ᴄʜᴀꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʀɪᴢᴏɴ ; ᴏꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴘɪᴀꜱᴛʀɪ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ᴏᴄ

The Fallout

The high from Monaco fades quickly for Oscar. What should have been a turning point in his career, a moment of triumph, is now being dissected behind closed doors in the McLaren headquarters. In a private meeting room, the mood is tense, the air thick with the kind of scrutiny only Formula 1 teams know too well. Zak Brown, McLaren's CEO, sits at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. The senior strategists flank him, exchanging glances that Oscar doesn't miss.

"Oscar," Zak begins, his tone calm but heavy with the weight of what's coming. "Monaco was a great result. First podium—you should be proud. But we need to talk about how we got there."

Oscar leans back in his chair, arms crossed, already knowing where this conversation is headed. He listens as Zak and the senior engineers begin to walk through the Monaco race, their voices measured but tinged with disapproval.

"You pushed for a strategy that wasn't ours," one of the senior strategists says. "It worked this time, but we can't afford to deviate from team decisions every race."

Oscar bites his tongue, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "It wasn't just a random call," he says, trying to keep his voice level. "Amelia's data showed that the early pit stop under a safety car would work. And it did."

Zak leans forward, eyes sharp. "We're not questioning the result, Oscar. We're questioning the process. You've been relying more and more on Amelia's input, and while she's talented, she's still a junior analyst. There's concern that your decisions are becoming too... influenced by her."

Oscar's jaw tightens. "So now it's a problem to trust someone who's actually giving me solid strategy?"

One of the engineers clears his throat, hesitant but firm. "It's not just about the strategy, Oscar. It's about optics. Being too close to a junior engineer—especially one whose methods are, let's say, unconventional—can raise eyebrows. There's talk that your judgement could be clouded."

Oscar feels the accusation hit harder than he expected. He sits up straighter, his frustration slipping into his voice. "You're saying I can't work with someone because I trust her more than the usual, 'tried and tested' ways that haven't exactly been getting us podiums?"

Zak holds up a hand, trying to diffuse the tension. "Look, no one's saying Amelia's work isn't valuable. But this is a team sport, and we have a hierarchy for a reason. You need to be careful not to alienate the people who make decisions about your car. If you go too rogue, you risk losing the support of the people who have your back."

Oscar feels a pang of isolation creeping in. The room, once a place of collaboration, now feels like a cage. He's being told, subtly but clearly, to fall back in line, to play the politics. He nods, though it's more out of necessity than agreement. "I hear you," he says, though inside, the frustration hasn't waned. As he leaves the meeting room, a heavy sense of realisation settles in—despite his podium, despite his progress, not everyone in the team is on his side.

While Oscar deals with his own frustrations, Amelia is facing a different battle. The euphoria of their successful strategy in Monaco is short-lived, replaced by the cold reality of her position within McLaren. Despite her key role in Oscar's podium, the senior engineers remain distant, their attitudes ranging from indifferent to quietly resentful. It's not that they outright dismiss her; it's worse than that. They acknowledge her work in passing, but there's always a caveat, an undercurrent of mistrust in her unconventional methods and reliance on AI-driven strategy.

In the engineering meetings, Amelia feels the subtle tension whenever she speaks up. Her ideas are considered but rarely acted on, especially if they deviate too far from the norm. To the senior team, she's still an outsider—young, unproven, and, in their eyes, too eager to disrupt the traditional ways of doing things. They respect data, yes, but there's a line between data and instinct, one they're reluctant to cross.