Chapter Text
“Lewis is just starting lap 53 here (...) He has some decent pace on the straight, but a little wide going into turn one, barely clipped the apex there. Nico is close behind, will he go for an overtake?
He’s closing in, 0.2s behind Lewis… Coming up to turn 5 now, it’s looking like he could overtake (...) and Nico Rosberg overtakes Lewis Hamilton into turn 5! Incredible!
But what’s this? Nico is saying on the radio that his brakes aren’t working properly (...) this could be a dangerous situation for the two Mercedes drivers, but I’m sure Nico will be very reluctant to retire the car during what may possibly be the most important race of his career.
And Nico still isn’t slowing the car, is he too determined to beat Lewis, or is he struggling with the brakes? Coming up to turn 6 now, it looks like he’s struggling to wrestle the car into the corner, that’s very wide…
And Lewis Hamilton crashes into the back of Nico Rosberg! The two cars are just flying into the barrier! That looks like a dangerous crash, let’s see what the marshals think (...) and, yep, it’s a red flag, red flag, everyone. That looks like a very violent crash. The medical car crew are currently being deployed to the site. Neither driver has communicated to their teams.”
—
The first thing Lewis felt upon waking up was a strange warmth travelling all over his body. His eyes felt heavier than they had ever been before, lulling him in and out of a half-sleep he couldn’t quite break away from. He finally forced his eyelids open, sight blurring for a moment before settling on a deep indigo night sky.
What?
The air was almost still, a gentle breeze dancing around his ankles as he propped himself up on his elbows and blinked the last remains of sleep from his eyes. The last thing Lewis remembered was the high-pitched shriek of wheels skidding across the track and pain blooming across his head, and he’d pieced together that he had a difficult crash. But – where was he now?
He glanced around, taking in his surroundings with a sense of familiarity that hit him like a brick. The night was comfortably warm, and Lewis could feel the remnants of heat radiating from the concrete floor he was lying on that suggested it had been a hot day. He dazedly checked his watch — it claimed to be exactly midnight.
Starting to realise why this strange place seemed so familiar, Lewis took note of the rubber barriers and winding track. In the distance, he could see go-karts in their usual formation on the start line.
It was his childhood karting track. Far away, he could see another go-kart lining up with the rest of the pack and quickly jumped onto his feet to investigate further. How on earth had he ended up at Rye House Karting in the middle of the night, after crashing in Abu Dhabi?
Walking closer to the formation of go-karts, Lewis suddenly noticed something that sent a chill down his spine. None of the go-karts had drivers, yet they were lining themselves up just a few seconds ago. Either someone had just gotten out of the last kart and left unnoticed, or… the karts had no drivers. Lewis’s heart started to speed up.
“Don’t panic.”
He whipped his head around, wide-eyed as his vision landed on the man in front of him, eyes still adjusting to the low light. The track lights were barely illuminating the concrete. Although — Lewis thought he could recognise the man he saw in front of him in pitch darkness.
Niki Lauda ducked his head slightly, taking the red patterned cap off with one hand and quickly ruffling his hair back into shape with the other. He shot a quick smile at Lewis before walking past him towards the karts with no more than a passing glance.
“...Am I dead?”
Niki turned back, a smirk starting to form on his face. Lewis, looking closer now, realised Niki looked… younger. Not exactly from his racing days, but he was definitely no older than fifty. Niki sat down on the edge of a kart, zipping up his jacket.
“It depends.”
“What do you mean, it depends?”
“Well, you’re not alive. Not here.”
Okay, now Lewis was getting really concerned. He must be dead. Or dreaming. Was this Heaven? It was practically deserted.
“...Where are we, Niki?” he asked tentatively.
“You were in a crash. In Abu Dhabi.”
“Well, I know that. It doesn’t answer my question–”
“Let me finish, Lewis. You were in a crash. In your world, you’re unconscious right now. Suspended between life and death, and whether you live or die will depend on your decisions from now onwards.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is… an in-between place, of sorts. People call it different things. The abyss. Purgatory. In my opinion, it’s nicer than that. Anyway, there are an infinite amount of parallel universes where you made different decisions throughout your life. Where you didn’t do the things you regret. Where you didn’t do the things you don’t regret, either.
Here, each kart represents a different life you could have lived. It’s a place to try out those different lives. To see if you want to return to your original life… or not. If you choose not to return, then you will die in that life.”
Lewis stared at Niki, wide-eyed and completely out of his element. He could barely process the fact that Niki Lauda was standing in front of him, nevermind that he was balancing crookedly between life and death, and his consciousness had been transported back to a childhood track.
“So why are you here?”
“I’m here to help you decide on a life to try. Follow me.” Niki started to walk over to a small computer on the side of the track, leaning down to click on a few folders before he seemingly found the one he was searching for. The folder’s name was, ‘Regrets’. “Here. This is a file with every regret you’ve ever had. Feel free to look through it, it might help you decide on where to go next.”
And with that, Niki walked back over to the kart he was leaning on and resumed the book he was reading that previously went unnoticed to Lewis, Cider with Rosie.
Lewis’ attention instantly snapped back to the computer as he cautiously clicked on the file. The document opened with a scrolling text of short sentences, all first-person. All judgments.
I regret eating that fish that gave me food poisoning.
Lewis could agree with that one, for sure. He kept reading.
I regret giving up learning French.
I regret not leaving more time for my other interests alongside racing.
I regret going for the overtake in Spain.
I regret apologising to Nico.
I regret not apologising to Nico.
I regret joining F1.
Lewis felt his heart sink. He finally looked up from the computer, locking eyes with Niki as the text continued to scroll past his peripheral, making him slightly dizzy.
“Chosen one yet?”
He glanced uncomfortably between Niki and the computer, shaking his head.
“Remember, the bigger the regret or the longer ago it was, the more different the life will be.”
“...Can I see what my life would be like if I never joined F1?”
Niki nodded, gesturing behind him to a dark blue kart with a black stripe down the side of the seat.
“Get in and put your helmet on.”
Suddenly, Lewis looked down to find his Mercedes helmet tucked under his elbow where it had not been before. This world is strange.
He shuffled over to the kart tentatively, lowering himself into the kart like he would a Formula 1 car. Finally, he stuck his head into the helmet and clicked the strap into place under his chin, before taking a deep breath and finally flicking the visor down.
—
Lewis woke up with a crick in his neck and a profound ache in his bones, staring at the plain white ceiling from his bed. He very quickly realised that he had no idea where he was, or what he was supposed to be doing, or how to get back to Niki and the track.
Tackling one problem at a time, he sat up in bed and reached over to his phone that sat on the bedside table, charging. The change in perspective alerted Lewis to a bundle of fur lying on the end of the bed, and he instantly broke out into a grin.
Roscoe was here, at least. His best friend was here.
“Hey, Roscoe,” Lewis whispered, the dog huffing out a sigh in response. He felt at least slightly comforted by the familiar face in this life.
He opened his phone to see the time and date: 08:47am, on the 27th of November 2016. The day of the Grand Prix. Using a thumbprint (thank God) to open his phone, he navigated to Google Maps and zoomed out with two fingers to get some awareness of the country he was in.
He was — and Lewis wasn’t sure whether to be surprised or not by this — in a hotel in Abu Dhabi. A WhatsApp notification came in from ‘Vivian Work’, and he tapped on it without thinking. The message read:
‘Hi Lewis, have fun at the Grand Prix! :) Just reminding you that if you can, we’d like you back for the 29th. There’s six people who have expressed interest in one of the dogs and would like to meet them on the 29th, and I’m not sure whether I can handle them on my own. Thanks xxx say hi to Roscoe from me!!!”
Huh. Lewis worked at a dog shelter. Or a breeder’s? He could imagine himself working more in a shelter, though. Well. He supposed he didn’t know how different he would be without racing.
He quickly climbed out of bed, rummaging through his suitcase until he found something that he could be seen outside in without wanting to be swallowed into the earth.
Lewis clearly didn’t have such a curated fashion sense in this life. He reluctantly slid on a black t-shirt and dark-wash straight jeans, fastening an inconspicuous silver watch onto his wrist. He buried a Red Bull shirt deep into his suitcase, slightly horrified.
“Come on, Roscoe,” he called, sliding on a pair of sneakers and shoving his phone into his back pocket before unhooking the dog lead from where it was hanging off the wardrobe door. He pushed open the door and hurried down the stairs of the hotel, barely taking in his surroundings before he was suddenly bursting onto the bustling streets of Abu Dhabi.
He panicked for a moment, hiding his face in one hand and hoping that nobody recognised him before he realised – he wasn’t in Formula 1. Nobody knew him in this world. That thought came with a relieved sigh that Lewis didn’t know he was holding in.
He didn’t exactly enjoy the fame that came with being a world-class racing driver, but he… dealt with it. Years of being stopped in the paddock, on the street, and in public toilets – God forbid – numbed him to the surprise of being recognised in public, but he certainly preferred an anonymous existence. All to say, Lewis felt a weight lift off his shoulders when the Abu Dhabi locals brushed past him without a second glance.
Pulling up Google Maps on his phone, he set off on his way to the Yas Marina circuit. He felt goosebumps raise as he approached the entrance, memories of arriving just a few days ago still fresh in his mind.
The collision played in his mind over and over, like a broken record. Maybe if he’d stuck to the inside line a little more, maybe, maybe, those couple of centimetres would’ve made all the difference. Would’ve stopped both cars from tumbling over themselves and into the barriers.
Realistically, it wasn’t Lewis’ fault. None of this season was his fault, really, it was Nico. Nico, and his stupid methods of manipulation and his paintless helmet and his idiotic smile. Idiotic. Nico, and his pole positions, and his endless hunger, and his willingness to completely destroy his relationship with the team, with the drivers, with Lewis. Nico, and his stupid, pretty face. Lewis hated it.
But what could he do? Lewis couldn’t somehow change Nico’s mind and convince him to fit comfortably into the category of Second Driver. If he could, he would’ve done it two seasons ago. He wouldn’t have let this happen.
Before he knew it, Lewis was sitting in the grandstands of the Yas Marina circuit, feeling incredibly out of his element. He supposed it was a more extreme version of watching a race from the garage after a DNF, when it almost feels like you’re not in your own body. Like your soul is stuck in the retired car.
Suddenly, the crowd around Lewis roared as a commotion came from the paddock. He sat up in his seat, pointedly ignoring the fans around him decked out in Red Bull merchandise as he strained his neck to see what was happening.
It was Nico, walking alongside his car with the straw of a water bottle sucked between his teeth. The car was the same as Lewis remembered it from his old life, with the exception of one small detail – the glaringly loud ‘1’ on the front of Nico’s car.
Of course. Without Lewis, who was there to contest Nico’s championship?
He leaned over to the lady sitting next to him, shouting over the din of the crowd.
“Sorry, how many championships does Nico have?”
She turned to him, smiling widely through the ‘DANNY RIC WDC’ painted in matte black on her cheeks.
“God, don’t remind me. It’s been this Mercedes madness since 2014, and now Danny’s barely hanging onto that second place this year while Rosberg wins his third title with two fucking races to go!” she vents, frowning as pink started to spread across her face. “I hate these Mercedes rocket ships.”
“...Yeah,” Lewis replied noncommittally, internally willing himself to keep his mouth shut about defending Mercedes. “Who’s, uh, third, again?”
“Seb. I still can’t believe he left us for Ferrari, the little freak.”
Lewis barked out a laugh at the insulting nickname the lady had given his colleague. But he had one more question.
“And, uhm… Where’s the other Mercedes driver, sorry?”
“Have you been alive for the past year?” the woman laughed, brushing a piece of dark hair out of her face. “Hulk’s in fifth. Just behind Max.”
“Hulk…?”
“Nico Hulkenberg? Like… Nico? The other Nico? Are you even on this planet?”
“Oh, right,” Lewis said, strained. What the fuck? “Yeah, sorry, just… yeah. Thanks.”
Another roar from the crowd brought both of their attentions back to the paddock, where Nico was waving elegantly at the grandstand. Didn’t he know this was the Red Bull grandstand? Well, the fans were eating it up anyway.
Nico’s eyes landed on Lewis.
And maybe Lewis was imagining it, but didn’t it look like Nico’s eyes widened incrementally once his gaze locked on him? Well, there was no reason for Nico to recognise him. He must be dreaming.
Nico didn’t know him.
It hit Lewis all at once, a sharp pain in his heart as he realised he was completely unknown to the German driver. In this world, this Nico had no memories of staying in hotel rooms, wrestling until dawn, running around the garages terrorising the older drivers, eating frosties together, karting wheel to wheel as if they were competing for the World Championship. Competing for the World Championship.
And Lewis himself didn’t race. His body didn’t recognise the car, probably didn’t even get to Formula Renault, before he quit. Why did he quit?
Did he even start? Or did this world’s Lewis never consider a go-kart, never discover the intoxicating feeling of standing at the top of a podium?
Lewis felt sick.
He stood up suddenly, pushing past the crowd of Red Bull fans frantically as he ran for the exit of the grandstand. He couldn’t sit here and watch other people race. He couldn’t be among these stupid fucking Red Bull fans that know nothing about his Nico. He couldn’t be in this life.
Lewis found himself retching into a waste bin, vision starting to blur as he vaguely registered a hand awkwardly patting his back.
“You okay?” a voice asked.
He opened his mouth, preparing to reply in the affirmative, when everything went black.
He awoke once again in Rye House Karting.
“How was that?”