GREENE | CS55

Prologue

2019 | The United States Grand Prix

The steering wheel jerked against her grip as she ground the front right tire against a kerb, hitting the apex of the turn in a way that would benefit any other car, with any other driver behind the wheel of it.

"Greene? Greene, how is the car feeling? Do we need to pit soon?"

"You asking me, or my father?" The cotton on her balaclava pulled against the tip of the mic across her lip. It was rough and dry— her lip. Rough like the turf she felt vibrating the car uncontrollably and drier than the Sahara on a good day. Tearing in places, causing the balaclava to catch uncomfortably as she responded in her normally snarky manner.

If only the car had this kind of grip, Pierce thought to herself with a snicker.

The car was impossible. Granted, it was a shit day out. The rain had been pounding down for hours prior and it was way too cold for even the best tire compound Pirelli could muster up to catch the pavement in any way. It was in no way your typical Austin day.

Regardless of the weather— the car was impossible.

It was the one thing the young woman and the piece of machinery had in positive agreement. The one thing the two consistently could both be, successfully. The difference being that only one of the two in this equation really got a kick out of being impossible, nowadays.

"Seriously, Ashley. Two years and I still have to remind you to call me Pierce."

"Pierce! Does that even matter right now?" Her engineer sighed in a bout of frustration that never got old to Pierce. "Look, we're 50 laps in. Grosjean pitted 3 laps ago and his times are up by nine-tenths!"

Pierce mimicked Ashley silently as she listened to her engineer drone on about lap times decreasing, the stats that were less than impressive, numbers, numbers, and more numbers, until she couldn't hear it anymore. "Ash, just let me drive, alright?" She finally interrupted.

"We need you to come in to the pits in the next few laps, Pierce. You have to pit once more before the car—"

"God, Ashley! Did you hear me? For the last time just let. Me. DRIVE!"

Static from the other end of the radio bounced through Pierce's eardrums before a curse in frustration from Ashley and the connection puttering to a close.

"Fuck you, too." Pierce smirked proudly as she glazed her eyes across the sliver of visible track in front of her.

She had been pushing the VF-19 as hard as she could have to close the gap between her and Kvyat in his Toro Rosso in front of her. He had been in her sights for quite some time now, and Pierce knew he had been holding back on pitting just as hard as she had been.

She wanted that P12. That delectable 12th place that would make her home race also her best placing performance of the season thus far. There was nothing like doing the best you could at your home race.

A scowl came across her face as she messed up a downshift into turns 4 and 5, the driver remembering that P12 was a far cry from what she used to picture a successful race day being.

"Front of the grid approaching behind." Ashley quickly interjected just as Pierces steering wheel flashed blue.

Pierce was used to getting lapped. The first time it happened, back in 2018, her heart sank lower than the car sat on the track.

When she realized Jim Greene didn't care, that the team he had bought a majority stake in from Gene Haas somehow made money anyway, Pierce quickly learned how little this really meant in the grand overview of things. Just another money-making scheme. Cash is king.