Chapter Text
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Oscar's head hurts like shit, first on one side and then everywhere. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to hold on to the last thing he remembers before everything went black. Just a second ago he was... where the hell was he?
Miami. He was in the paddock, walking by himself, away from everyone, still furious about... something.
Did he pass out? All he remembers is a blinding light and then, suddenly, this overwhelming vertigo. As if his body had been taken apart completely and then put back together wrong. For one terrifying second, he thinks maybe he's dead; that the on-track collision with Sainz was worse than he thought, that maybe he suffered some internal bleeding that went unnoticed until it was too late. But dead people don't feel pain, do they? And this throbbing pain is far too real.
When he finally opens his eyes, it takes him a moment to adjust to the light. The ground he's kneeling on is polished concrete. Still a paddock, but not the one in Miami. Something is different here; he can't say exactly what yet, only that something doesn't quite add up.
Oscar gets up slowly, leaning against what looks like a temporary safety barrier. He looks at his hands, recognizing them and yet somehow finding them unfamiliar at the same time. His whole body still feels strange, and on top of that he's hot. Not unbearably so, but enough to make him wonder why the hell he's wearing a hoodie, and then he remembers: he finished his obligations with the team, showered, chose that logo-free hoodie because he wanted to go unnoticed after the disastrous Grand Prix, and then, while walking toward the parking lot, Sainz appeared out of nowhere, still furious with him.
That idiot's words are still there, along with his face contorted with rage, so close to Oscar's that he could feel his breath. He remembers firing back something sharp, the anger still too fresh, remembers turning around, remembers walking away, and then... nothing.
What happened after that?
The light. There was a blinding light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, followed by the sensation of falling without ever hitting the ground, and then he was here... whatever here is.
Around him, the paddock is full of activity: team personnel, journalists, sponsors. Everything looks normal, except none of it is. The uniforms are different; the logos look slightly off.
"Excuse me, are you all right?" a member of the security staff asks. The embroidery on his shirt immediately catches Oscar's attention: Circuito de Barcelona-Catalunya.
They're in Spain?
Now that he's looking more closely, yes, this does look like Montmeló. He's been here before, though it's not exactly how he remembers it.
"You okay?" the man insists, sounding a little more concerned now.
"I'm fine, thanks. Just got dizzy for a second. It's passed."
The guard nods, though he doesn't look entirely convinced. Oscar starts walking; standing still means drawing attention, and something tells him that's the last thing he should be doing right now.
He instinctively pats his pockets, looking for his phone, but it's not there; neither is his pass or his wallet. Nothing.
He walks with apparent purpose, as if he knows exactly where he's going. It's a technique he's perfected over the years: if you walk with enough determination, nobody questions you. As he walks, his eyes scan everything around him, searching for something that makes sense.
On a nearby screen, a graphic reads: '2016 Spanish Grand Prix: Race 5 of 21 in the 2016 Formula One World Championship.'
Oscar stops so abruptly that a woman bumps into him from behind, muttering a hurried apology before continuing on her way.
2016.
The number repeats in his mind, and the more he thinks about it, the less sense it makes. It's impossible. Completely absurd. It's 2024, not 2016. Just a moment ago he was in Miami, arguing with Carlos Sainz after the Spaniard ruined his race and had the nerve to complain to Oscar about being penalized. He remembers the argument, remembers walking away. All of that just happened, not eight years ago... in the future?
He forces himself to take a deep breath, then another, trying to calm down. The smell of burnt rubber and fuel is unmistakable, mixed with the scent of dry earth and pine from the trees around Montmeló, along with the heat, the conversations around him, and the constant noise of the paddock. Everything fits too well. If this is a hallucination, his brain is reproducing every last detail perfectly.
He runs a hand across his forehead. He's sweating more than he should be, and the anxiety he's been trying to ignore for the last several minutes is becoming impossible to contain. He needs to sit down and think.
He heads toward a quieter area and sits on a bench. His hands are trembling slightly, so he laces them together in his lap to keep it from showing.
That's when he sees him: a young man in a Toro Rosso uniform walking a few metres away, laughing with someone who appears to be an engineer. The ridiculous blue race suit with that hideous yellow clashes with his tanned skin. His hair is longer than Oscar remembers, wavier, giving him a carefree look.
But it's him, unmistakably him: Carlos Sainz Jr. Not the asshole he'd been arguing with, but a noticeably younger version, almost a kid in comparison.
If this really is 2016 and that's Carlos, then Oscar is experiencing something that defies everything he thought was possible. He can't keep convincing himself it's a hallucination; the headache, the heat of the Spanish sun on his skin, and the unpleasant feeling that's been sitting in his stomach are all part of the same reality as that young Toro Rosso driver laughing with his team a few metres away.
Fuck, he's stuck in 2016 with nothing on him except the clothes he's wearing and not the slightest idea of what to do next. And of all the people he could have found in this paddock, it had to be his favourite arrogant, idiotic Spaniard.
He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. Around him, conversations continue, the noise of tools and the occasional roar of an engine in the distance. When he opens them again, he finds himself staring at his hands.
There's a scrape on the back of his right hand, and he stares at it for a few seconds. He already noticed his hands a little while ago. Was it there then? He tries to remember when he might have gotten it. This morning? During the race? During the argument with Sainz? When?
He doesn't remember seeing it before, and he doesn't remember how he got it.
He looks away from his hands. Thinking about the scrape isn't getting him anywhere. He's still in the Barcelona paddock, a screen just told him it's 2016, and Carlos Sainz is walking around out there wearing a Toro Rosso race suit.
Of all the moments in time, of all the possible places, he had to end up in Spain, where the only person he can turn to is Carlos Sainz, the man who ruined his last race just a few hours ago, or maybe eight years ago, apparently, in a future that now feels as distant as it does impossible.
Oscar watches Carlos walk away, probably heading to some technical meeting or maybe a media commitment. He knows his habits almost as well as his own. More than a year sharing the grid with someone ends up teaching you things about that person, whether you like it or not.
If in this world Carlos is around twenty-one, then somewhere, at this very moment, a fifteen-year-old Oscar Piastri exists who dreams of making it to Formula 1 without knowing that he'll not only make it, but will end up mysteriously travelling eight years into the past to meet some of his future competitors.
Oscar finally gets to his feet. If this is real, as senseless as the situation is, he needs a plan. If it's a dream or a hallucination, he has nothing to lose. Either way, doing nothing isn't an option.
He starts walking toward the area where he lost sight of Carlos. He's going to do it: he's going to ask him for help.
The idea is so absurd he has to resist the urge to laugh. Just hours ago he was cursing his name in Miami. Now he's walking through the Barcelona paddock looking for him because he's the only person he can think to turn to. The irony isn't lost on him.
The path to the Toro Rosso hospitality feels unsettlingly familiar. Oscar has walked through paddocks like this hundreds of times; he knows where team hospitality units are usually set up, the meeting rooms, the press areas. But as he moves through the crowd, he can't stop thinking that it'll be years before he actually lives those memories.
He walks with the confidence of someone who knows where he's going, even though inside he has no idea what the hell he's doing.
The grey hoodie is still a terrible choice under the Spanish sun, but at least it doesn't have any team or sponsor logos that might raise suspicion. He stops a cautious distance away, watching the hospitality entrance. Carlos will come out at some point, and until then all he has to do is wait; approaching him directly would be stupid when he doesn't have a pass, shouldn't be here, and the last thing he needs is to draw attention to himself again.
The wait gives him time to think, to come up with a plan. What exactly is he going to say?
'Hi, I'm from the future, where we spend half our time arguing because you're an idiot. Could you help me, please?'
It sounds ridiculous even in his head.
Oscar mentally reviews what he knows about this weekend. Everyone remembers Spain 2016. After an endless string of Mercedes victories, Hamilton and Rosberg will end up crashing into each other on the first lap; two teammates fighting for the championship in the most dominant car on the grid, out of the race before they've even completed a single lap. For the first time in a long time, nobody will have any idea what the hell is going to happen.
The race that seems destined to end, once again, with a Mercedes on top will turn into something completely different. Vettel is already a four-time world champion, Räikkönen has won a championship too, Ricciardo has spent years proving he can fight for wins; if anyone is going to seize an opportunity like this, it should be one of them.
And against all odds, the youngest driver on the entire grid will win. The one who started the year at Toro Rosso and was promoted to Red Bull just days earlier. The one who will arrive at his first race with the senior team surrounded by questions about whether he's ready, whether he's too young, whether the pressure will be too much. And he'll answer by winning, ahead of world champions and far more experienced drivers, in his very first race wearing Red Bull colours. Max Verstappen will become the youngest winner in Formula 1 history. And until just days before, he was Carlos's teammate at Toro Rosso.
Carlos... what happened to Carlos this weekend?
Oscar can't remember. When anyone talks about Spain 2016, they always end up talking about the Mercedes crashing into each other and the youngest driver on the grid winning in his first race with Red Bull. With all of that going on, who would have cared what Max's former teammate did in the smaller team?
Not remembering anything about Sainz's weekend isn't exactly helping his situation. What is he supposed to say to him? Finding Carlos is the easy part, but convincing him to help is another story.
The uncertainty keeps circling in his head. Every minute that passes makes him feel more vulnerable, more exposed, and the occasional glances he gets from staff entering and leaving the hospitality only make it worse. He doesn't have a pass, he shouldn't be here, and sooner or later someone is going to ask who he is and what he's doing hanging around the area.
And then, as if the universe had decided to answer his growing anxiety, Carlos walks out of the hospitality alone, without engineers, without press handlers, without anyone around him. This is an opportunity Oscar can't afford to waste.
He breathes deeply, slowly, trying to get his heart to stop racing. He pushes off the wall where he's been leaning for the past few minutes and starts walking toward Carlos, timing it so their paths cross without making it too obvious.
What he's about to do is insane, but somehow asking Carlos Sainz for help seems like the least stupid option. And even if it isn't, after inexplicably travelling eight years into the past, Oscar no longer feels particularly qualified to decide which ideas are too absurd and which aren't.
Their paths cross near one of the technical containers, away from curious eyes. Oscar stops in front of him, close enough to force him to stop without quite invading his space.
"Carlos." His voice comes out steadier than he expected. "I need to talk to you."
Carlos looks at him with the politely confused expression of someone approached by a stranger. He's eight years younger, but the intensity of his gaze is exactly the same.
"Do we know each other?" The accent is much thicker than it will be years from now; time will soften it, but it will never quite disappear.
For a second he considers lying. It would be easier to make up a name, a reason for approaching, any explanation normal enough to avoid uncomfortable questions. The trouble is, any lie stops being useful once he gets to the important part.
"No, but we will, in the future. My name is Oscar Piastri, and I need your help."
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