after all. Lando sits back and whispers that he will have what they need by the end of the day. After his fight with George. 

A harsh knock hits the door. 

All of them crane their head around to look. A young boy, foppish and holding a camera, comes in, paper in his hand. 

“You have to see this. You have to.”

It's an article, ripped out of the inner pages of the All-Kingdom Tribune. It is the article, finally confirmed.

THE FUTURA. WHO IS HE?

Lewis only smiles wanly behind him, playing with a ring on his finger that has the same sigil on it as the manila file of the missing person. Lando balks. It's worse than anything they said outside, in the press pen just a few moments ago. They were only rumours. 

They were only rumours. He snatches it out of their hands and reads over it. 

***

THE FUTURA. WHO IS HE? DETAILS EMERGE OF LEWIS HAMILTON AND VERSTAPPEN’S SECRET AGREEMENT. 

Late Saturday afternoon, sources close to the Mercedes houses released a document that contained a supposed photo of a letter sent between Sirs Lewis Hamilton and Max Verstappen, of Ferrari and Red Bull respectively. Though detail is somewhat scare, other lurid details of personal meetings and hidden agendas raise the question: what is really going on in the arena?

Upon interview, Hamilton brushed off the rumours as they circulated in the arena, ears pressed toward him. “Even if this supposed letter is true, what does it show? There is no lurid detail. There is no name. This Futura could be anybody. That is all you will see from the Mercedes camp now. They're just jealous I’ve left.”

Hamilton’s tone was significantly more forceful and bitter towards his former house, who he won so many championships with. Trust is running thin in the arena. We do not know what is to come next. More to come.

— The Editorial Board. 

***

“Turn on the news,” the boy says. “It’s on there too.”

A square and boxy television sits on a low table. All of them curl around it, just as the children of the United Territories did as the moon landing happened. This is a much worse occasion. 

It tells them the same thing. Jenson looks to Daniil. Both of them put a hand on the other’s shoulder.

Lewis almost laughs. “They know nothing. Of course that's the letter someone got. Of course it is.”

“What is Futura?” Lando tries, pushing to see what he can get. They've already allowed him in here. He just has to make it work. He's held on. 

“Sit down.”

Lando does as he's told. 

“I am not going to tell you anything more than you need to know. Futura is both a person and a project. The person is not important. They're the content of that useless letter. The project is why we are here. It is why we need your information.”

“You need my information on Carlos? But what does he have to do with anything?”

“You're thinking so small, Lando. Carlos, as much as he is a good fighter, is meaningless in the grand scheme of it all. You know what the purpose of the FIA is, don't you? To keep fraternity and peace across the kingdoms. This project, ensuring the future and protection of the FIA's interest, is going to help with that.”

“But what about the rest of you? Daniel, Daniil, Jenson, I mean this nicely, but none of you are fighters anymore.”

Daniel only smiles. “Now that's where the person comes in. Who hangs around the arena, Lando?”

Lewis stops him before Lando can respond. “No. Deniability remember? I get you want him to be useful Daniel, but come on now. He's barely off the ground.”

Lando looks up once,to the ceiling. A chandelier hangs from it and all Lando can imagine is the ball again, where Lewis told him that he was the right kind of fighter. 

“How long has this been happening?”

“Since before you were born, Lando.”

“What?”

“You're not important. Even me, I’m not important. I just add to the pile that the spymasters have been creating.”

“So what is this?”

“Just tell him, Lewis,” Jenson prompts, hands loose on his sickle. “He's going to go searching.”

“Who controls the games?”

Lando almost second guesses himself. “The council. They're hands-off, aren't they?”

“They are. But they are not useless. You remember the document from after George and Alex being found talking in that hot tub?”

“Of course I do. It's what has lead to all of this in the first place.”

“Who controls the controllers? Who makes the games work in harmony?”

“You.”

“And who controls the future?”

“You.”

“Exactly,” MBS says, cutting in. “We control everything. We control you, we control everyone fighting. We control the flow of information. And you are going to help us stave off war. We will make you win. The rest of them will all in line.”

Lando starts panicking, then. But he has to control it. The walls close in. He is nothing but a smaller pawn in a game that has been going on since before he could conceptualise the word love. Love is everywhere. But it means nothing. 

They let him go with a pat on the back and a small reminder of the threat that his lack of response will give. The destruction of his only ally. Complete loneliness. Exile. 

All this for peace. 

What a waste. 

***

The morning after, after fitful sleep and a breakfast thrown back up into a toilet, Lando pushes himself in his training. He has three hours before the world comes to heel. The nerves are there, of course they are, but he knows that the FIA will have his back. George won't do what they expect him to. 

He is a weak man. He'll heel. 

A bandage covered in a poultice of herbs and ice is wrapped around the long cut on his calf that isn't clotting as it should. No matter. 

He can fight just as well without it. He's got the flexibility and the agility. 

Zak is in his office upstairs. Lando cannot hear what is going on above. 

Zak, it turns out, is having his world shattered in an instant. A doctor holds out their hand, showing him a long, thin wire attached to a little pack.

“This was found on Andrea's body when he was sent to hospital. They have released it back to us. I thought I’d show you now before anyone else.”

Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal. Zak wants to kill Andrea. 

“What was he recording?”

“He wasn't, well, not exactly. It recorded some data that was sent off immediately tos a designation simply known as the Futura project. It happened when he paused the recording. Instantaneous.”

“When?”

“His conversation with you, we believe.”

Zak roars at the man to get out. He has to think.

Downstairs, Lando is alerted to the presence of Fernando Alonso and Lance Stroll who have come to talk to him. How strange. Both of them are fighting early. They shouldn't be here. 

He paces over to the door that opens into the corridor that circles around the entire arena. “Fernando, Lance, what can I do for you?”

“Where is your fighter's room?” Lance asks, unable to make eye contact. 

“What's happening?”

“I can't tell you here. Come on.”

Lance and Fernando follow him up to his fighter's room. None of them make themselves comfortable. 

“We think Mercedes are planning to really destroy you. Death, even.”

Fernando is a veteran of this. He wouldn't lie, right? Aston Martin are up and coming, so what do they have to gain by lying?

“Why now? I can't tell how they’d even try to. I've been leading the championship all year.”

“We don’t either. But we thought we'd tell you. It's the least we could do.” Fernando smiles at Lance. “We don't want to lose anyone else at the hands of this,” he continues, scar down the centre of his back visible through the thin cotton of his outfit. 

Neither of them know about the Futura Project, do they? They are just being altruistic. How…sad.

“Thanks guys. I'll see what I can do.”

Both of them smile as they leave. There is no bad blood. Only designated resignation. 

***

George Russell sharpens his sabre with a whetstone, dry rags next to him. Kimi sits on the other side of their comfortable bench. 

“Are you scared, Kimi?”

“I'm terrified. This isn't. I don't want to fight.”

“You don't have a choice, and you know you enjoy it.”

George puts down his sabre to face Kimi properly. He's as white as a sheet, hair a shock of brown curls. “You will be okay.”

“What about you? This is going to cause war, George, if you lose.”

“You don’t know that.”

Kimi snorts. “I'm not a kid, really. You can tell me this stuff. I know what is about to happen. They've been making me train harder, you know?”

“I know. I'll win. I will. I'll do what has to be done.”

Kimi smiles at him then. George reciprocates before the first bell of the day responds, echoing. It's Pierre against Esteban. 

***

Charles sits up in the top corner of the observation deck. The arena is unlike any other. The Sempre are all holding torches of flames, smoke curling into the early evening air. McLaren citizens are hurling insults at anyone who isn't with them. So brutal. 

Mercedes citizens are chanting traditional songs from decades past. All of them are clad in silver. The same silver shirt, as if someone passed them out outside. He holds the gaze of a young man, perhaps 20, who stares him down. 

Pierre fights well, dodging out of the way. But he is no match to Esteban in hand-to-hand and loses, gracefully. Someone throws something, but it hits the net and Charles watches Pierre start to hurl an insult before getting pulled away. 

Max is alongside him, body pressed into the back of the chair. 

“That first round was good, right?” Max asks.

“Great. None of them care about these fights. I know you don't either, huh? You're only interested in the main event.”

“Oh Charles. Don't speak to me like that.”

“You wanted to go this alone. Fine. You give what you get. But don't come back and try to talk to me like none of what has happened has changed anything. Because of course it has.”

Max sits up, back straight as a rod. “You can't seriously have expected me to give all this up? I expected you, Charles, to not have begged me to work with you. Don't try and change tack now. It’s not a good look on you.”

Charles is rendered speechless. The next rounds are about to happen soon. He has to stop thinking and start fighting. 

***

Fernando straps himself into his shoes and begins his final preparation to step outside. He is not the main event, but for the sponsors and for those who care about him, he still has to put on a good show. 

The doors open. He steps out and arcs his machete to glint against the light. The crowd cheers. He takes it all in. 

***

More fighting and the time is drawing nearer. Carlos makes sure his clothes are ready, neat and pressed by someone who he does not remember the name of. They are diametrically opposed to McLaren. If he looks past the dust kicked up from the others fighting, he can see Lando and Oscar stretch off each other. They grasp on for balance. 

He scoffs and turns back to his daggers. He's going to need them. Against Alex. Because this is the draw of the year where kingdom fights against itself. Nobody likes it. It is normally the main event. 

Not today. 

Someone barges into where he is standing. A McLaren worker. 

“You, Carlos. Come with me.”

“What? No. I have a game to prepare for.”

The woman ignores him.

“What is this?”

“Zak needs to speak with you.”

“I haven't done anything?”

The staff member, with a surprisingly firm grip, takes a hold of his bicep and drags him along. 

“Hey. Let me go.”

“Ah, Carlos. There you are.”

Zak's frame takes up his eyesight. They're in the doorway to a random, empty room. 

“Who gave you the right? I haven't done anything to hurt you.”

“Oh no? Then explain this.” Zak pulls out the wire. “This came from Williams.”

“That's not from Williams. It says it came from Williams but we aren't the only ones to use those. Ferrari have some, so do Mercedes. Any why me? You could have asked James. Someone could have just stolen it.”

Zak speaks in a half-whisper. “Oh Carlos, don't you think I missed you after you abandoned us for Ferrari? Of course I'd want to speak to you first.”

“Like this?”

“What has to be done has to be done. I will not apologise.”

“Can you let me go? It isn't ours.”

“You're treading on some thin ice, my boy.”

Carlos slips back out through the door. Awful. His head swims.

***

Later, as the moon starts to come across the sky, George stands at the ready. Final game of the day. Everyone else has fought already, and are probably about to watch him give the experience of his life. They are all about to watch him take on Lando and determine at least something about their future. 

Charles and Max come off the arena. From the points, he can see that Charles won by a slow capitulation. Fine. Max is still beating Charles. Neither of them are battling for their place in the triumvirate. But less time to think about them. 

“Now then. Are you ready? It is time for our final fight of the day! On the left side we have Sir George Russell of Mercedes. Tall, strong, ready to do what has to be done.”

The doors swing open and George steps out, posture tall and beautiful. He bows once to both sides and walks to his place. Adrenaline flows through him like a scared kid in the dark. 

“And on the right, our championship leader, our golden boy, Lando Norris of McLaren!”

Lando runs out, rapier already out of its sheath. His hair, shaved at the sides, bounces. He's boyish but the clothes he wears tells a different story. 

They pace around in circles. 

“Capitulation or death. You know the rules.”

Love lies under us all. May Priteran save me. 

“Three. Two. One.”

And the crowd erupts. 

***

Lando is blindsided by how quickly George moves on him, sabre cutting directly towards skin. He hits the floor and rolls out of the way, trying to sweep George out from underneath. 

It doesn't work. He climbs to his feet. 

A sound rushes through his head that is a combination of adrenaline, blood and the roar of the crowd. People are fighting above, in the seats. George goes for his thighs. Lando returns with a nick from his rapier. The cut on his calf has finally scabbed over. 

It all moves so fast. The time ticks through and eventually they drop their weapons, hand to hand. Lando has normally won against George, when it has come down to it. But there is something different. 

Something furious. Something destructive. 

George tackles him, like a rugby player does. Lando winds himself falling. Someone shrieks with fear in the observation deck.

George pins his hands by his sides and starts punching. Down. Down. 

Lando gurgles a little bit of blood. This isn't supposed to be happening. Someone will stop it. 

Another punch. His nose is broken again. 

“Stop. Stop. I- let’s go back-”

“Shut up.”

George punches his jaw. The world swims above him. 

He knees George to the groin. The mass above him moves away. It gives him just enough time to get his rapier. 

But when a man is so weak, grabbing a weapon that requires finesse is useless. He takes a look at his hands. 

George gets him again. Nobody is stopping this. Or maybe they are. 

Sound swims.

The cuts come next. Cuts to his side. Blood. So much. 

Lando presses his back into the ground and braces himself. Someone will come and save him. 

Nobody is coming. Nobody. 

George above him has blood all over his face. 

The last thing that Lando can see is pure darkness in front of him. He cannot think. Something warm touching his arm. It feels like Carlos. He knows it isn't. Carlos wouldn't ever. 

The world falls away.

Chapter Text

“The world knows nothing about what it is to fight for peace. I cannot do it any longer. How could you let this happen?”

Lines from the ‘Retirement Speech’ of Nico Rosberg, given to the press at the culmination of his championship-winning battle in 1960.

***

George thinks of nothing at all. There is nothing that can be done to change the violence he is committing. Lando gurgles beneath his bruised and split knuckles, begging for him to stop. For what? A chance to cut him down?

Never again will he wait for a man to destroy him before he has a chance to defend himself first. 

So George keeps punching, down and down. Something cracks and another gives way. The people above yell and scream, but he watches nothing but the destruction. The acrid, sharp tang of blood fills his senses; he blows out his nose, where the liquid drips into his nostril.

The pulp of man underneath him is quiet now. Lando’s rapier, the thin little thing it is, is so far away. Commentary is screaming above him in a voice that sounds familiarly distant. An old voice, one of Mercedes. 

Gates swing open behind him. He stops just for a moment and watches the scene below him. He has won; nobody will claim otherwise. Yet there is no sweet release of happiness. 

Arms haul him back: men who he does not recognise by touch alone. How strange it is to be touched by someone unrecognisable. He struggles against the chains that bind him.

It’s Carlos’ voice that tells him to calm down.

Carlos holds him back, from the body. He's never touched him like that. 

George drives himself forward again in response. The body is his. Nobody can say Mercedes haven't won. 

“Stop it, George. It's over. Can’t you see what you’ve done to him?”

“This isn't over until McLaren know it’s over, huh? Look at you all!” George cocks his head upwards to the crowd, where pale, sick faces have turned from anger to pain. “This is what you wanted right? This is nothing compared to war.”

Carlos clamps his hand over George’s mouth. He could bite it, bite the hand that feeds. Others now, the other fighters, staff, hundreds, meet them there. 

“You don’t know anything about war, George. None of us do.”

The nameless crowd in the stands stare at Lando's form. The blood flows into the ground freely and too quickly. Pounding blood too fills George’s ear, rushing blood. 

“Someone get me a stretcher! He has to go, now! Where's the gauze?”

Gauze, fine mesh. Charles Leclerc and Max Verstappen loom large at Lando's side, glancing between George and the body below. The commentary keeps talking, a ceaseless beat. 

Through the haze, as it clears, the words become clearer. “This hasn't been seen since the days of Lewis and I. Something so violent. It only makes sense that it would be one of our own.”

So that is who it is. Nico Rosberg's voice, one unheard since the culmination of the Gazella games, where his commentary is seared into the memories of all who support Lewis.

Carlos drags him away as Alex comes into view. Sweet, perfect Alex. The one who wouldn't hurt a fly. The one who shouldn't be here. His shoes scrape against the dirt and the neck of his shirt chokes him. He pays it no mind.

Carlos stops and drags George to his feet. Alex has no kindness. He slaps George, just as Charles punched him. George spits out and the red tinge of the saliva is enough to make him ravenous for more. 

“You fucking stupid man. You idiot. You could have killed him. Wasn’t the letter enough?”

“Oh come on.” His eyes are delirious. “Don't talk to me like you don't know what's about to happen. It's for the greater good.”

Another slap this time, to the other cheek. The Veriquestiona has a provision for that. As Alex is pushed aside by the guards of the FIA, the ones who wear the dark blue cloaks, he glances back at the people attending to his enemy and reminds himself of the slate. 

Our enemies know us like the way a moth knows a flame. Burn brighter and you will destroy their hating love. 

Ferrari are going to be destroyed by whatever will come of Lewis. Hands drag him down and down into the underbelly of the arena, pressing bruising touch into his bicep. Pain means nothing anymore. He has caused enough chaos for a lifetime. The scared child who inhabited the Maya Ayam hotel has finally grown up. 

Some other guards leave him in the locked office of Christine Flowers, who has left to attend to the chaos outside. Through the door he can hear the shouting. Hours pass and he cowers there, skin plastered in the sticky blood. 

Nobody comes to get him. Perhaps they cannot find him and he will become one with the wall when he dies and rots, mould blooming into flower. He sits in the corner and closes his eyes. 

Despite all the training, despite all the conditioning and technical prowess George has cultivated, his heart pounds thick and fast. There is nothing that can stop the flood tide of fear. 

The room has no windows, only a tea-maker on the desk, files in a locked drawer, roof tiles that he cannot see through the black eye blooming on his brow. Lando must be in hospital somewhere by now. They'll come and crown him soon. Mercedes has won. 

Another indiscernible period of time passes before the door swings open with a slam and he is hauled out again. The arena is dark now, but the crowds are still there, despite the lights being away. Incense hangs low and thick in the air, cloying.

The Sempre. 

“Where are you taking me?” George tries, but the bearded man violating his space glares at him and says nothing. He is wearing the soldier's uniform of Haas. 

The door they arrive at is flanked by the mercedes guards that comprise Mercedes’ elite bodyguard unit. The silver arrows. Surely they are not going to just return him?

“Stand aside, this one is here to see your leader. Haas is neutral ground.”

Words are useless; the guards at the door know who George Russell is. Both stand aside, and the door opens. His body is released from its grip and he has to remind himself to stand up on two legs. He is no dog. Toto opens the door, grabbing his shirt and hauling him into an armchair that clearly was taken from another room. It's too comfortable. 

Toto squeezes his shoulders, hard and biting. “I could kill you right here. Do you have any clue what you've set in motion?”

George smiles through his split lip. “We've won, haven't we?”

The burning blackness of Toto's eyes match his withering stance. “Don’t be such a child. Of course we haven't.”

“But we beat him. I beat him. I beat McLaren.”

“Stop sounding like a petulant child George. I thought you were better than that. Don't you see? They let him win. They announced him as winner. The FIA. You nearly fucking killed the kid and he  is still the winner. I begged them to let me have three minutes with you, so I’m only going to ask this once: what were you trying to achieve?”

“Peace,” it slips out of his mouth without hot breath. “If we win, the world will bend to us.”

Toto pinches his nose. “I'm not going to argue that ridiculous idea. But you need to know this. The FIA are going to make an example of you. War is going to happen, and you've lit the fuse that is going to destroy everything.”

“But what about the letter?”

“Lewis Hamilton is a man with smooth skin. He got in contact with the commentators. I don't know what he said. But Nico was in that meeting. I knew he was lying to me, all that time. James didn't need to be so stupid.”

“What?”

“It doesn't matter. We will fight for you. I will at least, but the world wants to see you dead. You killed the golden boy of McLaren. Don't expect to see the inside of an arena ever again.”

George shrinks into himself. Toto leaves him there; he has to go and sort out his problems, but not before mentioning that the FIA is going to be taking him soon. Locations are uncertain, but wherever it is, it will not be good. He cannot bring himself to care. What else is there? Exile? Exile doesn't change the fact that without the Formula Games, there is no chance for him to be replaced by some child. Some of that eternal glory that lando was so incessant in caring about will be etched against his name.

The guards outside, he can hear, are arguing with some of FIA staff. Their weapons won’t hurt them, George knows, and his suspicions are proven correct when the door opens and Christine Flowers and Edvard Saïd are flanked by burly guardsmen. 

“Sir Russell, come with us.” Edvard extends a hand.

He stands without much opposing, for what worth is there in reacting now? Nothing he can do will stop this. 

“Is Lando alive?”

Edvard pulls him forward and George walks down another corridor without so much as a glimmer of a response. If Lando is dead, he can reason, they'd have him executed. They'd make it an accident. The death penalty hasn't been allowed since the days of the Tyrant Gods of Renault, centuries ago. 

Haas’ underbelly is awash with people running in every direction. Over the tannoy, the types that haven't been pulled from the ceiling, he can overhear announcements of Sempre violence and McLaren invading the arena to try and touch their dead child. 

Mohammed Ben Sulayem's office door is not what he has expected them to bring him to. 

It opens without them having to do anything, and the leader of the FIA watches George warily. under his shirt, it is painfully obvious that he is wearing a stab vest. As if George would do anything, but then again, maybe it is not George that he worries about.

“What do you want from me?” George asks, knowing that nothing he could say or do would make the situation any worse. They have him in chains. 

“There is nothing I could possibly gain from you that we do not already have. Come on. Sit down. Standing there is a waste of my time and yours.”

George takes a seat on a long table that looks like it should hold secret meetings. There is no way though that they actually would. They wouldn't be so callous. 

“There is not going to be any pleasantries. The only reason we aren't dragging you in front of the crowds now is that to them — to Mercedes — you are a martyr. How preposterous.”

George bites back a smile that threatens to crack his blood-stained face. It’s starting to itch. 

“They know that I’ve done the right thing by them.”

“There is no right in the arena. Do you not remember what I said to you, all those days ago? The world is a dangerous one, George.”

George rolls his eyes, hands interlaced on the desk, as if he is expected to show that he has no weapon. “Just spit it out. Come on. What do you want me to do? Who do you want me to betray?”

“Like I said. There is nothing about you we do not already know.”

“Then why am I here?”

“To tell you of your punishment. Though, you already know exile is inevitable, once the council get involved. What you don't know is the outcome of the report. That silly thing didn't get leaked, for once.”

“So what is it? Is the report just going to say that I am some degenerate who loves? You already took a photo of Alex and I in the hot tub. What else is there? You have nothing that says we are anything but friends.”

“George, you boy, we didn’t take that photo. It was given to us by Lewis Hamilton. Just saying something, or giving us information doesn't stop the world from changing. Alexander Albon is not going to be present in the arena anymore.”

The world tilts on its axis, lurching forward.

“What? I was the one who did this. It’s me you should be punishing.”

Mohammed smiles, with too many teeth for his small mouth. “You are going to become the face of the Futura project. Don’t play coy with me son. You know exactly what this is.”

George stays quiet, knowing that revealing that he only thought Futura was a person would get him worse off. 

“You are going to become the voice of change. We will exile you in time, of course, but we will expend you where we see fit. You will never again know what it means to have 'friends' in this place.”

A lump sits in his throat. It shouldn't be Alex. They’re not serious. They can't be, right? 

He plays the only card he has left. “You're kidding. you just want me to reveal myself in the court of souls. You wouldn’t hurt him.”

“You can think whatever you want about us. It doesn't change the world has now collapsed for you. Mercedes may very well go to war against Mclaren, but the games will bring them back. It always does. Commercialised peace that postures at war is so much more profitable than war itself.”

An economic argument George cannot fight against, but one that he knows will eventually be proven wrong. 

“I don't think you understand the vitriol.” George gestures at the windows, where the men move like ants from up here.

“I grew up in lands that have never been touched by the stinking hands of fighters. I know what good peace can bring. And if this involves bloody battle in an arena to do it, I will do anything I can to truly get peace. Sharp sticks destroy childhoods.”

George is dismissed to be sent to a cell in a Haasian prison while the riots in the arena are quelled. He will be taken, prostrate, in front of the world soon enough. For now, the cool stone of the ground greets him. It does not register that the exterior wall of the prison is being hurled with firebomb cocktails and stones. Mercedes is coming for him. 

Chapter Text

“[A]nd when Equoya met with the Alfettas, the men of the first lands, in the Before times, she proclaimed above all that they are to love with dignity, hope with admiration for their ancestors, and become one with the Home. For theirs is the world.”

Ending to a tale commonly known as Equoya and the First Men. As published in the Umare, the sacred tales of the folk religions of Williams.

***

Quiet comes over the United Territories in shouted silence. Everybody knows that war is on the horizon, yet this strange reluctance to be the first one to trigger pain clutches at their throats. No kingdom is yet willing to enact what is to come. 

Williams is no stranger to preparations. McLaren, with their finest fighter struggling for life in hospital and their team principal still recovering, prepare their stockpiles. The Tribune writes that the legislature of McLaren are meeting in the capital to vote on imposing autarky.

This own kingdom’s calls for autarky come thick and fast, growing with each new day. In theory, Williams could be self-sufficient in food production, but the luxuries of new clothes and military equipment have to come from somewhere. They could of course take goods from the functional factories of Mercedes, but the ruthless pirates that come to inhabit the Urthce during stressful periods are an insurmountable challenge. 

Carlos puts down the file he's reading that tells him as much and waits for everyone else to enter the training area. He's called them here this time. The official Entwining with Mercedes is scheduled for later. George Russell will be accompanied by the FIA. Surprise washed over him with a cold wetness when he read that George wasn’t going to be exiled. Something far worse must have happened for that to be the best option for him. 

Leaving the table aside, he stands and wanders over to the training dolls. One of them still has the eye holes destroyed. In the time that has passed since the day Mercedes came knocking on Williams’ door, the world has ended and the man Carlos once called a love is in hospital. 

Blood soaked so heavily into the sand that it clumped together like a child’s sandcastles. Everyone screamed. Some people left their seats and tried to flood the arena, pushing and shoving past each other. Nobody told Carlos what was happening; he was barred from looking at the body by Alex, but the blood was enough. The blood was enough. 

After the security forces of Haas had whisked all fighters away from the arena proper and the seats in the observation deck, Williams had let him cry his eyes out in a back room. They'd given him the key to lock the door. He cannot remember the last time he unlocked any door, or latched one closed behind him. Someone is always in need. Someone always needs so much more of him. 

Carlos paces back and forth, unwilling to train. They've been pushing him, in the words of James to “Make him ready to become the banner man of the great house of Sainz”. None of this posturing will change the fact that he will probably end up dead on the ground, blood soaking into his skin, just as Lando had. 

Lando isn’t dead. You don’t know. Nobody knows.

He stifles down the lump in his throat. After the staff had let him finish crying, some members of the FIA had come to ask him about what it was that he had seen. How much; what kind of violence. That wasn't enough for them. All of the survivors — George Russell aside — had been dragged out to the are again, where it was devoid of anything but the smell of burned-out torches. 

McLaren’s awarded crown and laurel, black opals and dark orange fabric to match their house colours, was put on the plinth. Lando is the winner of the 1969 Haasian games, with only his dying body to show for it. 

Over in the distance Carlos watches Alex sauntering towards him. He has to get out of his own head. Now is not the time to be scared of what is to come. Though, of course, nobody mentions that when they are faced it's the decisions that should be left to the generals, under the surface, they are nothing but children. 

He puts up his hand to wave, which Alex returns, wan smile breaking through. Neither have their weapons. Entwining ceremonies do not earn violence. Peace comes as a consequence of love. Love in the arena comes as a consequence of peace. Not war. Alex reaches him and puts both his hands on Carlos' shoulder. 

“Whatever happens today, it is not our fault. You have to know that he didn't mean it. George isn’t a bad person.”

Stifling down everything that tells him that Lando is a worthy lover of a man like him, Carlos responds, “Lando is nothing to me. You were not there in McLaren. You saw nothing of the kind of man he is.”

That sentiment is enough for Alex to become quiet again as the staff work around them both and prepare for the day to come.

Tables and chairs, decked out with the motto Independent Always creates a dichotomy between idealism and reality that Carlos tries not to think about. Someone presents the outfit: silver and blue court dress, fabric draped over their shoulders like fighters of old. Alex's diamond circlet sits snug on his brow and Carlos' own crown presses in the wrong places on his face. 

James, Claire, Pat and a couple of the major players in the legislature come to greet them as they wait around for the Mercedes delegation to arrive. It is due within the hour and a full state visit will be mandatory after the ceremony, as if they haven't seen the buildings already. At least, George and Toto have. Kimi hasn't, but he is the child of this conversation. There is nothing much he can do but stand there and look pretty for the cameras. 

Carlos doesn't know either George will be brought in chains or not, or whether they will hold their knives to his throat and parade him in front of the world. Videographers are preparing in the distance. A girl wanders around with them, clipboard in hand. Her jacket mentions that she is from the Argentum University of Applied Sciences. He shrugs and moves on; there is always going to be some level of intellectual interest in this. 

Time ticks on and as the final preparations are in place, the crowds of staff and delegations come to take their stance, lining the cobbled driveway up to the Home. One car arrives, then another, before the sirens and trumpets erupt to announce the arrival of the delegation. 

Time to shine. 

James stands first, Alex and Carlos on either side, pushing their chairs back with their thighs. The slightly cloudy, cooler day of the Growing Season means that they are not too uncomfortable. Toto exits the sleek car first, shaking James' hand. Whatever agreement they have made in the past means nothing. Their smiles are real. 

Kimi comes next, looking refined in a sharply-tailored black suit that matches his beautiful crown. Alex is the one in charge of meeting him. “No. Don’t even think about it. You do not get to see George,” James had said. “It's too much of a risk.”

George then is the last. He is not in chains, or at least, none that he can see. Four FIA guards and one Christine Flowers accompanies him and the scathing whispers of the crowds fill the air. Someone waves a cue card to tell them all to be quiet; they are on camera after all. 

Handshakes are made, and behind George’s eyes, Carlos can see all the words he wants to say. Yet, he is a dog on a leash now, and there is nothing more head do to make his treasonous self known, not while the FIA are here. 

“Now then,” Toto says as the six men come together, “Let's start the formal processes. The interesting conversation comes after.”

Entwining is not complicated. All that is truly required is rope and wax. This is, of course, a perversion of the marriage ceremonies of the United Territories.

It begins with the tying of hands together, twisting and turning all the way up to the elbow. No chance of escape. Anyone would probably make a fool of themself if they tried. Soft beeswax follows, smelling of whatever someone desires, ladled over the hands. The hands hold each other with entwined fingers and thus the name is born. Solemn oaths are said, romantic in the case of tradition, fraternal in the case of this perversion. 

The ceremony ends with the shedding of binding, for the gods one is supposed to believe in are witness to the unspoken, unseeing bond that combines two people. Or two kingdoms. 

James and Toto go first. Neither of their families are here to witness is this. Such an Entwining is a distinctly masculine affair. There have been no female leaders who have ever taken part in such a momentous event. In the words of the hating traditionalists, they are not enough to do what is good for the many. Mercedes has picked rosemary as their scent, in reference to their home traditions. Williams has picked patchouli. Calm. Nourishing. Peaceful. 

“By the grace of the gods known and devoured by Solura, we find these two kingdoms entwined in their leaders.”

Solemn claps takes place as James and Toto unbind themselves. It turns into hollers as the crowd beneath the erected stage gets a first look at them. Neither James nor Toto look each other in the eye. All of this has to go off without a hitch first. 

Alex and Kimi are next. Alex asked for the  wax solution to smell like frangipani. It's George's favourite flower, though Carlos only knows this because of a chance conversation back from his early days. 

***

“What's that?”

Alex has in his hands a dried, pressed flower. The colour has faded, but the shape is recognisable. “It's an old memory of mine. Don't worry about it.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I was given it the day I went to a beach back home as a teenager.”

Carlos smiles. “Who by?”

“George. He was being such an asshole that day, and I think he gave this to me to cheer me up.”

***

Alex and Kimi’s ceremony goes off without a hitch. Words are repeated, the oath said. Most of the crowd cheers. A camera gets a close up shot of the white knuckles Kimi has in his closed fist. Nobody can see his glistening brow of sweat.

Carlos’ turn now, with George — already bound to the supranational — next to him. They step forward, where the spymasters of Mercedes and Williams can be seen from the corner of his eyes. 

“Do you, Carlos Sainz Jr, swear upon the soul that you will do naught to betray your partner across kingdoms, in blood, anguish, peace, or serenity?”

“I do.”

“And do you, Sir George Russell, swear to do the same?”

“I do.”

Entwining was never something he's considered discussing with Lando. Not that it matters. Lando is probably watching this on some television somewhere, assuming they've kept him awake enough to be aware of his surroundings. Assuming he isn’t dead.

George's red, bruised face visibly softens as the warm wax is poured over it.

When they come apart, all six of them stand shoulder to shoulder and bow deeply towards the citizens who have somehow come from the capital of Grove. For them, their independence is being tempered. For them. 

Ferrari must fall, of course, but for now, there will be no falling if they cannot stand against McLaren's tyranny. 

The cameras cut, and the production manager signals that the crowds are free to leave. Photographers are still there, along with some reporters. Some local, some from Mercedes, a few from the All-Kingdom Tribune. He will probably be expected to answer questions later. 

George takes off, walking away and beckoning Alex to join in. They start walking back towards the military headquarters. The beautiful dome is not far from where they are. Carlos follows. 

Toto and James catch wind and follow too. 

“Stop,” someone says. Carlos cranes his head to see. “This is impermissible. Sir Russell, you are to come with us, while Alex Albon is dealt with.”

Alex protests this, stepping down from the wooden stage. “You can't take me anywhere. This is my home. I am not outside the arena anymore.”

George's face goes pale. There is something that he is not telling; something he is not revealing. 

Carlos stops. “George? what's going on?”

The speaker steps into view. Christine Flowers. “You, quiet. Russell, you are to return to Mercedes and fulfil the duties you have.”

“Alex- Alex I’m so sorry.” George pulls against his arms, as they are held by one of the guards. “Please let me say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” Alex shoves the guard stopping him aside. “What do you mean goodbye?”

“They're getting rid of—”

“What? Stop, hey, let go of me. George what are they getting rid of?” Alex is manhandled apart. 

“Y—”

Some nameless uniform shoves their hand over George's mouth and drags him back towards the waiting series of cars. No carriages today. No horses. 

James and Toto finally catch wind. James storms down the stairs. Toto looms behind, as if he knows.

“What is going on? The report is due tomorrow. You can't be taking him for interrogation? Now? We are Entwined. This is sacred!”

Flowers smiles, waving her hand to allow the uniform to take Alex. “There is nothing more sacred than following the rules. Alexander Albon—”

Alex is being pulled by two members of staff, the other just arriving. 

“You have no right!” James shouts, “You have no right. Let me say goodbye to him.”

The stoic face of Christine Flowers does not change. “You are to be exiled under the sanction of president of the FIA, Mohammed Ben Sulayem, for perverting the course of justice, unauthorised conduct with Sir George Russell and lying under interrogation to an FIA staff member.”

The blood drains out of Alex's face. “No. No. Please. James, do something.”

James gets between Christine and Alex. “You cannot be serious. There is a process to this.” He looks back to Toto, who merely looks away.

They’re dragging him away. Carlos pulls Alex's circlet off his head. 

“You have one minute with the other members of Williams. You are to be exiled with immediate effect afterwards. Do not overstep or we will terminate this early. Let him go.”

Alex does not run. He does not fight to escape.

Carlos rushes over and hugs him. “I will do everything I can. I will get you back here, do you understand?”

“Why is this happening? What can I do?”

“The why is not important. Is there anything you need doing?”

“Tell George I love him. Find out what’s happening. Don’t forget me. Please.”

Carlos lets go and nods. James is still arguing. Alex tells him it isn’t worth it. 

Resignation paints itself onto James' face. He hugs Alex, whispering something that Carlos cannot hear. The minute ends in a hushed quiet. No bombastic fanfare. Only the camera shutters picking up in the distance and the petrifying fear of being known. James waves off the Williams military escorts who stand ready to fight for their prince. What worth is it fighting an organisation who have been given the right to destroy what they like?

Someone is pulling the strings, and for as long as Mercedes and Williams are entwined, Carlos will find out why. George is an ally, sure, but he is no friend. He cannot forgive him for what he has done to Lando. But Lando is no longer his. 

He has to come first.

Chapter Text

A young girl, newly enlisted in the Mercedes army, brushes the dirt off her skin. She can't get the dirt out, a dark brown stain now stuck into her knuckles. Down below, off the cliff she gazes out from, some children from one of the beach-front towns of McLaren play in the ocean. The border is directly below her feet; cliffs are impenetrable. 

Perhaps that is why her squad were sent here. She is a reconnaissance officer after all. All those photography classes in school have helped her secure this position. Father had been so proud, through his bushy moustache and hardened face from years of factory work. Though, of course, the salary is better if someone enlists instead of being conscripted. 

In the words of George Russell on the posters, “You are what brings victory to the nation.”

But she's seen the news. She's seen the photos that have come out of the Haasian arena. Lando Norris, the kid her age that everyone used to love, beaten to a pulp on the ground. He's probably dead, she reckons, brushing coarse, dark hair out of her eyes. 

Behind, the smell of cooking rations fills her with anticipation. Today is the day, after all, that they make their way down the cliff to the border proper and sneak through. They've been given the best, and last of their rations for today. Good meat and the citrus fruits that they can finally get. 

Mercedes’ own vote on autarky has so far failed and the girl grins at the thought. Dark rye and corn bread is some of the worst food imaginable. Her tour of the National Memorial Museum said it was ‘like eating death’. 

“Hey, Garcia, come get something to eat.” The voice is Liam, her counterpart out here. He's always been so kind. Some part of her sees herself loving him. 

Garcia’s boyfriend broke up with her when she enlisted. An immigrant from a small town calling itself Pantganete, he couldn't deal with loving someone he might have to kill. She’d hid her tears as they trained her in fighting with knives. The elites on the screen make it look so easy.

Waves develop down on the ocean and the dark, dark beach. Black sand washes up with seaweed and seashells. In better times, the town bustles with both trade and tourism. 

She saunters over to Liam, taking a bowl of noodles and broth. Liam has always cooked the best out of the ten of them. Always given them the best chance. 

Garcia smiles. “Thanks for this. What time is Captain Florence sending us out?”

Liam shrugs, noncommittal. “I think as soon as we've packed down.”

She nods in return and eats quickly. Anticipation moves through her, and despite her lack of reverence to any of the gods, Garcia says a small prayer anyway. There is no harm in trying. Religion is important sure, but it's fading in life.

Lemon cake is dessert, washed down with some filtered water from the small amount they've got left. The air smells like smoke as she goes to wash her pot up in the nearby lake. It shouldn't, but it is windy, so she bears it no mind and goes back to the rest of them. Liam, Jemima, all the people who would give up their lives for her. 

The ones who she loves and wants to see succeed.

Marching is hard, bags sagging against their already beaten backs. A couple hours of hiking carefully through the Marshlands and down towards the wire fences patrolled by so many other soldiers whose names and faces she will never get to know. Never love in the way that comrades should. 

Liam jostles up next to her. Captain Florence, with his severe, wind-beaten face, pays it no mind. The cover story of being a touring group works better when there are no formed military divisions. 

“Are you doing alright?” he asks, glancing down at her. His mousy brown hair brings out his scarred eyebrow and muscular shoulders in a way she cannot afford to think about. 

“My back hurts but it can't be that far from the border, right?”

Liam checks the newly given satellite-enabled map. It tells him the position. He did study geography and geology after all. Someone has to be in charge of positioning. “About two hours. think you can hold on until then?”

“Yeah, I'll be fine. Can’t wait to sit down for lunch.”

Something thuds. A stone against a log. 

Everyone stops in their tracks and readies their hands on their hidden weapons. She curses herself for not enforcing the rule that they should be carrying knives and swords. Gunpowder was outlawed in the Territories after the wars. 

Something saunters out. A man, in clothes torn and half-falling off his skin. 

Captain Florence takes his place as the leader. “Can I help you?”

There is nothing that can be said for what comes next. The grin, the shit-eating, evil grin that passes over the feral man's face etches itself into Garcia’s mind so viscerally she holds back tears. He looks like a story book villain.

“I said,” Florence enunciates, more forcefully this time, “Can I help you?”

“Who are you?”

“We are a touring group. Off to the border. We want to go walk the beach paths down in Ackham, you know the one, it’s got the black sand.”

A pause. The slow, rolling breeze of the late morning makes Garcia’s hair stand up on end. Will the lie hold? The great lie of them all?

“Let me get my friends,” the feral whistles, and it’s shrill. “You wait here.”

“We're going to get going, you enjoy yourself.”

“No.” The feral man pulls out a sword from a bush. “You wait.”

They move to combat positions but it is too late. Garcia can see out the corner of her eye that they are surrounded. It’s too late. Battle it is. She's never seen combat before. 

“Liam?”

He looks down at her and smiles. “You know what to do. I'll be here with you.”

Captain Florence takes a disengaging step backward. “We don't want anything to do with you. We just want to get to the border.”

He's the first one to fall. A child, perhaps just touching teenage-hood, hurtles out of the trees and gets him in the back of the neck. The chaos that follows barely registers. 

It culminates in death, bloody and so viscerally real. Florence’s corpse, still warm, leads to Jemima dying to a spear in the throat as she trips on it. A feral screams as Liam throws his only remaining throwing knife into the heart of one of the enemy. 
 
Garcia and Liam are the last two standing. Bile rises high in her throat. 

As they surround her and Liam, her hands shake like a leaf. Father always told her it’s a good thing to feel the emotions. It means they are real. She grasps a hold of Liam’s hand. There is nothing feral about these people. Not in their hair that has remained unmatched, nor in the paint on their faces. Her own is covered in blood. 

“Who are you?” she asks, trying to see if she can salvage a deal. Liam squeezes her entwined fingers. She’d have Entwined herself with him one day. 

“We are the new world.”

The speech. The one Zak Brown just made on television, about Norris dying in hospital. This is war. This is what war looks like. 

“You're McLaren?” she asks. “Why are you doing this? We didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Why are you doing what you're doing? It’s kill or be killed,” the feral man says.

“Please don't let me die,” she pleads. Liam shushes her. “Please, he's too young to die.”

Liam closes his eyes and exhales. Garcia’s last view of the world is of the slow curve of his lips and the way the light bends over the clouds. The child rushes her first.

Pain is endless. Their bodies are found two days later, hands still Entwined. 

Chapter Text

“Christine Flowers, do you accept the roles and responsibilities of becoming an officer of the FIA?”

“With my soul, bound. I swear to uphold the tenets of the FIA in all duties, present and future. I swear to uphold fraternity, peace, honesty and ruthless discipline to serve the needs of the United Territories.”

Christine Flower’s oath, recorded as ‘accepted with gratitude’ (one of three official designations) in her personnel file, held by the Mercedes Intelligence Committee.

***

The last thing Andrea Stella expected to see the day of the Haasian games as he lay feverish and infected in his sweaty hospital bed was the screaming announcement over a tannoy that a prince was being brought into the hospital. Code gold, they call it. No other code golds have been called since.

Andrea glanced over at the window of the door to his private room and watched the nurses and doctors rush down. This was a week ago. Three days ago, the bandaged and utterly shattered face of Lando Norris was wheeled in next to him, draped in a papaya orange blanket, clearly taken from the castle. He was flown in as an emergency, on the fastest private plane owned by anyone across the United Territories: a plane owned by Lance Stroll’s father.

In the present, Andrea watches as Lando still hasn't woken up, with the tick, beep, tick, beep of the medical equipment next to him showing a heartbeat that is too high for someone as athletic as Lando is. All of this is so modern, he realises. The old, old treatment given to princes after arena matches is nothing like this.

Intensive care units such as the one Andrea and Lando find themselves in are still relatively new, and the technology to monitor heart rate and blood pressure are cutting edge. What they do have, however, is a television. As Andrea's health gradually improves, with physiotherapists coming in to take a closer look at the muscles in his shoulder each day, all he can do is watch the news. Zak has taken up the duties of a leader. 

Wall-to-wall coverage is of the attack of George Russell on Lando Norris. There is a side note always that says that Andrea Stella was put into hospital by a suspected agent of Mercedes, with the undertone that the attack was orchestrated by George. Yet, he is relatively ignored. This is until the day of a surprise speech by Zak Brown, to give an update on Lando's condition. He has not been to see him. There aren't even any flowers. From the whispers that Andrea has heard, some of the fighters are planning to visit. 

There is a part of him that knows that if Zak visits, the recording pack that they found on him would finally be used against him. Catastrophising never helps anyone, but when the worst case scenarios are playing out in front of him, and there is little more he can do than recover in a hospital, Andrea reckons he is owed some time to panic. 

Every time a nurse enters the room, a little part of him tries to run away, to jump out the window and make a dash for it. The recording pack not only included audio, but the locations he has been visiting officially. Military bases, the legislative chamber that sticks out like a sore thumb in the center of Leslia, his bedroom, Zak's horrible office. 

To track his movements was to allow for the FIA to draft plans for contingency in the case of autocracy. It was an agreement he took with Mohammed Ben Sulayem in the clandestine space of a back alley, like the movies he watches on television. 

It is on the second day of Lando's recovery of sorts that the first crisis call is given. A spike in heart rate and an exceptionally low blood pressure leave Andrea relegated to the end of the room, rolled out of the way. Behind the curtain, he can hear them talking about severe lacerations and major trauma. How Lando is lucky to still be able to walk. 

After stabilisation, the curtain is removed and the first flowers are placed at Lando's bedside. A nurse, hair tied in the ways of Nissan, brings some gardenias. Andrea has no clue why she does it, besides grief at near death. 

More flowers follow in the days to come. Some guards come and stand by the sides of the doors, sturdy swords and broad muscles providing the two men with enough protection to survive yet another fitful night. Both have been selected from the Sengard, the elite of the military's close protection battalion. 

The television keeps on going, as the days tick pass and Lando's hair matts into greasy balls that will need a thick hairbrush to comb out. Military scuffles in the border regions. Still nobody has come to visit him. Unequalled riots in Aston Martin begging for action against their neutrality. Lance and Fernando on screen, proclaiming the need for peace. Mohammed Ben Sulayem in discussions with the leaders of the non-fighting kingdoms. Zak Brown stating that Andrea is recovering well in hospital, a bitter balm, considering that as he watches, a kind physician is cleaning some of the infected, dying skin from the wound. 

Though, he is the lucky one. Lando is still here, in the room that smells of chemicals and lost love. The television breaks at the culmination of Zak’s speech. Nobody comes to fix it.

It is the middle of the night, slow blinking lights of the machines around them twinkling like the stars in the forest. Oh, the forest. Oh, the stupid need for protection. Lando’s first visitor arrives, alone and afraid. Carlos Sainz, in the relaxed uniform of a Williams prince at home, is let in to the room by the guards. As to why they do not kill him, in response to invading McLaren, Andrea does not fathom.

“Hello, Andrea,” Carlos starts. They’ve barely talked since Carlos left McLaren to find sanctuary in Ferrari all those years ago. 

Andrea tilts his head up from the small, useless pillow he has been given. “What are you doing here?”

“Something long overdue.”

“They still don't know if he's going to wake up,” Andrea says, tilting his head towards Lando, who looks almost peaceful, lying flat on his back. 

Carlos sits on the visitor's chair, which squeaks in movement. “Is he going to die?”

Andrea closes his eyes in the pale darkness and tries to feel nothing at all. “I don't know. If he does the world is going to end.”

“Haven't you seen what happened today? Haven't you seen the riots? Haven't you been told anything?”

“I don't even have a get well soon card, Carlos.”

Carlos curses under his breath. “The FIA are trailing me, I know they are. They took Alex today. It's why I'm here so late. We can't visit anyone alone.”

“I know. What do you mean they took Alex? He isn’t part of this, and I was told the interrogations ended a while ago by now.”

“When do you think you're going to announce war?” Carlos tries. The alliance between Mercedes and Williams is formal. So perhaps this is treason, Andrea reckons.

But what worth is it staying silent while a person is dying in front of your eyes?

“I don’t make that choice. None of the fighting teams do, you know this. I think the legislature is voting on it in the next week. They’re afraid of it as much as I am.”

Carlos, in the darkness, is only a shadow. Andrea doesn’t know if he’s simply resting his hand on the side of Lando’s bed, or holding his hand. Neither matter, as his head pulses with pain. 

“I want to kill them all. Ferrari, the FIA, the people who keep us here.”

So naïve. “You’re a strategist, Carlos. You know exactly what will happen if you kill anyone important.”

“Exile. You really don’t know what happened with Alex, do you?”

“No. No I don’t.”

“After George attacked, I think they knew that getting rid of George’s only friend here is enough.” 

Andrea can hear Carlos sniffing. He doesn’t hear crying. Carlos stands back up and begins to walk to the door. 

“Carlos, before you go, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure. Ask away. You know I'll just lie to you if you ask for too much.”

“What do you want out of this?"

Carlos stops in his tracks, fingers against the door handle and takes a deep breath. “For the longest time I’ve wanted Ferrari to collapse. You do not get to know why. Now? Would it be easier to say I want peace? I do not know anymore. My father once told me of the great tales from the Wars of Potential, of the sacrifices people made in the battles in the borderlands of my home. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to fight like them. I visited their memorials and watched every year as the Truths proclaimed glory and victory over our enemies.

“So I ended up here, through both my merit and the name of my house. Yet, when I sit and watch the people closest to me weak and dying, what worth is it to want destruction? I will fight. Of course I will fight, but all of this? It just seems so worthless.”

“Are you lying to me now?”

A soft chuckle. “For once in my life, no. You’re easy to talk to.”

***

Lando’s breath worsens over the next day. It rattles and shakes and someone mentions to Carlos, in a hushed whisper that it is pneumonia. None of the drugs the hospital has are working well, something else about a rushed order from Ducati. Yet, Ducati want nothing to do with McLaren anymore. When Andrea asks if they can use his name as leverage, the stranger only says that they’ve already tried. 

There is nothing Andrea can do but wait, and wait. Seven days after Carlos’ visit, the worst announcement he can conceive of is finally declared, and the sanctuary of the forgotten room of McLaren's finest is broken by a doctor who bursts in. He’d been eating ice-cream.

“You need to see this,” the doctor says. A television on a wheeling trolley is brought in and despite Lando's coma, he is raised to an angle where if he were to wake up, he would be able to see. 

The news cuts to a live feed, grainy and black-and-white of the McLaren army decked in their finest. It cuts to Zak, and Oscar, who has his head swung low, walking onto a stage. 

“What is this?” Andrea asks. If this is war, why didn't they tell him? He’s the leader of the fighters. He trains soldiers for a living.

“When the Wars of Potential culminated in the apex of peace known across the territories as the Formula Games, nobody could have foreseen the possibility of today. We know, as do you all, that the current triumvirate is a failure. The Formula Games are what gives us peace. They are what allow us to prosper. So when that failed nation says that we cannot take their place, what else is there to do? We must defend our homeland against those who wish to weaken us. For that is our right. Red Bull, our now loyal ally, knows this too. For those of you watching in your homes and in your public places, join us. Join the new world. We are the arbiters of change. We are yours, dutifully and forever. We have established our new military campaign in the border.”

Our own child, Sir Lando Norris, is in hospital. I have visited him multiple times since the ruthless, savage attack by the usurper Russell. He is well, and wishes to thank you all for your kind words. He tells me that this is for the best. Our other faithful servant, Andrea Stella, is also recovering well, yet we have been unable to reach him so far. Forever Forward.”

Things fall quiet at the culmination. No shouting. No screaming that he can hear. Only the thrumming beat of his heart and the denial of the truth. Lando may die here. They are at war with Mercedes. Alexander Albon has been removed from the arena for reasons he doesn't truly understand.

“Can you get me a telephone?” Andrea asks. “I need to make a call.”

The doctor's mouth is slack-jawed and wide. Those piercing eyes have been reduced to nothingness. He nods his head once and rushes out of the room. Andrea leans backwards and screws his eyes shut, drowning out the tick, beep, tick, beep. 

***

Christine Flowers comes to the door that evening, fresh from the publication of the final report into the Breach of the Peace, showing her special visitor's pass to the guardsmen. Smiling at them, she knows that they'd let her inside even if she didn't have it. This is what decades of public service gets you — power. Control, even. She pats her side; they didn’t metal detect her on the way in. 

Andrea Stella, the man he is, manages to get to his feet when she arrives, fresh clothes acquired from somewhere. He doesn't look emaciated, and from her glance to the side she can see that Lando Norris is less pale than the intelligence they have suggests. 

“Ah, Mr Stella. You mentioned you wanted to see me?”

“What have you done?”

She smiles politely and takes her seat. 

“So you've finally seen the news too. You remember our agreement, don't you?”

“Don't think I could forget it, even if I wanted to.” Andrea turns the lamp next to his bed on and hacks out a cough. “Is any of my information actually useful to you or is the FIA just making a fool out of me in the name of control?”

Christine slicks back her grey-streaked hair. “You know it’s useful, gods, I’ve even shown you as much. How could we have gotten Hamilton to get that photo of Albon and Russell if you hadn't allowed us access to the building?”

“What worth is it working with him anyway? I mean, it isn't like Ferrari are exactly the force to be feared.”

“Of course not, you are. But you forget that before Hamilton was ever a prince of Ferrari, he was a prince of Mercedes. We are just interested in the future.”

“The Futura project, you called it. You still haven’t explained any of this to me. You probably never will, and I’ve made my peace with it, but when everything is happening, what am I supposed to do?”

Christine stands then and draws herself a glass of water in the low-light of the room. “That silly thing. It's so old that I barely remember when it began. He’s a part of it now.” Christine points at Lando’s form. 

“Lando? No. You’re kidding me.”

“He came to us of his own free will.”

Andrea doesn’t respond. 

“He’s giving us the information we need on Williams to destroy the Entwined countries from the inside. We told him that Ferrari were going to collapse, but you know they’re not. They’re just going to become a little easier to control. It’s useful to have something so simple.”

“Because you— it’s all about the religion isn’t it?”

“The Sempre are a scary, if stupid faction. If we get them involved internally, then what worth are the Prancing Horses of the calvary worth to the wars to come? Not much, it seems.”

Andrea crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t understand how you can do this and still say the Games are about peace. We are at war, Christine. The FIA don’t have their own army. They have the fighters. But what else?”

“Peace comes as a consequence of bloodletting occasionally. We are far-reaching enough to stop the fighting from the top when the time is right. If we let the people believe that only the acts of the FIA are enough to end war in ceasefire, then they will look to us the next time things go wrong. We are replacing religion everywhere apart from Ferrari. Just look at the fanaticism. The Futura project is about dynasties. Dynasties of fighters and dynasties of peace. Us at the helm, of course. We are not the enemy here,” Christine says, standing back up from her seat. She passes over to Lando. 

Andrea jerks forward, wincing in pain. “Don’t touch him.”

“We would never hurt him.”

“You’re a liar.”

“We are the new world, Andrea. There are reasons as to why we don’t let them love. Fraternity is the easy way to describe adoration. When someone has something forbidden to fight for, they will do anything to live. Performances are one thing. Eventually, the dust will settle and the arena will be cloaked in blood, and these boys will finally understand what it means to love one’s country over themselves.”

“That’s what Rosberg said, during the Gazella games.”

“You’re receptive. There’s a reason we keep you on. Love drives all, doesn’t it? Rosberg has Hamilton. Ricciardo has Verstappen. Norris has Sainz. Charles, well, he had Sainz. He’s alone now. Stroll has Alonso.”

Andrea gets to his feet, slowly swaying and swallowing down vomit. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this. You have no clue if I’m trustworthy. I mean, sure, I’ve given you enough information, but this?”

Christine leaves Lando’s side and comes to stand in front of him. She moves her hand slowly to her hip. “Sometimes, things have to be done that we don’t like. As to why I’m telling you this, I thought you deserved at least the majority of the truth before the end.”

“Like Lando in the arena?”

“No,” she smiles. “Like this.”

Before Andrea can wrestle with her words, Christine puts a Mercedes badge in the drawer next to his bed. She guides him slowly to the blankets. 

“I feel pretty bad, Christine. I shouldn’t. What have you done?”

“Ricin, Andrea. Strings have to be pulled taut. You’re a liability now, being caught by Zak Brown.”

Cold, cold fear comes over him. “I’m going to die?”

“Yes. Russell’s mistake was not killing you outright. Brown has been onto you for as long as you’ve been in hospital. Why do you think you’re alone?”

“I-, I…”

“Shh. Be quiet. I’ll call for emergency help in a moment. They’ll keep you comfortable until the inevitable. Some people have to be scapegoats.”

As Andrea starts to scream, Christine pulls the cord for an emergency and rushes out to find help. Lando gurgles into semi-consciousness to glimpse a team of doctors and nurses rush to Andrea’s bedside, as the strange view of the horizontal of Christine Flower’s face glances down at his own. 

Andrea Stella dies two days later, Lando delirious and drugged through the process. He doesn’t know where he is.

Chapter Text

“Oh me, oh my!”

Ending to a song by popular singer Carlotta Regret, during her field performance of her award-winning song “Adoration” to the soldiers of McLaren, based on the new front with Mercedes.

***

Sometimes, Oscar reckons, life is not meant to be enjoyable. It is meant to be endured by those who can take it, and dismissed by those who cannot. Those who cannot find themselves clutching at straws in desperation, and those who cannot find themselves dominating the world. 

Watching the training soldiers below him in this field is one of those moments, where he has to come into his own, or devour himself and perish. Andrea is dead. He died, functionally alone. Zak lied to him about it, when the news started to drip in, claiming that it was not assassination, not the devious work of Mercedes, but instead Andrea's own fault for not putting up a fight. 

But as the boys below him learn how to wield a sword for the first time, Oscar cannot help himself but to think that what they are now fighting for will kill the weak. They have to win, though. McLaren have to bring the final, truest peace to the triumvirate. It is the least that Logan deserves.

Lando is finally awake, or so they say; he has been so enraptured by the miltiary's need for him that he has not even been to visit. Someone from the spymaster's cabal whispered to him that Carlos Sainz visited in the early hours of a morning, the potential assassin himself. Oscar could only laugh at that, as he picks his nails remembering it. He knows why Carlos Sainz was there — it is the same reason he was in Apetit. Love. 

A commander below, hair in wild wind around his head, shouts at a new conscript that there is nothing he should be afraid of. McLaren have the greatest force on the planet. McLaren are his parents and his friend and his lover and his entire world now, so he should pick the sword back up and not do his country wrong. Oscar turns away from his dais and paces down to where the meeting with Red Bull is about to take place. The crisis in the aftermath of Andrea's death, the crisis where he cannot afford to think too hard about the past. 

“Hey Zak, are the final things in place? Do I need to go and get into court dress?” he asks, watching as Zak's impatient stare turns vaguely paternal. 

“Yes, go. We need you on your best behaviour Piastri. Can't have any other traitors dying on our watch.”

Oscar roots himself in position, trying to draw strength from the ground as the shock hits. “I'm sorry? Do you think it was me who gave Stella that capacity to destroy us from the inside?”

“So you deny it?” Zak says, turning away to look at something else.

“Of course I deny it. What are you trying to get at here? It could very well have been Lando, or someone else entirely. You were the one talking about how you trusted me over him, in those talks in your office. You trust me. Don’t pretend that you don’t. Everything I have ever done has been in service of this place.”

Zak sneers at him. “Go and get ready. Being a fighter prince is a glorious task. Even now, in the midst of war. You are a prince, and it is your task to show us to the world, as we should be. It is your job to lead the military. Why do you think we chose you in the end? Do you think the citizens care about your intentions, your hopes, your desires? Of course they don’t. They want the new fruits we can give them and the jobs that war provides. Whatever you do, you are in service of them. Remember that.”

Oscar recoils at the power that courses beneath those words and holds his tongue, passing by Zak’s frame. 

Ferrari are not attending, even in their new alliance with Red Bull. Charles, as the face of neutrality, has managed, Oscar thinks, to draw the kingdom into neutrality with McLaren, despite Lewis' public show of support. Though, that alliance is perhaps the least of their problems, from what the local press is saying. Young girls, sent on missions of conversion by the various temples, have been found lounging around strip clubs in Ducati and even in some of the small towns near the borders with the other fighting nations, selling themselves in order to fulfil their piety quotas. How many gullible young boys can believe that a girl loves them and follow her back to Ferrari? 

The Sempre is up in arms though. Despite the war, despite the proclamations, it is this destruction of zealousness that has been their primary issue. So, final-slate-rule Charles Leclerc has had his hands full publicly with that. The private letters he has sent Charles, however, in his vague attempt to convince him to join with Lewis in public support have been returned, unopened. 

His own pile of letters, the ones worth keeping from Logan, have traveled with him to this encampment. To leave them at the castle is to be so recklessly stupid that Alex Albon would be proud. Nobody has heard from Alex in the time since he's been gone. Two weeks, perhaps more; time is a fickle friend to the soldier. Exiles try to give their expose of the system, usually, upon their removal. But exile comes with a name. A branding of the non-physical, a stain upon the soul, in the eyes of the dead religions. 

Upon entering his own tent, larger than all others, Oscar is greeted with a thick sheaf of papers on his desk that he cannot remember owning. Upon closer inspection, it is the final copy, the final say, of the FIA in the case of the breach of the peace. 

FINAL VERSION: BREACH OF THE PEACE INVESTIGATION INVOLVING THE GREAT NATIONS OF MCLAREN AND MERCEDES.

He skips forward to the conclusion, methodology and puff pieces aside. 

It is in our opinion, as the council overseeing the direction, capacity and legality of the games, that the movement by McLaren into their position in the triumvirate is neither disruptive on a permanent scale, nor a grave violation of the sovereignty of Mercedes. The actions of the now-exiled Alexander Albon and reprimanded George Russell only solidified the need for change within the triumvirate. We accept that this does not follow the peace convention of the Bloodless War, yet we consider internal strife, as was the case in Alpine distinct and unique from the scale of these kingdoms. McLaren are poised to become the leaders of the next generation, holding the fraternal bonds of this world in their arms. 

As it pertains to Mercedes, the interrogations of Toto Wolff and other associated figures across the nation are to begin shortly, alongside their military presence. The FIA stands alongside the acts of war, removing the corrupt and the oligarchic as they appear. It is our judgment that keeps the world safe. 

Since the end of the Wars of Potential, the world has clamoured for peace. Who are we to deny them that? Of course, the debate as to the place of ourselves in the running of the Formula Games is there, but we disregard this. What else would replace us? Who else is at the apex of understanding the relationship of these games to the world? Not us, we say. The FIA has brought a peace to the world that before the final battles of the War in Ducati, was dominated by destruction and reckless personal interest. 

Fraternity, and peace in brotherhood is all that matters. Take this as a statement, to culminate our role in society. The actions of the fighter princes, in their degenerate loving of each other not only disregards tradition, but jeopardises their capacity to love their country. In the words of former champion Nico Rosberg, they must learn to love their country over themselves. 

Oscar puts the papers down with a trembling hand. He's done it. He's gotten away with murder, of the political kind. The FIA have finally agreed that they are right. Max will be thrilled when he hears about this. The two of them, facing up to the establishment and their stagnation and coming out on top. 

Smiling to himself, he dons his finest clothes, the orange cloak he was coronated in, the diadem with the House of Piastri's new white opal, a compliment to the black of McLaren. The clothes smell like must and dust, but what worth is a little discomfort, when all is so beautiful? He runs his hand through the soft cotton and softer silk, smoothing down a wrinkle and facing himself in the mirror. 

Nothing can change the way the world is going to go. 

Waiting is a boring feature of time, and Red Bull know how to extend their dominance over others by forcing them to wait. 

By the time the full caravan arrives, Max and Liam on horses, carriages trailing behind them, Oscar has resorted to counting the individual blades of grass. 

“Forever Forward!” the first chant resounds. Oscar stands at attention. “Forever Forward!”

The army battalion they are visiting is in formation, shoulder to shoulder, weapons hanging off of every shoulder. Neat, sure. Trained, no. Max, in his formal armour, the plate metal worn during Red Bull coronations, has a large lion crest adorned to the back, in orange-coloured gold, the kind taken from the mines in Fighting Bulls. 

Zak greets Christian, hands clenching each other too hard. Given the absence of the most senior fighter, Oscar is charged with handling both of the others. 

Oscar tests the waters. “Sir Verstappen, how was your ride?” Alliance or not, disrupting Max is a recipe for disaster. 

“Great, yeah. My ass hurts though.”

Friendship and fraternity it is then. 

“When is the funeral?” Liam asks, hair slicked back and formalised. 

“Next week. We're delaying some of the first moves of the war until it is over. We think Mercedes are going to try something in October, given the season being better. Means we can bury him now."

Liam nods, hands behind him, tapping the end of his quarterstaff. Being the only fighter without a slashing edge makes for a nervy man. 

They come to gather into what Oscar has termed the Deliberation Tent. Without the formal rooms in the castle to determine what is going to happen, the movement of people is into tents. Zak and Christian sit at either end, a wide expanse of white birch between them. Liam sits opposed to Oscar, as would be normal. The chair next to him is empty, and Max stares into the abyss of a man who is no longer there. 

“So what is it that you want our support with in the war to come, Zak? Men? Logistical support?” Christian ponders aloud. 

"You have the best intelligence of any kingdom that is not the FIA. Give us everything you have on our enemies. Data, names, logistical capabilities. We have the military might, but with your work at our side, this war will be over before it has even begun."

Christian ponders this as Max asks, “And you'll give us what in return? We're not a charity here.”

Oscar returns, “What do you want, huh? It isn't like Red Bull need another vassal state in Fighting Bulls.”

Christian retorts, “They are not a vassal state.”

“Then what are they? Really? I mean, there is nothing normal about the constant manipulation of fighter positions between you two. Lying is not how we work through alliances. Gods above and below, you know how Sebastian was when he left. He made such a show of detachment from Red Bull that he joined his childhood dream just to step outside of your control.”

"Oscar, be quiet. Christian, mate, listen. You want what you want. Our minerals, our steel production factories. Access to the sea. We just need your information for as long as this happens. That can't be so hard, right? You can convince the legislature down in your part to agree. I mean, for what it's worth, you are their leader in all the ways that count."

Christian agrees with a curt nod, standing up and walking out before anyone can stop him. When Oscar leaves the plush chair to follow after Zak behind, he's dismissed to make some kind of small talk to Max and Liam. Maintain decorum, perhaps. Not let them see the training lest they turn on him. 

“Liam, could you get us the maps from the horses?” Oscar asks, smiling as politely as he can to the rookie fighter in front of him. 

“What? You don't have servants in here?”

Max hits the table. “Just do what you're told. You can always be sent back to Fighting Bulls, Liam. You remember what Helmut was talking to you about the other day.”

Liam's fingers curl around his quarterstaff. “Don't talk to me like that.”

“I talk how I need to. Now go, come on. Don't want to keep us waiting.”

Liam huffs and storms out, muttering to himself about unfairness. 

Max exhales and starts again. “What do you think is going to happen in the war, Oscar?”

“I don't know, Max. We've come this far right? We managed to convince the FIA that we haven't breached the peace—”

“Ironic considering where we are. Your letters have been really helpful in turning this into a real alliance. I don't think the information my dad was giving Christian was actually useful. He's not good at it.”

“Then why keep him around?” Oscar glances at the fabric-draped walls, almost glowing with the morning sun, high-in the sky. 

“They're not going to just meddle in our lives to that extent. They're horrible, disgusting people, gods above, we know the interrogators are, but they're hands-off.”

“Then why did Lando win the games in Haas? Charles looked distraught at the sight of it. We know this isn't right, Oscar. We have to use it to our advantage. Get what we need to out of it all.”

Max stands up from his side of the table and paces outside, beckoning for Oscar to follow. He submits. As they pass by a small group of officers discussing plans over a table, Max whispers in his ear. “Whoever you love out there, whoever it is that you need access to, I will do it. But you work with me, you do what I say. Because there is something in this world I don't get, and we have to find out what it is.”

Oscar stops in his tracks, mud seeping into his leather shoes. “What else is there but the games?”

“There is an entire world out there, Oscar. Alex is living in it now. He's been there before, made some stupid crazy bet to get back here. Because that’s what the games are, a drug hooked into our very fucking brains.”

Max paces off, not allowing Oscar to join, weaving amongst the soldiers. 

Liam runs over, arms full of maps. “Hey! I've got the maps. This was all a bit of a wild goose chase, huh?”

Oscar doesn’t catch his eye, watching the crowd. “Yeah, sorry Liam.”

“It's fine.” Liam leans in. “You can't trust him. You don't know what he's like back in Red Bull.”He adjusts his arms, eyes peeking out over the top of them. Liam looks like the child he still is. 

Oscar flicks his eyes back, brow slightly knit. “I don't care what he's like outside of this place, Liam. You shouldn't either. There is a reason why he's won so many championships.”

“I can work with you, with the rookies. Even Yuki. We aren't wastes of space.”

“Like what?”

“The Futura project. You know they just shoved that under the rug after what George did. Called him a liar and all. But it's so much bigger than you can even imagine.”

“And you know this how?” Oscar pulls him to a quiet tent. 

“Someone's been trailing you for longer than you might think. Webber isn't your friend. Nobody here is. Nobody cares about you. The Futura project, I promise, is something you need to be worried about. I— should I?”

“You will not have my support if you don't tell me what you know, right now.”

“The Futura project has a file on you, and Logan. Your friendship. I think they want to use it against you.”

Ice cold blood. “Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not! I'm not. I overheard Jenson Button mention a file on one of 'the McLaren Fighters' at a gala we held a while ago. It was never going to be Lando. His friendships are public. But you? You're the enigma.”

If what he is saying is true, then there is no grand victory and the camp he is standing in will be empty of souls soon. The Court above, handling the damned, will eventually have him. War will become the great consumer of selves. He stands alone, contemplating the nature of this revelation; how can it be that they know? How?

“Do you know what they have on us?”

“I can find out.”

“So you're just bringing something you've heard?”

Liam puts the maps down on a dry piece of grass. “Would you rather me tell you a lie that will get me killed, or tell you something that benefits me too? We are not friends. We are barely even allies. But we are something, if not survivors. I do what I need to, you do what you need to, and we will both be okay.”

Oscar takes the maps off the floor and tells Liam that he will write to him. In the meantime, he gives Liam the task of becoming his own spy, working for him, against the very state that supports his claim to the world, because Logan is the importance. 

Lando is a problem to be dealt with later. Oscar goes about the rest of the day with his head on a swivel, watching for the gunshot that will never come. It would be a sword swing first. 

Chapter Text

“What do you gain out of making us fight? That kind of sick fucking pleasure from watching us take chunks out of each other? That’s it huh? Gods Zak, never thought you’d go that fucking low. And you too Andrea. Don’t talk to me about how much you cared when you destroyed the little hope I found in Lando. He was good to me. I was good to him. Both of us, so fucking lonely.”

Excerpt from the exit interview of Daniel Ricciardo, recorded at the behest of the FIA, original copy now stored in the ‘retired’ file of Andrea Stella, held in AFIA. To be destroyed.

***

Ducati is the country of hopes and dreams, Alex has always thought. They are the ones who accept exiles when they are wrested out of the arena. They are the ones with the coastlines that have enamoured visitors to them for millennia, washing their feet in the water and taking sand home to put on the family altars. As he paces down the capital, Corse, the strange smell of once-familiar street food comes back to him. 

The last time he was here, in the aftermath of being an arena fighter, all that he craved was the soft smell of wine in the evenings. At least he's kept his apartment, with the small balcony and large kitchen. He sneezes every time he walks in, the dust having settled into every crevice, but it is somewhere to live. Self-destruction still has something. 

A pair of young girls giggle as they walk past him, clearly recognising some aspect of him. His hair perhaps, or the lack of weapon on his back. Again, again, again. In the aftermath of it all, when they had bundled him into the car and he had rubbed the tears from his eyes, Alex only looked out to see George too being dragged away. The coffee shop in front of him has a sign proclaiming neutrality; all neutral kingdoms are, fundamentally, but on the individual level, variation is as common as children fighting with sticks. This is the rich part of Ducati after all. The children still believe in magic. 

The door is swung open, leaving the expansive main floor open for view. A bar sits on the left hand side, chrome panelling shining the light off it. Bar stools, in primary colours, sit in a neat row. There are plenty of people inside, less so on the metal tables to the outside. A little peace and quiet is always welcome when the day is warm.  

When he walks in, the booths have high leather backs and steaming jugs of coffee on the table, the occasional slice of something sweet on the side. This cafe is a little dated in that sense, jukebox playing tunes from two decades ago. Yet when the sight he sees is Logan Sargeant, methodically stirring a white porcelain mug, metal scratches all over it, it feels almost right to be here. 

Logan raises his hand in greeting, beckoning him over. Logan was the first one to reach out to him, to ask if he wanted to catch up now that he was on the outside. They were never close on the inside, not really, with Logan floundering just as Alex began to find his feet again. But they both bonded, and still do, over their love of the quieter times, and quieter people. Every time Oscar had come to visit, in the off weeks, the three of them had walked around the expansive grounds and barely said a word. 

“Hey, how you doing?” Logan asks as Alex takes a seat opposite him. He's got his back to the entrance. 

Alex pours himself a cup of coffee and feels the warmth on his hand, a nice distraction to everything. “Living.”

The slightly sticky table gives way as Alex takes a menu and tries to read it. The prices have been rewritten, a little piece of paper tacked onto each one. What was once 3 crowns for coffee is now 7, and what was once 13 for a breakfast dish is now 18. Ducati normally weather storms and turbulence better than most economies around the United Territories; they do take a leading role in the non-fighting kingdoms after all. This is strange, and rare. Yet nobody seems to have noticed it too much. The cafe is still relatively busy.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Logan tries, wringing his hands. “There's a reason you're in Ducati like the rest of us.”

“You're not normally here though,” Alex says, glancing up. “Mercedes isn't doing too well, is it?”

George. George. George. 

Logan shrugs. “You could say that. I don't think most people have really realised what's coming yet. People still go out to the parks, and the schools are still running. Most of the guys my age have been taken from the streets though. Took me an hour to get my documents and show a recruiter that I'm a former fighter prince. Dumb kid didn't even recognise me.”

Logan gets a smile from Alex at that. “I guess when the second most important person in McLaren is killed by a an agent of your country, people try not to think too hard about what goes on behind closed doors.”

“We didn't kill him, Alex. Why would we? We don't get any power from it. Gods, the FIA hate us already. Our legislature is trying to get the kids I train to fight to the death for them in the case of an invasion. This kind of stuff keeps us sane.” 

A waiter comes over, his shirt loose and a little crinkled. His shoes squeak too loudly against the floor, and the heads of the people at the bar turn to face them. Alex buries himself in the corner. 

“Morning, sirs. Would you care to order?”

Logan asks for pancakes with fresh fruit. With a sad smile, the waiter tells them that their shipment of blackberries from Aston Martin was held at the border. He does offer strawberries grown locally as an alternative, as if any of it matters in the end. Logan smiles and takes it, ever the polite man. Alex doesn't make eye contact as he orders eggs and toast, with spiced sauce. They are left to their own devices. 

“I've invited someone else Alex, an old fighter,” Logan says, changing the tack of the conversation as the waiter brings them cutlery and a refill of their water. 

"Who? Can't be someone like Checo right? He's living it up all the way out in Toyota." Alex tests the water, seeing if he's going to give up the information without it having to be pulled from him. 

"Oh no, not him. Ah, there he is." Logan waves someone behind Alex over. "Daniel, pleasure man, how you doing?"

Alex goes stock still. Daniel? After everything, Logan and Daniel Ricciardo know each other, and care about each other enough to meet up outside of visiting the arena? He cranes his head around and the dishevelled curls that he sees are just as he expected. On his head whipping back around, Logan eyes him, silently telling him not to ruin this. 

Daniel slides in next to Logan, clutching his hand and hugging him as he does. Alex's brow furrows as the slow pit opens up inside of him. This has to be something to do with the arena. There is no way that Logan would bring Daniel here just to tell him that he's got a support network on the outside. 

“Albon, my man! How are you? Saw the newsreel of you down in Williams, such a shame.” Daniel's megawatt smile never fades, even when the disingenuousness of his words drips from his saliva. 

Alex's tall frame gives him the advantage, and he does his best to look down his nose at him. Fighter prince to retired prince, like that is still the kind of position he holds. 

Logan interjects. “This ain't an ambush, mate, promise. Daniel and I have been talking for a while. Well, more like he gave me his personal phone number after cold calling my work and asked if I wanted a fancy dinner. My boyfriend was thrilled.”

Alex takes his mug in his hand, as the song on the jukebox turns to something almost serene. Something classical from one of the opera houses in Williams, if he can tell. “Your boyfriend? With the way you and Oscar always were I’m surprised you didn’t end up like me and George.”

“Oh yeah, big guy here finally got himself a partner. Funny what you get away with when you're not under the FIA anymore right?” Daniel puts both hands on Logan's shoulder and shakes. “I'm still tryna get back in there though, this fella's better than me.”

The waiter brings over the food as he finishes up his sentence, hands wobbling with three plates. Pancakes for Logan, eggs for Alex and a plate for another table. The waiter is not kind this time, glaring at Alex like he's known. 

“Thank you, sir,” Alex whispers. He gets a glare. When the waiter storms off, he watches the kid talk to his coworkers and try and be subtle in pointing. “I thought this place was kind to exiles.”

Daniel's smile fades a little at that. “When you're the waiter for the devil, of course the word gets around. People blame you for everything that's gone wrong. Some of the word is that if you and Russell hadn't been caught in that hot tub, none of this would have happened.”

Logan takes a large forkful of the overly sweet food in front of him. Mouth full, he says, “That isn't really fair though.”

“So why are you here then, Daniel? Got some grand scheme for me, like I had when I was kicked out of Red Bull? Gonna go and make me fight in the underground pits while the citizens kill themselves in my name? Cause you know that Williams will still fight for me. They have no replacement, not in a time of war. It's just Carlos up there.”

Daniel doesn't respond, instead flagging some other staff member down and asking for hash browns and a fried egg, as quickly as the kitchen can. He slides a 75 Crown note over; all Crown notes have unique territorial designs on. The ones for Ducati have the various flowers that grew in the aftermath of the Wars of Potential, in the old battle grounds. 

“Of course, sir. Will that be all?” the young girl asks, content deftly hidden. Alex ponders whether she'd make a good spymaster one day, if she ever wanted to dip her hand into the disgusting underbelly of espionage. 

When the girl leaves, pen tucked behind her red hair, Daniel says, “I made a deal with the proverbial devil. You should too.”

Alex shakes his head. “You said this wasn't an ambush.”

Logan scratches the back of his neck. Dandruff falls onto his black polo shirt. “It isn't. It's an offer.”

“You think they're just going to let me back in there? I mean we’re at war! My only connections are George, whatever remains of Lando and I would have said Nico, if he hadn't turned away from me after the end of the underground arena saga.”

Daniel runs a hand through his curls. They're thinner and greyer than Alex remembers. Age catches up to all eventually. “Not Nico. Lewis. You think all those stories about the pair of them hating each other was true? They’re friends. Working at the highest echelons.”

Logan smiles, as if he has a tell in a poker hand. “You hear this, Alex, and you know more than any of those others. The ones who wouldn't ever give you a good word. You told me, when Latifi left, that none of them had visited you on the outside. You want revenge on that system? Make a deal with the devil and work from the outside.”

“No. No. I'm not someone's puppet again. Not happening. And what do you even have to tell me that I don't already know? The Futura project is as shady as it sounds, what with Max and Lewis making claims over people. You think Rosberg is that mysterious link? Don't be stupid. Them being friends and talking about the Futura project together means precisely nothing if that information is public knowledge. If Lewis is implicated, which he is, then what worth is it anyway?”

The lights seem to get brighter as the chatter around them loudens. Logan and Daniel catch each other's eye. “You're naive,” Daniel says, catching his look. “Of course Rosberg is involved. Those two have loved each other for their entire lives. We all love someone in there. Platonically or otherwise, man. No offense, Sergeant. You just didn't find love.”

Alex laughs then. “This is all one conspiracy, huh? Gods, it’s like something out of those spy novels set during the Bloodless War. So what is it then? Nico and Lewis against the world? They're the ones in charge?”

Something small changes in Daniel's expression. He schools something into place that Alex does not recognise. Whether he is telling the truth or not is impossible to discern.

“If you let Lewis take you under his wing, no matter what happens, you'll have his backing. Nico's too, sure. But what worth is he when there's the 7 time champion of the United Territories at your doorstep? You'll need it in the war to come. The arena won't be done with you yet. None of them will be. You want to get back to where you want to be? Think about it.”

Daniel rises to leave as the waitress comes over with his food. He pays for it anyway and leaves without taking a bite. She puts it down on the table and says, “Well, if you're not going to eat it, I will. We'll get rationing soon. Better than the others.”

Alex and Logan dismiss her by saying to take it back. They've barely made it through their food themselves. Logan stares at Alex with an inscrutable expression. 

“What, Logan? You think I can just take another dangerous offer to make it back here?” Alex shakes his head. “I'm not doing it. Not at all.”

Logan shrugs his shoulders. “You know how to reach me. There are options for you here. You wouldn't be in the arena in the first place if you didn't crave power. So think.”

A squelch resounds as Alex is left alone to his own devices, Logan chucking a few notes down on the table. Too much, but what worth is money to someone taken under Hamilton's wing? Not much, seemingly. He'll return to his apartment later, staring down and out of the window to the city below. 

Outside, where the day's crowds are filling the wide boulevards, plants and grass peeking out of every crevice, Daniel takes a long, drawn-out drag of his menthol cigarette. It's a habit he's only picked up in the recency of time, waiting for the world to cave in around him. Logan taps him on the shoulder. 

“Do you think he'll take us up on it?” Logan asks, coughing as Daniel exhales the dark, acrid-tasting smoke. 

“If he doesn't, Lewis won't want anything to do with me anymore. I'll do what I have to in order to get him to fall in line. Gods knows why Lewis wants him, of all of us.”

Logan fixes his hair. A cloud covers the light of Solura above, casting long shadows on the ground. “It isn't our place to discuss why. You want in. I want absolution from Oscar. We get that by falling in line. You know that.”

Daniel flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. The pair of them walk off through the city, politely taking photographs with the unsuspecting tourists who are still visiting from the other non-fighting kingdoms. Daniel almost curses at them for still being here, instead of stockpiling food for when the bad times come. Lewis knows how this will be, how bad it will get. There isn't anything these poor people can do, it seems, but ignore it and take photos of the failed fighters they both are. At least Max will not starve.

Chapter Text

Media vita in morte sumus
quem quaerimus adjutorem
nisi te, Domine,
qui pro peccatis nostris
juste irasceris?

Sancte Deus,
sancte fortis,
sancte et misericors Salvator:
amarae morti ne tradas nos.

Prehistoric text found scrawled on a wall, in the ancient ruins of a long-past empire. Discovered by Jefia Evren, chief archaeologist to the House of Schumacher, oldest and largest of the so-called ‘Houses of the Fighting Princes’. Translation unsuccessful.

***

So he awakes, devoured by peace and loving death. Lando has never once hoped for the final quiet, not even in the midst and throes of the fighting arenas, and yet facing it down as he is now, the devouring of the soul it provides is not a comfort. Someone brings him another glass of water, eyeing the empty bed to his side. 

Andrea is gone. He is dead, they say, but how strange it would be for that. Deliriousness may be muddling his brain but Andrea can't have disappeared that quickly, not as Lando’s eyes finally opened. A woman was stood over Andrea as the panic settled into the room, hair tied loosely. She must know something, but she has not returned. 

Who she is makes no sense to him. Tick beep, tick beep. The box television is broken, single state channel the only one available now. They must be at war, but Lando is already at war with his own intravenous drip. Something about it itches and he has to do everything possible not to pull it out as pain writhes through his nerves. 

The nausea is the worst, however, swimming like eels between the folds of his mind. In the misty haze of the lights they keep low, he could swear that someone hovers over him and says the word fever. 

“Max,” the voice says, a lilt of lightness to it, “Do you think he is going to die?”

The man speaking — strange and angular in his face — looks down at him. Lando does not recognise the pair of them. Perhaps they are apparitions. Perhaps Yerana is taunting him before taking him in his arms, a victor of the final Games. 

Perhaps taunting him with George. 

“Char- No, Charles. He'll live. It’s why McLaren are letting us visit. Stella is already dead, and half this wing of the hospital is winding down for the end. If they didn't think a prince fighter would live, they would never waste their resources when the war is on their doorstep.”

Lando hisses through his mouth: a low wheezing breath. Both of the heads turn down to him. One of them, the left, no, right, has the expression of a man older than his years. 

“Do you think he can hear us?” the one on the right asks — the pretty one. 

“I doubt it. They say he's been half coherent for nearly on three days now. No signs of any major responses to what people tell him. If he is listening, nobody has come to find out.”

The man with the darker hair speaks. “Then it wouldn't hurt to talk about Alpine, here, would it?”

“Alpine? Charles, nothing happened in Alpine.”

“Do not lie to me.”

Lando finds the comfort of his bed reaching out with a kind arm, tapping his shoulder. Sleep, or something similar comes to him with the sound of a hush and a smile. 

Waking again, the two figures are gone. Yerana must be intolerant. Perhaps, though religion is something he has only ever found himself thinking about in the darkest points, it truly is the comfort. 

A radio sound, singing with the sounds of the military hymns floats in through the gap underneath the door. Lando opens his eyes once again to the sight of the pale grey ceiling. Some holes in it display the shape of a constellation that supposedly shows a dancing girl. Some of the cultish religions over in Toyota calls these constellations holy and dance in reverence of them. 

He closes his eyes again. 

***

Something small hits his back as Lando stands on the balcony. Carlos stares at him with a wide smile when he turns to berate whoever his attacker is.

“What was that for?” Lando asks, turning back towards the view of the sunset over the forest. 

Carlos picks up the rock he threw that bounced off and comes to join him at the edge. “Boredom, cabrón. How was training today?”

Carlos' hair has grown out since he's been here. It suits him!

“Training was boring, Andrea told me to keep my feet a little closer together.”

Carlos smiles, chucking the rock down. It clangs off the metal tip of a guardsman’s helmet. When the guardsman stands up to look, he merely raises his hand in apology. 

“You did that on purpose!” Lando protests. A remnant of an acne scar catches under his dirty nails as he scratches his chin.

“Fun though.”

The pair of them come to it in Lando's sitting room, divided by the glass coffee table between them. It has a chess set on that neither of them has gotten used to using; both prefer to crack jokes. 

Sunset hues hit Lando's profile, a shard of glass across his face. Carlos admires how it makes his eyes shine, little greenish sparkles reflecting. 

“Want to come to the lake with me?” Carlos asks. “The sun is finally dying.”

“The lake is tiny though. I wouldn't call it much of anything.”

Carlos just shrugs and asks if he is coming anyway. Lando stands up with a groan to which Carlos cheers. On the way down — past the same guard that they saw stare at them with confusion — Carlos holds his head up high, chest out. Proud. 

The lakeside is nestled into the edge of the forest, away from the main path. Some of the old histories of McLaren state that there used to be imported fish that lived between the reeds, but that the change in environment wasn't healthy for them. They were returned with some grand ceremonies. 

Now the brownish water, clear despite the sediment, gives way to a deep murky ink at its base. Being small has nothing to do with depth apparently, and Lando lets Carlos know as much as they strip down to swim shorts and get in together. 

“Gods above and below Carlos, this is cold,” Lando shouts, covering his chest with crossed arms. 

All he gets in return is Carlos dragging him down underneath, getting his hair wet and his skin prickling with the cold. 

***

Something turns him away from the pain the longer he goes on. Occasionally, he can feel something sticky being cleaned off his side, off his face too. It doesn't seem red, though through the slits of half-opened eyes everything looks the same. 

More military hymns now, occasionally interspersed with the sound of a newsreader. No more visitors, from the gods or from men. When he can get a better look over to the side, Lando watches a pale bed with fresh plasticky sheets on it. A rotting vase of flowers sits by its side. He doesn't remember why they're there. 

“Andrea?” Lando asks quietly that day as a young man comes to remove some of the sticky white fabric from his wounds. 

“Not here anymore,” the man says, opening a new package of white cotton.

Good enough for him, Lando reckons. He must not be in need of whatever this place is anymore. When sleep comes later, he smiles again. 

***

Carlos' chest shines with a wet sheen. Lando cannot bring himself to do anything but admire it. Carlos has never looked more like a man than in this moment. 

“Why bring me all the way out here?” Lando shouts, as Carlos has his ears beneath the water, back floating. Carlos turns back to treading water. 

“Thought it would be fun. There's never enough fun. You don't even visit the brothels like the rest of them man. Alex says you’re boring.”

“I only turned old enough for that a few years ago man. Not all of us can be old. And that's a shitty excuse anyway. Girls aren't the only thing worth anything.”

Carlos chuckles. “You have no idea about this place, do you?”

Lando's legs feel colder then, his arms struggling against the tiredness. “I fight Carlos. It can't be that bad.”

They turn their back to each other and spin in a circle, Carlos in black trunks, Lando in white. 

***

Fever breaks with enough energy. Enough passion for living, some of the shamans of those Toyotan cults say. Lando's own breaks on a random morning that starts as if any other. A crow caws outside and as the light streams in, Lando's eyes scream with dryness. 

He shoots up from his bed and winces in pain. Something is tender, and as he presses down to the wasted muscle of his abdomen, he feels the fresh cloth of a new bandage.

Small miracles then, for whatever reason. Delirium takes some time to go, but as the memories come back to him, of the silence and the crazed face above him, Lando starts to shout for help.

A male nurse comes in and tells him that they will get a doctor. The man looks at him with a horrified expression. Is he meant to be awake yet? Perhaps they took him to surgery and this is recovery. 

The name tag on the dirty white coat of the doctor says “Mrs Melinchik”. She's got a face of a woman who should be retired by now. Where are the young people?

“Where are they?” he asks her, not bothering to ask for anything else. 

“Where are who, Sir Norris?”

The young people.” Lando cranes his head around. “There should be young people.”

The itchiness in his intravenous drip returns with a pain. Mrs Melinchik calms him before saying, “They are at war, Sir. Most of the doctors volunteered.”

“What? Because of what happened in the arena? Andrea wouldn't let that happen. Zak wouldn't either. Not even the FIA- I- I shouldn't tell you that.”

Her wrinkled skin creases as she smiles and places a placating hand on his cheek. “Andrea is dead, Lando. He was assassinated by Mercedes. I’m so sorry.”

The colour drains from his face. Mercedes? George did this? George killed him. The one who spied on him. Andrea, Andrea saved him from the frozen night. He spied on him. He’s…he’s dead.

“You're not being serious. How did you let an agent from Mercedes get here? Where is he?”

“We don't know how they got in Lando. Is it okay if I call you Lando?”

He tries to stand and collapses under his own weight. His legs are emaciated shards of bone. None of the refined, taut muscle has remained since the attack. He has become a child again, weapon of choice happening to be a pole made for IV bags to be hooked onto. 

Tears flow freely down his face. “Where are my parents?”

“They can't get a travel permit with the war.”

“They- but I'm a prince! They’re my parents. My parents. Let me see them. I need to see them. They’re going to die because of me. I am going to die. So are you. So are you!”

Lando turns to hysterics as the world gradually turns granular and grey. Someone brings him back to bed and puts a new injection under his skin. It sends him far, far away. 

***

“Mi lago. That's a good one, isn't it?” Carlos says as they dry themselves off. 

Their survival packs come with enough to make a small fire and that is precisely what Carlos has done. As the first embers crackled, Lando waved off a curious nightwatchman who wandered over to ask what was happening. 

“It's not bad.” Lando warms his hand next to the flickering flames. “I don't have one for you though.”

Carlos sidles up next to him, bare skin meeting a woollen doublet. “You don't need to worry about that. Come on, enjoy the night. We only get so many of these.”

The flames warm them for as long as they can, Carlos bringing twigs and leaves over that smell like the colour green. Lando smiles, knowing that for once he doesn't have to do this by himself. 

***

“Are you ready to talk?” Mrs Melinchik asks on her third day of visiting. Lando has been quiet for the last two, staring off into the distance. 

Lando does not respond, instead adjusting one of the finally-reducing bandages that curls round him. The male nurse whose name he finally learned, Robert, tells him that the scars will at least be somewhat pretty to look at for the girls. 

Carlos isn't a girl. He isn't even here. He has never come to visit. They are refusing to give him access to a. television. Everything comes through the gods-damned staff radio and its boring, boring hymns. Chants too, boring.

“We are going to discharge you back into the care of the castle soon. Zak Brown gave us a letter for you. Would you like to read it?” She holds up a letter sealed with Zak's personal sigil, a soft brown wax and large egg shape.

Lando snatches it from her hand and opens it with a thumb shoved through the paper. 

Lando,

We are at war and need you now more than ever. George Russell is being disposed of, we will make sure of that. Albon is collateral damage. More to come. Oscar has taken your role from now. The traitor Stella is dead. 

Zak Brown. 

The traitor Andrea Stella. Dead. But Andrea saved his life, he gave him his cloak and rode next to him in the reverence of a man to his lord. How can that be traitorhood? George is another story. Disposed of? They won’t kill him.

Alex, the FIA must have done something. They need me but not him. I guess even like this I must be useful. MBS said—

“What does the letter say? If you don't mind me asking.”

“Get me a car. I’m going to visit the FIA. I know we’re at war. I know. I have to see someone.”

Mrs Melinchik doesn't like his response, but his power gives him enough to make her bend to his will. Someone finds him some clothes from somewhere, a little tight around the thighs and too loose on the shoulders. None of the press are there as he walks out to a car. He is to travel alone. McLaren can wait, even in war. 

He has to deal with life first. He has to know.

Chapter Text

“So this is how we’re going to die: listening to the Princes talk on the radio. It’s been a pleasure knowing you.”

Military commander Zuno Shallan, Commanding Officer of the 1st Leeka Battalion, Ferrari, to Second-in-Command Christopher “Jam” Carravin, dated 17/10/1969, middle Growing Season. Killed in insurgent attack by Sempre members in escalating civil conflict. Body desecrated. 

***

Leaving McLaren without being seen is not something he can do, Lando realises as he steps out into the cold, nipping air of the middle Growing Season. No plants grow during this season, and as such the name is a misnomer that nobody in thousands of years of history has cared to correct for. Nevertheless, as he pulls his long, dark jacket around him, Lando flags down a car and asks the bewildered man to take him back to the castle. 

He knows his way around that place like the back of his hand. It is a mere few hours of a drive away, faster now that the traffic has disappeared. War, as the fellow fighters have been talking about for months, is finally here and it makes for fast cars doing speeds that would make polite society blush. Lando enjoys it however.

The drive is slow and steady, and it gives him the time to consider what to do next. Strategy has always been Carlos’ best asset in times like this, but given the scars and puncture wounds that litter his skin, Lando reckons that it is about time he starts doing some things for himself. 

Blood, the pain. George smiles down at me and blood bursts out from his mouth, like Andrea. 

Lando grips the side of his seat in the back of the car and tries to control his breathing. One deep breath in, he reminds himself, one deep breath out. Everything will be okay. George isn't going to hurt him anymore. The border is so far away.

George and him were so close, back in the days where the only thing that mattered to the Fighter Princes was why Alex had been such a loner since his return from his time outside. It can't ever be that bad. They're princes. The world is kind to princes. 

A bloody effigy of a torso thrown at my feet. The weight of court dress. Carlos sucking my dick in a bathroom.

Lando curses at himself for the memories. He has to focus. Back in the Maya Ayam Hotel, where Alex interrupted him and Carlos talking to George, who took the photo? Assuming it was the FIA, this means that they have been keeping tabs on the pair of them for a long time, but especially Him. Him being George. He doesn't deserve the value of a word any more. So, if Lando is to work with whatever the council wants and get the peace that he knows they need, destroying George is useless. 

Something comes through on the radio, ramshackle and dangerously wired into the car, the same radio station that has so far punctuated his days. 

Fevered screaming. Strange hair, streak pale with grey. A clang of metal and the taste of it in my mouth. 

“Can you turn that off?” Lando asks, heart caught around his throat, choking out his breaths. He doesn't try to do it himself. 

“Nah mate, don't think I'm doing this drive in silence.”

“I'll pay you,” Lando says. He doesn't have his survival kit. Doesn't have anything he needs. He'd have to run inside and get someone to give him money. But money-getting makes him contaminated. Seen. He decides when the driver just shrugs that this is how it is.

To stay clean, you gotta be a little dirty in the mind. Perfect. Think. 

The FIA didn't send anyone after him, Lando remembers — not when it mattered. They did let him win a wreath and crown that he has not yet seen. Perhaps that is their way of showing that they care: to give Him the power in the moment while pulling the strings in the background. 

Futura is like that, the mysterious person that Lewis doesn’t want to talk about. The mysterious person that Max has a deal with, for Lewis. It's a spiderweb that he doesn't know how to deal with. They control everything. Lando almost smiles; they told him as much, just enough for him not to go rooting through secrets.

“—And now, on the news is former Champion of the United Territories Nico Rosberg, here to provide on the ground updates not far from the frontline in Mercedes. Nico—”

Rosberg. They were so close, Lewis and him, back in the olden days. I mean, that's what they all say. Close friends, nothing more, nothing less, until that championship year rolled around and they only fought each other. 

Lando tilts his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes, feeling the road rumble underneath him. Outside, the forests on either side of the newly paved ground sway slowly, leaves dropping off in shades of orange and red. At the apex of the tallest tree, a young firewatcher keeps his eyes out for any movement or fire-setting. The public have been banned from the forest proper; smoke would be from an insurgent force moving in on them covertly. They've already killed a group posing as a tour group in the border, according to the news. 

“So, Sir Rosberg—”

The voice crackles and spits like embers in a dying fire. “Just call me Nico. I am a commentator and journalist, not a Prince anymore.”

“My apologies, Sir— uh, Nico. Can you tell us what Sir Hamilton's time in Mercedes will give him for intelligence as he wrestles with supporting McLaren despite Ferrari’s neutrality?”

Nico's laughter cuts shrilly through the stiflingly boring air of the car. Lando peers out of the window to look at the roofs of the thatched houses that they rumble past. The great thing about Nico is that he is no liar. 

“Mercedes have a habit of destroying their best assets. Did it with me, did it most likely to Lewis too. But their big mistake is that they are almost painfully honest. They don't play the game anywhere near as much as McLaren do. That’s what made George’s attack on Norris, who I will remind you, we haven't seen in public for weeks now, so intriguing. I can only suspect it was intentional—”

Lando smiles with the corner of his mouth. 

Of course they'd think that Mercedes made this happen intentionally. I mean, they are the reason that Andrea is dead. They play the game, oh, burning anger of Jemis, of course they'd do. But theirs is in the form of violence first and foremost. 

The conversation ebbs and flows, turning to a discussion of the wrath of the Sempre starting to cause real problems as Ferrari flounders with grand strategy. Rosberg doesn't have many good opinions, Lando reckons. He’s been mollycoddled by Mercedes his whole life. If the radio presenter was smart they'd been talking to one of the Truths, or whatever they're called. 

Here for you, whenever you need a little glory. 

Distractingly simple phrases are enough to get stuck in someone's mind. It hits him then all at once, the memory of a phrase that has been thrown out so much in recent times. To love one’s country over themselves. 

Nico loved nothing but himself in the end, fighting and battling his closest friend for victory. Lewis loves only his own country. He cares about the future. 

Futura. Rosberg is the future he never got. They must have loved each other, just like Carlos did with him, but what they have that Lando never will is power. They alone have the power to do what they want, bending the world into a fractured image.  

He holds down a scream; was it all so simple? Do the gods of the championship winners just want the same things that he does? Are they really willing to sacrifice everyone else in order to get it? Love? Lando thinks back to the forest and the floor, watching as Carlos screamed at him, George lingering in the background. What was that? 

Lando stares at his hands. Was that sacrificing himself for the better future of those around him? Seemingly not. He still trusted Carlos enough to go into the forest with him and he listened as Carlos begged him, called him kind words, the likes of which he has not heard in the times after. Not even with Daniel has he heard words like I Love You, not even when they drunkenly made a terrible decision in the pain of sadness. Part of himself hates that memory, the weakness of it. Yet at the castle and the city itself come into view in the distance, Lando reminds himself that he is not alone in the boring desire for love. It is the most base, human emotion after all. 

As the car streams through the city, streets devoid of men of fighting age like him, Lando realises that returning there would be useless and asks the man to leave him at the nearest military checkpoint. It is the one closest to the gates. So close, so far to the easy comfort of the castle. He could go have a sleep and wait for it all to blow over.

On a billboard updated daily with the news printed in the Papaya Times, the headline already proclaims that Lando Norris has gone missing from hospital. The rumour is that he was abducted by Mercedes too, on the day that Andrea died. It's the simple work of the public relations department and Lando pushes down a laugh. People are so gullible, but not him! Not today, not when he has discovered the meaning of the word Futura. 

***

The checkpoint staff almost fall to their knees as Lando staggers over, body thin and limp through the clothes that hang from his shoulders. He cocks them a smile and asks them to arrange for transport to Williams. 

“You cannot be serious, Sir. Sorry— sorry. I’m sorry. Come on, we will call and get you some food and a place to sort yourself out. You must be tired.”

He doesn't want to pull rank, but he does, telling them that if they don’t do precisely as he says, he will report them to superiors and get them a job away from guarding sites that will never see conflict. Soon after, and with an apologetic smile, Lando is bundled in the back of a military-green boxy car and on his way. 

The drive is nearly the same identical route Lando took on the day he ran away, winding through Pantganete after a short while. It is so much faster than horses. They don't want the fighters to get away. After Pantganete comes the sign from Ferrari, now sprayed over. Glory has been removed and replaced with fence-sitters. 

The woman in front of him, a military driver who introduced herself as Corporal Juliette Sparva, smiles through the window-side mirror. He can't stop thinking, no matter how hard he tries to. This is the grandest conspiracy ever seen in the history of the games, bigger than the cheating scandal that forced Williams onto its knees for a few years. Bigger than the corruption allegations that the public saw following that. Bigger still than his own destruction at the hands of George. This is the FIA and now him, all rolled into the kind of stinking mess not even the Truths would burn in the Temples of the Veriquestiona. 

As Corporal Sparva tells him that there will only be a few minutes until they arrive at a safe place to drop him off — having bribed the guards before he had even gotten close — Lando cannot help but wonder whether Sparva is a part of this. It must take some concoction of people for years to bring this on. He gets to know it, laud it over the people who would try to destroy him. George for one, but also anyone who would try and take him down from inside the FIA. Would the public riot, he wonders to himself, carefully adjusting the clasp of his doublet. One of the soldiers gave it to him before he left. The public rioted for the circus but would knowing that the games are in support of the love story of two men be enough to bring it down? 

Love, Lando reckons, is a concept that is only pretty on televisions. It is only easy to understand when it is freely given. The Maya Ayam Hotel caused all of this pain, in the strange land of Toyota. Checo Perez, disappeared from the arena at the beginning of the new season; he gets to love now. 

Was that removal part of it too? The car rolls to a stop near a road with a large rectangular sign denoting a mile walk to the border. If any of the soldiers accompanied Lando now, they would be summarily executed and their bodies dumped at the feet of a general during the upcoming battles. Mercedes are ruthless, as the tales have said in the past. 

The ground is sandy, a similar kind to that of the arena. As the door opens and Lando gets a look at it, he holds his breath. Part of him expects it to be wet and red. He notices his hands shaking as he closes the door behind him. The soldiers sign off with a smile and give him a new survival pack. Someone must have been thoughtful and gotten a new one as he left. He makes a mental note of their names. Whether Lando will remember is a different story but it is the least he can do after pulling rank on them. 

Catching a distorted glimpse of himself in the shiny metal of the hubcap, he tries to smile. A stitch above his eyebrow splits and a drop of tiny, dark red blood beads out. Bile rises in his throat. 

“Are you okay sir? Your stitches have split. Now, we have informed Mr Brown that you are heading to Williams. Would you like to let him know why you are going there? It’ll stop us having to come and get you.”

What does he say? That he is going to try and get some answers and change the course of this before the FIA and the Futura project causes the end of everything that he loves? Lando truly considers it, at least for a moment, before he decides not to. He has held back information before when it suited him. though, that was in favour of the country itself. He can afford to finally be a little selfish today. 

“Of course Sir. We will await information from our agents working across the border. They will keep eyes on you for as long as they safely can,” Juliette says. “We’re on our way to the camp near the Jiruna mountains. I know, behind the lines. If you require assistance, please do not hesitate to reach us. Consider it a small kindness. We will do everything that we can.”

How strange it is to be faced with an act of kindness and no other intention. Juliette is a woman so many years older than him: a woman of lower status and a woman of hard work and grit. She owes him deference, sure, as a prince and as a fighter, but nothing else. Yet she is kind anyway. She cares anyway. Not even the man he loved could give him that. 

He sets off walking as quickly as he can. The men who stood tall at the back of the truck gave him a pair of throwing knives, in a similar style to Carlos’. They must be inexperienced. Lando is inexperienced, but tries not to think about that. The walk is a long slog, slow and painful with each step. Wind nips at the tips of his fingers, catching his cheeks and turning them an uncomfortable shade of red. Lando walks anyway, towards some kind of station in the distance. 

Upon arriving at its edges, he is stopped and searched. One of the guardsmen flashes him a smile under a large hat. The fake soldier’s greatcoat, in the style of the fashionable part of Grove, is buttoned against his chest tight to keep the wind away. A large embroidered sigil sits over his heart, an angular W in white, with a diagram of a sword intersecting it horizontally. It’s the right kind of place to aim a sword, ironically.

“We will provide you will a car, Sir Norris. Which camp was it that you wanted to visit?” the soldier says after patting him down. Lando hadn't even considered where Carlos would actually be. It's past midday; any travel to the other side of the country could take over a day, even in a car. Planes are all grounded now. 

“Wherever Carlos Sainz is located. I— um, shit.”

He doesn't have a reason to be here. The actual Williams guardsman holding his sword stares at him, fingers tightening on the pommel.

“I have a message concerning the supposed ceasefire agreement being negotiated currently,” he says with enough confidence that he has almost convinced himself of its truth.

“Let him through, Alexander,” Lando’s border guard supporter begs. “What harm is a man looking like that going to do? He doesn't even have his sword — knife, thin thing. I dunno what it’s called.” 

“My rapier. It's called a rapier.” He misses it so much. 

“That. Come on. I'll lead you to the car. He’s not the enemy here Sasha. The bastards fighting us are. The day he comes back with a rapier I’ll kill him, don't you worry.”

Alexander, Sasha — whatever his name is, grimaces. The other man, his supposed ally, bursts out laughing. “Oh you thought I was serious.”

Lando trudges forward anyway with a plastered-on smile. Psychopathic men are the least of his worries; at least the soldier is on McLaren's side. The car awaits on the other side of the border fence, much more refined than McLaren's own; that's what focusing on Naval warfare gives. Dilapidated equipment posing as good enough for the urban elite. 

The drive is uneventful, driver much less interesting than Sparva. What is interesting however is the two guards that are nestled on either side of him. Both have new, shining swords. One a cutlass similar to Charles in length, though orders of magnitude less expensive — the other a short sword like Bearman. Neither say a word, only tightening and loosening their grips on their pommels as Lando adjusts in his seat. 

How tetchy. Though of course they would be. We are at war. The union meeting did nothing. the fighters did nothing really to stop it. George…

The encampment comes into view as they make their way down a small hill to a large field, where tents in dark blue dot every available surface. Smoke rises from a few fires in large baskets. Soldiers, some in pairs and trios, others lone and wolffish, are prowling the pastureland. A guardsman stands ready to fight at each perimeter marker. Due to their status, he remembers as they drive by, they are allowed to wear the knitplate that has always been common here, where linked wire is looped until not even a trained fighter prince can gut the soldier underneath.

Getting in is going to be the easy part, Lando thinks. If this goes wrong, he'll become a prisoner of war to later be executed. Carlos can’t get him out of that. Strategy doesn't change bloodlust. 

Lando is escorted by the same two guards to the tent appears to house the senior leadership's office, given its size and grandeur in comparison to the others. As he waits outside while they talk, the same crawling feeling of being observed like in the arena returns. A flash of red appears. Ferrari soldiers. 

Ferrari, here? But they’re neutral. Right? I couldn't have missed that. We're ruined if that happens. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He doesn’t have time to think as he is guided to the tent. The canvas opening splits and James Vowles steps out, in armour, leather. Shiny, newly cleaned and treated. 

James quirks his head. “Lando. Why are you here? Do you have what we want?”

What we want?

“I'm sorry, I just got out the hospital. Is Carlos here?”

“Give us your fealty and we will let you see him,” James says without a single air of sarcasm. His face looks tired, but the quickness of his voice betrays the thinking mind underneath.

“I can't— I'm not even sure Zak knows I'm here.”

“Then give us your fealty and spy. Oh, shouldn't have said that out loud. Wouldn't matter anyway, Zak doesn't know you're here.”

Lando is dumbstruck at the brazenness of it. He’s always been trained to be the most confident person in any room, but here he is, having circles run around him. He doesn't even have intimidation on his side, body broken. 

“Please just let me see him, James. I have something he needs to know.”

“You want something, I want something. Tell me where your nearest camp at the border is and we can talk.”

Lando takes a step back. “I don't even know that! I left the hospital and came directly here man! What do you expect from a guy like me?”

"Information.” James closes the gap. “You think your spymasters are so subtle. Come on Lando. You can tell me.”

Where, what information does he have? A camp for a chance to speak to Carlos? What is worth more?

“There is a camp in the mountains. It's got some officers there. Must be important.”

There it is, you've sold out your own men and women for a single man. How fortuitous. You’d fit right in with the FIA. 

“If you had actually put up a fight I would have just let you speak to him. Silly kid. But thank you. I will get Charles and Carlos now.”

Stupid child.

“Charles is here?”

James nods at him before signalling for a soldier beneath the both of them to find Charles and Carlos. When they arrive, James has already ushered Lando into a disused tent, furnished with a small table for tea. Williams has always had tea in times of war. 

Carlos pokes his head in first. “What is it— Oh gods. Lando?”

Charles pushes past him and rips the cover open. “You're alive? The Tribune said you'd gone missing. I thought some of the others had got you. You look horrific.”

Carlos crushes him in a hug, tight and meaningful, but the kindness of it only lasts for a moment. “What are you doing here?”

“Our spymaster’s couldn’t find any information on you.” Charles says, stood a moment back. 

Lando shoves Carlos away without thinking. Too tight, blood in the chest. Constriction, constriction, constriction.

"I'm alive, promise. Carlos, can we speak alone?"

James and Charles glance at each other, and whilst James gives his leave, Charles does not, instead rooting himself into the ground and making his presence more firmly known. Both of them look at him with a sincerity that does not match their flinty eyes. After the final word in the forest outside McLaren's castle, what else is there? Love? No more. Being alive is enough for them.

It is as if the Maya Ayam hotel has come back to life, where secrets are the most vital component of strategy. 

“You can speak to the pair of us,” Carlos says. There is no malice to it. 

“Listen, I just need to talk to you alone,” Lando says. He gets to his feet, blood rushing out of his head and wobbling as he does so.

Carlos does not reach out to grab a hold of him; instead Charles takes the back of Carlos’ arm and pulls him away. Charles whispers something in Carlo’s ear that Lando cannot recognise, but tries not to think too hard about it. It will not do him any good to speculate about the secrets others have between them. 

Carlos had never mentioned Ferrari in any of the letters he sent Lando during his time there, over the years and the Seasons of the Championship. Most of them had barely made any reference to Charles at all, but now, as he stares at them both, Lando cannot help but wonder whether the love that they had professed before the gods on their final day in McLaren together had meant anything at all. 

Charles' hand fingers over his cutlass. “What is it that you want? You're a prize catch for this lot, Lando. Why come here and not go home and regroup?” 

Charles has always had an inquisitive mind. 

“That's not important, Char. Lando, do you think you can get me to betray my country? If you're not going to give up what you know, then this conversation is useless. It's ridiculous to expect that,” Carlos says.

Some shouts echo over the valley and through the camp, but Lando pays it no mind. “I want to get us on the same page. I don't even know whats going on.”

“And you come here? You're delusional mate,” Charles spits. “We won't take you prisoner, Duya only knows how you managed to make it in here without someone trying to take a stab at you. McLaren didn’t even give you armour did they?”

Charles crosses his fingers over his chest in the sigil of Duya and looks briefly up to the ceiling of the tent.

McLaren armour is considered some of the most advanced metallurgy in the whole of the United Territories. Few people can afford even a ceremonial suit, but the corridors of the Castle are littered with enough of them they are almost pests. Lando's own, custom made on his first anniversary of coronation, is outfitted with a strange pattern he can only call 'blobs' that spiral around his mask. The house colour of orange is daubed in the fabric underneath, where the padding works to make comfort as necessary as protection.

“I didn't need it, did I? You wouldn't have killed me. I'm too important. I’m too vital.”

“None of us are important.”

The shouts turn into screams. Something crashes into the ground and the stampede of feet picks up outside. 

Something smashes into the floor at the corner of the tent, outside. It lights the bottom corner on fire, snaking quickly up to the top. Heat snakes across the room. 

Lando shrieks. 

Chapter Text

A GLOSSARY OF TERMS

All-Kingdom Tribune — Major newspaper across all kingdoms. Known internationally for their high-quality reporting. Often used by spymasters for political gain.

Arena — Location of all competitions of the Formula Games. Each fighting kingdom has at least one major arena. Hosts between 25,000 and 90,000 spectators. Often lavishly decorated in a kingdom’s style, with ritual and ceremony present during home match weekends. See also: Tifosi.

Autarky — A term used in the United Territories to refer to complete economic self-sufficiency. Imposed only and exclusively during times of warfare. All international trade is suspended, barring pre-existing Entwined agreements. McLaren are notable for their efforts in maintaining self-sufficiency outside of war. See, Entwining. 

Bloodless War — A political conflict that took place within Alpine (formerly Renault) between 1958-1960. Whilst noted for its lack of ‘hot’ civil warfare, the severe economic downturn as a consequence led to the removal of Alpine as a member of the Triumvirate and its replacement by Red Bull. Debated as to whether it counts as a war at all.

Breach of the Peace — Charge given to a kingdom, or fighter for severe damage to the functioning of the FIA, or for severe violence within a match. Can lead to exile.

Capitulation — Traditional ending to a game between fighters. Asked in the form of a question, to prevent death.

Cultura — Priest-like figure within the Ferrari religion. Responsible for interpreting and dictating the doctrine of the Veriquestiona. See: Veriquestiona, Tifosi, Sempre.

Custom Weapons — Each fighter in the First Group of the Formula Games has a custom sword, spear, knife or other similar fighting implement. Often given to fighters as gifts, sponsorship agreements or heirlooms. Highly individualised to fighting style, cultural background and personal style. Prized for generations.

Entwining — A formal recognition of a relationship between two nation states. Common in the non-fighting kingdoms presently, and in fighting kingdoms pre-Bloodless War, yet now fallen aside after the removal of Renault as a triumvirate member. See also, triumvirate.

Exile — Ultimate punishment for a fighter of any series. Includes forfeiture of weaponry and titles, social shunning from near-all kingdoms (Ducati is a notable exception), amongst other outcomes. Extremely rare. See also: Breach of the Peace.

FIA — Fédération Internationale de l'Action Sport. Supranational organisation dedicated to the running and facilitating of the Formula Games and feeder series. Dictates rules and procedures for match weekends, fraternity and competition rules for fighters, prize money and rule infractions across the fighting kingdoms. Existed prior to the Wars of Potential.

Fighting Council — Also simply called the Council, the oversight body of the FIA for the First Group of the Formula Games. Determines sanctions, rewards and policy related to both fighter and kingdom. Known for their heavy surveillance. See: FIA, Formula Games, Spymaster.

Fighter’s Championship — Goal for all First Group fighters. Awarded to the fighter with the most points at the end of an annual season. Michael Schumacher and Lewis Hamilton are tied with seven each. Current champion: Max Verstappen.

Final Slate Rules — Ferrari religious doctrine dictating the role of a fighter prince during times of crisis. See: Veriquestiona, Sempre, Tifosi, Cultura.

Formula Games — Name given to ritualised bloodsport established in earnest after the Wars of Potential. Lead by the FIA. See: FIA.

Match Weekend — Traditional competition of the Formula Games. Friday-Sunday. Friday hosts rituals, ceremonies and media. Saturday is ‘group game day’. Sunday is for one-on-one matches. To win a match weekend is highly prestigious. Points are awarded for victory and for performance in matches. 

Non-fighting Kingdom — Kingdom that does not provide fighters to any level of the Formula Games. Often considered to be militarily weaker, relying on allyship with fighting kingdoms for support. Economically dominated by Chip Ganassi, but with significant cultural and political sway in times of crisis. Largest kingdoms include: Chip Ganassi, Ducati and Toyota.

Sempre — Faction of the Tifosi known for violence against other kingdoms, particularly of their religious. Branded as terrorists in Alpine, Williams and McLaren. Controversial within Ferrari. 

Spymaster — Secret-gatherer, espionage leader and political advisor to all kingdoms. Each kingdom has at least one. Notable spymasters include Jérôme d’Ambrosio of Ferrari, Flavio Briatore of Alpine and Jos Verstappen of Red Bull. Little is known of their organisation.

Tifosi — Ferrari religious believer. Known for unwavering devotion to their kingdom, many religious rituals and shunning of religious tolerance. See: Sempre.

Triumvirate — The three leading members of the fighting kingdoms. Currently consists of Red Bull, Ferrari, and Mercedes. Holds the most power and sway over policy decisions, cultural identity and fighting dominance both inside and outside of the arena. Has existed since the end of the Wars of Potential.

Union — Formally the United Fighter Princes Association (UFPA). A labour organisation consisting of the fighter princes of the kingdoms. All members are invited to join, though it is not compulsory. Currently headed by George Russell of Mercedes. Discusses safety and security for fighters, inter-kingdom disputes and relations with the FIA.

Veriquestiona — Ferrari’s major religious text. Contains instructions and information on morality, politics, honesty and metaphysics. Each household is given one copy on the birth of a child.

Wars of Potential — Defining series of intra-kingdom conflicts fought over the expansionist aims of McLaren and monarchy of Ferrari. Ended with the establishment of the Formula Games and FIA,  change of allegiance of Toro Rosso from Ferrari to Red Bull, and development of worldwide democracy. Few veterans live.

WEAPONS

Lewis Hamilton: Amethyst-encrusted silver glaive

Charles Leclerc: Golden cutlass with rubies

Lando Norris: Steel rapier

Oscar Piastri: Scimitar with leather-bound handle

George Russell: Sabre

Andrea Kimi Antonelli: Dagger

Max Verstappen: Damascus steel broadsword

Checo Perez: Claymore with opal in the hilt

Jack Doohan: Classic-style Shortsword

Pierre Gasly: Basket-hilted rapier

Fernando Alonso: Machete with carvings of plants in the blade

Lance Stroll: Broadsword with a dark green hilt. Extremely expensive

Esteban Ocon: Espadon (Zweihänder)

Ollie Bearman: Kopis

Nico Hulkenberg: Dual-ended staff

Gabriel Bortoleto: Sickle with an end tipped with gold

Yuki Tsunoda: Tamahagane metal pike. Taller than he is

Liam Lawson: Metal-tipped quarterstaff

Isack Hadjar: Traditionally-made long sword

Alex Albon: Silver Spear

Carlos Sainz: Twin Toledo Steel Stiletto Daggers

Daniel Ricciardo: Mameluke sword with a tassel

Logan Sargeant: Short Sabre

Jenson Button: Sickle with a green clothbound handle