Friday, November 16th, 2018- Milton Keynes, England, United Kingdom
Red Bull Racing Factory
Let the record show that first and foremost, Max Verstappen was aware of just how very fucking stupid this whole deranged idea was, thank you very much. And, for that matter, he has no reservations about saying as much, since there's little reason to pretend otherwise, to shy away from the truth, not when anyone in their right mind, who knew what he now knew, would hold the exact same opinion that he did at present.
But did any of that stop him from wanting the scheme to pan out? No, it most certainly had not, despite his efforts to convince himself to the contrary. It was an idiotic, flawed straw man of a plan, sure, but that didn't have much of an effect on him, he'd never really been one for thinking beyond attaining, achieving, taking what he wanted.
There simply wasn't the time for all that, to really mull things over before going after them, not when Max made all his decisions the exact same way— he devoted a split second, or two if he was feeling generous, and whatever he came out on the other side wanting, that was where his loyalties now lay and where they would stay until it came to whatever end.
This meeting had hung over Max's head all fucking week long, like some overgrown shadow that stalked his every waking moment, an ominous presence that lurked in his peripherals, remaining just out of sight but impossible to forget, which left Max feeling as if he'd unwittingly and quite entirely against his own will just become the new owner of a harbinger of imminent doom.
Needless to say, he'd slept like absolute shit since Marko had called him Wednesday morning, though that might have had infinitely more to do with the unadulterated guilt that had become his permanent companion in recent days, a burden he'd bore like Atlas with the weight of the world on his back, taking the brunt of his punishment without any protestation for the entirety of the last three days.
But, with what had loomed ahead of him as a hulking figure on the distant horizon, was upon him, as he sat here, in the belly of the beast, Max was forced to concede to the fact that the facade, which he'd carefully, painstakingly conceived, constructed and maintained for some 50 odd hours now, had been irrevocably damaged, the brick and mortar wall of which was already beginning to fracture around him, leaving him with no option but to simply prepare for the fall.
And Max, well, he knew that there was no one else to blame for this, for all of this, this mass casualty of false pretenses, this failure to keep up a charade of innocence, this predicament he'd found himself in, not to mention the current state of affairs, not just because the final, fatal blow to his defense had been dealt by his own hand but because he found himself here often enough that he'd become so familiar with the hallmarks of culpability that being at fault was his calling card in all but name.
So, when Horner opens his mouth and, after what feels like far longer than reality actually reflects, the ridiculous scheme finally comes out, Max finds that he doesn't have it in him to continue to act for even another second that he isn't a conspirator in this plot because regardless of how silent of a partner he may have been, he'd still known and said nothing, done nothing, and that made him just as guilty as the other two.
"Look, I don't want to waste anymore of your or my time than has already been squander on this morning's dramatics," Horner doesn't spare Max so much as a sideways glance as he speaks, his explanation seemingly for your benefit only, "so, I'll cut to the chase– while I'm not entirely certain why Marko or that one," a single, slight jerk of the head in his direction to specify who exactly it is Christian is referring to, as if it's not blatantly obvious, is all the acknowledgement the man gives him as he speaks, "have simultaneously elected to conduct themselves in the manner but I assure you, it is wholly unwarranted behavior on their part."
