Turbulence [𝗠.𝗩.]

Hungary, Race Day

It's not Sunday if I don't hear the Dutch and Austrian national anthems - @JessicaBond57

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HUNGARY
11TH RACE OF THE SEASON
JULY

P11 is not where I want to start. The limitations on qualifying screwed me over. Mick is up ahead, and I'm not hopeful about my chances today. A few of the bigger-name drivers suffered from this tyre mandate change. It's hit everyone. Not all drivers are bothered by it, though, since it's benefitted some of the struggling teams.

Thank fuck we don't have to do this again until Monza. If they'd only given us 11 sets of tyres for the weekend with no restrictions on qualifying, this wouldn't have been such a joke.

The lights are out, and we're off.

And then I'm off in another way. As I go into turn 1, something slams into the back of my car. In my right mirror, I briefly see a collision- but I've spun out. My rear wing is fucked.

"FUCK SAKE! FUCKING WHO STARTED THAT?!" I shout down the radio. I'm going to hit someone for this. I'm fucking done for. There's no coming back from this. All I can do is limp the car around the track, behind a slow Gasly who has also taken serious damage.

"Looks like Räikkönen went up the rear of another driver, which shunted both Alpines and you." Mateo is barely holding his rage.

Gasly and I limp back to the pits. Mechanics run out, but there's nothing they can do. I turn the engine off and get out, trying to hold onto how pissed off I am with Kimi fucking Räikkönen. I rip my helmet off my head, handing it out to Carlos, who helps me remove the HANS from around my neck. I storm over to the pit wall, grabbing a spare headset to get on the radio.

If my race is fucked, I have to make sure Mick gets some points. Behind me, I look and see Ocon's in the pits too, his engineers waving their arms in defeat.

Otmar's fucked. His job is gone. And it won't even be his fault.

"Mick, it's Jess." I say as I settle into a seat next to Oliver, who gives me a worried look.

"Shit! What happened?"

"Räikkönen happened. What are we looking at? Give me everything you're feeling with the car, those around you, all of it."

Mick rattles off how he's settling in and holding onto his position for now, but he's aware of Vettel on his rear. I look at the array of screens. Mick's not moved up, but likewise not gone down. P8 still gets us points. His timings are good, and starting on mediums is a good call. I would've been racing on my last set of softs if not for this shitshow.

"You'll need to challenge Ricciardo." I tell him as they're into Lap 7. "Looking at the pit window as it stands, if all you want is some points, you need to go up a few spots to stay there by race end."

A cameraman comes into my peripheral vision; he's undoubtedly focusing in on me, still in my racing suit, as I guide my teammate instead of throwing a fit. It's good optics... but in truth: I need to focus on anything else, or I'll repeat my early-season behaviour. I have to do better than a temper tantrum.

A few minutes later, I see something appear on one of the screens: a five-second penalty for Räikkönen. It doesn't feel fair, given he's knocked out three drivers with his careless driving. But I'm not going to say anything. It's not worth it.

Behind us, a Williams flies out of the pit lane. I lean towards Oliver. "Seems like they're having problems, see what we can find out about other teams who gambled on different strategies."