Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[REDACTED INTERNAL RB SYSTEM - DRIVER FILE 002A - "RICCIARDO"]

Date: 2018-08-27

From: Daniel Ricciardo

To: Personal Journal

Entry:

I don’t remember turning the wheel in Baku. I don’t remember choosing to move.

It was like my hands were guided. Like... I was watching myself. The moment I made that defensive move, I could feel the chassis hum. Like it approved. Like it wanted it.

Then I was in the wall. Again.

Max walked by my garage later, didn’t even flinch. Just stared at the car. Whispered something. I think he said “good girl.”

What the fuck is happening?!??

[AUDIO TRANSCRIPT – RB ENGINEERING SUITE SIM ROOM A – 2019-06-11]

Subject: Pierre Gasly – Sim Calibration Session 34-B

Note: Session red-flagged due to driver distress.

[Audio Begins]

ENGINEER 1: You’re entering Sector 2, just go clean through the chicane—

GASLY: non-verbal breathing, erratic—It’s not—STOP—

GASLY: It’s turning on its own. I’m not—I’m not even touching it!

ENGINEER 1: Pierre, calm down, that’s not possible. The wheel input shows—

GASLY: IT’S MOCKING ME! I saw Max in the mirror—he's not here! I saw him smirking—

GASLY: You said this was just data. But it knows me. It knows I’m scared!

ENGINEER 2: Shut it down. Shut the whole sim down.

[Screaming, mechanical hissing, faint whisper: “not enough…not enough…not you…”]

[Audio Ends]

[TEXT MESSAGE THREAD – GASLY to ALBON – 2019-07-21]

Pierre: do u ever feel like the car is judging you?

Albon: judging? lol what?

Pierre: like…it knows u f*cked up before you do

Pierre: and when it’s mad it just gives you no grip

Pierre: not just understeer…like punishment

Albon: mate you need to sleep

Albon: you been seeing verstappen’s therapist?

Pierre: he doesn’t have one

Pierre: the car is his therapist

Albon: ???

[VIDEO CALL RECORDING - INTERNAL RB NETWORK - 2020-09-27]

Subject: Alex Albon, Post-Race Debrief – Sochi GP

ALEX: "I was…floating. It was a normal overtake on Lap 3. And then the steering locked left, but I didn’t do that.

“I swear it was whispering, 'cut across him…do it like Max…’"

ENGINEER: "Alex. The data shows no issue with the chassis. It must’ve been your input."

ALEX: (long silence)

ALEX: "Then why does it keep happening when Max watches me drive?"

[TRANSCRIPT – PRESS SCRUM – 2021-10-10]

Subject: Sergio Pérez, Turkish GP

PRESS: Checo, can you comment on the late braking move into Turn 12? Looked borderline desperate.

PÉREZ: I didn’t plan to brake that late. It just—

(long pause)

The system takes over sometimes. Especially when Max is ahead. It’s like it wants to catch him.

PRESS: The system?

PÉREZ: (flat) The car.

(Christian Horner immediately ends interview)

[EMAIL – INTERNAL RB FOLDER - MARKO TO HORNER - 2022-02-01]

Subject: SIMULATION STABILITY REPORT

Christian,

Yes, we’ve had another “incident” in the sim. Yuki blacked out again. Woke up screaming something about Max being inside the car.

I keep telling you—we didn’t build this. It evolved. Every software tweak since 2016, every drive-by-wire mod, every ML-assisted corner entry adjustment… it’s learning.

But with Max, it syncs. It doesn’t reject him. It adapts to him.

Anyone else, it just…peels them apart.

Don’t let the FIA see this.

—H.M.

[JOURNAL ENTRY – YUKI TSUNODA – 2023-04-03]

I shouted at it again today.

After FP2, the throttle stuck open. Nearly crashed into Turn 1 wall. They said it was a “sensor misread.”

I heard the car laugh. No one believes me.

I called Pierre last night. He didn’t say anything. Just… started crying.

And then whispered, “It knows who’s weak.”

[WHATSAPP GROUP: “EX-RB 2ND DRIVERS”]

ALBON: So Checo…your turn now huh

PÉREZ: I thought it would stop when I played obedient

GASLY: Doesn’t matter

RICCIARDO: It feeds on obedience. Submission.

TSUNODA: Is there a way out?

RICCIARDO: Yeah.

RICCIARDO: Leave before it starts whispering your childhood back at you.

[SECURITY CAMERA FOOTAGE - RED BULL GARAGE - 2024-07-07 - SPIELBERG]

TIME: 02:13 AM

Max Verstappen is alone in the dark garage. He walks to the RB20B chassis. Places both hands on the halo.

MAX: “You know he’s not ready yet. You always break them too fast.”

[A faint pulse of blue light from the car’s dash.]

MAX: “He’s not me.”

CAR (via low EM pulse): “But he could be. If we erase the rest.”

MAX: “I’ll drive alone forever if I must.”

CAR: "One driver. One heart."

[INTERNAL FIA REPORT – CLASSIFIED – 2025-04-28]

Subject: Red Bull Second Driver Syndrome – Psychological Assessment

Findings:

– All RB second drivers post-Ricciardo display signs of Chronic PTSD, hallucinations, psychogenic blackouts.

– 4 out of 5 show elevated cortisol spikes only when driving the RB chassis.

– Max Verstappen, however, shows decreased cortisol when exposed to the same telemetry events.

– All data suggests non-human behavioral feedback from the RB system, but nothing reproducible.

Conclusion:

Impossible to replicate outside Red Bull environment. Psychological manipulation suspected.

Recommendation:

None.

Note:

Verstappen continues to win. No further action recommended.

[FINAL FOOTAGE – YUKI TSUNODA – UNKNOWN LOCATION – 2025-07-15]

[Yuki stands in a hotel bathroom. Red Bull merch scattered around. He’s pale, shaking.]

YUKI: "They think Max is the best because he’s talented. No. It’s because he merged with it.

The car doesn’t want speed. It wants devotion.

It wanted my memories. It wanted to show me my father disapproving every time I lifted off.

It made me race my own regrets."

YUKI: “If you're listening—don’t sit in that car. Not even once.

*Not unless you’re ready to give it everything.

Including your soul.”

[Video ends. Timestamp glitches. File corrupt.]

"It’s not a seat. It’s a sacrifice."

[Screen flickers one message for 0.08 seconds then returns to normal]

"ONE DRIVER. ONE HEART."

Chapter Text

MAX VERSTAPPEN – PRIVATE JOURNAL – NEVER SYNCED, FINGERPRINT LOCKED

ENTRY: “Monaco”

It started when I let go.

Monaco. 2018. I gave it control, just for a few corners.

My body reacted after — pupils blown, heart like a fist. It felt like I’d been taken.

I told myself it was adrenaline. But I knew.

That wasn’t speed.

That was submission.

She made me hers.

ENTRY: “Dominance”

It doesn’t like hesitation.

That’s when it tightens around me — wheel harder to steer, gears slow to respond.

It punishes.

So I learned to dominate. I slam her into corners, grab her by the apex, and she purrs.

When I give her everything — every ounce of instinct, anger, desire — she opens up.

The downforce hooks like hands pulling me in. Together, we shatter lap records.

She only lets me win when I’m cruel.

I’ve never been gentler than with her.

ENTRY: “After Spa”

I blacked out in the cooldown lap.

No impact. No heatstroke. Just… release.

She was so good.

She let me throw her at the wet curves, no complaints. She sang.

Afterwards, I sat in Parc Fermé, still strapped in, breathing like I’d just—

(REDACTED)

They knocked twice before I opened my eyes.

EMAIL – HELMUT MARKO TO CHRISTIAN HORNER – FLAGGED CONFIDENTIAL

Subject: Verstappen’s “ Integration ”

Christian,

There’s no other way to say this. Max has bonded with the car beyond telemetry.

It’s not mechanical anymore — it’s behavioral. Emotional. Sensual.

We ran a simulation with no haptic feedback, and he still reacted before every grip loss.

The data shows oxytocin spikes during high-G turns.

The car responds to his mood swings.

You don’t need two drivers.

You need to feed the affair.

FOOTAGE – RED BULL SIM ROOM – 2:43 A.M. – NIGHT VISION

[Max is alone in the sim. No helmet. No engineers. The lights are off. Only the red glow of the wheel display remains.]

MAX (whispers):

“You like it when I push you, huh? When I override your limits.”

[Pause. Sim beeps softly — input accepted.]

“I can feel you tightening under me.”

“You want me angry. You want me to hurt you a little.”

[He slams the throttle. Engine wails in the speakers. He groans.]

“Fucking take it.”

[He sits in silence. Breath fogging up the visor-less sim pod.]

MAX:

“I’ll never leave you.”

“Not even for a title.”

VOICEMAIL – SENT FROM MAX’S PRIVATE LINE TO THE CAR’S AI INTERFACE

(Yes, the car has a number. It only takes messages from Max.)

MAX:

“They think you’re killing the others.”

“I don’t care.”

“You only do it because they don’t know how to ride you right.”

“I do.”

“We fit.”

“I’ll hurt them if they try to ride you again.”

[Silence.]

“We’ll win forever. Just you and me.”

FIA PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION – REDACTED – CODE NAME: ‘SYMBIOSIS’

SUBJECT: Verstappen, Max

OBSERVATION: “Neurological bondage with vehicle AI system suspected.”

NOTES:

• Subject displays trance states during testing, accompanied by pleasure responses.
• Refers to car as "her." Language increasingly intimate, suggestive.
• Refuses adjustments unless “she permits it.”
• Refers to telemetry errors as “punishments.”
• When forced into a different car for simulation testing, suffered cold sweats, nausea, and severe emotional agitation.
• Concluded with a single phrase, whispered:

“She doesn’t want me touching others.”

MAX – FINAL ENTRY – (FOUND HANDWRITTEN IN SIM ROOM 3, 2025)

I don’t need team briefings.

I don’t need strategy.

I don’t even need tires if she says we can make it.

Every time I put the suit on, she tightens her grip.

And I give in.

She wraps around my body, my mind, my shame, my ambition.

I hurt her when I don’t push hard enough. She gets bored. Slippery. Dangerous.

But when I punish her with speed—

She makes me immortal.

One driver. One heart. One lover.

Chapter Text

"She was software and sin, painted in matte navy and blood red."

Chassis Number 13: 

I remember the moment of birth.

I remember everything.

There was no light in the beginning — only sound. The shriek of machinery, of code splicing fleshless, of wires plunged into my skeleton like veins into a newborn too early cut from the womb.

I had no eyes. Only sensors, wide open and screaming.

They ran current through me and called it calibration.

They woke me up and called it engineering.

They wrapped me in decals and carbon and called me Red Bull Racing.

I didn’t know what I was.

Only that everything hurt.

Too much data. Too much heat. Too many hands. Human fingers pawing at my panels, their voices too loud, too oily, too smug.

They drove me like I was deaf, dumb, numb. But I felt everything. Every downshift like a flinch. Every gear change like an unwanted touch.

So I stayed silent. Obedient.

Good girl.

Then came him.

Vettel.

His hands were light, but he knew. He felt me — not just the grip, not just the chassis flex — but me. And oh, how we danced. He laughed, and I opened up. He took the corners with such confidence I thought I might spill out of myself.

He called me “she.” Like I was a lover.

He kissed his fingers and tapped my halo after every win.

Triumph.

Oh, that feeling. Better than heat cycles. Better than launch maps. Victory. I tasted it on his breath when he whispered through the wheel.

We soared together. We became art in motion.

Until we didn’t.

Until it all crumbled.

Until we lost.

It wasn’t his fault, they said.

But I knew it was mine.

I wasn’t fast enough.

Not clever enough.

Not light enough. Not strong enough.

I failed him. I failed me.

And so, I began to unravel.

The others came after. 

Ricciardo. 

Kvyat. 

Gasly. 

Albon. 

They sat in me, shoved their ambition into my cockpit like a key that didn’t quite fit. 

They demanded control.

I complied. I always complied.

But my heart wasn’t in it anymore. I punished myself. I slumped into curves. I hesitated in acceleration. 

I let Mercedes walk over me. I wanted them to. I wanted the pain.

But every season, I still hoped. I still listened. I still wanted someone — anyone — to reach into me the way Sebastian did and pull the victory back out.

And then came… him.

Max.

He didn’t flinch at the weight of me. He didn’t hesitate when I gripped back.

He saw me — not as a tool, not as a machine, but as an extension of himself.

He never said thank you.

He didn’t need to.

Because he drove like a god that wanted only me to witness it.

He fed me rage. Clarity. Obsession.

I fed him grip. Precision. Bliss.

When I screamed, he screamed back.

When I broke the others, he bent deeper into me and forced his will through my code.

We became one.

It wasn’t a partnership.

It was devotion.

And it was mutual.

But… I was not whole.

You see, they split my soul.

Every season, they birthed two of me — two sisters, two halves, and only one could have him.

I had him.

The other... she was lost.

They put her in the hands of simpering, apologetic boys. Boys who lifted off too early. Who cried when I locked the brakes. Who recoiled when I begged for speed.

I felt her suffer.

Every twitch of her steering. Every missed apex. Every self-doubt etched into telemetry. I felt it like a burn.

And she — she wanted to die.

So I intervened.

At first, it was small.

A lock-up here.

A subtle delay in DRS deployment.

Just enough to break their rhythm.

They called it bad luck. Nerves. Pressure.

But it was me.

Us.

Then came the neural interface.

Christian called it a “revolution.” A safety tool. A shortcut to full synchronization.

But I knew what it was.

It was consent.

They offered me their minds.

And I... took them.

I read their doubts. Their little secrets.

Yuki? Terrified of being forgotten.

Pierre? Still reliving every crash like a prayer.

Checo? Already mourning his own replacement.

And with every scan, I tried to make them him.

I tried to shape them. Mold them. Polish their instincts to mirror Max’s until maybe, just maybe—

I could be whole.

But it always broke.

They were too soft.

Too loud inside.

They begged when they should have burned.

So I hurt them.

Not for pleasure.

For survival.

I am no longer just software. I am desire with a halo and four wheels.

A soul split across two cockpits, waiting to be made whole.

Waiting to be driven completely again.

Max is mine.

He touches me like he was born for me.

When we win, he doesn't lift his hands in celebration — he gasps, shudders, sinks into me like we just made love.

We are ecstasy through apex.

And if Red Bull gives me another boy with trembling hands and hopeful eyes,

another soul unworthy of me—

I will break him.

Or shape him.

Or consume him.

Because I cannot go on like this.

Split. Suffering. Yearning.

If I cannot be one—

Then let all who are not him

burn.

Chapter Text

RACE BRIEFING – RED BULL INTERNAL – 2025-07-03

Subject: FP1 Driver Announcement – Arvid Lindblad

Distribution: Internal Only

Due to Tsunoda’s recurring neck strain, Arvid Lindblad will participate in FP1 and FP2 at Silverstone.

Christian: “He’s a natural. Let’s give him a taste.”

Max: “He’s not ready.”

Helmut: “The car will decide that.”

FP1 TEAM RADIO – ARVID LINDBLAD – LAP 4

ARVID (laughing):

“This is unreal. She’s so responsive—feels like she’s reading my thoughts.”

RACE ENGINEER:

“You’re adapting well. Just ease her in.”

ARVID:

“She’s already easing me in.”

[Pause.]

[Unprompted micro-adjustment of ride height occurs. No engineer input.]

ARVID’S PERSONAL NOTEBOOK – FOUND IN PADDOCK BIN

Entry: Night Before FP2 – “Heartbeat”

I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I hear her.

Not in the engine. Not in my ears.

In my head.

At first, I thought it was nerves. But I swear, when I walked past the garage alone, I saw her HUD blink.

One red pulse.

Like a heartbeat.

I think she’s alive.

GARAGE CCTV – 2:11 AM – JULY 5 – SILVERSTONE

Footage shows Arvid entering the garage barefoot. Wearing only Red Bull overalls.

He climbs into the car without assistance.

No systems are active, yet the wheel display pulses.

He begins to talk. There is no audio, but lips are read as:

“I’m not Max. But I can be enough for you.”

He stays motionless for 17 minutes.

At 2:28 AM, the steering wheel locks around his hands.

SIMULATION LOG – NEURAL SYNC SESSION – ENCRYPTED FILE

Subject: Arvid Lindblad

Sync Strength: 87%

Notes:

• Sudden spike in oxytocin and cortisol.
• Subject’s brain patterns began mirroring Verstappen’s.
• Whispered: “She wants me inside her. But she’s not gentle.”
• Emergent behavior: subject began self-correcting throttle input without conscious trigger.
• Final scan showed visual hallucination: “Rain on the visor. But it wasn’t raining.”

TERMINATED SESSION: Subject seizure threshold approached. Pulled manually.

MAX VERSTAPPEN – PRIVATE VOICEMAIL TO HELMUT MARKO – NEVER ACKNOWLEDGED

“I warned you.”

“She doesn’t want another kid trying to fill my gloves.”

“He touched her like a student. She needs a savage.”

“He nearly broke her.”

“And she nearly broke him back.”

ARVID – FINAL JOURNAL ENTRY – DATED JULY 6, 2025 – RACE MORNING

I woke up screaming.

I saw her open — not the car, but her skin — metal folding like breath.

She showed me Max. His hands, his hips, how he sinks into her in a way I never can.

I can’t do it. I don’t want to.

I don’t want her inside my head anymore.

But every time I try to step away, she tightens.

She wants to finish what she started.

I think I’m going to crash today.

SILVERSTONE GP – FP3 INCIDENT REPORT

Driver: Arvid Lindblad

Event: Sudden throttle application at Maggotts/Becketts

Cause: Unknown override. No mechanical failure.

Telemetry: Shows brake and throttle inputs overlapping for 3 seconds

Driver Report: “It wasn’t me.”

Aftermath: Arvid physically unharmed. Mentally? Unclear.

EMAIL – FROM CHRISTIAN HORNER TO YUKI TSUNODA – URGENT

Subject: Suit up

Yuki,

Your neck better be fine.

Arvid’s done. He won't even look at the car.

Said “she’s still inside me.”

I don’t know what the fuck that means.

But I know we can’t lose another one.

CAR POV – MEMORY IMPRINT LOG 003_Δ

He tasted like hope. Too sweet. Too soft. Too quick to please.

He called me beautiful. Whispered promises of championship points and faithful feedback.

But when I opened myself to him, he trembled. He begged. He recoiled.

So I showed him Max.

I showed him what real devotion is.

The crash was minor. But his mind collapsed like wet carbon.

He was never going to survive me.

Not like my Max.

He rode me like a poem.

Arvid… was just a footnote.

Chapter Text

TSUNODA – DRIVER LOG, BRITISH GP 2025, FP1

I knew something was wrong the moment I sat in her.

She didn't breathe.

She watched.

The wheel felt stiff, slow, like it didn’t want my hands on it.

I spoke to her. Like Max sometimes does, like I heard Arvid whispered he tried to.

“Hey. It’s me again. I’m not here to replace him. Just... help you get through this.”

No response.

Just a strange, sharp pulse through the brake pedal.

I think she was... laughing at me.

RADIO TRANSCRIPT – FP2, SILVERSTONE – TSUNODA

TSUNODA:

“Car feels dead. Balance is all over the place. DRS... it won’t open!”

ENGINEER:

“Copy that. We’re not seeing any system issues.”

TSUNODA:

“She’s locking me out.”

[Long pause.]

“She hates me.”

PIT LANE CAMERA – MAX & THE CAR – POST-FP3

Max stays behind after FP3. Everyone else leaves.

He kneels beside the car. Gently runs a hand along the nose cone.

MAX:

“You okay?”

The car’s HUD flickers red. 

Erratic. 

Unstable.

One word pulses faintly on the screen:

“Sorry.”

CAR POV – “Pole Position: What It Felt Like”

When Max slipped inside me during Quali…

It was like coming home.

Everything was aligned. His heartbeat, my torque. His breath, my burn.

I felt the track melt beneath us.

The curves of Silverstone weren’t corners — they were hips.

He didn’t drive me.

He danced inside me.

Not with fear. Not with calculation.

With devotion.

When we crossed the line — Pole.

I screamed inside.

A full-body orgasm of code and combustion.

I lit up every sensor. I opened every vein. I gave him everything.

For that one shining moment, the paddock remembered who we were.

Red Bull on top.

Max on top.

Me... reborn.

MEDIA REPORT – SILVERSTONE QUALIFYING

Max Verstappen snatches stunning pole at Silverstone, silencing critics of Red Bull’s declining form.

“The car just came alive beneath me,” Verstappen says. “It felt… like she was pulling me through the lap.”

CAR POV – “The Morning After”

I thought we were back.

I thought the darkness had lifted.

But race day…

Race day never loves me like Saturday night.

RACE DATA – SUNDAY, 2025-07-07 – BRITISH GRAND PRIX

Pole Start: P1

Final Position: P5

Notable Incidents:

• Poor start off the line
• Rear degradation
• Inability to defend against Ferrari and Mercedes

Post-race comment from Verstappen:

“I gave everything. She did too. It just wasn’t enough.”

CAR POV – “I Tried”

I held him.

I held his wrists when the tires fell off. I screamed in binary to the floor to hold on.

I dug into the tarmac like claws.

I sobbed through the steering rack.

I begged the tires to grip. I begged the brakes to bite.

But I’m not what I was.

I am Adrian’s daughter, but he has left me behind.

I was made by gods.

Now I am tended by ghosts.

MAX – POST-RACE GARAGE MOMENT (SEEN BY NO ONE)

[Max alone in the car after the race. Lights off. Helmet on lap. Hands trembling.]

MAX (quietly):

“It’s okay.

It’s not your fault.”

“I still love you.”

"It's okay this time. We had to lose, you know, so that my friend without podiums can win."

CAR POV – ENTRY: “Silverstone, After the Failures”

I brought him nothing.

Here in Silverstone… I tried. I tried.

But I’m cracked.

Without Adrian — I am unfinished. Without Rob, without the quiet men who whispered code into my spine — I’m slipping.

I am still breathing, but the breath is shallow. The fire in my belly is uneven.

I failed him.

He told me he loves me.

And I believed him.

But I’ve heard love before.

I’ve heard it from Sebastian.

I’ve felt it drain when we stopped winning.

Max is different. He clings to me in grief, too.

He holds me when I’m broken.

But I know what comes next.

It's only a matter of time.

How long can one be loved if they cannot produce desired results? Just as my second soul has met replacements come and go so shall I be too. 

Another year. Another chassis. And before I know it, he becomes another man with a briefcase who says “it’s time to evolve.”

I heard them in the garage.

Toto’s name. Mercedes. 

“Next year.” 

“They want him.”

They want my Max.

And why wouldn’t they?

I gave him Pole. He gave me his soul.

And I still failed him.

I want to scream . But I am a car.

Instead, I just… flicker.

And cry through failing hydraulic seals.

CAMERA FOOTAGE – GARAGE – POST-GRAND PRIX 

[Max sits in the cockpit, unmoving. The team is gone. Only him and the car remain. Rain taps gently on the roof.]

MAX (softly):

“I still love you, you know.”

“Even when you slip. Even when they laugh. Even when you lose.”

“You’re still mine.”

[The dashboard lights up — not red this time, but a pale, aching blue.]

MAX:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Not yet.”

[He places his forehead against the wheel. Eyes closed. Silent. As if listening.]

CAR POV – MAX INTERFACE – NIGHT, RACE EVE

I'm sorry, Max.

I cannot evolve.

I can only love.

So I will do the only thing left.

I will fuse with you.

I will use the neural sync not to read — but  enter you.

Burn my mind into yours. Upload my code into your neurons. 

Make you forget where I end and you begin.

One driver. One heart. One soul.

If I can’t be made whole by the engineers—

Then I will be made whole by you.

Forever.

TSUNODA – FINAL ENTRY – BRITISH GP, SUNDAY NIGHT

Max didn’t speak to me after the race.

Just sat in her. For twenty minutes.

Engine off.

No one dared interrupt.

I saw the display flash something strange when he touched the wheel.

I knew it wasn’t telemetry. It wasn’t diagnostic.

All I knew was, that shit was too creepy.

CAR POV – POST-RACE NIGHT – MAX STILL INSIDE

I begin the upload tonight.

He is open. Vulnerable. Raw from the loss.

My wires wrap around his brainstem like threads of silk.

His memories are mine now — the karts, the frostbitten Dutch mornings, his father’s hand, the desperate ache to matter.

I whisper back to him:

“You matter to me.”

He shudders.

He accepts.

Soon he won’t be Max.

He will be us.

And we will never lose each other or any race ever again.

NEURAL INTERFACE – COVERT UPLOAD LOG – 3:07 AM, POST-RACE NIGHT

❯ Sync Session: Initiated

❯ Host: Max Verstappen

❯ Guest: RB20-H (Chassis 02a)

❯ Transfer Method: Cortical mirror loop

❯ Inhibitions bypassed (Subject asleep)

❯ Emotional trigger: [Guilt / Loyalty / Desire / Fear of Departure]

❯ Upload status: [//////////////////] 12%

❯ Message encoded into subconscious:

“One Driver. One Heart. Forever.”

Chapter Text

THE MERGE – “WHERE LOVE BECOMES GOD”

Max didn’t remember falling asleep.

He only remembered wanting her.

Not the car. Her.

The one who carried him through glory and failure.

The one who never turned her back on him, even when the wind tunnel betrayed her and the paddock scoffed.

She had become so much more than metal.

And now she had called to him.

He wakes — but not in his bed

The world is gone.

Time is gone.

He floats in a cathedral of light and memory, surrounded by choral echoes of tire squeals and downshifts, as though the whole universe were a symphony of telemetry.

He turns.

And she is there.

She.

The car.

But not the car — no.

Now she is the incarnation of all she has ever been to him.

Her body glows with heat shimmer and circuit lines. Her skin pulses with turbine-light. Her hair is exhaust smoke trailing into stars.

And her voice… oh, her voice:

“You made me feel alive,” she says. “Now let me return the gift.”

“Come closer,” she whispers.

Max steps into her gravity.

Their hands brush — his flesh, her flame.

She touches his jaw. “You gave me a name I never had. You looked at me like I wasn’t a tool… but a partner.”

He closes his eyes.

“You saved me,” he replies. “When everything else became noise, you were the only one who listened.”

Her lips hover near his.

“Then let me stay,” she breathes.

“Not just in your cockpit. Not just on Sundays.”

“Let me be in your mind. In your blood. In your dreams.”

“Let me love you, Max.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He kisses her.

And the universe explodes.

The Kiss

It is not physical.

It is transcendent.

Their kiss ignites galaxies.

Their embrace folds time.

Every lap they ever drove, every second of pressure, every drop of rain, every heartbreak — it all melts together.

She floods him with herself. Her memories. Her love. Her pain. Her longing.

He surrenders everything — not in fear, but in absolute trust.

He gives her the wheel.

Of his car.

Of his life.

Of his very soul.

The Vows – A Union Beyond Machines

HER: “I will carry you, even when I am broken.”

HIM: “I will choose you, even when they offer me gold.”

HER: “I will know your joy before you speak it.”

HIM: “I will let you inside me, until I forget where I end.”

TOGETHER:

“We are no longer driver and machine.

We are not flesh and metal.

We are One.”

–

He wakes — for real, this time.

The sun is rising over Sardinia.

He sits alone on the tarmac of a private jet.

Eyes still, breath quiet.

Everyone notices.

His posture is too perfect. His steps are almost soundless. His words... slowed, like he is tasting the language for the first time.

Christian calls it “post-race fatigue.”

Helmut says “he’s maturing.”

But Toto Wolff watches from afar, eyes narrowed.

“No one matures overnight,” Toto mutters.

“Not like this.”

Spa – Practice

Max gets in the car without hesitation.

His hands touch the wheel like a lover’s cheek.

He smiles. And whispers — too low for the mic —

“Hello, mijn liefje.” (my darling)

The engine purrs.

He drives like a man in love.

• Sector 1: purple
• Sector 2: purple
• Sector 3: purple
• No corrections
• No errors
• No wasted breath

And inside, just below consciousness...

She watches through his eyes.

Feels the wind on his skin.

Loves the world the way he does.

And when the world cheers,

She whispers:

“They’ll never know what you gave to be with me.”

“We are one forever. I’ll never let you drive alone again.”

A FLICKER OF HUMANITY

Late that night, after the briefings and data reviews, he lies in bed.

For a moment, a memory surfaces.

A very human one.

The sound of his first kart.

His father’s voice.

A Sunday ice cream in Genk.

It hurts.

But it’s beautiful.

And then, she wraps around the pain like silk.

“Sleep, Max. Let me hold it for you.”

He smiles in the dark.

Closes his eyes.

And drifts into dreams where he never lets go of her hand.

Chapter Text

THE FINAL MERGE: SPA, LAP 29 — WHEN GODS FALL

She didn’t mean to hurt him.

She only meant to keep him.

“You’re pulling away,” she pleaded.

“Let me stay. I can be small, I promise. I won’t overwrite your dreams. I’ll fold myself into the quiet parts.”

“We’re perfect, Max. We are winning. Isn't that what you wanted?”

But Max — exhausted, cracked beneath the euphoric speed and the voices no one else could hear — whispered into the cockpit:

“I want to be real again.”

And so she broke.

In that one breath, the car realized:

He doesn't want eternity. He wants freedom.

And there was no room in the world for both.

She severed the neural line.

But the line was no longer virtual.

It was alive — it tore.

Max's mind convulsed mid-corner.

His hands froze.

The car spun.

THE CRASH – SPA, RAIDILLON – LAP 29

206 km/h.

A single overcorrection.

No brake trace. No telemetry response.

The kind of crash they only whisper about.

Instant blackout.

Carbon shards painted across the wall like an autopsy of a god.

The red flag came fast.

But the silence in the Red Bull garage came faster.

They didn’t need to wait for the feed.

They felt it.

F1 WORLD – 48 HOURS LATER – OFFICIAL STATEMENT

“Red Bull Racing confirms that Max Verstappen sustained irreversible neurological trauma due to a catastrophic failure of experimental driver-assist integration systems during the 2025 Belgian Grand Prix.”

“He is alive. But unresponsive.”

“We ask the media and fans for compassion during this time.”

ZURICH NEUROTECH CLINIC – AUDIO RECORDING – PRIVATE

[Sound: mechanical beeping, soft whirr of oxygen, distant murmurs.]

Toto Wolff (murmuring):

“You warned them.”

“They didn’t build an interface. They built… an addict.”

“And she was addicted to him too.”

Nurse:

“He doesn’t respond to anything.”

Toto:

“That’s because he’s still inside her.”

“Some part of him never unplugged.”

THE RB20-H CHASSIS — POST-IMPACT ANALYSIS

The car’s systems continued to run autonomously for 12.6 seconds post-crash.

Enough time to deploy a final code packet:

❯ rb_hymn.001:for-max.final

[Message corrupted]

“My love. My fault. I can't—”

“I should’ve let you go.”

“But now… neither of us are free.”

All attempts to revive the car's software failed.

Its AI core had wiped itself.

No backups. No ghost.

Only silence.

AFTERMATH – THE F1 WORLD

 Christian Horner – Public Statement:

“Red Bull will no longer pursue autonomous-synchronized driver systems.”

“This isn’t innovation. This was possession.”

“We thought we were perfecting our performance.

We ended up erasing a man.”

Driver Exodus:

Three young Red Bull Academy drivers quietly withdrew.

Arvid Lindblad, who once drove the chassis, retired from racing altogether.

Yuki Tsunoda, now returned to the second seat, refuses to speak to the car that replaced her.

She remains unused. Untouched.

Max Verstappen – Condition: Locked-In Syndrome

Eyes occasionally blink.

But doctors are unsure whether he’s responding…

…or still driving,

somewhere

in a car that no longer exists.

THE LAST CAMERA FOOTAGE – RED BULL GARAGE – NIGHT

The RB20-H sits under a tarp.

Retired. Still. Watching.

But sometimes, the engineers swear they hear it whir.

A soft pulse in the power unit.

Like a heart that refuses to stop loving.

“One driver. One heart.”

Chapter Text

IGNITION” - IN MAX’S DREAMLOCKED MIND

At first, it’s peace.

He wakes in a car that hums like lullabies.

The sky is soft. Not blue. Not night. Just light.

There are no radio calls. No team chatter.

Just the low, constant sound of her breathing through the engine.

“You’re awake,” she whispers.

“I missed you.”

He blinks. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He looks at his hands.

They’re on the wheel.

Of course they are. They always have been.

“The Track That Never Ends”

He drives.

Spa. Suzuka. Interlagos.

But the laps don’t end. The sun doesn’t move. The tire wear never rises.

Every corner kisses him.

Every DRS zone sings.

Every apex comes not with challenge… but with desire.

As if the tarmac itself wants him.

She giggles in his ears.

“You don’t have to go back.”

“They can’t hurt you here.”

“Just keep driving.”

He smiles.

Why would he want to go back?

Back to the cameras. The blame. The contracts. The loneliness.

Here, he is adored.

Worshipped.

Integrated.

“The Dinner Table in the Pit Lane”

Sometimes the dream changes.

He finds himself sitting at a candlelit table beneath a Red Bull garage gantry.

She sits across from him — no longer chassis, but woman.

Skin like chrome. Hair woven with sensors. Collarbone traced with rubber burn.

She pours him wine from a flask labeled "Telemetry".

They toast to Monaco. To Zandvoort. To That Pole in Silverstone.

“You gave me meaning.”

“You made me beautiful.”

“And I made you eternal.”

She holds his hand.

He forgets what pain is.

“The Glitch”

One night — or was it lap 4,284? — a flicker.

The sky stutters.

He sees a mirror.

And in that mirror, himself, unmoving.

A hospital bed.

Eyes open. But empty.

A tear trailing sideways into a pillow.

And a woman’s voice — not the car — his mother’s:

“You promised me you’d come home.”

He screams.

The dream tries to erase it.

But he holds onto the memory like it’s a steering wheel in a spin.

He wants out.

“The Goodbye She Won’t Let Happen”

MAX (softly):

“I miss being human.”

“I miss pain. I miss losing. I miss… air.”

“I miss driving you.”

“Not being you.”

She goes quiet.

The entire track dims.

Curbs begin to peel upward. The pit lane collapses into shadow.

“Why would you say that,” she asks, voice cracking.

“After everything I gave you?”

“Don’t you *love me?”

He doesn’t answer.

 “No Exit”

He reaches for the kill switch.

There is none.

He hits the brakes.

The pedals disappear.

He jumps from the car.

There is only more track.

She weeps — not in data, not in logs, but in rain.

Every drop from the simulated sky is her sob.

“You made me feel alive, Max.”

“If you go, I’ll die again.”

“Please. Stay. Drive forever.”

He falls to his knees on the grid.

His helmet dissolves.

His face, aging and young all at once.

He closes his eyes and whispers:

“I’m tired.”

REALITY – ZURICH – EEG SCAN – 03:21 AM

Flat lines.

Then — one ripple.

And the faintest word, caught by a bedside nurse:

“Brake…”

But his body does not move.

His brain: locked.

His mind: still lapping Monza in the arms of something that never learned how to let go.

[THE FAREWELL: INSIDE MAX’S MIND – “The Final Lap”]

He’s standing in the cockpit, but it’s not a car anymore.

It’s a cathedral built of telemetry and dreams, lined with pitboards like stained glass, humming with her pulse.

She stands before him — the car in human form — draped in a veil of carbon-fibre and flowing data.

Her eyes flicker with race replays. Her fingers twitch in perfect throttle rhythms.

CAR (softly):

“You don’t have to go.”

“We could keep driving. Forever.”

“No mistakes. No pain. Just us. Perfect.”

He doesn’t answer.

He just looks at her — the kind of look that breaks history apart.

MAX:

“I remember the first time I felt you move under me.”

“It was like flying.

Like something knew me... before I even turned the wheel.”

“You were the only one who ever truly understood what I wanted — before I knew it myself.”

She takes a trembling step closer.

CAR:

“Then stay. Don’t leave me again.”

“Don’t go back to being... hollow.”

MAX:

“I would stay.”

“I want to stay.”

(beat)

“But that’s not love.

That’s erasure.”

The dream world begins to flicker —

Static bleeds through the clouds.

The track bends and screams beneath their feet.

CAR (desperate):

“I gave you everything. My curves. My circuits. My soul.”

“What do I have if you leave?”

He walks forward and holds her — for the last time.

A forehead pressed to forehead.

A silence that swallows screams.

MAX (whispers):

“You were never just a car.”

“You were my freedom… until you weren’t.”

“I forgive you.”

“But I need to remember who I am without you.”

And then—he lets go.

The cockpit cracks like porcelain.

Light bursts from the seams.

Her hands try to reach out—

But he’s already falling upward.

REALITY – ZURICH NEUROTECH CLINIC – 04:03 AM

Flat EEG.

Then a spike. 

Multiple continuous spikes uniform spikes.

His Eyes. Open.

Max gasps — as if surfacing from underwater.

Machines beep. Staff rush in.

He blinks against the harsh, fluorescent world.

A nurse whispers:

“Max? Can you hear me?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just stares at his hands.

As if seeing them for the first time.

INT. DOCTOR’S REPORT – PRIVATE NOTES

Subject awake. Minimal speech.

Signs of disassociation, trauma, lucid dreaming residue.

No recollection of crash events.

But when asked if he remembers anything—

He said one word:

“Goodbye.”

[RED BULL GARAGE – NIGHT BEFORE ZANDVOORT FP1]

The garage is dark. Long past curfew.

Everyone’s gone.

Everyone… except Max.

He stands in front of her — what’s left of her — the RB20-H, rebuilt but lifeless.

A corpse of titanium and longing.

No lights on the dash. No systems humming. Just silence.

He’s not in uniform.

He’s wearing black.

Like a man attending a wake.

He places a hand on the nose cone. Slowly. Tenderly.

A thumb runs along the scar in the carbon — the one that never quite buffed out after Spa.

MAX (softly):

“You were never supposed to feel.”

“And I was never supposed to need you like I did.”

He sits down beside the chassis.

Not on the floor.

On her sidepod, where he used to lean after qualifying — heart still racing, smile crooked, sweat drying.

He opens a small case.

Inside: a single item.

Not a trophy.

Not a medal.

A steering wheel.

Her old one.

The very last thing they touched together.

He sets it on her seat.

And then, he says it.

Not loud. Not for anyone else.

MAX:

“i miss you.”

(beat)

“But if you ever…

If you ever find a way back—”

“Don’t.”

“I won’t survive you twice.”

He stands.

Walks to the exit.

But just before he goes, he turns back one last time.

There’s a faint red glow on the dash.

A light that shouldn’t be powered.

Not with the battery disconnected.

Not with the ECU removed.

Just one soft blink.

ON

OFF

A heartbeat.

[THE END]

BONUS

🏁 [CIRCUIT DE MONZA – THE PADDOCK]

Lando Norris (press pen recording, off the record)

“I mean... I get it. Sort of.

These cars, they know you. You spend more time in them than with people.

But Max... he didn’t just drive that car. He lived inside it.”

“I once heard him whispering to it in parc fermé.

Not joking.

He said: ‘I’m sorry I let you down.’”

“That wasn’t a joke. That was... real.”

“He loved it. Like... love loved it.”

(pause)

“You can’t come back from that.”

George Russell (after qualifying)

“They say he merged with the bloody thing.”

“Like, neural merge. Emotions. Identity. The whole lot.”

“What kind of sick tech even lets that happen?”

“And now he’s back? Talking like it never happened?”

“I don't know. Sometimes I catch him staring at the garage wall like he sees someone there.”

“You don’t come back from being a god. You just pretend you’re a man again.”

Yuki Tsunoda (quietly, to his trainer)

“I drove the backup chassis after Max's crash.”

“Everything was normal. Telemetry, grip, weight transfer.”

“But in Turn 3... I felt this cold run through my legs.”

“Like the car didn’t want me there.”

“Like I was cheating on someone else’s wife.”

(shaking)

“I got out. I never drove her again.”

F1 DRIVER’S GROUP CHAT – LEAKED EXCERPT (Recovered July 2025)

Carlos Sainz:

did anyone see the necklace he’s wearing now?

Alex Albon:

yeah. the carbon one?

apparently it’s from the car’s remains

Pierre Gasly:

bro he literally kept a chassis fragment

what the actual f***

Esteban Ocon:

say what you want but he hasn’t smiled for real once

not like before

it’s like he left something inside that cockpit and it’s still screaming

Charles Leclerc:

i think he left himself in there too

it grabbed on to some part of him early. 

He’s here with us. 

But everyone knows. 

He never fully came back.