𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧?, charles leclerc

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 17

•𝗴𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁𝘆 𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝗶𝗻?•

chapter 17 "𝗢𝗛, 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗔 𝗪𝗔𝗬 𝗧𝗢 𝗗𝗜𝗘"

all text in "italics" is another language (will be specified which)

78 LAPS.

Seven. Eight. Seventy-eight. Laps.

Huh. Who knew numbers could be so hard.

Nyra delicately wrapped her arms around the steering, rubbing it's sides. Her body ached and screamed for a release, but all she could do was move the car where it took her and hope that she wouldn't end up in flames. The Brazilian couldn't remember the last time she had been this pessimistic coming into a race week (discounting Imola), but she certainly did not like the feeling. She was made to race and compete, and without feeling the urge to beat everyone on track and drown herself in champagne, her heart felt almost empty. She was a soul racer, and the pulsating beat of her heart thrumming against a vacant soul made her incomplete.

Who was she if not what she was made to be?

Her head jerked to the side as she dismounted on the hairpin, quickly blasting away as soon as Rory had touched the straight. She pressed the pedal with a desperation she hadn't felt before, as if all would disappear if she got overtaken one more time. It wasn't her race— certainly not—but as long as she was in it, she would not let others take the podium that easy. And despite her best attempts at self-motivation, she groaned into the radio as an Aston Martin swiftly passed by her with zero defense from herself. She pushed away the impulse to give him the bird as she watched him look into his mirror. You don't even look good, jerk.

She had started in P5 but had easily dropped down to eighth. Well, not easily. But, by Nyra standards, she felt as if she had let down the whole world. Not to mention that the tinge of defeat was audible in Luca's voice, despite what she assumed were his best efforts done in vain. She peeked back into her mirror, the papaya orange of Lando Norris coming into view. She sped up, speedily zooming through the circuit the best she could whilst de-motivating herself. At the end, it was not too much for Lando, and he breezed past her just as Lance Stroll had a few laps prior. The frustration was palpable between her and Rory, and each bump and jerk convulsed her. Her anger only built, and soon enough, she was driving with a force she probably shouldn't have.

Driven by rage and irritation, Nyra forcefully swept through the track. She pushed forward angrily and zoomed past a few drivers, but none of which were bare of aggression. Despite the positive look on the leaderboard, Nyra found herself rushing to take place. All the motivation that she had lacked a few minutes ago had been wiped away and was instead replaced by sheer dissatisfaction. Not in the team or track, but in herself. How could she have thought of throwing away a proper race week? It was her job and her life, and lazily racing is what her father would never have wanted her to do. Whatever she did, she did with a full heart and soul.

And her soul was vacant.

In the span of a second, she hit the brakes hard, a loud screech sounding from the machinery.

In the span of a second, she was hurled into the tunnel, a sickening crunch resonating from what Rory was.

•

3 YEARS.

365 days. Multiplied by 3. Three years.

That's how long it had taken Charles Leclerc to win his home grand prix. He knew a lot of other drivers had taken longer or hadn't even won yet. But despite that thought, remembering his low positions and disappointing DNF made him all the more grateful for his achievement.