VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 57

Since u guys asked SO nicely for another chapter 😗
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[POV: Narrator]

Canada qualifying had finished, and the rain had come and gone, leaving behind a greasy track and a mixed-up grid. Andi had stayed tucked away in the McLaren garage, quiet as usual, watching the monitors with her arms crossed and that slight squint she got when something annoyed her. Every time someone slid off or botched a lap, she made a face like really?—not because she actually thought she could do better, but because pretending she could was kind of fun.

Afterwards, back in the paddock, Lando and Andi were deep into what could only be described as a violent battle.

"No, you said I could have them!" cried Lando, running away while he clutched the sacred object — Andi's car keys — to his chest like they were some kind of holy relic.

To him, they were.

Their battle waged on across the land (or at least the pit lane) and onlookers didn't dare to intervene.

For this was a sacred duel, born of betrayal and impatience.

They were like two warriors stood at odds, separated only by a few strategically placed tires. Sorry, wooden barrels. The townspeople and squires (the mechanics and news reporters) watched from a safe distance, too tired to stop either of them. As they paused in a stand-off, a single Gatorade bottle rolled slowly across the concrete, as if it were a tumbleweed.

"When?" she roared, "When did I speaketh such lies?" She lunged forward, arm outstretched, cloak (unzipped hoodie) billowing in the wind. "You, sir, spout the... how you say—bullshit."

But the smug Lando ducked under her arm and spun away, laughing like a court jester who'd just pulled off the escape of the century.

"When you were drunk off your face in Monaco!" he shouted, gleeful, as he darted behind the body of a McLaren F1 car — a neutral bystander in their duel — and laughed. That high-pitched, gremlin-like, cackle that only meant one thing: he was enjoying this far too much.

They squared up — one on each side of the machine, eyes locked across the carbon fiber hood.

"You dare mock me after your treachery?! Art thou a liar and a thief?" Andi scoffed, stepping closer, fingers flexing like she was about to charge at him.

"Better than being a neat freak!" Lando taunted, now darting backward with the deft footwork of a tournament swordsman, keys still dangling triumphantly from his fingers like the prize of a conquered kingdom.

Okay, I'll give the old-timey lingo a rest. They're not actually in Medieval England, alas. But if they were, this would be the part where someone gets banished from the realm of papaya for crimes against key possession and general annoyance.

Instead, it was just another Saturday.

Unbeknownst to the two of them, in the next room over, Oscar Piastri was in the process of getting unready after a frustrating qualifying session. P14. Not a disaster, since he knew he'd be able to redeem himself tomorrow, but still, far from ideal. He wasn't thrilled, but when was he ever? He'd already mentally filed it under "We Move." Helmet now off, mask tugged down and tossed onto the bench beside him, he took his headphones out, and his gloves were peeled off and discarded too. He was focused on loosening the top of his race suit, jaw set in that quiet, neutral way he got when he didn't want to talk to anyone but hadn't committed to full-on sulk mode yet.

Then came the chaos.

Lando sprinted into the space at full speed. "HELP! HELP! HELP!" he shouted, looping quickly around Oscar like he was orbiting a slightly confused sun.