Chapter Text
“Heat suppressants: To what extent is it ethically justifiable for an Omega to have their heat cycle delayed in the name of performance? To what extent does this differ from preventing these individuals from participating in activities common to Alphas and Betas—including high-performance activities—by virtue of their designation, while the use of these suppressants is mandated? Opinion piece.” - The Human Axis.
⸻
Toro Rosso.
Red Bull in Italian.
The team where Sebastian Vettel began his Formula 1 career.
From this point on, Max knows there’s no turning back. He will officially be a Formula 1 driver with a signed contract, driving a car in a race, not just a test for free practice and he’s gone further than any omega ever dreamed. In that free practice session, he knew he was born to drive; he instinctively knew what to do to keep the car on the track, and he did it!
Dad trained him; of course Max would be good—why wouldn’t he be? And he knows that even though Mom doesn’t approve of Dad’s ways, he knows she’s happy for him and rooting for him to succeed.
(Dad trained him to hide his omega designation behind a beta mask. It’s easy—he just can’t miss the right timing for his suppressant doses, use scent blockers for the strong strawberry smell, and finally, scent modulators to maintain the subtle, faint aroma of green tea characteristic of a beta.)
(No one except his family knows that he used to smell like strawberries.)
Max’s career in F3 was so strong that there was no way Helmut Marko could let him slip away to Mercedes, and Red Bull was the only team willing to put someone in the cockpit who couldn’t even legally drive on the streets. Helmut negotiated a seat at Toro Rosso with his dad; Max got nervous as the negotiations neared their end, he thought Dietrich, Marko, or Franz Tost might ask about his designation but none of them did.
In fact, he found it very strange that Red Bull didn’t require any hormone tests and simply took his word for it (better that way, if they had questioned him and he couldn’t fake the test results, he would have had his spot in Formula 1 denied just when he was so close). The most they required of Max was to disclose his designation to the medical department and only to them.
When Max signs the medical department’s confidentiality agreement, he officially declares himself a beta to everyone who will meet him from now on. The doctor just looks at the checked option and says nothing.
(He doesn’t question it and prefers to ignore the fact that the form has an “omega” option to mark there; surely it must be a trap to catch any omega bold enough to dare to dream of more than staying at home.)
⸻
Carlos was actually pretty cool, for an alpha.
Of course, Max wouldn’t admit that to his dad. For some reason, his dad hates Carlos’s dad and wants that anger to automatically transfer to their sons and create a rivalry.
But anyway, Carlos is cool, and Max likes making those silly Toro Rosso championship videos, where he and Carlos are allowed to just chill (Max doesn’t really like to think about it, but he might also be allowed to have fun and think about something other than racing).
⸻
Toro Rosso is an almost youthful environment.
The team doesn’t treat them like children, no. Max can come in and give feedback on how the car feels and say what he thinks would be best to adjust, but Toro Rosso has a more laid-back atmosphere. Franz Tost always made him drink water between sessions and told him that if he felt uncomfortable with anything or anyone, he should just let him or the medical department know. Tost also used to make him read random classic books because, according to him: “a driver who can’t interpret what we are saying is a problem.”
And if Max didn’t read the book, he’d be banned from playing FIFA.
So Max is reading Don Quixote de La Mancha.
Of course, Franz wouldn’t make it easy and would give him a copy in German just so he could “broaden his horizons”
(As if he didn’t already speak German with Helmut, but… Better to do as they say and not let anyone suspect that he isn’t what he claims to be).
He was already at the part where Quixote's friends (he calls them friends because they clearly care about Quixote enough to lock the library room to keep him from delving deeper into madness) when he decides he’s spent too much time sitting on the bed and decides to go for a walk around the hotel, because after all, he needs to stretch his legs a bit.
And to tell the truth, half the book is already justification enough for Tost to let him play FIFA.
Max decides to stop for a bit and ends up bumping into Carlos sitting on the couch in the middle of the hallway, next to those vending machines, just staring at the ceiling with his book closed (oh, so Franz also forced Carlos to have a cultural moment—frankly, Max thinks Tost secretly wants to be the leader of a book club).
As he approaches Carlos, he sees the book lying next to where the Spaniard is sitting and manages to read the title printed on the open cover.
Oeroeg.
Also known as “The Black Lake.”
Also translated into some romance languages as “The Lost Friend.”
Max finds it interesting that Tost decided to give him a Spanish book to read and a Dutch book for Carlos. Perhaps he wanted the two pilots to understand each other’s culture better that way. Honestly, Max doesn’t think much about it, but he understands the concept of what Franz was trying to do.
“So, usually, when people stare into space like that while reading a book, it’s because they’ve had some big revelation or reached the end, and that’s changed their perception of the world,” Max decides to start the conversation as he lifts his head after reading the book’s title and decides to sit next to Carlos.
“It’s a ridiculously depressing book.”
Max settles in and copies Carlos, deciding to stare at the ceiling.
“You’re exaggerating; people like to say that Dutch literature is depressing. We just like to overanalyze life and its nuances.”
“No, seriously. They spend the whole book believing their friendship will survive anything, and in the end, they can’t even understand each other properly anymore.”
“It happens sometimes. People change. Sometimes they just stop meeting on the same page…”
“What a cruel worldview, Max”
“Sometimes, life teaches you that, even true bonds have an expiration date”
(He saw this firsthand with Mom and Dad.)
(If he’s discovered to be an omega, all the bonds that he did until now, this little peace, that little world where he can act without worrying about designations and have a friend like Carlos or a father figure in the form of Franz or even an eccentric grandfather like Marko, all of that he has here at Toro Rosso will end.)
And silence settles between them.
“I find it sad when two people spend their whole lives being important to each other and in the end become strangers.” Carlos speaks again. “I like to believe that the bond is still there and still exists; they just need to remember it, and if it really does end, that they’ve had time to say they care deeply about each other.”
“For someone older than me, you’re certainly a dreamer, Sainz.”
“For someone so young, you’re certainly too much of a fatalist, Max.”
Max just stares at the ceiling and laughs.
“Tost definitely wanted me to be a little more of a dreamer by making me read Don Quixote, and for you to be a little more realistic by reading Dutch literature.”
“I’m sorry, Tost, this Spaniard will still be a dreamer who believes in the best of the world.”
Max falls silent again and reflects a little on the world and society.
“Have you ever thought about what the world is like out there?”
“What do you mean, hermano?”
Hermano—Max doesn’t know any Spanish, but from what little he does know, hermano means brother in Spanish.
Carlos sees him as a brother.
(And Max lies to him, saying he’s a beta.)
“About what’s going to happen after we become world champions and our names go down in history.”
“Honestly, I don’t think about it that much.” Carlos smiles. “But I hope to retire and by then have found my partner, you know, a handsome omega who’ll give me beautiful children who may or may not want to be Formula 1 racers, who knows, or a beta, you never know, but I prefer an omega.”
“It seems like you have thought about it. But about the kids… What if one of them is an omega and wants to be a driver like their dad?”
“Ah, Max, unfortunately, it wouldn’t work out for her, you know. If these rules exist, it must be for a reason; no one would create them without justification.”
“Even if she has talent and is better than other alphas?” Max retorts with a hint of latent anger in his voice.
“I get where you’re coming from. I know your mom raced karts and was good—she actually beat Christian Horner—but as we know, she was an omega and could have gotten hurt. Can you imagine her getting hurt and you never existing at all?”
“So, is it better that Omegas never compete?”
“Is it a waste of potential talent? Yes, but there’s nothing to be done; that’s just how the world is.”
“That’s just how the world is,” Max repeats, a certain weariness in his voice.
As if he were trying to accept something he’d never quite been able to swallow.
(The world is unfair, but he alone cannot defeat the world.)
The hallway falls silent again after that.
The distant sound of the elevator opening on another floor.
The constant hum of the vending machine.
“I’m afraid I’m not relevant enough,” Carlos admits.
“What do you mean?”
“Like… one day you wake up and you’re not fast enough or useful enough anymore, and everyone just… prefers to forget you.”
Max doesn’t answer, but he can understand Carlos’s fear.
(Of course it’s not the same thing, but Max feels that fear many times when he passes circuit inspectors and FIA members and fears he hasn’t applied enough scent blocker, has forgotten the scent modulator, or, worse, goes into heat and sees all the work and sacrifice up to that point thrown away.)
(Because, after all, relevance was also a form of survival.)
“My dad thinks I’m going to be replaced by someone more aggressive.”
“He’s wrong.”
“I think he’s right.” He rests his head on the couch. “This sport likes aggressive people. People who take up space. Sometimes I think that if you stop for a second, someone will take your place without even thinking twice.” He turns his face slightly toward Max. “But what about your dad?”
The question makes Max freeze for a moment.
Max doesn’t know exactly what to say to Carlos, but not wanting to ignore his teammate, he decides to say something.
“Dad… says control is everything.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
And this time, the silence isn’t uncomfortable.
Just weary.
Two boys too young, trying to act like adults in a sport that swallows people whole without a second thought.
Until Carlos takes a deep breath and smiles wryly, as if he’s decided not to let the mood sink for good.
“Eventually we’ll leave Toro Rosso. Whether it’s for Red Bull or some other team. We’re too good to keep being junior drivers.”
Max chuckles softly.
Confident. Very Spanish of him.
Carlos stretches his legs a little before continuing:
“I hope we stay in touch, hermano.”
Hermano.
Brother.
The word stirs something strange inside Max’s chest.
(But bonds built on omissions were still fragile bonds.)
Because bonds were bound to end eventually.
That was what life taught him.
But sitting there, sharing silence, books, and fear with Carlos, it seemed a little hard to believe that completely.
“Me too,” Max replies softly.
And without thinking much, he ends up leaning his head against Carlos’s shoulder.
The warmth of their closeness is immediate.
Comforting.
Safe.
Carlos doesn’t complain, he just stays there beside him while the hotel hallway remains silent.
Max closes his eyes for a few seconds.
He knows Carlos isn’t a bad person.
Just someone who has learned to accept the world the way it is because it seems easier to survive that way, and maybe Max is doing the same thing.
⸻
“Max, let Carlos pass.”
No, no, no.
No way.
Max is faster than Carlos, whether he has new tires or not. Max can prove it; he can prove that he’s better, that he can finish in the points, that he can bring home the points for Toro Rosso.
He likes Carlos, he really does, and that’s why he decides to make this decision, because for him, he and Carlos need to prove their worth, and the best way for them to be relevant would be for both of them to fight hard for their positions, without either of them having to give in. So he knows that Carlos will understand what Max is going to do now.
“NO.”
⸻
“Max, that was a hell of a drive. Can you talk about your race?”
“Yeah, it was very exciting, especially after it stalled at the start. I thought the race was over, but then I just kept pushing even when I was one lap behind, and the pace was great afterward, so we had to be back in the points. I didn’t believe it, but in the end, it’s just an amazing result.”
“How physically demanding was it out there for you?”
“It’s quite tough, quite warm.”
Max smiles; the journalists are asking good questions today.
“We heard the team on the radio at the end telling you to let your teammate through. You gave them a pretty clear ‘no.’ Why didn’t you let him through?”
Max’s face falls quickly. Of course, of course the journalists came after yet another sensational headline and didn’t come to ask about the actual race. For a segment of society that loves to congratulate those who are bold, especially alphas, if a beta (an omega) decides to take his place ahead of an alpha, they seem determined to criticize. But he has to answer, then.
“I mean, I was one lap behind and then at the end I came back as the leading car and I was chasing the guys in front of me, so for me there was no reason to let him go by.”
“Do you know why they asked you to let him go?”
“I don’t know. I still have to speak to the team.”
“How much trouble are you going to be in?”
“I don’t know. I’m very happy with my position.”
Max gives a wry smile, finally getting ready to leave.
He wants to get out of there right away; he doesn’t want to answer any more silly questions from journalists trying to spin a story. He knows Carlos would understand, he knows the team would understand, that’s what he’s learned: to give his best and everything he’s got, not to let it be taken for granted.
⸻
“How relieving is today’s result, given all the frustrations and disappointments from recent races, Carlos?”
“Relieving, but I still have a bit of a… ‘so-so feeling’ now, knowing that today was a race I could have finished in P5 or P6 without the gearbox problem. With the pace we had and the overtakes we made, I still finished P9, losing 20 seconds due to a gearbox problem, frustrating. But anyway, I have to take it this first year; there are a lot of things happening to me in the races. A lot of small problems that are affecting my final result. I just hope next year that everything will be a bit smoother, that things don’t happen to me, and I can have much better, clean races.
“And obviously the issue at the end with Max not letting you through, is this something you’re going to have to discuss with him and the team?”
“I don’t really have to discuss anything with him, I think. It’s more the team that needs to tell him to listen to them. In the end, I’m a team player and I’m doing the best I can for the team. I could have attacked him and risked the overtake, you know, but I decided not to because I was hoping he was going to let me through, but he decided not to, so I don’t think it’s up to me to discuss it with him.
“Thanks, Carlos.”
⸻
The hotel TV was still on in the corner of the room.
“Scuderia Toro Rosso boss admits Verstappen was right to ignore the radio order.”
The sports program’s logo spun at the bottom of the screen while the commentators talked over one another.
“I believe there was a certain amount of favoritism on the team’s part in letting Verstappen not give the position back to Carlos. If there are team orders, they must be followed.”
“Great drivers often ignore team orders and listen to their own instincts. We saw that with Senna, Schumacher, Hamilton… Mercedes itself decided not to interfere in the battle between Rosberg and Hamilton.”
“But they’re a different case.”
“Why?”
The commentator hesitates for a split second.
“Because they’ve already proven themselves to be natural leaders in the sport.”
Another chuckles quietly.
“Verstappen was reckless. An immature kid trying to act bigger than he is.”
“Or maybe he’s just hungry enough to win.”
“Unchecked hunger remains a problem.”
Max turns off the TV.
⸻
“I would’ve let you pass.”
“What?”
“If I were in your place, I would’ve given up the position.”
“Carlos… that’s not how this works.”
“We’re a team, we’re supposed to help each other, hermano.”
“But that’s not how champions are made. You need the hunger, the will to get it.”
“And besides, my dad would kick me in the balls if I gave up position.” Max laughs, hoping it might ease the weight of the conversation.
Carlos doesn’t laugh back.
“Sometimes your dad’s an asshole.”
Max doesn’t like what Carlos says. You need the drive to win, and nobody would take him seriously if he followed team orders and didn’t prioritize himself. Franz understood that — strategically, there was no way Carlos could catch Perez.
His garage understood too. They made him a birthday cake.
He hopes his father understood as well. He didn’t say anything, but Max knows he did the right thing.
Maybe this was what people meant when they talked about belonging.
Not warmth.
Not safety.
Just continuing to be useful enough that they let you stay.
⸻
Red Bull replaces Daniil Kvyat with Max Verstappen in Formula 1
Just days after a controversial performance at the Russian GP, Red Bull’s beta driver was “demoted” to Toro Rosso, the group’s secondary team in the competition.
⸻
The headline had already been repeated so many times it no longer sounded new.
The commentator’s voice didn’t seem directed at anyone in particular, more like someone trying to organize an event that had already been decided long before any public explanation.
“It’s a move that surprises the paddock, though maybe not entirely outside Red Bull’s pattern. They don’t usually wait for stability when they believe they have speed in their hands.”
Another commentator replies, drier:
“Kvyat was a consistent driver. A beta. Not brilliant, but solid. And still, that wasn’t enough. The question now is simple: what makes someone bet on a driver so young, so… unstable under pressure?”
“Unstable?” the first interrupts, as if the word had been poorly chosen. “Or just aggressive enough to be fast?”
The silence that follows doesn’t last long, but it’s enough to shift the tone of the conversation.
“Some people say Toro Rosso never managed to extract everything from Verstappen. Reliability problems, strategy… maybe he was always faster than the car allowed him to show.”
“Speed was never the only criterion in Formula 1.”
“No. But it’s the only one that can’t be ignored for too long.”
“And still there’s a recurring concern,” another commentator continues, “about the psychological impact of promoting a driver this early. Another beta driver. Kvyat was a beta and showed consistency, Verstappen is too immature. He’s already shown he doesn’t hesitate to challenge team orders. To me, Sainz would’ve been the better choice. Older, more mature, understands the dynamics better… Verstappen still seems too emotional in certain situations. Red Bull is making a mistake.”
“That can be interpreted in two ways,” another replies. “Either as indiscipline… or as someone who refuses to accept limits when he believes he’s right.”
The word “limits” seems to hang in the air a second longer than it should.
“Red Bull has always valued that kind of profile,” someone concludes, without much conviction. “But there’s a difference between betting on talent and overwhelming a driver with expectation.”
“Or maybe they’re putting a boy who’s far too young into an environment that destroys drivers.”
The broadcast moves on, but there’s no real discussion anymore, only variations of the same idea.
⸻
He remembers the day he got the news. At first, he didn’t believe his father when he said that by the following week Max would possibly be in the main team. He thought his father was joking.
(His father had never joked with him or told him jokes ever since Max decided to become a driver.)
Helmut called him out to lunch, and Max was confused. Helmut didn’t say anything, in fact, he talked about everything except performance. (Is he giving Max time to admit it…?)
(They found out, they found out Max lied. In the end it doesn’t matter, every result he brought to Toro Rosso meant nothing because Max dared to be something he was never even allowed to be.)
At the end of lunch, Helmut simply told him to go to Milton Keynes within the next seven days (they know, they know) and sign the contract as an official Red Bull driver. (What?)
⸻
When Max came back from lunch, his room felt too small. Because in the end, for Max to get the Red Bull seat, there was an uncomfortable truth pulsing beneath his skin: someone had to fall for him to rise.
That line of thought is interrupted when someone knocks on his door.
When he opens it, Carlos is there.
For a second, Max expects tension.
Anger.
Anything.
But Carlos only smiles tiredly.
“So…” he says. “Red Bull Racing driver now.”
Max leans his shoulder against the wall beside him, not entirely sure what to do with his hands.
“Yeah.”
“You did it.”
The words sound almost admiring.
Almost.
Max swallows hard.
“It wasn’t exactly my choice.”
Carlos lets out a short breath of a laugh through his nose.
“Of course it was. You’re too fast for them to ignore.”
Silence.
Max watches Carlos for a few seconds. He looks tired.
Older, suddenly.
As if the announcement had added extra miles onto his shoulders.
“Are you mad at me?” Max asks before he can stop himself.
Carlos raises his eyebrows, surprised.
“Mad?”
“About the switch.”
Carlos looks away for a moment.
And that’s already answer enough.
“No.” He sighs. “I mean… not at you.”
But there’s something there.
A small crack.
Almost invisible.
Max hates noticing it.
“It’s just…” Carlos rubs his hands over his face quickly. “You know what this sport is like.”
Yeah.
Max knows.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Because now he can see it clearly.
Today it was Daniil.
Tomorrow it could be any of them.
Maybe even him.
“They like you more,” Carlos continues, trying to sound casual. “You take up more space. Make more noise. People remember that.”
Max immediately thinks:
Because aggression is leadership.
But he doesn’t say it.
“You’re good too.”
Carlos laughs quietly.
“Good usually isn’t enough here.”
The sentence hangs heavily between them.
Max doesn’t know how to answer.
Because for the first time since entering Formula 1, he realizes Carlos understands the sport almost the same way he does.
Except Carlos still tries to stay kind despite it.
“You’ll do really well there,” Carlos says after a few seconds. “Seriously.”
Max nods slowly.
He should be happy.
He should feel proud.
But everything inside him feels strange.
Restless.
Like he just survived something instead of winning.
Carlos shifts in the doorway.
“Just don’t forget our moments when you’re at Red Bull.”
The words come with a crooked smile.
A joke.
Almost.
Max forces a small smile back.
“I won’t.”
Carlos opens his arms automatically, and Max steps forward before he can properly think about it.
The hug doesn’t last long.
Too polite.
Different from the easy warmth that used to exist before.
When they pull apart, Carlos gives him two quick pats on the shoulder.
“Congratulations, Verstappen.”
Verstappen.
Not hermano.
The emptiness hits Max’s chest so suddenly it nearly steals the air from him for a second.
Small. Ridiculous. Pathetic.
And still there.
Because Max immediately understands what it means.
Bonds change shape.
People keep moving forward.
And affection was never a guarantee of permanence.
Carlos is already walking away when he stops in the hallway for a moment.
“Oh.” He turns back toward Max. “Sorry to say this, but did you change your cologne? You smell different.”
Max takes half a second too long to answer.
(The suppressant’s effect is already beginning to wear off, right on schedule with the cycle. Max notices before any confirmation comes — not as new information, but as something his body simply starts announcing in silence. He knows exactly what it means. He doesn’t need to think.)
“Must be your imagination. Probably just a smell stuck in your nose.”
“Alright then. Well, Max, good luck. Take care.”
Then he leaves.
And Max is alone in the room. He locks the door and prepares himself for what’s coming.
Red Bull Racing, his heat, the pressure.
All he wanted was to have someone with him in his nest, comforting him and reminding him, telling him everything would be okay. But he can’t have that. That’s too omega, and it would condemn him.
Because allowing that always comes with a cost.
And he prepares himself for seven days of isolation, with only his nest and a hoodie Carlos once lent him and forgot to ask back for (and Max never had the courage to return it because it fit too perfectly in his nest beside his mother’s and sister’s things).
⸻
In Milton Keynes, Max stares at the signed contract.
Red Bull Racing, second driver.
Not that this hadn’t always been the goal. His Toro Rosso contract itself stated that if he wasn’t promoted to the main team by 2017, he would be free to negotiate with other teams.
But he hadn’t expected the moment to come so soon.
“Welcome, kid. I’m Christian Horner. I raced against your mother in karting, and Helmut spoke very highly of you. From what I’ve seen, you really inherited her talent.” Horner extends his hand to Max.
Max shakes his hand in return.
Inherited.
The word lingers quietly.
Not because Max feels like an extension of her, but because Horner remembered Sophie for something beyond motherhood.
For racing.
For being fast enough that people still talked about her years later.
And maybe that is what unsettles him.
The realization that the same dream that once lived in her now lives in him too. Not inherited like a legacy.
More like recognition.
Like standing on a road someone else once tried to walk before the world decided it had no place for her there.
“I’ll see you in the meeting room, kid. You can head there now. Helmut and Dietrich will join us shortly. Amanda, our head of marketing, will guide you there.”
Horner gives Amanda a brief nod before stepping away, already focused on the next thing waiting for him somewhere deeper inside headquarters.
⸻
Amanda arrives.
Sweet scent.
Max notices it before he thinks.
Wrong. Faulty instinct.
The suppressant is still there. It has to be.
(Omegas don’t hold positions like this. Not here. Not at this level.)
It’s just a misread.
He corrects himself silently.
Amanda speaks naturally, shows him around headquarters, asks if he needs anything.
Then she leaves him in the meeting room.
⸻
The Red Bull meeting room in Milton Keynes had that kind of lighting that was too controlled to feel casual. Everything was clean, functional, designed for efficiency, even the windows seemed calculated not to distract anyone for more than two seconds.
Max walks in with the automatic posture of someone who already learned where to place his body so he doesn’t take up too much space.
Helmut isn’t there. Neither is Christian.
Only Daniel.
Max had heard the name in passing conversations before, always accompanied by technical remarks, never emotional ones. “Fast in medium-speed corners,” “good adaptability,” “needs to improve consistency.” Words that don’t really say much about people.
Daniel looks up when Max enters.
There’s no exaggerated surprise. No rush.
Only recognition.
“You must be Max.”
It’s not a question. But it’s not a challenge either.
Max nods once.
“And you’re the new driver.” Max decides to answer with a joke. Maybe he wanted to make a good impression and create a new bond and decided to try being funny. Honestly, he doesn’t even know why he did it.
Silence settles for a moment before Daniel speaks.
“They told us to review the simulator today. I guess they want to see if we kill each other before they put us in the actual car.”
Max lets out a short exhale through his nose, almost a laugh he hasn’t fully allowed himself to finish.
“They won’t have to try very hard.”
Daniel laughs this time. An easy laugh, effortless. It doesn’t sound defensive. It doesn’t sound performative either.
“I like you, Max. I think we’re gonna be great partners.”
Max doesn’t answer immediately. It’s not the sentence itself. It’s the way Daniel said it, like he’d already decided something about Max without asking permission.