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It should have caught all the racers, all the audience, off-guard the moment the new car spun once, and gripping control by the handle, it avoided any contact and pushed forward, grabbing first place like it was a mere cookie on a shelf. Heat poured down the grandstands and across the whole track like thick molasses, and deep were the screams of the fans, and the complaints of the racers.
——
“KIMI! OH MY GOD IT’S HIM!”
“Kimi, how do you feel about George’s break from racing?”
“How are you doing today?”
“Any thoughts on your new teammate?”
Among the vast number of reporters swarming Kimi that morning as the race was just moments away, he didn’t notice the figure slipping past him, who looked suspiciously like security, though not before Toto called the figure, the man, in, and ushered him inside the Mercedes’ garage.
——
Last night, Kimi Antonelli scrolled through his phone and found out through Toto Wolff’s recent interview that George was having a kid, and he needed a break from racing. If Toto was something, it was always prepared. He was subtle when he let out the name of his new racer—Aesop DeCafs. Other than a number, 64, and a chuckle, he left the studio with a huge smirk on his face.
By the last lap, Kimi was seconds away from the chequered flag, seemingly having won first place, when beside him, shooting like a firecracker let loose by a toddler, whizzed number 64.
A win.
Cheers.
Confetti.
Hands.
The air was filled with shouts suffocating like a cloud of smoke. But Kimi wasn’t angry—how could he be, when his new teammate soared through roads like hawks in the bright, summer sky that filled Spielberg.
“And… DECAFS TAKES THE ROPE! AN UNBELIEVABLE WIN FOR MERCEDES’ ROOKIE! WHAT A RACE FOR HIM!”
“IT’S DE-CAFS! I’M NOT BLOODY COFFEE!”
The crowd hushed as swiftly as their cheers rose earlier. A voice, with a pitch that was astonishingly…high?
Dust particles fluttered around the car as the engine stopped, and crew members surrounded the vehicle as the driver, clad in black, blue, and streaks of electric yellow, stepped up and out onto the asphalt. The slender figure was starting to make sense to Kimi.
“Right. Applause for Aesop DeCafs everyone!”
The helmet dropped from his—no, her—head, and dark hair that lay perfectly across her shoulders plastered onto tanned, freckled cheeks. A flushed face, lips painted in a dark shade that made her look mature, and a beautiful set of olive eyes locked onto the crowd, and all in all, it made up the girl—Mercedes’ new racer.
The crowd erupted in cheers, shouts, complaints, but Kimi’s eyes stayed locked onto the girl’s expression—a scowl balanced on her face, enough that she didn’t look mad but also wasn’t overjoyed at her literal win.
“Wow, what a twist of events. Aesop DeCafs has won, and has announced herself.”
“A special turn for the history of racing!”
“She’s the first girl on the grid in years, eh?”
“What a surprise.”
“Eighteen? Antonelli’s nineteen. Barely an age gap, I say.”
Voices, layers of them, overlapped with questions, and reporters dove in to ask questions. A reporter, the poor girl, stepped closer and managed to ask a question, quite loudly as well, into Aesop’s ear, and as she turned to answer it, some sort of contempt twisted into resignation planted onto her expression, she frowned upon the repeated question—it offended her. Kimi, on the other side of the press, met her eyes.
A spark.
No, literally.
An explosion, a few feet away, from one of the engineers, though no one could pay attention to it as history breaks—and a number has been added to the very few women racers in F1.
Her speech was something else, different from Kimi’s first win back in China. He had been emotional—she was the image of control. The crowd, everyone that watched her win, couldn’t help but compare her to him, especially considering her age.
“Formula 1 has been a pleasant experience. I am extremely grateful right now, to the amazing team, the talented engineers, all of Mercedes. Toto has been a huge support this whole time.”
She spoke in a lustrous mix of an English and Russian accent, and her t’s twisted as z’s, liker her tongue danced through the English all over again, and yet she spoke with confidence that kept her shoulders high. Birds cawed across Spielberg’s now cloudy, darker skies, and crowds slowly dissolved into thinner threads of people asking for autographs.
Kimi was beside Max Verstappen, both yapping whilst Max was trying to prevent Kimi from giving free hugs to everyone he saw. To Max, Kimi was a kid, a ball of energy and basically a smiling, human sized golden doodle.
Across them and a bundle of children dressed in miniature racing suits, Aesop. On top of her racing suit was a thick leather jacket, and she sat on the ground, completely ignoring her security guards telling her to stand up, and was quietly signing a boy’s shirt. She didn’t talk, only keeping a small smile up on her face, poked children’s noses, and waved goodbye until more kids (or teens) came to congratulate her. She was more “grey cat that judges people from the top of the fridge”.
Lando Norris, who had placed third, and Pierre Gasly, who placed sixth, didn’t exactly plan ahead on how to approach a mean looking rookie, but as Aesop looked up, she saw the two older racers extend a hand.
“Great race today,” Lando had told her. She’d never admit it, but maybe, the words had struck something she had buried years ago.
“Yeah, same to you.”
That following morning, Kimi had entered the garage and found his teammate crouched in a corner, laptop in hand, typing like she was running out of time.
“Hi there. I don’t think we got a proper introduction.”
“As it appears.” She stood up, and the height difference wasn’t significant now that she was three inches in heels. Judging by how their height balanced that way, she was about 5’4”. “Aesop, though everyone’s been shouting that name every five seconds.”
“Russian?”
“I grew up in Russia, then I moved to England.”
“Nice. Uhm… uhm, where in Russia were you born?” Kimi could basically smell the suspicion curling on tips of Aesop’s fringes of hair, dangling on the side of her cheek.
“Kazan. Any more questions?”
“Sorry, uhm, if it seemed rude?”
“You should lessen the ‘reporter style’. You sound like that girl.” The way she spoke when upset, it stringed into a stronger Russian accent, and she had muttered something in a different language, like Kimi did when he got angry.
“Well, I’ll go. I’m sorry.”
As Kimi left, he finally had a conclusive answer to Max’s question about his new teammate—she’s mean as hell.
“And if you are thinking I was very mean in the way I talk, then gladly do. I cannot stop you, Tonelli.” Turning swiftly around, the girl had her eyes slide to the side, like a villain wondering her next move on a victim.
“I do not think you are mean. And it’s Kimi”
The girl’s boots clacked against the garage floor, passing him and leaving the room just as staff swarmed in. Kimi pointed a finger at her now gone figure to one of his friends, and they simply shrugged.
What mysteries, that scowl hid.