Chapter Text
“Give me a second,” Max tells Anna before she can start leading him around the media pen. He’s waited long enough now, he needs to find Leclerc and figure out what the fuck kind of bug in his machine brain made him think it was okay to dive in on him in the final hairpin.
He doesn’t see Leclerc anywhere in the media pen right now, but he does, unfortunately, see his kin.
“Russell.” Max doesn’t really like referring to his fellow drivers by their surnames, it feels unnatural. But that’s exactly what these androids are—unnatural and an insult to driving.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he hears Russell say to Alex before the android slowly turns his head toward him, then his shoulders, hips, finally his feet. It’s fucking creepy.
Russell looks at him with unblinking eyes, lips pursed as if he’s one disjointed movement away from saying To what do I owe the pleasure? or some other one of the equally inane Britishisms that they’ve programmed into him.
But Russell holds back and instead just stares at Max expectantly. His system’s probably overloaded trying to work out why Max, of all people, wants his attention.
Of course Russell was very unpopular when Mercedes first introduced him. Despite Toto’s insistence that androids are the future of safer and more precise racing, the whole paddock was up in arms at the idea of an entirely software-directed driver, and rightly so. But, rather quickly, as Russell started joining them in press conferences, driver dinners, even padel games, everyone started warming up to him.
Yes, he’s a bit odd, Alex would explain to Max time and time again, but he’s not a bad guy. He’s not a guy at all, Max would think and, if the race had gone badly enough, say.
But Max, too, eventually came to terms with it. Yes, it’s unfair that Lewis’s teammate will always acquiesce, sacrificing his tyres to defend instead of trying to scrape a win for himself. Couldn’t the same be said for Red Bull’s second seat? reporters used to ask when they were feeling particularly brave, particularly stupid. Finally, someone to defend the poor, helpless android. Idiots.
No, he would tell them, Checo is a living breathing person, who’s won a fair share of races himself, and who’s fucked me over plenty of times, if anyone’s counting. Of course no one was counting, because everyone’s too busy sucking off the shiny new technological innovation instead of actually watching the sport they’re supposed to be reporting on.
But in the end, Russell’s stuck behind Lewis, who’s stuck behind the McLarens, who are stuck behind Max. So who gives a fuck. Russell can go around making his speeches about how dangerous of a driver he is and Max can ignore him and the concept of androids in general.
Until a couple years later when Ferrari, as up to date as always, introduced their own android.
“I need to find Leclerc,” he tells Russell. “He almost crashed into me.”
“Oh,” Russell says, the sound drawn out. The corner of his mouth lifts carefully to form a smirk. “Perhaps he had a malfunction?”
“I don’t know, mate. Can you just tell me where he is? He’s like your brother, right?”
The corner of Russell’s mouth angles down and his eyebrows draw closer together. “He is not my brother at all. His tech is completely different from mine, and far inferior.” His voice comes out clear through gritted teeth.
Max snorts and Russell’s eyes narrow, still not quite blinking. “What?” the android asks sharply.
“I just think it’s quite funny that you view Leclerc as competition.”
Russell crosses his arms and looks down at Max. Why did they have to build him to be so fucking tall?
“It is not a competition between me and him. Leclerc is an obvious downgrade.”
Though Max would never grant it to him openly, Russell isn’t really wrong. When Ferrari had introduced their android at the first press conference of the season, all the drivers, Max included, had been expecting an offshoot of the Russell model. Maybe an upgrade, if Ferrari had gotten their shit together, but Max was skeptical of that possibility. What none of them had anticipated was Fred Vasseur introducing them to Charles Leclerc—pronounced in the most obnoxiously French way possible. The most human-like android ever developed, he claimed, with an innate passion for Ferrari.
Innate. The descriptor made him laugh. Aangeboren in Dutch, the literal word for ‘born’ right in it. As if a piece of machinery can be born.
Regardless, Fred and the Ferrari engineers made it clear that their android, Leclerc, was developed entirely separately from the Mercedes-Russell effort, with the intention of acting as a human mimic, faults and all.
And this was proved true as soon as Fred passed the microphone to Leclerc, who gave a nervous smile before introducing himself in a strange, lilting accent. Not quite French, nor Italian or British, at least to Max’s ear. He paused to think and stumbled over his words, completely unlike Russell’s rigid and articulate speech.
The android was unique, Max couldn’t deny that. But what was the point? The most human-like thing of all is a human—what does Ferrari or the FIA or humanity gain from trying to replicate what nature already does on its own? In that sense, he understood the Mercedes project more which, misguided as it was, at least aimed to elevate its androids above human faults and didn’t try to use smoke and mirrors to deceive the minds of its audience into believing that what they’re looking at isn’t just a machine.
So, Max hums in acknowledgement of Russell’s comment. Doesn’t argue. Russell’s software seems to take that as a sign to continue.
“His throttle consistency is at a four point seven percent deficit to mine, and his longitudinal G-Force reaches dangerously high levels. It is irresponsible of Ferrari not to keep these things in check. It does not surprise me that he almost crashed.”
At that, Max frowns. That’s not really the issue, is it? “He’s still beating you,” he tells Russell.
Russell releases a brisk puff of air through his nose. “Only because Ferrari’s agentic AI and predictive models are clearly incapable of accurately processing perceived risk. I have already raised this concern with the FIA.”
Max has to hold back a laugh. One android denigrating another and thinking it’s important enough for the FIA to care. “Yeah? And what did the FIA say?” he asks him, a note of condescension certainly slipping through. Whatever, it’s not like Russell’s going to pick up on it.
“They said they are beginning an investigation. They will likely impose a new set of regulations on Leclerc to limit his race pace for the time being, most likely before the Miami Grand Prix.”
Max’s smile drops. “Seriously?” As fucked as it is to race against robots, racing against robots that are being castrated by the whims of the FIA sounds like an infinitely worse proposition.
“Yes, seriously. Especially with your support—I would say the probability of those regulations being approved would rise to eighty-five percent.”
“So they’re just going to... what? Program him to pussy out?”
“If you choose to put it in those terms, yes.”
“Like they do for you?” Max asks, and it’s not really a question. It’s clear that Mercedes has prioritized by-the-numbers safe race craft over pushing their car to the limit.
The android’s arms come together to cross at his chest. “If you choose to put it in those terms, yes,” he repeats, his modulated voice pronouncing the words with a noticeably clipped cadence. “By my count, it’s my team and I caring about the safety of my fellow drivers.”
“Sure,” Max says. “So, tell the FIA they don’t have my support. Unless they just do away with your kind entirely.”
“Noted.”
“So, fellow driver, can you just tell me where Leclerc is?”
Russell’s eyes don’t roll, but they shake a little with the force of his chin tilting up and his hand lifting to perform a dismissive gesture. “I told you already, we are not connected in the slightest, I do not have any idea where he is.”
“You can’t scan the room or something and check? X-ray maybe?”
“Even if I could perform an X-ray scan, I would not do it here because it would unnecessarily expose all of you to radiation, which damages human tissue. And if Leclerc were here in the media pen, I would have informed you before we could have started this conversation. My recommendation is to ask his teammate.” Without turning to look behind him, Russell points directly to Carlos on the other side of the media pen.
“Fine.” Max intends to shoulder check Russell as he passes by, but Russell seems to see it coming and gets out of the way. Whatever. Good.
Carlos is talking to Lando, but they’re laughing so it isn’t anything important.
“Hey, man,” Max says, clapping Carlos on the shoulder. “Good race.” Carlos wasn’t on the podium today, but he’d driven relatively well. Hadn’t caused any collisions, unlike some, nearly.
“Thanks, mate. You too.”
“Yeah, yeah. Where’s your— Where’s Leclerc?” Max assumes Carlos would be insulted if he referred to the android as his teammate. God knows Max would be.
“Oh,” Carlos says, and inexplicably looks to Lando. “He’s probably in hospitality,” he says after a pause. “Why?”
“Mate, you must have seen it, he almost took me out.” He looks to Lando for backup, he probably saw it live. Lando does his part and nods along.
“And what?” Carlos asks.
“And I need to tell him he can’t do shit like that. And that he needs to get his software checked. And that if he does that again I’m ramming him off the road. Come on, man, I can keep going, just get him.”
“Okay, okay. Don’t move, I’ll be back,” Carlos says, and leaves Max with Lando.
“Was that so fucking hard?” he asks him.
“Well,” Lando breaks into a toothy smile, “It’s probably a little fucking hard,” he says, trying to mimic Max’s tone, he guesses. Max doesn’t really get it, but he doesn’t really care enough to ask Lando to elaborate either. But when he doesn’t get a response, Lando continues, “I just mean—you know. We’ve never seen him, like, out and about.”
“Who? Leclerc?”
“Yeah.” Lando’s got that glint in his eye, like he knows something Max doesn’t. A rare occasion. “You’ve really never noticed?”
“I don’t really care.”
“Yeah, sure, yeah. It’s just that—literally, no one’s talked to him outside of press. And Carlos wouldn’t tell me anything about him when I asked.”
“Does it matter? He’s a fucking robot, what do you need to talk to him for?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lando agrees, but Max can tell he’s not done yet. “So—but what are you doing now then?”
Max lets out a sigh. “I’m not talking to him, I’m telling him to get his shit together.” He can tell that Lando isn’t convinced. Whatever. “Maybe he’ll think I’m his new master or something and just let me through in Australia,” he jokes. Half jokes. Lando laughs anyway.
“Okay,” he suddenly hears huffed out beside him. It’s Carlos. “I brought Charles, he’s in that room over there. Come with me.”
Max wasn’t expecting an audience in Carlos, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have anything to hide, obviously. Carlos leads him to an empty office. Not a supply closet at least.
He can see through the door’s window that Leclerc is indeed in there, standing in the middle of the room, arms at his side, head down. When Carlos opens the door, Leclerc’s head jerks up and he breaks into a smile.
“Hello, Carlos,” he says to him, hand idly shifting to rest on his hip. Then his gaze turns to Max, head tilting, a slow blink. “Hello, Max.”
And that’s another thing about the Ferrari android project. They’d obviously devoted the majority of their budget to making Leclerc as conventionally attractive as possible. Max had noticed this during that first press conference, of course. Everyone had, surely. Big, green eyes, high cheekbones, everything in perfect symmetry. And his body too—a slim waist that his race suit was tailored to, for no practical purpose.
It disconcerted Max from the onset. Especially coupled with the way he’d smile and laugh when he couldn’t answer a technical question—I don’t know about that, he’d say breathily when reporters would ask for details about his design or programming. I leave that for the engineers he’d add, putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable. It was embarrassing, frankly. Congratulations, Ferrari, you built a Bimbo 9000.
And when he races him on the track, he forgets about it. Honestly. But seeing him now, Jesus. What the fuck was Ferrari thinking?
“What the fuck do you think you were doing at the hairpin?”
Leclerc bows his head a bit. Bites his lip. Looks up at Max through his lashes. Some kind of sexualized imitation of guilt. “Ah, yes. Well, I understand, from your perspective, why it might seem like I was… out of line? In your position, I will probably be upset too.”
Max scoffs. “In my position. Okay. What about your position?”
“Mm, well,” Leclerc’s eyes search the ceiling. “I cannot quite remember—”
“What do you mean you can’t remember? Can’t you just fucking—rewind your memory or something? Rewatch your onboard?”
Leclerc blinks, and a small smile creeps onto his face. “If you are so eager to know, it was my corner.”
“That’s bullshit, come on, mate. I was ahead at the apex.” Max brings his hands out to demonstrate, one well in front of the other. “Trust me, I would’ve noticed if there was an ugly fucking Ferrari alongside my mirror. You dived in on me!”
Leclerc chews on his lip, smile gone and brows knit. Max can tell he wants to say something. And he does. “Ferraris aren’t ugly.”
“Jesus Christ, that’s what you’re focusing on?”
“Yes, of course,” Leclerc says, looking Max directly in the eye. Max breaks contact to look back at Carlos, who’s watching the exchange with a smirk. Is this for real? Max mouths at him. Carlos shrugs. Useful as always.
He turns back to face Leclerc. “I’m telling you that was a braindead fucking move and you’re lucky you ran wide so I didn’t have to run you off myself. I don’t care about your Ferrari cultism.”
“Cultism? It’s not a cult. Ferrari is… they are the greatest team in the history of motorsport. I am honored to be a part of them, it has always been my dream.” Fucking hell.
“Okay,” Max turns around and addresses Carlos. “I think I just triggered a dialogue tree that I could not give less of a fuck about. Sounds like he’s about to start looping.” Max twirls his finger by his head.
“I am not being ‘triggered’,” Leclerc says, “I am explaining to you—Ferrari, the red car, it is legendary in motorsports, and I don’t think you understand…”
“Oh my god, I don’t care,” Max says while Leclerc is still going on. “Just shut the fuck up already.”
Silence.
Max turns around to look back at Leclerc, who’s standing there with his mouth shut and his hands on his hips. His lips are wringing together as if he’s still itching to say something. He won’t look at Max.
“He’s a good listener, yes?” he hears Carlos say behind him. What the fuck?
“Is that normal?” Max asks. Leclerc lets out a huff, but doesn’t answer. Not like Max was speaking to him anyway.
“He’s a robot, you know. He responds to commands.” Carlos comes up and grabs Leclerc’s arm. “I need to get him to the debrief anyway, so it was good you stopped him,” he says with a bit of a laugh. “Come on, Charles, andiamo.”
At that last word, Leclerc straightens up with rigid precision, arms glued to his sides, all traces of his stewing anger suddenly gone from his expression and posture.
“See you, Max,” Carlos calls as he heads out of the room with Leclerc following closely and intently behind.
“Yeah, see you,” Max responds belatedly.
Max sort of forgets about the whole thing. As far as he’s concerned, he got his grievances out. He’s not sure how much of them Leclerc actually managed to process, but the next time Max has an opportunity to bump him off the track, at least he can say he warned him.
So he’s willing to let it go, doesn’t harp on it to the press. Any questions about the incident with Leclerc get shut down plainly with a We’ve discussed it. Exactly the type of response his PR team would be proud of.
Which is why Max is surprised when, after the team debrief, Paul pulls him aside for what turns out to be an emergency meeting.
“What’s this about?” Max asks, not bothering to sit down in the dingy little office afforded to their Head of Communications.
“I’d like to discuss something you told the press this afternoon,” Paul says, and turns his laptop screen around so that it’s facing Max, playing one of his own interviews.
Max can tell from his own glazed-over expression that he’d hardly been listening at this point, probably near the end of the press cycle. He’s a little surprised his disinterest isn’t obvious to the reporters, but maybe it is. Whatever. Surely that’s not the issue.
“We heard you tell Autosport that you and Charles had discussed the near contact at the final hairpin,” a reporter’s voice comes through. The Max on screen nods dumbly. The reporter continues, “Does this mean you’ve changed your stance on androids in Formula One?”
Max sees his on-screen face scrunch up. “No? I don’t think I ever said I wouldn’t talk to them. I just don’t think they should race.” A small pause. “And Russell and Leclerc are of course very different.”
“Different how?” comes the immediate follow-up.
“I would say Russell has never been in the position to challenge me. And his driving style is of course quite standard, whereas Leclerc surprised me today. That’s why I had to speak with him.”
Memories of the interview are coming back to Max now. He’s actually impressed with how diplomatic he was, given what he was thinking.
Paul pauses the video, turns the laptop around, and stares at Max as if it should be obvious to him what the problem is. It isn’t.
“So, you’re okay with the androids now?” Paul prompts.
Max leans his head back against the doorway and sighs. “Not you too. All I said was I talked to him.”
Paul hums and starts pulling something up on his laptop. “And if I said ‘I don’t respect him, I will never respect something that I can’t have a discussion with on a human level’, does that mean anything to you?”
“Did I say that?”
Paul turns the laptop back around to face Max, some article up that he doesn’t bother reading. He doesn’t need to, some poorly made graphic of himself and Russell plastered at the top.
“Well,” Max starts up his defense. It’s certainly not the first time people have tried to catch him out based on perceived inconsistencies, but it’s usually not his own team doing it. “I stand by that. I didn’t say I respect the robots now.”
“But you did have a discussion on a human level with Charles Leclerc?”
Max thinks back to how that discussion ended. “Not on a human level.”
Paul sighs. “Max, this isn’t a bad thing. Well,” he puffs out a laugh, “it’s a little frustrating, what with all the work we’d put in to back you on your anti-android crusade the last few years. Not to mention Adrian’s efforts to convince Christian we don’t need an android of our own. He won’t be very happy, by the way, once he hears about this about face you’ve done.”
“So, what, I’m getting lectured now?”
“No, sorry,” Paul closes the laptop and looks up at Max. “What I meant to say was—this isn’t a bad thing. We can make it make sense, from a PR perspective.” Max already doesn’t like the sound of this. “We’ll say that you were initially hesitant about the introduction of androids into motorsport,” okay, true enough so far, “and that Mercedes’ George Russell did not assuage your nerves,” an understatement to say the least, but not untrue, “but that now Ferrari’s Charles Leclerc has changed your mind.” What?
“What?” Max asks.
Paul winces, but he’s not thrown off. “It goes along with your statement, that you saw something in Charles that you didn’t in George, and that prompted you to talk to him.”
“All I said was he surprised me. That wasn’t a compliment.”
Paul half smiles. “Believe me, Max, I know. Regardless, it meshes. It also serves to reinforce the rivalry between us and Mercedes, which Christian should be pleased with. And I’ve already been in contact with Silvia from Ferrari—”
“What the fuck? Why?”
“—and she’s very interested in a collaboration, so I think this is a very fruitful direction to go in.”
Max’s jaw drops. “Collaboration? What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means you keep talking about Charles to the press—it can be neutral, just not overly negative. Same as what you did today. Maybe a couple clips of you guys talking during the drivers’ parade. From what Silvia tells me, Charles’ image is quite positive, but they’re having trouble humanizing him to the general public.”
Max scoffs. “Humanizing him. Are you even listening to yourself?”
Paul gives him a smile that doesn’t even come close to meeting his eyes. “Funny.”
Last fucking resort. Max really hates to ask this question, but it might be his only way out of this situation. “But how does this arrangement benefit Red Bull?”
“Max. You know your whole anti-android thing hasn’t been helping us. They’re the biggest innovation the sport has seen in years, the sponsors love them. You, and Red Bull by association, are being painted as some stuck-up traditionalists, which has never been part of our image. If we can reframe all your past comments as having been specifically against Mercedes rather than against androids as a whole, we can finally move past it without you having to take anything back, which I know you won’t do. And for that, we need you and Charles on the same side.”
“And what side is that? I’m not saying anything good about him, even at Russell’s expense.” That might not exactly be true, Russell is annoying as fuck. But he needs to make his stance clear.
“You don’t need to pretend or anything. For now.” Ominous. “Just think of it as leaving the door open for future collaboration.”
Max weighs his options. Stay in the meeting for another few hours, call in Ferrari, and relitigate this whole issue, or just go along with this and take the jet home and see his cats. The choice is obvious.