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Berger snapped his fingers in front of Senna's visor.
"Hey, Ayrton. Still calculating cloud density, or just making eyes at Prost again?"
Senna pushed his hand away, his gaze never leaving the tactical board. His eyes were locked on Prost's straight back as he quietly explained something to Laffite.
"I'm thinking about how to shut him up with results. Period."
Lauda, standing by the map, rasped the briefing.
"Two versus two. 'Magic' is lead, 'Professor' is wingman. Objective: practice coordinated engagement against aggressive but predictable targets. Your 'MiGs' are Piquet and Mansell. Piquet will play by the book. Mansell... will try to eat you alive. Don't mess up."
Prost gave a curt, cool nod. Senna just smirked.
The airwaves heated up instantly. Prost flew perfectly, his voice calm in the headsets.
Professor: Magic, hold left. You're telegraphing our move.
Magic: You're too slow. They've got us painted.
Mansell went head-on immediately, yelling.
Il Leone: Come on then, show us what the champions are made of!
Piquet took a holding position, blocking the escape route.
Then Senna made his call.
Magic: Professor, I'm taking high cover. Watch my six.
Professor: Magic, that's not the plan! Hold your—
But it was too late. Senna shot into a vertical climb, leaving Prost alone against two. Berger just sighed over the comms.
Joker: Operation 'Ditch Your Wingman' is a go.
Prost, teeth gritted, evaded Mansell's attack, but Piquet, cold and calculating, had already slipped into his blind spot. Laffite, Prost's RIO, stated calmly.
Diplomat: We've got a bandit on our six. Piquet is holding for a guaranteed kill shot. Three seconds and he finishes us.
Piquet's mocking voice crackled in.
Straight Pipe: See you later, Professor. Send my regards to your lone wolf.
That's when the roar came from above. Senna, breaking every rule, dove straight under Piquet's belly, forcing him into a violent break and spoiling his shot. He simulated a short cannon burst in his direction.
Magic: Shot negated, Piquet. Bug out.
Without losing momentum, he banked and locked onto Mansell.
Magic: Il Leone, you're done too. Pay attention.
Silence filled the headsets, broken only by Mansell's frustrated shout. Elio de Angelis, his RIO, said soothingly.
Gentleman: Steady, Nigel. He's right, you were exposed. Let's RTB*.
*RTB - Return to base
Back in the hangar, the cavernous space buzzed with the usual post-flight chaos—clattering gear, hissing pneumatics, and the loud, relieved banter of pilots. Senna, helmet tucked under his arm, strode with single-minded purpose through the crowd, ignoring Berger’s wolf-whistle. He stopped directly in front of Prost, who was calmly studying a fuel consumption report.
“He doesn’t get to put your name on his kill board,” Senna stated, his voice low but carrying.
Prost didn’t look up. “Theoretical kill boards are irrelevant. My performance score, however, is not. Your unsanctioned maneuver compromised the entire exercise profile. It was…” he paused, searching for the perfect, damning word, “…suboptimal.”
“It was saving your ass,” Senna shot back, leaning in. The air between them crackled.
“My ‘ass’, as you so elegantly put it, was within the calculated risk parameters of the scenario. Your intervention was an emotional variable. A glitch.”
“A glitch?” Senna’s voice rose a notch. “A glitch that kept Piquet’s name off your perfect record!”
At the mention of his name, Piquet, who’d been eavesdropping while pretending to check a tool cart, perked up. “Oi! My name on his record is the best thing that could happen to it! Adds some excitement! Though,” he added with a wide grin, walking over, “seems like someone,” he jabbed a thumb at Senna, “is awfully protective of the Professor’s pristine stats. Almost… sweet.”
Berger materialized at Senna’s elbow, a look of theatrical innocence on his face. “Leave him alone, Nelson. Can’t you see it’s true love? Our Ayrton just wants to be the only one who gets to shoot Alain down. It’s romantic, in a dysfunctional, sky-high way.”
Senna flushed. “Shut up, Gerhard. It’s about principle!”
“Which principle?” chirped Mansell from nearby, where de Angelis was quietly wiping down his helmet. “The ‘touch-my-rival-and-I’ll-break-your-simulator’ principle?”
A small crowd was gathering now, smirks spreading.
Prost, still trying to maintain a facade of detached analysis, adjusted his glasses. “This is absurd. We’re discussing tactical doctrine, not… playground politics.”
“Tactical doctrine?” Berger echoed, draping an arm around Senna’s stiff shoulders. “The doctrine here is clear: Senna’s personal airspace extends to include Prost’s aircraft. It’s a no-fly zone for other bandits. Very simple geography.”
Laughter rippled through the hangar. Embarrassed and cornered, Senna blurted out, louder than intended, “Fine! Maybe I don’t like seeing anyone else on his six! Maybe his perfect, by-the-book ass is mine to chase, okay?!”
A stunned silence fell for a full two seconds.
Then Piquet howled, doubling over. “HIS ASS IS WHAT?!”
Berger pretended to swoon. “He said it! He finally said it!”
Even Mansell grinned, shaking his head. De Angelis whispered, “I told you their cockpit tension wasn’t just about lift-to-drag ratios.”
Prost stood frozen, the data pad forgotten in his hand. A vivid, unprecedented blush crept up his neck, stark against his usually pallid composure. He opened his mouth, but no perfectly crafted sentence emerged, only a faint, “…That is a… a highly inappropriate and unscientific allocation of competitive focus.”
“Sounds like ‘thank you’ to me!” Piquet crowed.
“Sounds like a wedding vow!” Berger corrected, wiping a tear from his eye.
Senna, realizing the magnitude of his outburst, looked like he wanted the hangar floor to swallow him whole. He’d meant it as a claim to a rivalry, but it had come out as… something else entirely.
Prost, utterly defeated by the sheer, illogical force of the public shaming, did the only thing his analytical mind could process. He snapped his data pad shut, gave a stiff, comical little nod to no one in particular, and walked with robotic precision straight into the side of a parked equipment trolley. The clang echoed.
That broke everyone. The hangar erupted in roaring laughter. Senna’s embarrassment was momentarily eclipsed by the surreal sight of the unflappable Professor Prost walking into solid metal.
Prost righted himself without a word, his ears burning crimson, and disappeared into the hallway with as much dignity as he could muster, which was approximately none.
Berger slung an arm around a mortified but slightly grinning Senna. “Well, champ. You wanted to be the only one to knock him off course. Mission accomplished. Now, who’s buying the beer to celebrate the love confession?”
As the laughter finally began to subside, Mansell turned to de Angelis, nodding toward the hallway where Prost had fled. “See? And they say we’re obvious.”
De Angelis smiled serenely. “The difference, amore, is that we don’t need to nearly cause a mid-air collision to express ourselves.”
“Debatable,” Mansell muttered, but he was smiling.