Turbulence [𝗠.𝗩.]

Las Vegas, Pre-Race Cont

"It might be the middle of the night, but the entertainment will continue!... At some stage... We haven't yet got an official start time."

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LAS VEGAS
21ST RACE WEEKEND OF THE SEASON
NOVEMBER

"What a fucking joke!"

Oliver shrugs, but I see agreement in the way he shakes his head. Cassandra looks as annoyed as me. The whole thing seems entirely fucking unfair.

"Their shitty track caused the damage, but they're still going to give him ten place penalty?! This is bullshit!" I cut myself off as pain comes up from my immobilised arm being moved slightly because I stupidly tried to gesture as I was getting animated. This is all so stupid. First they boot all the fans out after they've paid insane amounts of money and received nothing for it, now they slap Carlos with a ten-place grid penalty because of their shitty track.

"I've already told Vasseur that we'll help him push back if he wants to. Not much else we can do, ladies." Oliver leaves us to share unhappy glares that silently tell a very quick story: we're going to kick up a stink about this. Words won't do much, but at the very least, we can show that we think it's unfair as fuck.

Cassandra goes to the car, getting herself ready. We still have at least another fifteen minutes to go, but she's ready to focus.

I look up at the live feed, and anger renews itself. The ground stewards have got the police to help clear the stands. God. This is a sorry fucking day for our sport. Supposedly, as the feed continues, it's because there aren't enough staff to ensure spectator safety, but I still think it's a load of bullshit. We're still here, and we're not supposed to be up this late. We should all be back at our hotels, sleeping.

I go over to the other side; Mick isn't in the car yet. He waves me over with a sense of urgency.

"Did you hear: Mercedes want Sainz to have the penalty?"

"Why does that not surprise me?" Of course Mercedes want their competition to struggle. "What other bullshit is gonna happen this weekend?"

"Driver briefing is off tonight." The smile is gone. I find myself rolling my eyes.

"This is such a shitshow." I huff out. "The race itself better fucking wow the fans, or we might see one hell of a revolt off them, considering they've already got enough reasons to lose their minds. I'm calling it now: the fans today will sue for their ticket money back."

Mick nods in grim agreement as he pulls his helmet on; I head off to the pit wall to rejoin the team. The drain covers that failed the inspection have been ripped up and filled in with asphalt. It's not a perfect solution, but it's better than pouring cement down the holes. At the very least, the asphalt will be dry and safe to drive over, since it'll be binding to more asphalt. The city will have to replace all the removed covers when we're gone. I'm sure they'll bill Liberty Media for it. It's bad enough that they'd put insane restrictions on when we can be here, because we're blocking a damn city's main streets.

Cassandra starts off well. With the little feedback she could give, adjustments have been made. And with the worry of another cover coming up, the ride height has gone up by one millimetre. It doesn't sound like much, but it is.

"Brundle saying it's like racing in lockdown." Oliver says, leaning towards me.

I laugh, because it's true. It's dead, bar the cars and the crews. The fans waited for hours for us. And most of them might not have tickets for any of the other days. It's supremely cruel that they've been kicked out.