VIPER || Oscar Piastri

Chapter 92

[ POV: Andreanna Saunterre ]

"Yes, we're here, Lando. You can stop asking now."

This was meant to be a two-person wilderness day out. Oscar and I had arrived in Qatar a couple of days early, the paddock wasn't open yet, and a hike sounded like fun.

Key word: sounded.

As it happened, Lando has a big mouth and ears, and apparently thinks it's okay to interject himself into private plans because, as he put it, 'The desert is public.'

He ended up bringing Carlos, too. I should've seen it coming.

I had to make a group chat and everything.

Oscar's injury — the one he'd gotten in Singapore — was much better now. No bandage, no swelling, no obvious bruise. Back to normal. Which meant I could stop hovering like a neurotic hawk every time he stood up or moved sideways. I'd spent the last week half-apologising, half-acting like his unpaid physio, and now that he didn't wince when he walked, I was allowed to go back to being myself.

Mostly.

I pulled the rented SUV to a stop on the edge of what the website had optimistically labelled a "wilderness trail." It looked more like a beige stretch of nowhere — sun-bleached, scrubby, and vibrating faintly with heat. The kind of place where you'd expect to find a faded flip-flop and a lizard the size of your arm.

Lando practically launched himself out of the car, already looking like a contestant on Survivor. Carlos and Oscar did the same with much less urgency, stretching and squinting like they'd been dragged up from a nap. I popped the boot and began pulling out my gear, lacing up my shoes, rolling my sleeves. Beside me, Lando did the same — although in his case, "prepared" meant head-to-toe khaki, complete with a beige safari hat with an actual neck flap and mirrored sunglasses. His water bottle was clipped to his chest like it could monitor his vitals.

We returned to the others — me tightening the straps on my backpack, Lando buzzing with manic energy.

...Which, thinking back... could very well have been heatstroke...

...eh, whatever.

Carlos and Oscar were standing there with nothing but store-bought water bottles. No bags. No snacks. Not even hats.

I stared at them. "Is that all you brought?"

Carlos looked me up and down, then turned to Lando like we were two deranged scouts fresh from a week-long boot camp. "You know we're walking for like, an hour, right? Not being drafted?"

"You say that now," I said, hoisting my backpack higher on my shoulders. Inside: compass, laminated map, ziplocked snacks (sweet and savoury, labelled accordingly), a first aid kit, medical tape, two portable phone chargers, and a tiny, probably illegal multi-tool.

Carlos was in black gym shorts and a T-shirt. Absolutely no survival-style whatsoever. Oscar was the same way.

Which was rich, considering it was his idea in the first place.

He just didn't think I'd actually say yes.

"Alright," I announced, unzipping my bag with ceremony, "this is not a casual walk. This is about endurance. Survival. Don't come crying to me when your ankles give out and your water's gone and the bugs start swarming."