Chapter Text
Spanish Grand Prix
Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya
June 1, 2025
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Today's race is nearing the end of the event, with Formula One cars crossing the finish line one by one, completing the long and exhausting race distance under the characteristic heat of Catalunya. The chequered flag is waved, marking the end of this season's Spanish Grand Prix.
Among the lineup of cars passing by, a black race car with the Red Bull logo and number 1 also crosses the finish line – the Oracle Red Bull Racing RB21 belonging to the defending world champion.
The roar of fans echoed from every corner of the circuit. The grandstand trembled with shouts of the names of their favorite drivers and teams, mingling with the sound of engines beginning to wind down into cool-down laps.
But that euphoria was nowhere to be seen inside the cockpit of the number 1 racing car.
Max Verstappen.
Red Bull Racing driver.
Behind his helmet, Max frowned with a dissatisfied expression. His jaw tightened, his gaze blank as it pierced through the halo device in front of his eyes.
5th place.
P5.
The results were far from expectations.
Especially on a circuit that should still suit the characteristics of the Red Bull car. Worse still, the penalty he received after making contact with George Russell's Mercedes in a wheel-to-wheel duel pushed him down to P10.
The recovery drive he attempted felt wasted. The tires lost grip too quickly, the rear of the car was unstable during corner entry, and the car's balance changed every lap.
His hands gripped the carbon-wrapped steering wheel tightly, fingers still around the rotary switches that he had adjusted multiple times throughout the race.
Frustration kept building.
Poor performance.
Fuck!
The cars began entering one by one into Parc Ferme according to FIA procedure. Max's car stopped in its position, the engine was turned off, and the hybrid system switched to safe mode.
But Max remained still in his cockpit seat. Controlling his breath. Trying to suppress the boiling emotions after a high-pressure race.
He finally got out of the car and followed the post-race procedure. Without taking off his helmet, Max walked quickly towards the Red Bull motorhome. Every step took him closer to one thing: anger.
As soon as he entered the motorhome, Max immediately removed his helmet and gloves, then slammed them harshly onto the table in front of him. The sound of the impact made several mechanics reflexively straighten up, watching alertly.
None of them dared to approach.
Max's face turned red. His blue eyes sparkled with anger. His blond hair was messy from the balaclava that had been pulled on carelessly.
His breathing was rough and rapid; efforts to calm himself had failed.
His emotions had reached their peak. Breaking point.
"Alles is compleet naar de klote! Dat ding is niet te besturen!" (Everything is completely fucked up! That thing is undriveable!)
Max swore. The inconsistent performance of his car—lost grip, unpredictable steering response—made today's race results feel chaotic and unacceptable.
"Fucking hell!!"
He grabbed his own hair. His eyes squeezed shut as a sudden pain stabbed his head. Since the start of the season, headaches had often come without a clear pattern, but Max had always chosen to ignore them.
"Max."
Max opened his eyes and quickly lowered his hand. His gaze was sharp, then softened in an instant.
"Not now, GP."
"We have a post-race debrief in 15 minutes, Max," said Gianpiero Lambiase, tapping his watch. "We need to go over the data. The tyre degradation and sector two were quite bad."
Max exhaled.
"I need to cool down."
Gianpiero watched Max's movements carefully. The world champion seemed tenser than usual. He understood very well, especially since he had known Max since his teenage years.
"Okay then, we'll meet later."
"Thanks, GP."
Gianpiero gently patted Max on the shoulder before walking away to meet the mechanic and Christian.
Max watched Gianpiero leave, his hand returning to roughly rub his head. The pain came back, making him hiss slightly.
He walked quickly to his private driver room, slammed the door shut with a loud thud, and then slumped down behind it.
His vision blurred. Darkness.
"Argh…" a faint groan of pain could be heard. (a/n; Max's groan after the 2021 Silverstone Grand Prix crash)
He curled up, continuing to clutch his head tightly. The groaning weakened, until finally, Max lost consciousness.
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Red Bull Motorhome
Temporary Meeting Room
20 minutes after the race
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Today's meeting should have already started, but their star driver hasn't shown up. And this is unusual; Max is never late. Especially when it comes to his car's performance, he wouldn't hesitate to voice all his complaints about the car issues so that the mechanics can fix them immediately.
The atmosphere in the meeting room became increasingly cold, especially as Christian was starting to get impatient and could be seen frowning in anger.
“Where is he actually?” Christian hissed, frustrated that the meeting was delayed. Although it must be admitted that Max is the most talented member of their team, this cannot be tolerated.
Everyone in the room remained silent, occupied with their own data.
Lately, the working environment in the Red Bull team has been very unconducive, especially with Max's inconsistent race results putting even more pressure from central management. They want to blame Max, but his performance as a driver is actually very stable; the main problem lies in the car's performance.
Repeated mistakes make it possible for Red Bull's management to change in the blink of an eye. Therefore, people prefer not to get too involved in order to protect their own careers.
Gianpiero sighed, then finally chose to speak. “He should still be in his driver room,”
“What is he doing there?!” Christian asked angrily. (a/n; My god! He must be resting, come on Chris!)
Gianpiero’s face turned expressionless, silent, and unresponsive. His look seemed to give a clear answer that didn’t need to be asked. What do you think?
Christian let out a harsh breath, trying to control his emotions so they wouldn’t be unleashed on innocent people. The pressure from the central leadership was increasingly strangling his freedom as team principal. Every effort he made carried a very high risk. Just as he was about to speak again, his phone rang loudly. He grabbed the phone roughly from his pocket.
“Shit…” Christian said spontaneously.
Christian rubbed his face roughly. In a critical moment like this, why do these sponsors always have to bother him? Christian diverted his gaze from his phone screen and looked at Gianpiero with an expression full of obvious pleading.
"Gianpiero, call Max here. Once he arrives, we'll discuss the RB21 issue. I have matters that need to be taken care of." After that, Christian stood up and walked out of the room to take his phone call.
Gianpiero responded with a mumble. He stood up and quickly walked to Max's driver room.
Max, why are you late, actually?
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Red Bull Motorhome
Max Verstappen Driver Room
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Gianpiero rushedly opened the door to Max's driver room, and the words he was about to say suddenly caught in his throat when he saw the state of the room. His mouth opened wide, eyes widening in shock.
“What the…?!” His voice rose in shock, startling the occupants inside.
Inside the room.
Three pairs of eyes turned with different expressions.
Three people of Max Verstappen.
“GP, are you old?!” 18-year-old Max asked outright, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of his race engineer looking older than he remembered. His voice was slightly shocked as his finger pointed directly at Gianpiero's face.
"Het spijt me..." (I’m sorry) Max, 2 years old, murmured the word 'sorry' in Dutch softly, his round eyes brimming with tears while one hand busily twisted his clothes anxiously as the other had already reached into his small mouth.
“He! Je hebt hem laten schrikken!” (Hey! You startled him!) Max, 8 years old, frowned in displeasure, his eyes wide as he glared at Gianpiero as if his presence had disrupted his peaceful day. He hugged and gently caressed the younger version of Max protectively, trying to calm him.
“What is going on?!” Gianpiero spoke up again with the same question, but this time more hysterically.
What kind of magic is this?!!
Where is Max?
Of course, that hysterical question didn’t get the answer it needed. The Red Bull team mechanics, who had initially just been around Gianpiero, became curious. One of them dared to peek through the space between Gianpiero’s body as he stood frozen in front of Max’s room door.
One by one, they froze, their breath caught, their faces shocked, and their voices stammering.
The commotion worsened due to the many people wanting to see inside Max’s driver room.
18-year-old Max furrowed his brow. “What are you all doing?”
Isn’t this commotion way too much? Can’t they behave normally?
Max, 8 years old, stared intently, feeling that the strangers in front of him were very noisy.
Meanwhile, 2-year-old Max had let out cries that grew louder over time, feeling intimidated in this room full of loud noise.
Hysteria and panic were inevitable. The mechanics who had witnessed this logically incomprehensible situation quickly moved to convey the information. In fact, the information had reached Christian's ears, who hurriedly moved toward the driver room where Max and Gianpiero were.
The closer he got to Max's driver room, the clearer the sounds of crying and sobbing became. Upon reaching right beside Gianpiero, Christian focused his gaze on 18-year-old Max.
"Emm… Max??" Christian called out, stammering full of doubt.
Unexpectedly, two faces responded to the call with different intonations.
"Christian!!" 18-year-old Max exclaimed enthusiastically, though his expression quickly shifted to surprise after seeing his team principal looking slightly different from what he remembered.
"Wie ben je?" (Who are you?) 8-year-old Max asked, his forehead creased with clear confusion, showing that he didn’t recognize the person in front of him at all.
Christian froze in his place.
His face went pale, his jaw tensed, and the instinct of a team principal who had spent decades in the Formula One paddock screamed that something was very, very wrong in this room.
This isn’t about car setup.
It’s not about understeer in sector two.
It’s not about uncontrolled tire degradation.
This… is far worse.
In front of him stood an eighteen-year-old Max Verstappen, tall and with the aggressive gaze typical of a rookie hungry for victory. His hair was messy, his jaw clenched, his body tense as if ready to argue about brake balance and differential settings at any moment.
Next to him, an eight-year-old child, a smaller version of Max. Hugging tightly a two-year-old toddler who was sobbing, his tiny face red with fear. The eight-year-old stood protectively, like an instinctive older sibling… or perhaps like a racer who had long been used to shielding himself from an overly harsh world from an early age.
The toddler's cries bounced off the narrow walls of the driver room, mingling with the faint hum of the motorhome generator and the sound of the team radio still on outside.
Christian swallowed.
This was not a hallucination of fatigue.
Not an effect of media pressure.
Nor some cheap prank, there was no way Red Bull would allow something like this.
“GP…” Christian's voice finally came out, quieter than usual. “Please tell me… you saw the same thing.”
Gianpiero could only nod stiffly.
As a race engineer, he was used to reading chaotic telemetry data, brake temperature spikes, unsynchronized throttle traces, wild steering inputs. But there was no data in the world that could prepare him to see three versions of his own racer in one room.
18-year-old Max raised his eyebrows, clearly impatient.
“Why is everyone staring at me like a car that just failed scrutineering?”
Christian flinched.
That way of speaking.
The sarcastic tone.
The choice of words.
No mistake. This was definitely Max.
But before Christian could respond, a small voice was heard amid the crying.
“Papa…” whispered 2-year-old Max softly, his hand clutching 8-year-old Max's shirt.
The room went silent.
A few mechanics peeking from behind the door held their breath spontaneously. That word—Papa—sounded too personal, too emotional for a team that lived on numbers, lap times, and championship points.
8-year-old Max gently rubbed the toddler's back, his movements reflexive, as if this wasn’t the first time he had to comfort someone.
“Het is oke,” he whispered. “Ze doen je niets.” (It’s okay. They won’t hurt you.)
Christian massaged his temples.
Throughout his career, he had faced:
Stewards' protests,
FIA investigations,
Team orders that triggered internal wars,
Billions of dollars in sponsor pressure.
But none of them taught him how to deal with his star driver, who was split into three life phases at once.
"Alright," he said finally, taking a deep breath in the tone he usually used when facing a major crisis at the pit wall. "We… we will handle this like a technical issue."
18-year-old Max grinned faintly. "A technical issue? Do I have to join the debrief too?"
Christian almost laughed… almost.
"Yes," he replied flatly. "But before that… we need to find out where the real Max Verstappen is."
All of this was supposed to leave connected traces.
And outside the motorhome, the paddock keeps moving as usual. Journalists wait, cameras flash, headlines ready to be written… unaware that their world champion has experienced something that cannot be explained by data or a setup sheet.
Today's race is indeed over.
But for Red Bull Racing, the real crisis has only just begun.