Chapter Text
It’s cloudy. No sun shines down on them as the assembled Red Bull staff gather for their pre-practice strategy meeting. There’s a somber attitude, mostly due to the events of the last race. The hesitant truce that had been reached by the two sides of the garage before Silverstone found itself shattered and abandoned before Spa.
Dennis walks on the broken shards of the team’s trust and faith in each other like a king in a parade. He’s been reborn. Legacies are now carried on his shoulders publicly, his driver is breaking records like it’s nothing.
Forgive him for not really wanting to deal with Langdon’s stink eye and Mel’s obvious annoyance.
Trinity and him sit side-by-side in a Belgian hotel’s conference room. The doom and gloom outside of the large windows promises pain and struggle. Less of a racing strategy meeting and more of a war room.
Robby commands them all in a worn navy jacket and circular reading glasses. All his smiling and warmth gone as the tension is obvious.
“We are 21 points away from Mercedes,” Robby says, voice loud in the quiet room, “A historic team, brought down at a historic track. Poetic, don’t you think?”
Dennis shifts in his chair, leaning closer to Trinity. She sends him a small smile. They both know who's going to be the one making history in this race.
“No excuses, no nonsense. It’s going to be a wet race. Langdon, you have won here before, won in the rain, and I expect you to be sharing your data with Santos to assist her in her race. You can win again. Santos, you won your F2 championship in the rain. Don’t fuck up what could be the start of a legacy,” Robby speaks, serious, looking between the two drivers.
Langdon scoffs quietly, “So dramatic.”
A beat of discomfort passes. No one talks, Dennis holds his breath.
Robby raises an eyebrow over his glasses, “I think I’m allowed to be dramatic. You certainly have been brushing up on your own drama classes this season.”
“I apologized,” Langdon snaps, glaring at the team principal.
Which was true. During their off week between races, Langdon had made a formal apology in front of all the second garage staff. It was well-written and recited. He’d sounded like he was being held at gunpoint to do it.
Not a single one of them took it as anything but insincere. A ploy to pretend like Langdon was ready to play nice for Robby.
One of his mechanics huffs, another quietly snorts.
“Then act like you care,” Robby drawls out, all patronizing and uncaring of Langdon’s reaction, “I’m trying to get this team a championship, not run an intervention for down-on-their-luck F1 drivers. This is not an individual sport, it’s a team sport. Don’t fuck it up for the team.”
Langdon rolls his eyes, but remains silent. Mel’s eyes are wide. She’s seeing a new person before her, these last few weeks, someone different from the man she’s worked with for years.
Robby pushes through the awkwardness, “Now, the weather's going to be unpredictable on Sunday. That means qualifying is especially important to guarantee we aren’t stuck in traffic in mixed or wet conditions.”
The team nods. A mechanic whispers to a tire manager, someone hums in thought.
“Things will change fast. Things will get dangerous. We have to be ready for the worst, but expect the best,” Robby says seriously, turning to look at Dennis, “Whitaker, what’s the current plan for Santos?”
Unspoken hierarchy means Dennis is always addressed second, after Mel and the first garage. Inexperienced engineer, inexperienced driver don’t speak before the experienced engineer, the experienced driver.
Mel looks both shocked and a little offended.
Dennis clutches his newfound power in his hands tightly, “We start on inters, most teams are hopeful the track dries before the next rainfall, but we won’t be risking it. There’s wets available before the real storm would hit, but there’s also new softs that would outpace those on old ones. It’s a tire game this race, she’s run purple sectors in the sim all week.”
“And if the tracks dry? If the other teams are right?” Robby asks, leaning forward, dark eyes excited.
“Won’t be. It’s Spa, the track is never fully dry,” Dennis states, all certainty obvious.
Mel makes a noise of protest. Robby ignores her, “And her driving? Her qualifying? What will that look like?”
Dennis smiles. Trinity shifts in her chair beside him.
“We let her ride the bull. Ignore how the legends drove it, we brake late in the corners, make gaps, and let her fly,” he says, almost breathless as he starts to get into it, “We’ve got a rookie that takes risks in a car that’s nothing but risky. Robby, it’s going to look like a fuckin’ rodeo.”
Robby leans back with a self-satisfied smile, “And if she crashes?”
Trinity is the one to answer. She’s relaxed in her chair, post-win glow still on her face, “I won’t.”
The first garage looks annoyed, they’re being cocky, too arrogant for their own good. Their icarus is touching the sun, their king without clothes. Mel looks torn between horror and frustration.
It’s oddly pleasing to know that all of the second garage is proud. Smiling and calm.
“If anyone’s crashing, it won’t be Santos. She’s our savior, remember?” Dennis asks with a smile, all sharp teeth on display.
That gets Robby to laugh. He throws his head back as it echoes in the room. It makes the corner of his eyes crinkle, his demeanor relaxes.
“Fuck, I forgot what it was like to have such hungry little psychos on the team,” he says, pushing up his glasses, “Whitaker, Santos, don’t mess it up.”
They nod as one. In sync, on the track, off the track.
He knew Robby would appreciate their risk taking. Robby won the Belgian Grand Prix in 1996 in a torrential downpour. Instead of starting on dry tires, soft, medium, or hard, he’d started on intermediate tires designed for more grip in mixed conditions, wet and drying tracks ideal. Robby won because he’d been on inters, and pitted for wets while most everyone else pitted for inters.
Dennis had rewatched the race a week ago. It felt like a prophecy. He’d made his ruling on Monday, and the garage listened like he was sitting on a heavenly throne. Faithful in their leader.
Trinity had grinned hearing his decision. She was loyal, but she was determined. His knight would fight monsters in the rain and bring him back a win.
[🔒Messages and calls are end-to-end encrypted. No one outside of this chat, not even WhatsApp, can read or listen to them. Tap to learn more. ]
SamSam: Tell me your Spa tire strat and you will be reincarnated as a lotus flower
DenDen: We both know I’m going straight to hell
DenDen: You can be my roommate again
SamSam: Then help out your roomie and tell me your tire strat
DenDen: No❤️
SamSam: Does our friendship mean nothing to you?? Our shared suffering??
DenDen: Collins is a good engineer you’ll be fine
SamSam: You’re right
SamSam: But I don’t want to be fine, I want to win
DenDen: And you think I can do that?
SamSam: I think you won’t make it worse
DenDen: You trust Collins?
SamSam: With my life
DenDen: Then trust in her strategy
SamSam: So wise Whitaker
DenDen: Needed the motivation Mohan
[Pre-race press conference. Three drivers are sitting on the same white couch with an interviewer across from them. From left to right; John Shen of Williams Racing, Samira Mohan of Mercedes, Trinity Santos of Red Bull Racing. All are in their team polos, styled in varying ways. Each driver looks calm, no visible tension despite any past incidents between them.]
Samira doesn’t mind doing press, honestly. She’s been media trained to hell and back, is able to speak her thoughts without causing problems, and tends to not care if she’s asked a stupid question.
And trust, she gets asked a lot of stupid questions.
Now leading the championship, in her first year with a new team, she’s practically always talking to the media. When she’s in press conferences like this one, it’s almost a relief to have others suffering with her.
John’s on her left, Trinity on her right. Her former teammate’s rivals and her former teammate’s new teammate. It should be awkward, but all three of them have bonded in clubs and through complaining about Langdon, so it’s nothing but calm waters.
The interviewer’s a young, peppy woman with a French accent. She’s been focusing on Samira so far, but as she’s wrapping up her last answer the interviewer turns to look at Trinity. Samira’s happy to set her microphone down for a moment as she begins to speak.
“This question is for Trinity, you’re coming off a race-win in Hungary, how are you feeling about this weekend? Continuing the winning streak?”
Trinity lifts up the microphone like it pains her. Samira giggles at her actions, John smiles out of the corner of her eye. Rookies are so funny when it comes to answering press questions.
“Ideally, I win. Realistically, I win. So feelin’ good,” Trinity says drily. It gets a small laugh from the interviewer and the crowd.
Samira has to press her lips into a thin line to not also laugh. It’s a terrible answer, and she’d be getting heat from her PR team immediately if she let it stand.
Trinity continues after a moment, voice still dry, “Yeah, winning streak would be great to continue. This weekend is going to promise a real test for my skills, for the car, and the team, but I believe in us to perform at that high level again. I’ve got complete faith in myself and the car. Just might have to get a little wet in the rain.”
The interviewer is all smiles, nodding, “How are you all feeling about the weather conditions for this weekend?”
Since her microphone is already up, Trinity answers first, “Like I’m going to be cold and wet.”
That gets another laugh from the crowd. John nudges her arm, clearly prompting her to answer first. Samira shoots him a glare with no heat behind it as she picks up her microphone.
“Spa’s always had some interesting weather. Belgium has great views but some pretty crazy storms! I think that it’s going to be tricky to handle the conditions if they switch drastically, but the forecast seems promising for a mixed condition race,” Samira answers with a smile, “Trinity is right though, seems like it’s going to leave us all cold and wet.”
Trinity gives her a small smile. Samira is glad that the rookie’s confident. She certainly wasn’t in her rookie year at Red Bull.
She has to elbow John to get him to pick up his microphone. The man sighs as he does, “I like wet races, mixed conditions. I think it shows off the driver’s skills in a way regular dry races don’t. Ideally, no one crashes.”
Samira chuckles, seeing a chance to joke, “Ideally, you don’t crash, you mean.”
“Obviously,” John rolls his eyes as the crowd and interviewer laugh, “I think I have less faith in myself than the wonder kid over there. Rain is scary!”
“Don’t worry John, I’ve got faith in you!” Samira coos, getting more of a reaction from the crowd and interviewer.
Rain is scary, but Samira’s going to be fine. Heather is a brilliant engineer, Mercedes’ strategists won’t lead her astray. She’ll handle it, maybe with less cockiness than Trinity, but she’s certain that the top step of the podium has her name on it.
Her championship lead could use more points. Lord knows Langdon’s not going to catch up unless some divine intervention happens.
fastgetawaycar
Friendly reminder to all those watching the Belgium GP tomorrow that the forecast has changed five times already and no one knows what’s going to happen!
brakepadels
this is so ominous lmaooooo
fastgetawaycar
I just don’t want people blaming drivers or engineers for bad calls when things are going to be so unpredictable! The hate they get after mixed conditions or wet races is so crazy, they can’t control the weather!!
#plus we’ve got two rookies this year #santos and diaz will probably struggle #it’s not their fault god might open the sky or it might randomly be dry
113 notes
jumpingrabbots
no whitaker custody posts this weekend…no red bull post about whitaker’s vintage robby merch…no rabbot interaction…god what must i sacrifice for more content
mamasmiameatball
starting a prayer circle for rabbot to interact tomorrow now
#still cannot believe they are coparenting an engineer #moved past that too fast #rabbot
89 notes
elmatadoro
Can’t decide if it’d be funnier for RB to overtake Merc in the constructor’s standings this weekend then Merc overtake them back immediately after summer break or for RB to somehow get disqualified this weekend
mercmercmercmerc
I just want some juicy RB disasterclass driving this weekend all I ask for
elmatadoro
Santos has pole and Langdon’s in p3, we are not getting that I fear
#Trinity Santos recreate Imola 1992 and we will get you a Mercedes seat for 2025 #JK #Hopefully Mohan drives like a monster to jump up from p5 bc that one hurt #McKay starts p2 n ends p2 #My consistent queen!
378 notes
Race day dawns in rain and grey clouds. Dennis trots his way to the garage under an umbrella with his junior engineer James, cold hands and wet polos. They work in silence, in quiet anticipation.
Hours pass. The rain stops. Someone in the garage says Ferrari’s starting on soft tires. Another person says McLaren is starting on hard tires. Eyes follow Dennis as he moves through the team, stepping over discarded tools and around mechanics. They are faithful in his decision. He doesn’t point out the nervous glances or anxious frowns.
Trinity is completely steadfast in their plan. She strolls in, stands next to him in front of screens of data and hushed voices. He points at the tires, she nods. They don’t discuss it further. She retreats back to start her pre-race preparations.
The track should be dry by lap 10 or 11 according to James. Dennis shakes his head. The junior engineer walks away with a grimace.
Dennis’ word is law in the garage. He’s king here, his star knight is willing to accept his ruling. They will start on intermediates.
Mel comes over and questions him. She’s stressed, tense, her shoulders sag under her navy Red Bull jacket. Langdon has been running his garage ragged. Outqualified by his rookie teammate again. Dennis is sympathetic, but unable to find it within himself to yield.
The other side of the garage is not faithful. They will start on mediums.
His dad texts him for good luck. He also tells him that he’s probably about to bite off more than he can chew. No information passes between them, no race strategies, no tire choices, no brake timing. His father is seeing a different man in a headset. Black and silver where Dennis wears navy and red.
Still, he remains proud. Cameras trail him in the garage. There’s a new title card that dubs him Dennis Abbot-Whitaker, race engineer & Jack Abbot’s son. Today, he thinks he’s not just Abbot’s son.
Robby finds him before the formation lap. He doesn’t speak, simply raises an eyebrow in question. Dennis nods. Robby nods.
The closest he could get to divine blessing.
Dennis adjusts his headset, makes sure he’s got everything he needs. The crowd roars as the red lights turn on. One, two, three, four, five.
Lights out. Screaming fans and the loud noise of the cars starting the race accompanies him as the garage starts to move. The race starts are always his favorite. Trinity holds her pole position, leading the pack, shooting down the straight after defending against Ellis in the hairpin.
James’ voice crackles in his headset, “Turn 15 is not drying quickly.”
“Only Aston on inters?” he asks, the radio distorting his voice.
“Yes,” James responds.
Dennis keeps his eyes on the screen. On the lap times and sectors. Numbers scroll by on another screen. He watches the cars on the track, watches as Trinity outdrives veterans and legends with nothing but pure audacity.
The car is touchy. She loses time on a corner in lap six. She finds more time in lap seven.
He radios in, “Up to 4 seconds ahead of Ellis.”
She radios back, “And to Langdon?”
He has to keep his voice steady, “Not important. Ellis 4.5 behind.”
Someone starts reporting rain from another car. By lap 14, the track was not drying at all, the light rain ensuring no grip for the slick tires on the other cars. The first garage asks for a pit from Langdon. He asks to stay out and hold his third place by the skin of his teeth.
There’s an Alpine that spins out on the slick turn 15. A yellow flag.
James whispers a weather update. Dennis is forced to turn away from the cameras to hide his joyous grin as the green flag waves.
On lap 21, Mercedes pits for inters. Ferrari pits for inters. Langdon pits for inters.
The rain picks up. Trinity has given herself a 10 second lead, tires old but holding on.
On lap 24, Trinity pits. They put on wet tires.
She fights through the traffic, weaving through backmarkers and midfielders as the rain gets heavier. Dennis leans forward to watch with bated breath.
When she overtakes Langdon on turn 11, he finally sits back. Two cars crash, an Alpine and a Sauber. It brings a yellow flag and a safety car. Ellis leads them, Trinity behind her, Langdon behind her. Samira is caught between a Williams and McLaren in p6. The rain is steady, but not a downpour, not yet.
James looks over at him, an unreadable expression. Dennis nods.
The safety car ends. Green flags wave. Trinity drives like she’s flying. Radios in to complain about Ellis braking so much. Dennis tells her to keep steady.
On lap 31, the sky opens.
Trinity is on wet tires. She overtakes Ellis. It’s something that comes from myth, from history. A young knight slaying a dragon in the downpour from heaven.
“Build the lead. Ellis 2.3 behind. Expect a safety car if the rain gets heavier,” he radios.
“On it,” she radios back.
The cameras are back on him. He sees the cameramen lingering in their garage, capturing their reactions of their rookie driver making Spa in the rain a part of her legacy.
Dennis feels the heavy weight of his own legacies on his shoulders. Can feel the pride swelling in his chest.
He watches as the other cars struggle. Slowing down in the storm, carefully maneuvering. A few come in to pit for wets. There’s radio messages overheard that have drivers and engineers arguing. Ellis drops down as McKay pulls off a masterful overtake on her. She sits in p4, the McLaren behind her, Samira behind them. Langdon has somehow made it to p2, pure grit and skill getting him there.
Trinity builds more of a lead. People are asking if the safety car is coming soon.
On lap 38, Ellis loses her grip and spins out on turn 15. She clips the McLaren before narrowly avoiding hitting the barriers, able to get back on the track and continue. The McLaren spins from the impact and hits Samira. Orange crashing into black.
Samira hits the barriers hard enough Dennis thinks the Earth itself shakes from the impact.
His chest constricts. The garage hushes immediately. Rain pours down. Smoke pours from the Mercedes. The McLaren is crushed. The Mercedes is crumpled.
Trinity is so far ahead she cannot see it. On the other side of the garage, he hears frantic voices. Dennis’ hands are shaking.
He radios Trinity as the double yellow flags wave, the safety car deploying. Marshals in orange and yellow vests are crowding the crash.
“Crash in turn 15. Mercedes and McLaren, safety car is deployed,” his voice wobbles over the radio frequency.
James is trying to hear if the drivers are okay. He signals the McLaren is fine. No word on the Mercedes.
Trinity radios back as he watches her speed slow down, “Are they alright?”
Dennis swallows. James shakes his head.
“The McLaren driver is out. No word on Merc,” he responds.
The screen with the crash on it is horrific. Samira slumped in her smoking car. Marshals frantically helping to get her out, removing the steering wheel. Another group is helping the McLaren driver limp across the track.
Someone starts waving a red flag.
“Dennis?” Trinity asks, the radio distorting her voice.
He barely breathes, “Come back. McLaren is out.”
Samira is still slumped in her car. Her bright purple helmet is unmoving. Someone is unclipping her from the seat.
He can’t look away.
The garage prepares for Trinity’s return. Cars pass the crash slowly, returning to the pit lane. Langdon makes it back first. Dennis is watching the screen.
Someone, sounding like Robby, is shouting to cut the broadcast.
Trinity comes back, somber and fidgeting as she gets out of the car. Her navy suit is wet as she steps towards him, the dark spots look black in the light. He extends an arm, and she moves to his side. They do not speak, eyes on the screen.
James reports that they’ve cut the broadcast, cameras now on the garages or commentators. The screen still shows the crash.
Samira is lifted out of the car. She gains consciousness sometime before they get her helmet off.
There’s someone yelling in the other garage. Dennis feels wetness on his face, and it takes him a moment to realize it was his tears. The rain comes down harder.
Stood there, in stillness and silence, the minutes pass. The medical team takes Samira. A group of marshals start to get the cars and debris off the track. The rain does not stop.
Trinity stands, unyielding. Dennis keeps his arm around her torso. He thinks they might both collapse if he stops holding her. She reaches out an arm and holds his waist. The only thing keeping him stable.
A notice goes out. The FIA announces they will not be restarting the race.
They win. They won in the rain in Spa with over a 10 second lead. They slayed monsters. They made a new legend and mythology for themselves. A king and his loyal knight.
The crown he’s been given weighs heavy on his head. He can only taste ash on his tongue when they are forced to celebrate with champagne. Trinity and Langdon do not spray their bottles at each other, they bow, once, and leave with a despondent McKay in tow.
Dennis has become a king. It feels terrible.
Belgian Grand Prix, Mercedes Team Radio, First Garage
Mohan: Safety car needed soon. Rain is heavy.
Collins: Expecting it after this lap. Watch turn 15.
Mohan: Ellis is losing grip on her rears.
Collins: She’s on inters. Glad we went with wets.
Mohan: [...]
Mohan: [...]
Mohan: [static]
Collins: SAMIRA! ARE YOU OKAY?
Mohan: [...]
Collins: Samira, Samira, baby, I need a response.
Collins: Samira, are you okay? How hurt are you?
Collins: The car is smoking, Samira you need to get out.
Mohan: [...]
Collins: Oh my god, Samira please be okay.
Collins: The marshals are on their way, please Samira be okay.
Mohan: [...]
Collins: [faint] Oh fuck, she’s not moving.
Collins: Samira, you’re going to be okay, baby.
Collins: They’ll get you out, you’re going to be okay.
The hotel room is dark. Cold. A kids show in French plays quietly. Rain drowns out most of the noise regardless.
Dennis is mostly asleep, fully clothed in ratty sweatpants and baggy hoodie stolen from his father. His sisters are curled up on either side of him. He’s on his back, an arm on both of them. Addy is on his right, tiny hands clutching at his side under his hoodie. Ivy mirrors her, another set of cold little hands on his stomach.
He barely remembers anything after the crash. Barely recalls the debrief, short and somber, or leaving the paddock. His father picked him up, he thinks. Fed him and his sisters, made them bathe, and sat them on his parent’s bed with the TV on.
It’s the voices that pull him from his slumber. Making him just barely conscious enough to hear the hushed tones from the other side of the suite.
“—FIA has no fuckin’ decency, never has,” one deep voice says, angry.
Another voice responds, tired, “We know this. Right now though, we have to focus on the kids and helping Samira recover before fighting with the FIA.”
“Gloria told me that I was overreacting, that the broadcast wasn’t that bad,” the first voice is wobbly, “She wasn’t moving, Jack. It was like your crash, all over again.”
“She’s safe, she’s still got both legs, and she’s got the entire summer break to recover,” the second voice, probably his father, says.
The first voice, deep and emotional, responds, “I wasn’t ready to see that again. That crash was bad, it shouldn’t have been that bad.”
There’s a pause. Dennis’ eyes are still closed. The bed is warm, his sisters’ breathing is even and steady in his ears. He’s being lulled back into sleep in seconds.
Before he’s fully under, he hears his father’s voice again, “We’ll fix it. We always do, Michael.”