GREENE | CS55

01 - Gunther

If crashing a car into another car and ruining her home race wasn't already bad enough, now Pierce had to recount the entire experience. Over, and over, and over. With a fake smile plastered on her face and the same generic statement Holden, her manager, forced her to repeat. Over, and over, and over.

Often times she found ways to avoid the post-race media pen, however unexpected brake failure sending her whirring into another driver was just one of those scandals, among the many, that she couldn't avoid adding her two cents to. The team expected it from her.

It's not that it mattered to her what people thought, if it was human error or, the truth: that the car was an errant example of a death-trap.

Which, it was.

"You're alright, though?"

"Don't I look alright?" Pierce grunted under her breath, flicking her hair out of her face. On second thought, Pierce grappled at her wrists, feeling a rush of pleasure as she located a hair elastic. She looped her silky, perfectly layered brunette locks through the loop, securing it tight at the back of her head and slicking down any potential strays from the front. "Yes, Holden, I'm alright. Never better, really."

"Pierce!"

Pierce didn't even think to flinch as she heard the voice calling behind her. Holden's step stuttered. He had been assigned to Pierce Greene from the beginning of her time on the grid. The timid new-university grad was picked up by Haas and brought from his home of Boston to Europe. Little did he know, the already overwhelmingly new prospect of working for a Formula One team was only going to get harder.

But Pierce took to the young man surprisingly quick. It wasn't anything in particular about him, other than his ability to stay out of her way when need be. It was Holdens job to manage Pierce on race weekends. Otherwise, he kept out of her line of fire. Didn't mess with her otherwise.

Just how she liked it.

"It's Gunther."

"I know who it is, Holden." Pierce cursed towards the skies above as she halted her stride. He was causing a scene. Gunther loved causing a scene, whether he knew he was doing it or not. The tone of his voice and his unmistakable mixture of a Germanic-Italian accent.

"You cannot keep doing this, Pierce!" The three began walking again. Gunther struggled through pants, pushing out his words as his eyes bulged. Pierce hated when they did that, and when he spat as he spoke. Sometimes the spitlets were extra starchy, then they'd get stuck in his moustache. Pierce rolled her eyes. She kept her body facing forwards, eyes locked in a glare.

"Steiner, you cant be implying that you think I like crashing?"

"Yes, actually. I'm starting to believe you get some pleasure out of it."

"Oh yeah, absolutely. Weren't you tuned in to the radio? I yelled 'kowabunga' right before I locked it in and floored it into Sainz. My aim was the fuel reserve. A fireball would save everyone the hassle of setting off fireworks at the end of the race. It would be a more organic display."

Gunther ignored the unwarranted narrative, clicking his tongue. He had gotten good at tuning out Greene's rants over the past year. "You've got to apologize."

"I'm not doing that! That crash was hardly my fault!" Pierce protested loudly, without a care, turning a few heads in their direction.

"Who's fault was it then?" Gunther challenged, his hands setting on his hips. His driver looked up at him, her dark eyes saucers as she glared up at him. He immediately regretted letting his frustration show. The one thing he had learned about Pierce Greene in the two years since her father had bought the team, she was never one to back down from a verbal challenge. The smart ass. Even from Gunther, who was supposed to be her boss. Often times, it felt the opposite. "Last I checked, you were driver number 15."