trocking-writer's fics and things

Niki found Alain at his desk, fast asleep. Part of him wanted to push the man awake, to tell him that there was no time for them to sleep, but the softer part of him thought about Senna in the McLaren infirmary. 

Most of all, Niki thought about the life of one McLaren Hero with copper-stained lips and tired, bruised eyes, whispering about a promise Niki couldn’t keep, and any thought of waking the weary man fell out of mind. 

  The Austrian turned his gaze to the papers in front of his protege. It outlined a perplexing drawing of a… car? It had four wheels from the older generations, but everything else was strange. Why was it so flat? And what were the strange pieces of metal in front of it? 

Niki would have to question Alain’s design choices later when his eyes fell onto another object. A box, encased in hard metal, sitting on top of the paper.  Something seized in him at the moment, a hand squeezing at his throat, and a burning fire in his eyes. 

(The world was white at the instance. Pure, white, maybe like the end, but that wasn’t true, the end is dark, quiet, and safe. This white… This white was only the beginning of it all.

Ashes clogged his throat, taking away any screams that would’ve come otherwise.)

His hand clutched around the desk, skin taught around the knuckles. 

It was at that moment that Alain decided to stir awake. “Niki?” he slurred. 

“Prost,” he whispered out in strangled breaths. “What is this?”

The Professor blinked the rest of the sleep away. “The drawings? There of the car–”

“No you fool!” Niki went to pick the box up, but a cold fear stopped him from getting anymore closer. 

Alain followed his gaze to the object. “Oh,” was all he said. 

“No, not just oh!” Niki yelled. He couldn’t help it. What was Alain doing with it of all things?! “Do you care to explain how the Core ends out in your hands? Don’t tell me…” Niki narrowed his eyes. The last winner was McLaren, which meant the Constructor’s trophy would be in their hands. “You couldn’t have.”

Alain shuffled his feet awkwardly under his desk. “ I found the McLaren’s warehouse,” he muttered to the side. Now that Niki was fully looking at him, instead of a ghost of a man’s face, the vigilante was still geared up, with ashes and suit on his cloak and a mask hanging from his throat. There was dried blood around his lips. 

“Are you dense?! What on earth would make you go under that warzone to their base?!” 

Alain snapped. “I don’t know Niki! I don’t know!” He pushed himself out the desk and at Niki. “I don’t know anything! I haven’t known since I woke up here! I haven’t known since I saw his face again, after all these years! I haven’t known since I found a gun in my right and blood in my left, and people brushing off a man’s, a friend’s, death like it's nothing. I haven’t known since my friend stabbed my eye out! I haven’t known since I started hearing that screaming in my ear! I haven’t known since I saw the ghost of a past life in a dirtied up headquarters of another world!”

Alain’s hands twisted around the drawing, a frenzied look in his eye. “And I haven’t known since I found that I was a dead man walking, but I suppose you already knew that.”

Niki stood there and took it all in, and for the first time in forever, he looked past all the layers of one Alain Prost. He looked past the vigilante suits, past whatever teenage romance he had going on with his roommate. He looked past the McLaren hero and past the student he had been training for the last few months. Niki looked past the ghost of a man he was too late to save and saw…

Well, Niki didn’t know what he saw. Because Alain wasn’t really Alain anymore. He held parts of himself the same, with the same small pride and self-assurance of man who knew his own abilities and limits. Alain was still calculating when it mattered, in the thick of fights and in the strategies after. And most of all, he held the war-torn look of all the men here. 

But that wasn’t all, was it? Because he wasn’t self-assured in his spars with Niki. Trock, half the time in the beginning he was cowering under him. He wasn’t calculating in his fights with heroes, at least, not in the way he had before, the way that had made Alain one of the most formidable opponents of the time period. Sure, he could hold his own, but now? Compared to the fighter he had been before? There was no comparison. You could see by just looking at his fights with Senna. Alain had survived the last few, but for how much longer? 

And that war-torn look? It was different. It was still the same look of a man who had seen too many deaths for a lifetime, but it wasn’t the same…

Alain Prost was not Alain Prost, he was a contradiction within a contradiction, and Niki had to stop avoiding that fact and face the problem head on. 

“Alain,” Niki didn’t know how to start. Sorry for not talking about this earlier? Call him an idiot for not bringing it up earlier, but how would he even ask the question. ‘Hey, I just saw you die, like, almost a year ago in the most painful and traumatic way humanely possible, wanna talk about it?’ “What do you mean when ‘you woke up’?”

“I, I,” Alain looked away. “I’m not from here, Niki.”

“Well, no lect.” On most days, the Rat King can formulate more thought out responses, but there were too many things going on in his head right now. “Would you care to explain that more?” 

“I…” His student rubbed his still intact eye. “I don’t know how to explain this. I don’t even want to explain it! But,” a sigh, “I’m too tired, and the things I’ve seen today… It needs an answer.

“I guess I should start off from where you probably last saw me, before this whole mess, hmm? Piecing the grasps of what I can remember, there was a fight with you in Ferrari. I got hit by the cannonfire in place of Ayrton, and ended up dying. You came to visit me at my last moments. Isn’t that correct?”

Niki replied, “Yes, but that is all stuff I know. I want to know why you’re even ali—”

Alain interrupted him. “I don’t know, but let me tell you what I do know. I woke up here, almost a year ago, with not a single memory of this world. And before you start asking more questions,” he put his hand up, “let me finish. I am not of this world, I’m from another one, similar in a lot, and different in a hundred others. I do not remember the end of it or how I died there, only that I had lived my life through.” A small smile. “ I guess I could say I’m your elder here, Niki.

“In that world, there are no heroes. There is no ‘great game’, no fights to the death in the skies. The closest comparisons? Probably sports. All the teams here were racing teams, Ferrari, Williams, McLaren…”

Niki’s head was reeling with information. But the only question that came out of his mouth was. “Were you a driver?”

A chuckle. “Yes, I was. One of the best, if I do say so myself, though a lot of people would say Senna is greater than I was. In truth, I could never live up to the legend they made his name.”

“Senna was there?” 

“You were there too,” Alain said wistfully.  “You were a great friend Niki. Really, I had a lot of good friends there.”

It was a strange thought, to live a life completely outside his own. As a driver? Half of it didn’t sound real, but there was a sort of honesty and pain in his students eye, and the guilt of breaking it stopped him from raising any arguments. “You have friends here too.”

“Maybe, but I don’t remember.” Alain frowned. “I don’t even know where my parents live…”

Did he not— “You truly do not remember anything at all?”

“Nope, not a thing. Didn’t even remember how to get out of McLaren’s headquarters. Some bartender told me to just jump off and for some reason I actually believed him. Ever heard of Brad Pitt?”

That explained a lot of things. Alain’s sucky fighting skills for one, and James' account of the man falling out of the sky. It also accounted for all the strange questions that Alain had asked him, answers that were either so obvious or something anyone else could answer. But if he wasn’t lying…

“How are you even alive?” Niki asked in wonder. 

Alain laughed derisively. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m unkillable. I would’ve thought I starved to death by now, after all the mac n’ granola I had to survive on.” His expression became serious, staring Niki down. “You believe me?”

Did Niki believe him? It was such an unbelievable idea, something that Niki would’ve scoffed at if any other man brought it up. But this was Alain, and after all those questions? His bizarre reappearance after his apparent death? His strange act afterward, acting like the world around was alien to him, instead of being an alien to it himself. 

It wasn’t the worst idea. 

Niki let out a breath. “Not really,” and Alain’s shoulders drooped. “But it makes a whole lot more sense than any other theory I made, so for now I’ll go on with it. You wouldn’t joke with all those questions.”

Alain just stared at him for three whole seconds. Before a hitched breath. Uh-oh. 

“Don’t you dare–”

A tear came down from his eye. And then another. 

Alain Prost was crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said in between large breaths. “It has been too long… I’ve almost forgotten.”

Niki stared at the quiet tears of the short man, and something that might’ve been pity welled up inside him. Hesitantly, he placed an arm around his student. “Forgotten what?”

“My life.”

The two of them stood there, one silently crying and the other awkwardly trying to comfort the other. It could’ve made for quite the scene, if Niki would even let anyone on the planet earth see. 

After a long while, Alain pulled away. “I do need to talk about what I saw at the warehouse, however. I have—”

“Stop,” Niki said. “Just stop.”

“But I need to know!” the drawing crumpled under his hands. “You don’t understand the things I saw there…”

“Yes, but right now we are in no place for me to answer them right now. You just finished sobbing your eyes out, and you look like you haven’t slept in three days.” Niki put a finger up. “And a nap in a hospital or a desk chair doesn’t count. You need to sleep in a real bed.

“Go back home Alain.”

Alain looked at him, red-rimmed eyes and a… fearful look? In this light, he almost looked like a child. 

“I can’t. Not after everything. I can’t face those ghosts.”

“Well you’re going to have to, one way or another.” Niki said gently. “It’s better to face them after a few hours of sleep, if you ask me.”

“Ayrton–”

“Will be fine. I got an insider,” in other words, James, “and Ayrton is fine. He should be discharged soon anyways, and he needs someone to look after him. I bet he’d be easier to deal with with a few hours of sleep in you too.”

Alain nodded slowly, weary but picking up his things. He still looks unconvinced though. 

“I’m going to have to process what you just said anyways,” Niki reasoned. “You think you can just confess about how you just got transported into a whole new, parallel world and people are fine with it? I don’t know what comic book story you read but that’s not me.”

A small smile. “I doubt you read any comic at all, seeing you do not know who Batman is or what a lightsaber is.”

“Who the lect is Batman?!”

--- -. .-.. -.-- -... . -.-. .- ..- ... . -.-- --- ..- .... ..- .-. .-. -.-- .. - .-.-.-

Ayrton was staring at the ceiling of Alain’s apartment, drugged out of his mind, yet somehow still more miserable than he wanted to admit. The couch was too scratchy under him, the blanket too hot, and the lights too bright, but his exhaustion kept him from fixing either one of them. 

It was for that reason that he had almost ignored the light creaking of the door, too delirious to think it was anything but his own hallucinations. The footsteps were what caught his attention, the careful, planned footfalls of a familiar man, footsteps that even his mind couldn’t replicate. 

“Alain,” he breathed as his head shot off the armrest. 

The aforementioned man froze in his place. Ayrton could see the series of emotions that flashed through his eyes, shock, anger, sorrow, betrayal, before it settled on an empty (‘Broken,’ a voice piped in) expression. “You’re—”

He was cut off by Ayrton slamming into him, arms wrapping around the man into a tight hug. There was a choke of surprise, before another pair of arms hesitantly went to return the favor. 

“Where have you been?!” The hero demanded, hands clutching onto the fabric of his friend’s sweatshirt. “You haven’t been home for weeks.”

“Has it really been that long?” Ayrton heard Alain mutter, but he wasn’t sure if his drugged brain was still making things up. 

The Brazilian unfurled himself from the hug, pushing Alain into the light to get a better view of his face. There were no bruises or abrasions on his face, but there were large shadows under his eyes and a gaunt look to him. “I looked everywhere for you. Where the trock could you have possibly gone?”

A blank stare. “...You went looking for me?”

Ayrton had forgotten in his friend’s time away that Alain was a fool. “What else would I do? You go missing out of the blue and expect me not to try and find you?”

“I was staying with a friend.”

…Alain had been staying with a friend. For weeks. A dark emotion filled in the pit of his stomach, not jealousy, not anger, something different. “Then why didn’t you pick up any of my calls?”

Alain bit his lip. “I broke my phone.”

“You liar,” Ayrton muttered. “And selfish. After all this time, you didn’t even try to tell me! Do you know how much I spent fretting where you went?”

A flash of indignant anger in Alain’s face. “I’m selfish?” he scoffed. “Talk about ‘how much fretted’?! Well then let me tell you how it felt when I had to learn the news of my partner almost dying. From my phone of all things! I’m selfish when I have to see this fool of a man almost die in front of me again?!” Alain’s finger jabbed into his chest. “What were you thinking?! I warned you, I begged you to stop the recklessness, but you never did! And it is still me who has to suffer for it!”

Ayrton’s teeth bared. “Caught yourself in your web of lies there.” He shoved the hand away forcefully. “I thought your phone broke?”

The color slowly drained from Alain’s face and the hand slowly wavered down. “I–”

“Cut the lect," he replied, a hard edge to his voice as he slammed his friend against the kitchen counter. “I’m tired of your lies, Prost! Tell me the truth or I’ll force it out of you!” 

Perhaps it was the drugs making him rash, or the pent up emotions that had been stirring up in him for weeks finally escaped. Either way, Alain ended up the target of it. 

 A tired, wry smile. “What are you going to do?” 

Ayrton yanked at the man’s collar until they were face to face, his nose less than an inch away from the Frenchman’s. His lips were red under the orange kitchen light’s, shiny and wet in Ayrton’s eyes, too easy to see from the mere distance from each other. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” It would be so easy for him to bend down and sink his lips into the red.

Make him bleed. Make him pay.

(Make him know that Ayrton actually cared.)

Tension was a taught rope between them. Alain eyes were roaming across his face, like a scientist as usual, Ayrton scorned, making calculations, conclusions, and a way out. 

“You don’t get to be doing this,” Alain sneered derisively, but Ayrton noted it was more to himself than to Ayrton. Alain, not so gently, shoved him away, and it surprised the still injured hero, who flinched in pain. 

Alain stopped, eye boring down to his side. “I already forgot, ” the man said in a self-depreciating tone.  “Sorry… Do you need to lie down?”

He groaned internally. If he had to lay in any more of Prost’s furniture, his back was going to break. “No, can you just–” he tried to control his voice, “can you just stop avoiding the question?

The Frenchman didn’t even try to meet his gaze, his eye still shifting around Ayrton’s side. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. 

Ayrton actually did groan out loud this time, but he supposed it was better than once again slamming his partner against the counter. “I don’t care if you’re sorry! Can you just tell me the truth? I just wanted to know where you’ve been and why you couldn’t have at least warned me?”

Alain replied patiently, “I have my own life, Ayrton.”

“I know you do! That’s no reason for you to just disappear from the face of the earth for more than half a month, with no sign or note!” Did Alain know that he had spent constant, sleepless nights looking around for him? That he had thought the Professor had taken in some twisted revenge plot? That he had almost gotten in trouble from Dennis for almost getting himself defeated by Hill?

“How rich coming from you,” Alain mocked. 

He stared. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“‘Having your own life?’ How about how you—” Alain cut off abruptly, gazing off to the distance. “No, no, nevermind. Forget it,  Ayrton. Just forget it. I’m tired, you’re injured. We can talk about this later. Take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

Ayrton’s mind reeled at the sudden topic change. “No, you take the bed.”

Already walking away, Alain shook his head minutely. “You’re the one who got blasted by Piquet. I’m fine.”

“We can just—”

Alain pivoted his head slightly, so the corner of his grey eye met Ayrton’s. A long pause, before: “Take the bed Ayrton.”

And that was final. 

Ayrton took a long time to get into bed. Mostly because it took time to undress and redress his wounds (which were already scarred over with rougher, pink tissue, thanks to McLaren’s wonderful tech), but some it was because of the stirring thoughts of a certain roommate. 

Even as he got into bed, Ayrton's mind was still too conscious, mind off in a world away. For weeks, he had thought the empty hole in his heart would be filled once Alain came back. But somehow Alain’s return only seemed to tear the hole by the seams even more, creating a larger gap that was sucking away at him. 

His hands crumpled the sheets in frustration. Why couldn’t Alain be straight with him? Had he really been staying with another friend? A bitter taste filled his mouth, spiteful. Why would he go lying about it as well? About the phone?

Had he gone off with a partner?

That singular idea caused the world to go red. He seethed. Besides, when did that man have the time to get a partner? Well, Alain wasn’t a hero anymore, and there were certainly long stretches of each day Ayrton never saw him. 

No, Ayrton had seen the way he looked at him, no there was no way his friend could’ve gotten a partner…

Ayrton wouldn’t exactly be judging, but Alain would’ve told him, wouldn’t he? 

I have my own life, Ayrton.

What had Alain meant? At the time, he had thought it meant, ‘stay out of my business’, but what if it meant something different? What if it meant, ‘I got a girlfriend now, I don’t need you anymore?’ 

He smacked his head into the pillow in annoyance. This was idiotic. He was acting like a teenage girl. If Alain had a girlfriend, it really was none of his business now, was it? Plus, it was very unlikely, checking the records that Ayrton had snuck into Ron’s office to steal. 

(And if he did, Ayrton could always fix that problem with his trusty old blaster, a dark part of his head said.)

No, no, he had promised himself years ago, back in those ruins, with rubble and ashes lining the streets of once chattering people, and he had promised himself later on, in his first battle on Lotus’s team, a smoking blaster at hand, that he won’t ever turn that on a civilian. Only for the Game, for survival, for the orders. 

Nothing else, or Ayrton would be just like them. 

How had he gotten himself here? He groaned into the pillow. Alain made his life exhausting. Ayrton should just strangle him or choke him to death with the pillow. It wasn’t like he actually cared what relationships the man got himself in, he was always very open about them. So why was he making this such a big deal? 

Whispering a quick prayer for self control and thanks of the day, he tried to shut his mind off for once and let the shadows take him away. 

And so they did.

The first thing he did was throw all the blood out. 

It lasted for minutes, Alain constantly throwing up bile and splatters of blood. Images were like knives, cutting him at all sides, but he just focused on getting the contents out of his stomach. 

Alain was left heaving on the ground, chest falling up and down. 

The first question that came to his mind was, “Had he just died?” 

Because the pain, the exhaustion, the encompassing night, it had felt so real. The copper in his mouth, Niki’s stare, and the flesh under him falling apart? 

That was as real as any memory of a car under him. 

(‘And now you know the cost of death,’ the voice said.)

The cost. The cost. The cost. 

“The cost of blood… And the cost of his eye.”

Who’s eye? His? No, that didn’t make sense. Alain, current Alain, had lost the eye long after when this memory had taken place. Also, there were actually two eyes to see from. 

And what had Niki been talking about? They had mentioned a war again, just like Lewis had said, what had it been called? The Third War?

There had been brief glimpses, Alain remembered, of the streets, of the dark cloudy skies, but every time he had tried to pull at those memories, they would flutter away. 

Back to the more important part. Alain had been dying. Alain had died. 

So why was he still alive? And why him of all people? Why was his conscience in this… place?

Back in his original memory, the one he had first recovered, of his first fight with Niki and the laser cannon. Had that been the strike that had killed him?

Then why was no one else surprised when Alain had woken up? Judy (that was her name) had come in like every other day to drag him out for a meeting, a press meeting of all things. Ayrton had only stared at him with the same hate he had always done. Ron Dennis gave him orders. 

Nothing had been amiss despite Alain’s death. It seemed it was only Niki himself that had been surprised.

Too many puzzle pieces. Alain had more than he started with, so why did it feel like he was only getting more confused?

Dragging his hand against his head, he realized that the ache in his mind had receded considerably. Alain opened his eye to the Tartarean room.  Oh yes, he remembered, his ‘saber had switched off. Where had it rolled off to…?

A dim glow caught his eye and he shifted his attention to the side. The orb…

The ringing… No, it wasn’t ringing anymore. It wasn’t constant as it had been, there were variations, pauses of silence. Contrast of noises. 

Words. Language. 

Song. 

“. -. -..  . -. -..  - .... .. ...  .. ...  - .... .  . -. -..”

What?

Something was tugging him nearer. Not like curiosity, because at least curiosity could be stopped with control, with his own reason. No, this… force was beyond his own capabilities. Like strings that were tied against his legs, walking, walking to something that was—

Was what?

Almost unconsciously, he slipped his mask back on as he drifted closer. 

(Strings of fate pull you, through your dreams and now through your life, through every movement you take. Pulling, tugging, toward the globe of light. )

“.- .-.. .- .. -.  .- .-.. .- .. -.  .- .-.. .- .. -.  ..  .... .- ...- .  -... . . -.  .-- .- .. - .. -. --.”

He gritted his teeth. “I don’t understand,” he whispered through bloodied lips. Against his will, he squatted down. Alain’s hand slowly reached out.

It was like watching a  movie, except from his own eyes, in his own body. Scenes flicker in front of your eyes, and you view, detached. His fingers unfurled, still stained with red and bile, extending in an unhurried fashion. They hovered over the light, shaking.

Then they plunged in, and all Alain felt was pain.

Not the physical kind of pain. Not the pain of being stabbed, of having his eye sliced and bleeding away. Not the pain of carrying a world of cement by your back alone. Not the pain of going a hundred miles an hour before being just slammed to the side.  

It was the kind of pain that hurt your soul. Loss, the kind of pain of watching death after death, the kind of pain watching another wreck, another man gone. It was the kind of pain he had when he was watching, far above, in the booth that was too distant to do anything, and a dark blue car going up in debris. 

(Ashes. Ashes. And barren streets.)

“.-.. . - -- . --. --- .--. .-.. . .- ... . .-.. . - -- . --. --- ”

A small ring. 

‘It hurts.’

Flames started licking up his arm, but all he did was watch, stuck. They creeped up slowly, yet the burn wasn’t hot. Just cold. Sharp, raw, and piercing. 

Alain later would wonder in the dim night of his bedroom, what would’ve happened if he had stayed there. Would he have been swallowed alive in the fire, would he die again? Or maybe that was his way out from this world, to the real one. To his world.

(Coward, are you going to leave him?)

To whatever his fate might’ve faced that day, he had Berger thanks for saving him from it. 

“Professor,” the McLaren hero had said. “Step away or I will shoot.”

The shock of his entrance had broken Alain away from the spell. Stumbling back, he pivoted to find Gerhard Berger pointing his blaster at him. He reached for his own saber at his belt, but Berger only thrust the blaster at him. “Don’t move, unless you want a hole in you.”

Alain had his mask on him, and the shadows would’ve been just enough to hide him from any recognition. The only light source in the room currently came from the flashlight on the end of the Mclaren issued blaster. 

He watched the ray of light closely. What were his options here?

“So what is your plan now?” the McLaren hero asked. “What is the next magical trick you’re going to pull out of your sleeves?”

Alain hummed and avoided the question. “How’d you know I was here?”

A tch. “This is McLaren’s headquarters afterall. Do you really think we wouldn’t know if you were here?”

Yes, because Alain had not spotted any cameras on his way in. He would’ve known, it was one of the first things Niki had taught him. 

(“I do not see how this is related to my fight with Ayrton?” Alain had asked, with a screwdriver in hand and a massive box on the table. 

“Oh, trock it!” Niki had snapped back. “Not everything is about Ayrton.”

“No, but that’s what I’m here for.”

Niki had the look on his face that told Alain he’d rather be anywhere but here. “Look, think about it this way. You want to fight Ayrton? You need good tech, and you’re not getting any of that around here.”

Alain squinted at him. “You’re not suggesting we steal from the teams.”

A self-satisfied smirk. “Oh, I’m not suggesting anything. Where do you think I get all this from? Now stop asking questions and start looking for bugs.” )

There had been dust all over the floors, enough to suggest that no McLaren member had come in here for a couple of years and implanted some new breakthrough of security tech. Anything older Alain had disengaged even before coming in with the ‘disruptor, and he had been careful to avoid any old traps that were laying around. 

So what? McLaren had randomly wanted to check in on their own headquarters after years of abandonment? It could’ve been a random check, sure, yet today of all days? To come in here?

No, someone had told them off, and Alain wanted to know who. 

“Oh, so they knew I was coming,” he replied scornfully, “and decided to send you of all people.”

Gerhard wasn’t wearing his helmet, and Alain could see his eye twitch. “Yes, and it is a waste of my time to take out trash like you.”

Alain placed his hand across his chest. “A lit—”

The blaster is raised to his chest. “I said don’t move!”

Exactly the reaction he needed. 

He raised his hands out, open planed, showing they were empty. “Of course,” Alain said placidly, and with one fluid motion, he kicked the lightsaber off the ground and into what he hoped was Berger’s face. His accuracy still needed work, but maybe, by some miracle, the childhood years kicking around a football from his past life will transfer here. 

A shot went off, but Berger had been taken by surprise, which gave Alain a chance to duck away. Reaching for the other saber on his back, Alain slams the other man to the ground. The blaster fell out of the man’s hand, and the flashlight flickered off. Now, the scarlet glow of the ‘saber at Berger’s throat was the only thing illuminating the room. 

“Tell me!” he commanded. “Who told you off that I was coming.”

Berger smirked. “You think your little trick with the blade is going to scare me? Please, I have faced worse than yours.”

The villain really didn’t have any desire to hurt Berger, but he needed the answer. Was there a mole around Alain? Alain pressed the ‘saber down on the hero’s Adam apple, singing a few of the hairs. Berger's eyebrow twitched, but to his credit, he didn’t flinch.

He can’t continue with this. Ideas. Another method. 

Alain found his eyes catching on the white orb. Careful to keep the saber at the hero’s throat, he picked it up by the box. Slow, measured movements, making sure that Berger could see every move through the dim light. 

“I was looking for this,” he lied, or really, half-lie. “I wanted to wait for a more controlled situation to test it out, but this seems fitting, no?” 

“What are you doing?” Berger asked, voice flat, but there was fear in his eyes as he watched Alain bring the orb closer to the blade. With every inch, the McLaren hero began to shake more. “Do you know what you’re even doing?!”

Not particularly, no, but Alain had gotten good at bluffing his way out of situations. “More than you do, I assume.” There was less than a centimeter between the box and the red fire of the saber's blade. “So tell me,” his voice was dangerously low, “Who told me off? Tell me before you find out all those stories that they’ve been telling you become real!” 

The last sentence might have actually gotten Alain caught, but if he had guessed correctly, then it was the right play. There was something… familiar about the orb, something that was like a legend and a myth, that tickled at the back of his Alain head. A story that was intimate, intimate in the way that it was told to you a hundred times before, repeated by the older ones before you yourself tell the youngsters. 

 Instill respect. Make them fear it. 

And Berger was going right for the trap. “Fine! Fine!” He raised his arms up in defeat. “I’ll tell you, just, please get the trophy away from the blade first!”

Alain studied the man. He appeared to be telling the truth, but Alain made sure to keep the blade at Berger’s throat as he flipped the lid of the box over the ‘trophy’. Pocketing it, Alain  gestured for the man to continue talking. 

Hesitantly, the newest McLaren hero began. “Look, I don’t know too much, okay? Around a day after Senna’s fight, Ron sent me out to go out to the warehouse.” 

So this was McLaren’s fabled warehouse, so secret that no other team even knew where it was. Alain bet if he had turned to the other hall, that would be where all the coins and new tech would be hidden. But he was getting off topic. “How did Dennis know? 

“I don’t–”

“No,” the Professor shook his head. “You came straight here, Dennis knew. So how?” Alain reached for the box clipped under his cloak. 

Berger eyed the movement, licking his lips. “I,” he groaned. “I don’t even know if this is true man! But…” he looked away. “I was walking past the infirmary when I heard Ron’s voice talking to someone else. The other was too quiet to make out, but I have my suspicions. I was sent out here right after that.” A sigh. “There! I just gave out more company secrets to you than I do to my wife! Are you happy?”

Ron Dennis talking to someone in the infirmary. There was only one person who popped into his mind… But how?! How would Senna know? Was it really just a coincidence?

The Dream Man… Pawns, playing…

What if the figure could visit more than one person?

“Then tell me one more thing,” he began. Unclipping the box, he shoved it at the hero’s face. “What did you want with this?”

Berger flinched before scoffing. “What every team wants with it.”

“Which is?”

The other man gave him a weird look. “The win? Look, I was just sent here to make sure it was safe, I don’t know what they wanted with it, but it’s not like we can have terrorists like you go stealing away the Constructor’s trophy.” Berger flinched before snapping, “Would you be more careful with that?”

Alain fingered the box. “Hmm, so easy to scare.”

“Because you can’t just go around playing with a bomb like it’s a toy!”

A bomb?

(Bright flash of lights above, a strong hand slamming him down, and a large ringing noise…)

He noted the name down as well as all the other information, returning to the man below him. Alain doubted he could get any information out of him, though…

“How is Senna doing?” he asked casually. 

“Why would you want to know?” Berger spitted back. 

A small smile under the mask. “Just wanted to know how my old enemy is doing, but if you’re so defensive about it, I guess he should be fine. That’s all I needed from you.”

“What are you—” Was all the hero got out before Alain knocked him out cold. 

The nurse will look after him. He should be fine… probably. 

Alain took the time to study the man under him. Curiosity got the better of the vigilante, and he rolled Berger’s pant sleeves up. Poking the leg around, Alain found where the shot from his blaster had originally gone through. There was a small mark on Berger’s calf, but besides that, there were no major scar tissues. 

This world’s medical technology sure was amazing. 

He tapped the patch over his eye. They still weren’t able to save his eye… How deep had Ayrton really cut? And how about Niki? Despite all the new tech here compared to the old world, the man still had scars all over his face. 

(That didn’t stop Alain from coming back.)

He had many questions to ask Niki when he came round back to the Ratcave, including the object at hand, the so-called ‘Constructor’s trophy’. Alain spun it around in his fingers once more, thinking. Berger had acted afraid of it, and for a man that fought to the death in the skies for sport, that said a lot. Has this been the prize for all those championships in the past years?

Getting up to go to the door, he froze and turned around. Berger was lying there, perfectly defenseless, and still strapped up on all his gear. It was a good chance to see what McLaren’s engineers have been cooking up. 

After stripping the poor hero of all valuable belongings, Alain looked around him. If this truly was the McLaren’s warehouse… Why not have a small raid? The villain bet that he would be the first of the raiders in a long while. 

Alain picked up his other saber from the ground and swung it on (he’d rather look around a creepy area in bright lights of his blue saber than the dark red of his other one, thank you very much). He hadn’t had the chance to explore around yet. 

There were drawings lying around the tables, now that Alain could get a closer look. Many of them were piles upon piles of papers, most of what seemed to be like legal documents that Alain ignored. Under a particular file, Alain found a few diagrams. One of them seemed to be a tube, or was it a needle? A syringe maybe. 

He swept those diagrams, along with a few other important looking papers, and slipped them into his pocket. Moving down the table, he brushed his fingers along the dust ridden walls. With all their money, Alain couldn’t believe that the clean freak of Ron Dennis allowed his warehouse to become like this. 

Something rough and coarse fell onto his fingertips. Not wood, he thought, maybe fabric? No, it was too leathery, and if he gripped it any harder the material would fall away into dust. 

Alain eye trailed his arm down to his hand which held a burnt, ashen head. 

Dropping away, he immediately backed away. It couldn’t be. It can’t.

(They died burning, you remember, fiery limbs that left a path of blazes in its wake. Even a hundred miles away, on a silver screen, you couldn’t escape the heat.)

More faces surround you as your eyes adjust. Their burns ranged in degree, blackened ashes stained against the floor and walls, but one thing was a constant among them all. 

Agony. 

A painter’s last work onto their music. A final paintstroke of terror and torment. 

No. No. No.

A cold shiver went up his spine. What?!

Because there was one more constant in the equation, in the bodies that lined the back walls of the garage. Alain recognized their faces. 

Their names eluded him now, but he knew, he knew them. They were people, his engineers, his friends maybe. 

A small paper was clutched by one of the bodies’ skeletal fingers. 

John.

He dropped his saber and snatched the drawing up, the paper crumpling under his fingers. Numbers and letters he couldn’t understand, but he was aware of what they were. 

A formula. 

Alain looked around him, pieces of the world falling in small places. The headquarters? It was McLaren’s, but it was his world’s McLaren’s. 

He clambered around to the sides. There were more drawings haphazardly thrown around the ground, next to the papers that he had spotted earlier.Old yet familiar parts laid there too, waiting to be screwed in. 

Same faces. Same names. Same building. 

Same people. 

Cold fingers crept up behind him, and for once it wasn’t of the Figure’s or the stabbing knives of the Core coming back to take him. These hands came from the past, silent and whisplike, ghosts of a past life that Alain had been stolen away from. 

The fingers of deja-vu. 

He couldn’t stay here for any longer. He rolled a few of the drawings up and slung them around his back, pocketing anything that looked important and he-

Ran. 

He ran out that garage, out that hall, out that building that was once his (but not anymore). He ran away from those ghosts, away from the ice hands of the past, hopping onto the cycle and never looking back. 

(The spirit of the past stared forlorn, still waiting). 

Alain… borrowed Niki’s cycle. 

To be perfectly fair, it wasn’t like he could ask the man. After the fifth (or was it already the fourteenth? Alain had lost track of time) day where Niki had found him huddled up, sleeping next to the rig of the new car, the Rat King had cracked and ran out of (his own headquarters, mind you) in frustration. 

(And that was why Alain had to find  out about Ayrton’s news by himself, two days later.)

His schedule… If he was a more honest man, Alain would have said it was a wreck. But he was not, and his life is perfectly fine where he needed it to be. 

(It only occurred to him, in the mess of the thirtieth coffee powder, drowsily waking up with his face pressed to the cool metal of the car, that he hadn’t checked his phone in days. 

Notifications, worried texts, he scrolled past them, he didn’t want to think about Ayrton if he could avoid it. Yet Fate enjoys screwing with him, so at the top of it all was, 

“Ayrton Senna majorly injured in fight with Williams.”

A flash of red lights,

One. 

A flash of the second.

Two. 

The third.

Three. 

Returned to the seat that sat above the track. Watching. Waiting.

When you first saw it. You don’t believe it, it was like watching a scene of the show, staring at the television and watching images that were not real.

Because it was all just a scene, a part of the show.

Reality only comes in the people around you, the gasp and running, the expressions of the faces in the garage, and the aftermath. Truth only hits after. 

Back in the airport again, watching the screen.)

His eye was forced open when he almost crashed into the wall, missing it by a narrow centimeter. Alain cannot get distracted, it was too dangerous down here, and the cycle was a monster of a machine. 

(But how could he think of anything else when Ayrton is still up there? In the hospital room, stuck between two strings, a still image on a screen that Alain could only watch.)

The walls were becoming less and less recognizable, but Alain knew he had been around here before. It was the first time (or second, if you count jumping out of headquarters into a ditch part as one) after escaping his apartment and getting jumped by a random man. 

Quite an embarrassing moment, now that Alain thought about it. The world champion had almost gotten beat up by a random alleyway thug. No wonder Niki was always giving him the judgemental look when he was training with him. 

Pressure built up in the side of the head. He was getting close, he was sure of it. Either that or the lack of sleep and reliance on powdered caffeine was finally taking a toll on him. 

He stops the cycle at the alley where Niki had first found him. The dent was still there, shamefully enough. Alain ran his finger over it. The body wasn’t there anymore. The thug must’ve left (or Niki had come back and disposed of it). 

What was Alain supposed to do now? Awkwardly stand there until he is given a sign? What kind of sign?

He shouldn’t be here, he should be back at the headquarters, finding a way into getting into that infirmary and getting to Ayrton. He should be sitting next to Ayrton, just like his partner had been for him. 

(‘Follow the ringing,’ a familiar voice said. ‘It will lead to something that the both of us need.’)

Firmly, he shut his eyelid close. What did the ringing sounded like?

There were not many sounds in this part of the Underground. It was an abandoned zone, long gone and forgotten, with only the eerie shifting of debris instead of pedestrian’s footsteps and the whistle of the wind as their words. Of course, you could hear a squeak and scurry of the rats afoot. 

Niki was never far from his home. 

But Alain wasn’t there for that. On the edge of the Underground, he heard it. The ringing.

It did not sound like the large church bells that rang every Sunday back in his old town, nor was it the whining ring of the alarms of headquarters. It was the ringing you heard in the silence, the one that goes on and on, a deafening kind that is only heard by you. 

Focusing on it increased the pressure in his head, but he nudged the discomfort away. It is not far, he thought, he is not far from the source. 

Earlier, Alain had passed by the collapsed route he had taken when he had rescued Lewis. If the ringing had been guiding him somewhere, perhaps he should follow it.

It was only a few alleys down that the ringing became unbearable. Loud and deafening, the ache became knives that stabbed at every side of your head. Alain rested, no, forced his head against the wall, trying to dull the pain. 

(‘You want to save Senna? Find it.’)

That was right. Ayrton was in the hospital currently, undoubtedly in unbearable pain. Balanced, once again, between his rival that was far greater than even Alain. 

He cannot spend every time worried, or complaining, or just standing there. He has to face the music and stand. 

In this case, the music is an ear-splitting nightmare, a song that was trying to blast words into his brain, but it was there and Alain must follow it. 

Alain studied the walls around him. There was something… off about them. They did not fit with the other walls he had just passed, as if they were, what was it? Recent? 

Yes, rubbing his ringers against the dark bricks, these walls were fresh. The dark soot on them wasn’t ashes, but instead painted intentionally. But why?

Camouflage. An animal’s way of hiding itself from predators. What could be so important that they had to hide it in the Underground? And more importantly, enough for the figure to finally break out of their riddles to tell Alain about it?

There was also something familiar about these walls too…

He looked to the side. In between the two walls, there was a small crack that could, just barely, fit Alain. The headache had finally begun to dull, but it sent another knife at the thought of going inside.

Alain must be getting closer.

If he was any more of a claustrophobic man, then he would be scared out of his pants as he crawled through the crevice.  It was worse than the alleyway, with the two walls pressing against you, and an overlooking darkness surrounding you at all sides. 

Luckily for him, he had been stuck in a small, metal death trap for around two hours every other month for more than a decade. This was fine enough. 

His left arm banged against something hard, and he looked down. The object was hard to see in the unlit space. It was level and cold against his fingers. Running his hand down it, he figured it must be some kind of beam. A door handle?

That meant there had to be a door here. But why? What was the point of building a door that couldn’t even be opened or accessed? Alain took his other hand and felt the wall behind him. That was right… The material of the wall was slightly different from the other ones he had passed. Newer. Different. 

This will have been built later, as if to hide something, or rather, block something. People? But who would have come down here? 

There was no way Alain could pull the door open, and no matter how much he pushed, it seemed not to budge. Time to do it the messy way. 

Reaching for the lightsaber (And it was a lightsaber, okay? No matter how much Niki or anybody tried to tell him that  there were no sci-fi movies here, it was a lightsaber. Fair and square. George Lucas made it first before you stole it, Niki.), he switched it on, careful to check where it was aimed. The world instantly turned blue, as a thrum of light cut through the irritated ringing. 

The door was made of glass, but it was messily boarded up with wood and nails. Cautiously, he took the saber and sliced past. The wood and glass fell apart instantly. He used the butt of the saber and pushed it through. It fell with a thud. 

Alain poked his leg through first, before slowly moving through the opening. The world was still dark, so he kept the lightsaber on as he looked around. It looked like he entered the main entrance, as he saw the welcome booth in front with a sign that was already halfway to falling off from the ceiling. 

He almost tripped down the steps but managed to catch himself on the railing. Something creaked, and this time he did almost jumped out of his pants. 

Where to go now? The hallways split off in two ends. He bet it would only branch off more from here. 

Alain ended up following the ringing to the right hallway. His footsteps still felt loud in the empty room, despite using Niki’s technique of quieting their noise. Mindlessly drifting around, his feet seemed to move themselves as his thoughts floated off to an office in the sky. 

Was Ayrton awake now? Alain had never found out his exact injuries. Even if he did wake up, would he even be the same? What if he couldn’t walk because of something more terrible than Alain thought, like a loss of a limb? Like—

He wasn’t even able to watch the No.1 hero’s fight; McLaren had filed for it to be taken down right after. All he knew was that Ayrton had been taken down by Piquet in his first battle with Williams. And wasn’t that ironic? Maybe it was always Williams, always the team that was his end. 

The dream man was right. Alain was doing a terrible job at this. He’s failing constantly, irreparably now, and how had he even been so cocky to think he was succeeding in the first place?

But what could he do? Nothing, nothing at all except follow the rambling of the shadow of dreams into a place of who knows where. 

(The day was haunted before the race had even started. There was a tension that changed, thick in the air. Wrong, wrong, wrong, it screamed, and they all heard and told themselves they no one else heard it. It was almost like the ringing, constantly in the back of your mind, ringing, ringing, and ringing.

It hadn’t felt wrong three days ago. Though Alain had been down in the base, a hundred kilometers away, high on whatever caffeine had been in those packets and on a mission to stay out of his own head. 

Alain had at least been there in Imola. Where had he been this time? Running. Running. 

(He’s always running.)

The atmosphere sank, like a vacuum was taking all the air away. Choking, Alain was choking, where was the air?!

He was in some sort of garage, Alain realized. Not like headquarter’s garage, this… this was his McLaren’s garage.

Spinning around, he studied the whole room. No, this was… This was McLaren’s original headquarters. It has the same walls, the same floor, the same door and even the table is in the same place. He had been walking through McLaren’s headquarters. 

Walking through a ghost of home, he thought, because it was and it was not. The room was grey, not in Ron Dennis’ clinical fashion of a hospital but in the shades of a morgue. A mess it was too, an opposite to the usual order. There were papers that covered the walls and the floor, pieces of metal scattered along the tables and cluttered around. It was cold here too, worse than the biting winds of the Underground because at least a coat or an engine could scare it away. Here, the cold was not physical but something that settled in your veins and stayed, chewing at all the little warmth that you held inside. 

And the ringing! Ceaseless and unabating, it was not even ringing at this point but a long, relentless scream of noise. A song without tune or melody, screaming and crying. It was like the cold hand had come and took Alain’s head, crushing it against its hooked fangs. 

A copper taste filled his mouth. Taking the hand that wasn’t holding the saber, he brushed his finger against it. Dark, black in the blue glow of the saber, blood. 

Coughing, the blood filled his throat, and he fell to the floor. The saber switched off and rolled away, but not before hitting something with a heavy, metal ‘clang’! 

The world was swimming around, the sound of a ringing and dark copper mixing in between the images of two worlds. A thrum of a garage, he thought faintly, as he crawled with all his power forward. His hand touched the dusty floor, then the hilt of his lightsaber, then a heavy box. 

A shifting sound, like the engines all around, or the engineers screwing in another bolt. And white! Like the sun, white and blinding, screaming and crying and dark copper and–

... - --- .--. - .- .-.. -.- .. -. --. -. --- .-- .-.-.- .-- . .... .- ...- . - --- .--. .-.. .- -.-- .-.-.-

‘The blood is dark copper,’ Alain thought faintly as he watched the blood drop slowly against the concrete floor. 

That didn’t make sense. Blood was red, scarlet fresh, maroon if old and crusted over. Not the brownish gold of copper. 

‘Trock,” he thought as he buried his head into his arms. ‘I’m going insane. He coughed again, lifting his head off, more dark ichor falling onto the desk. “Trock,” he laughed, “Trock! Trock! Trock!”

He contemplated the skyline of Woking. How ironic. Alain had survived the bombings younger than a kid, the ashes. He had made it all the way to the McLaren’s roster, then the younger rookie, and then the champion! Yet here he was, coughing up blood, all alone in his office at what, three hours before the first? 

‘This is how I die,’ he thought madly, ‘because of Senna’s stupid stunt and a black red cannon.’

He didn’t remember too much. Just the last remnants of the fight, a shake off of the team’s hands, and a straggle to his… apartment? But how had he ended up here? 

There was a knock at the door, and Alain rasped “you can come in.”

A small creak of the door, and a red foot stepped out. Red, not McLaren’s red, this was Ferrari… 

“Lauda,” he said coldly, or at least tried to. It was too funny, he thought hazedly, too funny and ironic that he was going to die by Ferrari’s hands. It felt like just yesterday they had given him the offer. “Here to finish the job.”

The Austrian only stared. “I didn’t think it'd be this fast,” he muttered after a while. 

“What? Your newest toy?” He was trying to hold his head up high, but the world was going by too quickly. So dizzy… “So what do you want? Here to apologize before it's too late? Scared of the guilt? Well, I’ll save you the trouble, it’s not your apology I want.”

Lauda scowled, but the concern was in his eyes.“And I’m not guilty. You’re the one who jumped in front of it.”

“Then why are you here?!” It was supposed to come out angry, but it sounded too tired. “Just to waste my time?”

“You’re dying.” Lauda’s face was serious and calm. 

He couldn’t help it, Alain chuckled. “You are a very intelligent man.”

A fist slammed against the table. “No, Prost!” Lauda yelled. His features grew incensed, enraged, more angrier than Alain had ever seen him. “You are dying. Do you understand that word, Prost, the true meaning of it?! There is no coming back from death, so why are you simply just sitting here?!”

Alain looked at the man. Truly looked at him. Half of his face was covered in bandages, and not all of the red was the Ferrari suit he saw. “You're hurt,” he commented, concerned. He tried to get out of his seat, but he almost fell back to the ground. “Lau- Niki, what are you doing here? You should be at the hospital now.”

“And you haven’t even seen McLaren’s doctors yet! You’re just letting yourself rot away!” Niki was at his side, studying him. “There could’ve been a chance before, but you squandered it away.”

Lauda’s eyes were too honest, Alain couldn’t bear to face them. Easier to look at the window, where the city shimmered away, unconcerned of the fate of its hero.

 Woking sure was beautiful at this time of night. At least, the parts that you saw. No, it was beautiful in the way a mask was beautiful, hiding away the uglier, darker parts of the face no one wanted to be seen. “You know why.”

Lauda pursed his lips. “You knew.”

A smile. “You’re not that old, and I’m not too young. I know what that light was.” The sun had been gone for a long time, only a small crescent of a moon and the endless iridescent lights of the city remaining. “Why are you here Niki?” Alain asked again. 

“Didn’t you see my text?”

What text? Alain palmed his pockets. “I don’t have my phone on me, I think I left it at my apartment.” He rubbed his hand against his face. “Honestly, this entire day has been a mess for me.”

Lauda was disquieted. “What have you been doing the whole day?”

“I honestly cannot remember for the life of me. Just flashes and a haze, mostly the battle, and just…. Being here. I would’ve gone and said… whatever needed to be said to whoever.” Got his apology from Ayrton at least, one last punch in their battle before he went. He would’ve loved to see the look on the man’s face. “But it’s too late now. I don’t even think I’ll make it halfway there. So I’ll ask you this one more time, Niki.” It was too early and too late, but Alain didn’t want to die still saying the man’s surname. “What are you doing here?”

The rat of a man just sat there, still. If Niki had it in him, Alain would’ve bet the man was almost nervous. “I’m here to say sorry. And before you say anything,” Niki interrupted him, their eyes meeting. It was what he saw in them that made Alain stop. Honesty (and when would you have expected a truth from the rat). “I know you don’t want it and it won’t do anything. But I need to say it. I saw the signs, I should’ve done something, should’ve warned someone. You, at least.”

A twitch of Alain’s lips. “I doubt it would’ve done anything. Senna would’ve attacked regardless, as long as he saw the gap.” He sighed and looked at Niki, too injured and too tired for a man of this age. But they all were, weren’t they, and Alain was a little too hypocritical to say it himself. “Thought it would’ve been over after the war…”

“You can’t say anything about the war, kid,” Niki huffed. “What were you, two?”

A raise of an eyebrow. “Get your math right, old man, but yes, I didn’t fight.” He coughed again, and more copper droplets fell on the floor. “Yet here I am, still dying from it.”

“More than a decade at least,” Niki said quietly. “That’s how long it took for them to forget.”

Silence filled the space as they stared off into the distance, Woking’s shimmering lights a lie and a memory. Underneath it all were the people, all still forgotten as the world moved on to the next fight, the next battle, the great game that they both played. 

“Niki,” he rasped.

The man didn’t say anything, but he turned his head to look in his direction. 

“Promise me something.”

Niki rolled his eyes. “What is it? Ayrton I bet. Want me to kiss him for you?”

“What, no–” Niki was distracting him and Alain couldn’t forget this. “No, Niki. Promise me that you won’t let them forget.”

“Who?”

Orange. Yellow. Red. Paints of colors to try to cover up the ghost town beneath. It was  a failure. “The teams, the heroes, the public, the FIA. Everyone. Don’t let the people forget.”

“Less history repeats itself.” Niki finished humorlessly.

Alain stumbled up until he was back onto his chair. The simple movement drained the life out of him, and he sagged into his seat. “But most of all,” he added, so soft that he doubted Niki could even hear it, “don’t let Ayrton forget.”

“Forget, forget what?” Confusion was etched all over Lauda’s features.  “What is so important that he can’t forget?”

The bloodstained lips perked up. “The reasons we are heroes. Why we are in the fight.” Alain continued to gaze into the skyline of the English city. Not even home, but when had France been home? “Money, fame, power, or the thrill of the game. Because there is nothing like the fight… and because we can’t—” he choked again on the blood.

Niki’s hand fell on his back.  “Because we can’t forget,” he finished. Alain stared at their reflection. “And I won’t let them forget your sacrifice, even if I cannot tell anybody.”

“Ferrari?”

“Ferrari.”

“Trocking contracts, hmm? It’s no matter, legacy doesn't matter in a world that does not remember why. Promise you’ll make them remember—” He fell into a hacking fit. Niki’s face was blank. When it was finally over, his eyes were watery. “The cost of blood… And the cost of his eye.”

“I swear it.”

Alain took one last look at Woking before closing his eyes with a frown. What a melodramatic sight, dying on his office desk. He’d thought he died somewhere more romantic, perhaps in his lover’s arms, or even tragically on the battlefield. He did not expect to die, bleeding out on the place he did his paperwork at.  “Do you ever wonder what you’d be if you weren’t a soldier?” he asked the Ferrari hero. 

There was a long pause, and Alain had wondered for the briefest moment if he had already moved on to the other world. But Niki’s voice brought him back. “I have thought about running an airline.”

He leaned his head onto his chair. It was an uncomfortable seat on most days, but now it was like sitting upon clouds, so soft and beckoning. He’s so tired. “Do you have a love of planes?”

 “Always had, even through the war.” Alain nodded, but he doubted the miniscule movement could even be seen. He was not going to open his eyes after this, was he?

He heard, more than once, that your whole life flashed through your eyes before you died. What a lie. There were no cinematic memories, no horrifying pictures or welcoming arms of a loved one, it was just dark. 

And maybe that was the comforting part of it. 

There were no blinding red and white lights in the sky, no ashes that dusted your feet, no tears and doubts. There were no empty songs at the end, no hollow faces. There was no game, no fight, no posters of heroes that were smacked on every blood stained surface. There was no constant war in his mind, debating, calculating numbers of things that shouldn’t be calculated. The numbers of lives and how many points a shot would get him. 

(There was no him.)

It was quiet and it was dark. 

It was peace. 

“How about you?” Niki’s lowered voice asked. 

The ringing had finally left his ears. It is replaced with a soft beat. His heart? It almost sounded like…

“I always like the thought of being a driver.”

It sounded like the  thrum of an engine. 

Alain Prost sat in the hospital chair for what seemed to be the hundredth time in his life. 

In truth, this statement was false under two accounts. One, he had been graced enough for his visits to not have reached the hundreds, and two, he was not technically sitting upon a hospital chair. 

He was currently seated in the McLaren’s visitors room, filled with rows of dozens of the same seats. The hospital-like feeling could be blamed on the furniture's nature of being unbearably uncomfortable and made of cheap plastic. 

The room was foreign to him, and Alain realized in all his time here, he has never ventured into this part of the headquarters. He wondered if a deeper part of him, the Alain of before or after, knew of it, or if it was alien to that version of him as well. 

Your question might be, ‘Alain, what are you doing in the McLaren’s visitors room?’ Take a wild guess.

You seem like a smart person. You know the answer. 

Alain had not been watching when it happened. He had not been watching many of Ayrton’s fights recently, ignoring them for having his own fights with him as the Professor. 

(The real truth was that he couldn’t face him more than the bare minimum.)

Alain should’ve been watching. 

Could he have prevented this? Reason would’ve said no. Niki would’ve said no, that man had reason. Previous Alain had reason. 

The Alain of now did not. 

Powers, he had almost broken down in laughter, superpowers. Laser eyes, Nelson Piquet had lasers in his eyes. It was too much like the comics of old, like the men in blue spandexes and flowing capes, flying million meters in the skies and with the strength of a hundred men. 

But those were good men, good heroes, fighting good fights. There was a sinking fear and worry in Alain that the men here did not know the truth of good and heroes. 

(They choose great rather than good, and the ichor of glory rather than mercy. They thought ‘good fight’ meant entertainment, not the reason for the fight.

They do not fight to save. )

Alain rubbed a small, circular gear in between his fingers. He had forgotten to put it down in his hurry to the headquarters when he had seen the news. 

“I’m sorry, Prost,” the robotic voice of the clerk repeated. “You do not have the clearance. You  are not allowed up.”

“I was one of their heroes! I have fought for them, I have bled for them, I have lost my eye to them, what else would they want of me?! Can I not even see my fallen partner?” Alain’s hands tightened across the desk. 

“You are not allowed up.”

Alain had sunk back into the seat, lost for all words, the anger and arguments fading away to grief and past memories. He was taken back to another waiting room, the seats at the airport. There had been the rush of fliers running to their own flights, the sound of crying babies and the soothing noises of mothers flowing in from the background. The intercoms had beeped on and off with the same tired voice, the sleeping stragglers struggling to their own flight with coffee spilled all over them. And amongst it all was Alain Prost, strung with tension and eyes stuck on the television, watching. 

Waiting. 

He had not been allowed in the hospital. Or really, he did not try. He would not be welcomed, not in that room. Because what was he to Ayrton? People did not know, and he himself did not know, even after all those calls and even after that quiet conversation on the phone, under the tree, on the bench. They would not let him in, and Alain himself didn’t know if he wanted to be. 

He was just an old rival, enemy, and nothing more.

So Alain sat there, amongst stragglers and crying and businessmen with coffee cups, the four time world champion sat there and did the only thing he could do. Stop and wait. 

He did not remember the emotions he had felt when the news came. It was the lights, he had thought dimly, the lights that were on and shining and suddenly snuffed out, just like that. 

Ayrton had gone off after, with Alain too slow to follow. 

There was nothing to watch in the visitor’s room. Only the blank concrete walls of the headquarters and a glass plane that show the world that was too far below. No people filled the room either, with only Alain and the clerk, typing away at the floating blue screen above her. 

The gear goes around his index, under his middle, over his ring, through his pinky and back to his thumb. Repeat. 

He half thought to go back in his Professor gear and try breaking into the infirmary. It was a terrible idea, even in conception, because the vigilante’s world was not in the skies but in the shadows. Lauda himself did not have the gall to try to break into the floating pyramid.

Terrible, terrible ideas, what was he thinking? Nothing, nothing really, and what was he thinking now? Doing everything but worry, or worrying and doing nothing. 

(‘Wasting your time,’ the voice said, ‘you know what you have to do.’)

Niki had sent him some of the papers halfway through his stay at the visitor’s room, fully unscrambled and clear in Niki’s clean, printed handwriting. It detailed William's presentation and proposal to the FIA, the clearance, and their go ahead for development. 

“New generation,” Alain remembered dimly. Who had said that? Was it Max Mosley or was it someone else, the other man with him. Was this supposed to be this world’s version of William's winning car that pushed them leagues above others, that won them those championships?

A grim smile went to his face. “He is a coward,” Ayrton said to the press as they asked him about Alain’s contract with Williams. People had agreed, the fight was not fair for Ayrton, not with the pure lightning of a machine that Alain had under him. 

It was unfair, but Alain hadn’t made the agreement under the guise of fairness or advantages, but rather a petty anger and the idea that he could never again stand in the same garage as the man. 

There was no lightning machine for Alain to use now. He has no ability to, not even the clearance back to his old headquarters. But he was not the one in need of it.

Ayrton. 

It was William’s machine that had killed him. Would this world be another repeat of it?

No, Alain would not allow it. No, not if he had the chance. 

His knee cracked as he stood up, and suddenly he felt like he was back as an old man. Strange, he does not remember much of his elder years, now that he thought about it. Only the knowledge that he went through them and the faint memories of it, but nothing concrete. 

It was nothing he should concern himself over at the moment. Alain was once again given an option by the figure, and he will not let himself lose it again. 

His new mission, yes, what had the man of dreams said?

Follow the ringing. 

- .... . -. .-- --- ..- .-.. -.. -.-- --- ..- -... ..- .-. -. -- . ..--..

“...and this was bad…”

(“You were never one for fate, and you think of yourself as unkillable, don’t you?”)

“...Your last battle…”

(“In the end, you will be left for the dust and the dirt, with your dear friend left to lead the war in the front line.”)

“... back to two and two, you need to regain control ….”

(“You want to protect what is yours? You need strength and you need power.”)

“I fear…”

(“What do you fear the most?”)

“... I wished he hadn’t retired so early…”

(“You will not name it, so I will. Alain Prost.”)

“No matter now. What matters is that we are utterly out of our waters,” Ron Dennis dropped his head into his hands, a break of his usual stark composure. “Frank lied and the FIA just played along. All these trocking liars! After all those regulations, all those laws, to stop this, the FIA just lets them get away with it! Have they already forgotten?!”

(“Ron Dennis knows the truth.”)

“Ron,” Ayrton gasped from his position in the bed. The principal’s head instantly shot up from his hands, eyes already stuck on him. 

(“You must ask him.”)

“Ron, I need to know—”

(“Ask him for the McLaren’s old stronghold.”) 

“-about our warehouse.”

A look of confusion crossed Ron’s face. “What about the warehouse?”

Ayrton tried to clear his throat as he spoke. “After all these years, I still have not known of it.”

“It is our most guarded secret,” Ron Dennis admitted, still muddled at what Ayrton had said, “but that has nothing to do with our current problem. I can assure you, despite William’s newest… trick, it is the safest thing in our team.”

“No it’s not that.” Ayrton struggled to find the words. The figure’s voice, the things it said, had pulled a hidden string in his head, tying and fitting the mess of strings  into knots. Still convoluted, but if you follow the line… “Their new trick, we know of it.”

(And ask him for the spoils of War.)

“What is of our trophy of the Constructor’s?”

A silence from his boss. “What are you getting at Senna?” There was now a dangerous edge to Ron’s flat voice. 

Ayrton didn’t know exactly himself, but the words flowed out anyways. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Ron Dennis, or are you surprised I know?”

Narrowed eyes. “Careful what you say around here. You may be the number one hero, but that does not mean that there are ears in the wall that would not wish you harm.”

“Avoiding the topic still, Ron?” Ayrton countered. “You are talking about our disadvantage, our downfall, and yet you are skidding at our chance, at our checkmate move.”

“The trophy will not solve that.”

Ayrton raised his eyebrow. “It is the prize of war.”

Weariness. “And the cause of it. But what would you know if it?”

Words of riddle, of poetry, or stories long ago. They do not make sense to Ayrton, not yet. But he felt the strings unraveling, and soon they will be braided again, strong and unbreakable. 

The truth. 

And then it clicked. The bombs, the bitter taste of ashes in your mouth, and the bright white lights that the people always talked about. 

“Are you sure of this Ayrton?” Ron asked. It was not his boss asking now, nor his friend. It was a man, the general, the order, asking his soldier, no, giving his soldier, one last chance to back out. 

“We have the ability to. We have the resources for it. Afterall,” a small grin, “why not fight fire with fire?”

“I do not doubt the ability,” Ron looked down at the beds that lined the infirmary. “Only the cost.”

Stories of the ashes of the streets. There was no crying, no screaming, because it was all gone now, all gone to the fire. It filled your throat and it burned, but you couldn’t stop, no you couldn’t stop. You would see the old shops, the old stalls, gone and abandoned. The corner where the old man always sat, smiling and passing you an old snack? Only an old cement block now, with a small tinfoil left of his food. Scraps of an old teddy laid across the ground, it was a girl’s, you thought dimly, this was the girl’s most precious gift. 

The markets are silent, and that burned more than any screaming or crying could. 

So silent that the ringing began in your ears. 

“How much are you willing to pay for throne Senna?”

Ayrton was not worried.

No, seriously, he wasn’t worried at all! Why would he be worried?

Was this the third (fourth?) time where Alain disappeared from the apartment? Yes, but again, this was the third time. Ayrton shouldn’t mind it too much, Alain had his own life after all. Maybe he had a business trip doing… whatever work he was doing now.

Ayrton had never asked.

In his mind, Alain was still beside him, still his partner, still in the hero world. It was only in times like these he remembered that the man was in a whole different world than he was right now.

His hand hovered over Alain’s contact. Ayrton shouldn’t, this was foolish. What if some emergency had just happened with his family or another friend?

It still wouldn’t hurt to check up on him…

No, his mind snapped, he had a life outside of Alain, and vice versa. The man would be back soon enough, and besides, Ayrton doubted his friend would even check his phone anyways.

(He sent the messages anyway. Multiple.)

A sudden shock went through his arm and he almost fell off his chair in shock. It lowers down to a small buzz, constant and annoying.

The wristband.

Ayrton found it quite annoying. It was McLaren’s newest tech, more reliable than a phone, as they put it. The argument for the new device was that they needed to alert Ayrton anytime the Professor showed up. Usually, it wasn’t used much, seeing that the villain showed up mostly during work hours.

Very kind of him.

Thinking about it now, Ayrton hadn’t fought the man for a while either. His last fight had been before he took Adrianne home, and after that he hadn’t seen either him or Alain. It made his stomach do a weird kind of twist, and he punched himself for that feeling. Ayrton should not have missed the Professor, he was the villain, the FIA’s most wanted man, and certainly not someone he should note the absence of.

Sighing, he flicked the switch on the wristband, signaling that he was headed off to the fight. Nowadays, Ayrton kept his uniform and gear in an extra room. It saved him the trip of having to go all the way to headquarters to get dressed.

Ayrton kicked the board up and jumped off the balcony. “Steve,” he spoke into his comm, “I need the coordinates?”

The map opened up on his visor. Interestingly, it wasn’t a fight with a Professor then.

The break had gone faster than he thought it would’ve, even with the villain constantly attacking them. Currently, the new season had just come around, but there weren't any scheduled fights yet. But where the map was leading him was part of the new FIA rules, the FREE zones.

The FREE zones were areas across the globe where an attack can be initiated at any time, sort of like a raid but even without FIA’s approval. That meant there could be a fight at any time of the day, and any team can be the one to respond to it. It also meant if you wanted to quickly join in as a third party, you wouldn’t need to wait for FIA's pending approval as the fight raged on(like the time with Hakinnen and Ayrton had to come in late).

FIA had spent billions on buying parts of different cities for the FREE zones. Now there were parts of the city that were completely blocked throughout the year so that the area would always be free of citizens. These kinds of things would’ve been unheard before, at least to what his parents had told him, but the Third War changed things.

An unscheduled fight at the FREE zones… The Professor had never really bothered with rules before, so it couldn’t be him? But which team would it be?

His question is answered as he is pulled up to the battle scene and met with the sight of rubble, scorched earth, and a set of blue uniforms.

“Williams.” What a surprise, the first team to face off in the season, as well as the first team to try the FREE zones. “You wanted your first battle as a loss? McLaren’s city? Really?”

“So cocky,” Piquet sneered. “New season, new rules, you aren’t going to be the reigning hero king for long.”

“Sure,” Ayrton pulled the blaster out of its holster. “Don’t know how any of them are going to help you, but let’s hurry up.” He had to go start looking around for Alain.

“Your wish is my command.”

The world champion immediately aimed his blaster at his target, but then a flash of blue in Piquet's eyes and—

His whole side burned.

“The lect?!” Ayrton gasped out as he crumpled to a knee. Looking down, there was a charred hole in his side. The new uniform was supposed to protect against most blaster shots, so how?

“Aren’t so arrogant now, are you?” Piquet grinned as he bent downed next to Ayrton. “What, no words of amazement? Come on, I know you’re surprised.” He grabbed the McLaren hero’s hair and pulled it until they were face to face. “Look here,” Piquet said as he pointed to his eye. Again, the flash of blue as Piquet turned his head.

There was a hole in the building where Piquet was staring.

A shot, almost like a blaster. Or maybe the Professor’s swords. A laser? But it came from William's hero’s eyes.

Inhumane.

“Jealous now? This,” Piquet winked, “is a courtesy of William's engineers. Our newest advantage, weapon, power, whatever you name it. But I'm actually a superhero now, aren’t I?”

“And I’m assuming that Nelson had the same?”

The William hero frowned. “No, this is…” Gritting of the teeth. “Well, if you’re still in the game after this, you’ll see. I drew the short end of the stick in it, but hey,” a smirk, “still a hundred times better than you.”

A glow of blue.

Will Ayrton Senna die here? In the first battle of the season, by Piquet?

(Yes, a voice rang in his head, better now than in the fire.)

Sad eyes and turned down lips, Alain Prost talked about him like a dead man.

How would he react if he saw this? Broken, shattered laughter and words of that should’ve come from a much older man. Begging, and a promise that he had left hanging.

Ayrton Senna will not die here today, he thought. He would choose how he died. And it was not now, not here, and one hundred percent not by trocking Nelson Piquet.

The McLaren hero spit in the villain’s eye.

“The trock?!” The man cursed. With all his will, Ayrton pushed the shocked man off of him and got to his legs. Quick, he had to get out of there. His legs were heavy and his side screamed, but he continued on.

He was at the edge of the marked FREE zones when stopped. What was he doing?

(Running away, the voice whispered.)

Ayrton spun around and looked back. There were fans around, cameras taking shots from every angle he could see, and in front, Piquet.

“Why’d you stop?” The man growled.

Alain was going to kill him once he found out. Which was a great idea, because then Alain would be required to come back! Ayrton was such a genius.

A cock of his head. “Because,” Ayrton stepped, well, more like hobbled, toward the villain. Every bone of his body told him to stop and run the other way, but he was never good at listening. “I’m not a coward.” Not like the Professor. He licked his lips and smiled. “Plus, you’re still too slow to beat me.”

A snarl. Piquet charged toward him, and a small spark of fear lay in Ayrton’s belly.

(What a fool.)

The only thing Piquet had over him was his new found ‘power’, and without it, he was any normal man, still a hero, but a man in Ayrton’s eye. And, as he told Alain, he could defeat them with a hand tied behind his back.

The question was, who was faster? Piquet’s eyes or Ayrton’s blade?

(You’re going to die here and now Ayrton Senna… Is that what you truly want?)

He unsheathed his knife, and they went to the ground. Pain went through every nerve of his body, but he stabbed the blade at Piquet’s shoulder. William's hero howled in fury.

“I’m going to kill you!” The man’s eye lit up, and Ayrton took the knife out of Piquet's body and aimed it toward the brightening eyes before the light began to dim.

“What?” Nelson's voice said annoyed, his head turned to the side to listen to his comm. “You want me to do what?! But,” a pause. Eyebrows pulled down in anger. “Fine.” Piquet’s gaze came back to Ayrton, and he grabbed him by the collar. With his other arm, Ayrton noted smugly, seeing that the other was stabbed. “You got off easily here, William’s doesn’t want their first win to result in a death.”

“How do you know this one will be your win?” He retorted.

“This does.” A cold clasp around his wrist. Oh. The man slammed him one last time to the ground, before getting up and walking him away. He looked back to give one more shot. “How does it feel,” he said as he smiled nastily. “Being dethroned? I doubt you’re going to go anywhere near your crown this year”

Hmm, Ayrton might’ve overestimated his own ability after getting a hole shot through his side.

Nothing he could do about it now, could he? Ayrton closed his eyes. The adrenaline was rushing out and everything began to ache, too aware of the missing flesh. There was copper in his mouth, but he wasn’t going down without one last shot, “At least I’m not a coward like you.”

Blue eyes, but someone had grabbed Piquet away. An FIA official? Somebody important, but Ayrton was too tired to try to fight his drooping eyes.

This was bad.

Williams had gotten the drop on him, and not just that, but they’ve gotten a drop on the whole hero world. How was he supposed to—

Darkness, entrenching, hands snatching, rough and freezing to the tough, everything that the night should be.

But it was also cool and peaceful, and away from the screams of the fans and the talking of officials and away from the agonizing pain…

(We need to talk.)

-.-- --- ..- --- .-. - .... .. ... .-- --- .-. .-.. -.. ..--..

Ayrton woke up, gasping. Well, that's not right. It's more like a choke and a sigh with the fear of a scream and the misery of a cry mixed together into one strangled noise. What he means is he woke up in a shock.

He was in a room, he thought faintly, but not in any room he recognized. A children’s bedroom, foreign to all his memories. There was a small, sister™ size mattress on a wooden bedroom. It should feel familiar, he knew, but it didn’t.

There are models all around, of metal machines with wheels and skinny looking planes. He has never seen anything like them. What kind of child likes to play with such weird contraptions?

It was the posters on the wall that clued him in the most. He saw the same weird contraptions, faces that tickled something in the back of his head, and was that a helmet?

The same man was all over his walls, now that he studied it. Most of the time, the strange person was in weird contraptions, a blue and white helmet at hand. They surrounded Ayrton, at all four sides of the room, in large and smaller photos, like a quilt of old fabrics.

He noticed the shadow from the corner of his eye. And he spun around, or at least, he tried to. Limbs not budging from their spot on the bed, Ayrton found himself stuck in place. Not even a word could come from his mouth, as if it was glued shut.

“Senna,” a voice came from the back. The name was familiar, the name that was spoken by his enemies, his friends, and the names of billions who he had never seen before. A nameless chant.

It was the way of how the voice said it with such degradation. There are not many people who can say his name with the same loathing, like ashes on their tongue. He could name them all on one hand.

It was how Ayrton realized that he must’ve met this man at least once, because only someone who knew him like a second shadow would spit his name out like that. It was why he didn’t ask ‘who are you’ because Ayrton did know him.

He just didn’t remember.

“Why am I here?” he asked alternatively, the glue on his mouth melting away like frozen treats under the Brazilian sun. Ayrton should recognize this room, he felt like he should recognize it. So why doesn’t he?

“I miscalculated,” the figure said rather than replying to his question. “He made a different play, or rather, he knows your play.”

“What— Nevermind, I don’t know if you could tell, but I am in the middle of dying, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to go.”

He was still stuck on the bed.

“You don’t leave unless I tell you to.” It was said as a fact, like the figure couldn’t be bothered that Ayrton was currently in between life and death, that he was bleeding out. “Tell me, how many times has he taken over your body?

“You know,” Ayrton snapped, “it would be easier for me to answer your question if you, I don’t know? Filled me in?”

He could feel the figure’s eyes boring into him. “You really don’t know.” A shadowy finger went to its mouth, as if thinking. “Then he hasn’t done anything, or at least, anything that would leave a mark so that I would know…”

There was a tickling at his side. “I know you.”

Ayrton couldn’t see the man’s face, but he had a feeling that its mouth would tip upwards. “Maybe, or so, you had thought, or wished. Let me tell you, Senna, you will never truly understand another man. You would wish and you would think you had known, but you can never see all six sides of a die at once, can you?”

“Riddle me this,” he snarked, before stopping. Where did that line come from? Somewhere far away but not to his own touch, not here. He is touching sheets that are from million worlds away, but he was touching them and he knew. “If you want to tell me something, tell me straight, and if you won’t, tell me how to get out of here.”

“What will you trade for it?,” the voice replied like a computer, cold and calculated. “Information is not so freely given.”

“Yet you so dearly want to tell me.” The tickling had become an itch.

“Why do you say that?”

Ayrton snorted. “I wouldn’t be stuck here if it was the case, and you’re the one ranting off nonsense riddles at me.”

“Careful how you talk to your captor,” the voice said dangerously, “or do you want to be stuck here forever?”

A cold hand snatched his heart, but Ayrton kept his voice steady. “You repeat that, speaking about ‘my imprisonment’, yet that is hardly true, is it? This place is not yours, it is mine.” It was his as much as the throne to the hero world was, as much as Brazil was, as much as Alain was.

Unless Ayrton was wrong and his life truly was in the balance, hanging on a thread that swung precariously between the two worlds, Ayrton in the middle, waiting in a room that was his and not, for the judgement of the thin blade that would or wouldn’t cut it.

“Yours, and yet do you remember it at all?” At Ayrton’s face, the figure cocked his head to the side. “Didn’t think so, but you are right, this isn’t exactly my domain. I will indulge your wish as well, at least to the best of my ability.

“You know that Prost has been acting quite strangely lately.” A finger to the Brazilian’s mouth to stop him. “Do not answer that. Actually, do not answer any of my questions, they are all rhetorical and your voice has begun to annoy me.

“There is a man in his dreams, and before you say it, he is similar to who I am, if not more of a fool. But that doesn't matter, what matters is that he is no longer the man you knew. “

Ayrton went to demand an answer or argue or something to these terrible words, but he found his mouth glued shut. So he only glared.

“Not that you really knew him. He is a mere puppet now to the man’s will, hanging to that thing’s every word. And that’s a dangerous game to play. Tell me Senna,” the figure bent down to his eye level, staring at him in eyes that Ayrton did not see but understood was there, “what do you fear the most?”

Ayrton glowered at him with his mouth still clamped shut.

“Good, didn’t want to hear your answer, it wouldn’t be the right one. You would probably fear losing the game, wouldn’t you? I fear that the most, but there is something deeper that you are afraid of. You will not name it, so I will. Alain Prost.

“This is not the first fear that pops in your head, mostly because you are too thick-headed to realize it, but Alain is not as infallible, especially compared to the degree of which you think of yourself as. There are strings the man of dreams puppets, and he is playing him well. Why do you think he left so hurriedly?”

Ayrton looked at the man in disbelief. What was this thing spouting about?

(But deep inside you know it's true.)

“The world around you is not as strong as you think. Its heart is dying, and dying quickly, and the balance will not stay balanced long. You have seen Piquet, haven’t you? Man will no longer be man anymore.”

The itch is an ache. He could not stand it much longer. “Get to the point,” he rasped.

Looking at him with a somewhat surprised look, the figure resumed to his original point. “You were never one for fate, and you think of yourself as unkillable, don’t you? Well let me tell you something, Mr. Ayrton Senna, your little boyfriend of yours isn’t.”

What? “Shut it with your riddles.” What did this thing know anything about Alain anyways.

“There is nothing that I’m trying to avoid, I am speaking the truth. You may be king now, but you will not be king long. The world, progress, will not wait for no man, even you Senna. And in the end you will be left for the dust and the dirt, with your dear friend left to lead the war in the front line.”

A dry laugh. “Such a cynical man. You speak of war and death and falling, yet your only proof was an idiot hero with laser eyes and no solution to all of your problems. What are you even proposing?”

“Not all prophecies come true, but I only talk of the past. You want to protect what is yours?” The figure jabbed its fingers into Ayrton’s chest. “You need strength and you need power. Do not be left in the dust and the dirt.”

Superpowers, Ayrton thought faintly, like all the shows and movies. Like all the true heroes. “Still no true answer, I cannot do anything if you do not tell me what to do.”

The figure only answered, “Ron Dennis knows the truth. You must ask him, ask him for the McLaren’s old stronghold and ask him for the spoils of War.”

Ayrton’s side was burning. Oh, the wound.

“Poetry,” he gasped out through the pain that has seized him, “you sure do enjoy your poetry.”

The figure gave him a look that Ayrton cannot seem to name. If it was anything more than a shadow, the hero would almost say it was concerning. “Not particularly, but it annoys you and your annoyance amuses me greatly.”

Standing up, the figure left a shadow of a cloak in its receding steps. There was no goodbye, only a small hand at the door of the room as it left. A shaking sensation as the world began to rumble. The lamp on the nightstand fell, jostling at Ayrton’s side that was red… Red like the cars on the wall, red like his sheets, red like the models, shaking up and down, left and right as the world fell apart.

The only thing left standing, still and proud, were the posters on the wall of the man with the Blue and White helmet.

Alain’s master planning of how to escape the headquarters:

Just leave, take the front door and get the lect out of there. If Niki is there, proceed to plan two. 

Wait for Niki to leave. If he leaves, go back to plan one. If he doesn’t but stays outside, move to plan three. 

Sneak through the vents. The grate looks rusty enough for it to fall apart if Alain kicks it. The air system can’t be that big, can it? This plan would not work if Niki comes in to check on him, however. If that happens, go to plan four. 

Pretend to be asleep until the Austrian leaves the room and proceed to either plan two or plan three. If Niki caught him pretending or awakened, then moved to plan five.

Plan five is that Alain is doomed to the talk. He will have to face the events of last night. Worse, he’ll have to face the thoughts of Ayrton. He will have to say them aloud. To Niki. What is the other option? Trying to fight out Niki. If he did end up beating Niki, move back to plan one. If the more likely option of Niki beating the lect out of him happened, move on to plan six. 

Just die on the spot. 

Alain laid on the cot, listening to the world around him. There was the sound of movement coming from the main halls, which crossed out plan one. He waited for what seemed to be hours, but the footsteps did not cease, which also crossed out the rest of plan 2. Plan 3 it was. 

Sitting up on the bed, Alain caught himself before he groaned. Every part of him ached, and while it did not feel like the hundreds of knives that were stabbing at him last night, the weaker part of him felt like setting himself back down. That couldn’t be done, he told himself, as that would lead to something way more painful. One Niki Lauda and the Talk. 

As careful as he could, the villain shifted his body off the cot and to the wall. The grate, upon closer inspection, was more intact than he originally thought. He might need to resign himself to trying to pry the screws off.

He dug around the infirmary for something he could use, and was left with a scalpel. Better than nothing, he supposed. Alain tried to fit the blade into the eye of the screw, and he was almost done with the first one before he heard the twist of the door knob. 

Niki Lauda was standing behind him, staring at him as he tried to pry his way out. There was no point pretending, which crossed out plan four. 

The only plan that was left for Alain was plan five. “Hello Niki,” he said casually.

“Prost, what are—” 

Niki did not finish before Alain twisted around, scalpel at hand. The blade was almost at the Austrian’s throat before the other man jabbed him in the back. 

Alain groaned in agony. “What was that for?!” 

The man raised his eyebrow. “You should tell me. You were just about to stab me with a knife.”

The younger villain straightened out his back with a large crack. That didn’t sound good. “It wasn’t even a big one.”

Niki rolled his eyes. “Get back to bed Prost, I need to check on your wounds.” Alain did what he was told and compliantly rolled up his shirt for him.

The Rat King inspected his body. “Miracolously, your back seems fine. How it manages that with all the lect you put it through is still a mystery.” Taking his gloves off, Niki changed the topic. “Now, back to business. What happened last night?”

Abort. Abort. Plan six. 

What was plan six?

Die on the spot.

What a terrible plan. Who came up with it? Dying would not help Alain right now, seeing that the only weapon he had was confiscated by Mr. Lauda. He wondered if banging his head against the wall would work. 

Alain tried to suffocate himself on a pillow. 

“You are not a teenage girl,” Niki said irritatedly. “Just tell me what happened with Senna so we can get this over with.”

“How do you know it was Ayrton? It had nothing to do with him!” Alain replied, if not a little too quickly.

Niki gave him a deadpan look. “Because, with you, everything has to do with him, and otherwise you wouldn’t have ran back so quickly.”

“It could’ve been an actual threat. Like the FIA!” Alain argued weakly.

“A whole track fell on you last night, and as your back suggests, you were the one to run into it. So I’m asking you again. What. Happened. With. Ayrton.”

“...He brought someone over last night.”

The Austrian stared at him blankly. “Okay, and..?”

“It was a woman.”

“Never thought you to be a sexist man.”

Niki was just playing with him now, wasn’t he? “Just a fool.” Alain tried to get out of the cot. He’s done with this. He needed to do… Do what? 

Alain couldn’t go back to the apartment. Ayrton would be there, along with Adriane. He didn’t have the nerve to face them now. 

A frown. “Not like you to back down like that.”

Alain started to open the door. “Yesterday was senseless, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Niki grabbed his arm. “Okay, Ayrton brought home a girl. Men tend to do that. So tell me what the real problem is.”

The real problem? There was no real problem, Alain was just being a trocking idiot. “I don’t know.”

“Jealousy doesn’t tend to suit you Prost,” declared a judgemental voice. 

Jealous? “You are thinking of envy,” Alain informed him bitterly, “Jealousy is fearing losing  what I already own. It would require me to have Ayrton, and I do not know if you know, but Ayrton Senna is not owned by anyone.”

Not to the FIA, not to death, not to his family, friends, or lovers. Only to his fate. 

Ayrton was not his. 

“And,” Alain continued, “I am not envious of Adriane. I do not envy what is already predetermined.”

Niki turned him around by the shoulders. “Okay, I was humoring you, but this is getting depressing. What if Ayrton invites a girl over for a night? James does that all the time. ”

“When were you and James a thing?” Alain interjected. Now that he thought about it however…

The Austrian froze, if only for a split second, at his misstep. “We are not a thing, and it is none of your business.”

“You were the one that used him as an example.”

“Men will be men. Look,” Niki rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I am not good at this ‘relationship’ kind of talk, but clearly you have no one else to talk to. Ayrton won’t love—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Alain’s mind was still stuck on one word. “You think we’re in a relationship?!”

A pause. “You’re not?”

“What would make you think I was in a relationship? With Ayrton of all people?!” Alain asked incredulously. 

Niki gave him the look. “What wouldn’t?”

“Give me three examples.”

“You live in the same apartment. A one bedroom apartment, mind you. He’s the only thing you talk about half the time, that and your precious car. And there's the whole reason you’re in this villain business as well.”

Alain’s head was in a mess. “One, he sleeps on the couch.” Besides that one night.  “Two, that’s because he’s an annoying fool and you’re the only one I can complain to. Three… Three doesn’t count.”

“Uhuh,” Niki said flatly. “How about his constant flirting with you in your fights.”

“How do you hear that?”

“Your comms, someone needs to make sure you’re not dead or worse, getting tortured by the FIA,” Niki explained. 

Alain shook his head. Unbelievable. “Well, in case you forgot, he doesn’t know I’m the Professor. So that doesn’t count as evidence.”

` Niki gaped. Or, Niki did an expression that was as close as the Austrian could come to gaping. “That doesn’t make it any better! He’s flirting with you without knowing that’s you!”

“I thought you weren’t a relationship counselor,” Alain snarked. 

“This doesn’t count. You half to be blind if you couldn’t see this, and don’t give me the ‘oh but I am half-blind’ excuse.”

Savage. “Well, Ayrton clearly likes women,” Alain reasoned. End of argument.

“He flirts with Le Professeur, so clearly not.” Niki looked as he was about to smash his head against the wall. Even Alain’s usual antics didn’t get the man this worked up. “So you’re saying Ayrton brought this woman to bed… Your bed by the way, and you two aren’t in any sort of relationship at all?”

“Do not speak of Adrinne this way,” Alain snapped. “Do not speak as if she is an object. She is Ayrton’s love.” 

Bright smiles across the paddock. Star-crossed lovers. 

“More than you are?” 

Alain twitched his lip up. “I’m not anyone’s love, and certainly not Ayrton’s.” Not in this world. 

Niki was gaping, truly gaping, at him now. “You truly are a blind idiot, aren’t you?”

“Hey!”

“You are not going to do a single thing? Are you just going to let her win his heart over?”

He shrugged. “His heart was always hers to begin with. And really,” Alain jabbed his finger in Niki’s chest. “Why do you care? What does the Rat King need with my relationships? Does he not only concern himself with my obedience?”

Niki straightened. “For you to be obedient,” he said, snatching Alain’s hand. “You cannot be distracted. This is a distraction and I need it out of the way.”

Alain tried to pull his arm away with no avail. He gritted his teeth. “This is not a distraction.” It wasn’t on the track, it wouldn’t be now.

“What's the plan Professor? And don’t tell me you don’t have one. What are you going to do from now on? Will you still fight him the same, or is your enemy no longer worth it?”

“The plan?” Alain shifted his feet. Could he face Ayrton the same way? The Frenchman had known this would happen, because despite all he did, the story never changed. Nothing about his plan should change too.

A warm hand against his cheek…

“My plan does not change. I will fight him, like I always did. Finding love does not tame him, it will not soothe his recklessness, his stupidity, not like it did yours.” Because nothing tamed Ayrton Senna, he was always a wild one and no lover could take that from him, only live and flow along with it. 

“That’s what I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Niki dragged him closer, until both of their noses were touching. “Why are you in this fight?”

Alain cocked his head to the side, confused. “What do you mean? As a villain? I already told you, Ayrton—”

“Ayrton this, Ayrton that,” Niki grumbled. “That is not a reason. You are waging war against the whole of the hero world, all of this cannot be for a singular man.”

But it was, and Alain wasn’t just waging war against this world, he was waging war against the figure, death, and Ayrton’s inevitable fate. FIA was just another enemy on the chessboard. 

A softer tone. “Alain, you fight for the man, whether you love him or not. But if you really were to play this game, you cannot just play it for a singular man.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are too kind, and too forgiving of a man, as seen through all of last night. You told me you left to fight Senna, how you couldn’t fight for any of the corrupt teams. How you would choose to fight your own battles, at your own pace with your own decisions. But despite all your fights with Senna, you will have to fight others too. Oh, don’t look so surprised, you do not expect the other teams to not try to take a bite of you? Fighting Hakinnen or Schumacher has nothing to do with your precious Ayrton, yet you still will have to fight them. What is your purpose then?” Alain opened his mouth, before shutting it close. “You know how to play and who to play for, but why?” Niki let go of his hand. It fell to his side, motionless. “I can tell you who I play for. I play for all of the lives, before and after. This game has taken too many, and for what? The FIA do not care, not for the heroes, not for the fans. You yourself see it.”

“And how will you stop that?” Alain whispered into the ground. Death followed him around like a dog to its master, and it wouldn’t go away any way he tried. 

“I play the game, but not the one you have with Senna. Mine is slower, I will have to wait, but I play nonetheless. The game names heroes and names villains, but we both know that they are just what they are, names. I cannot save those lives lost, nor can I save the next few ones. That is not the prize for winning.”

“Then what is?”

“Legacy.” Niki smiled softly. “They will give us names, and upon that name they will give you a story. That story will be carried out like a myth, and like all stories and myths, there will be a lesson there, a purpose. Mine will tell of the man who burned the FIA to the ground and rebuilt it back up again. It’ll tell the story about the cost of a life and how it should not be so easily thrown away.

“The question is, what about you? What is the story of Le Professeur?” 

And to that, Alain didn’t know. Because after everything, after almost a year here, he hasn’t built any love for this world, has he? He has no connection to a place, not the McLaren headquarters, not his apartment, and he has not made many connections to this world either, has he? Who does he really care about here besides Ayrton and maybe Niki.

(An empty drifter amongst a foreign world.)

A small sigh and a chuckle. “You don’t need to answer me now. I think you have too much on your mind anyways. Maybe you do not do something to take your mind off things.”

“I thought you said it’ll distract me from my obedience to you,” Alain retorted.

Niki wagged his fingers. “I said they’ll distract you. I can control my own things,” he said as he led Alain out the door, glancing back to make sure he was walking fine. “How is your back?”

“It’s fine,” he answered absentmindedly. Was that….

“The parts finally came in,” Niki commented as Alain’s eyes roamed over the parts. Gears, engines, suspensions, some of them more put together than the other. “I still don’t know what you’re going to do with a car of all things, unless you specifically want to get caught by the FIA on your get-away. Those things are slower than a drunk man stumbling home, though maybe not James. ”

All other thoughts escaped Alain’s brain as he grinned widely. “If that’s what you think, then you don’t know cars the way I do.”

The Austrian narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think I even saw you go near one besides the standard McLaren issued ones.”

“Don’t forget Ferrari and Williams’s,” joked Alain as he felt the pieces under his fingers. 

“I don’t think they ever developed a car.”

“Must’ve been a dream, huh?” Alain took a gear and raised it to eye level, peering at his mentor through the hole. “You were one lect of a driver, Lauda, though I still managed to pull one more championship over you in the end, didn’t I?”

Niki stared at him. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a strange, strange man, Prost?”

“All the time.”

.- -. -.. ... --- -- . --- -. . -. . . -.. ... - --- -... ..- .-. -. .-.-.-

He woke up in the office again. Oh wow, great fun.

This time, there was no bed. Alain was once again stuck in the desk chair, staring at the yellow helmet in front of him. 

“What do you want?” He asked tiredly. When did he fall asleep? The last thing he remembered was tinkering at the sides of the car; he must’ve drifted off. “I’m surprised you didn’t visit me after the whole… debacle.” Alain had sunk to the cot then, so sure that the figure would come to his dream to simply gloat. 

He didn’t have the energy for that then. He doesn't have it now. 

The figure didn’t move from its spot. “I was busy.”

Alain sighed. “Well so am I, so get to the point.”

“Fussy, fussy,” it said in reply. The resentment in its voice was gone for the most part, and of that Alain was glad. He didn’t think he could pull off another fight with it. “I will humor Le Professeur and talk straight. I know Niki showed you the deal with Mosley in the Underground.”

Wait, was the figure giving him a straight answer? For once? Alain opened his mouth for a snark comment before shutting it close. Probably shouldn’t annoy the figure back into riddles. “Yes, he did.” This also implied that the figure knew the smaller points of his life. Alain had theorized about it before, as it was always angry over something about him and Ayrton, but this meant it also knew about the deals he made with Niki. 

“Then you know that the hero's world is changing.”

Alain turned his head in confusion. “What do you mean?” There were a few new regulations and the adding of FREE zones,  but that was about it.

“You would know soon enough. What I need you to know is that Senna will not be at the top of the board anymore. He is dreadfully unprepared and overwhelmed for the coming season, and I hope you are smart enough to know what that entails.”

The new information ran through Alain’s head. New season, overwhelming, Senna. He had thought he had it under control, well everything besides his home life, but it was going well. Ayrton had been less reckless, less bored with his other fights and more concentrated with a new foe. But if what the figure was saying was true…

“Why are you telling me this? I thought you hated him.” Or loved him. Alain still couldn’t tell. 

“I do,” it exhaled, “but there is something else I must get out of this scenario, and I need you for it.”

Ah, so the figure was only telling him because he wanted to strike a deal. “A quid pro quo. What do you want?”

“You hear the ringing, do you not?” The voice questioned. “Don’t answer that, I know you do. Follow the ringing, it will lead to something that the both of us need.”

Alain waited for the figure to say more. When he didn’t, he furrowed his brows. “Is that all you are going to tell me? You want me to go on a quest to find something that I don’t know? That’s not a fair deal, is it?”

If Alain could see a shadow, then it would be raising its eyebrows. “You want to save Senna? Find it.”

He scoffed. “How do I know you’re even telling the truth? For all I know, you’re just leading me on a wild goose chase for a man who is perfectly fine off.”

The figure raised its hands in surrender. “I’m not the one who wants to save him. But I am telling you the truth, do with it what you want.” 

The earth began to shake. 

“That’s my cue.” Waving its hands in a farewell, it began to leave.

One last question. “What do you get out of this?”

Shaking off the shelves as the books fell to the ground. Clatter of frames and pages as they hit wood. 

“You’ll see.”

He gritted his teeth in annoyance. The trembling made it hard to open his mouth, yet as he sat on the vibrating earth he realized that he himself did not move. “That doesn’t tell–” 

The world fell apart, shelves breaking away and the ground collapsing from under him. 

A yellow helmet continued to stare at him, unmoved. 

.-- .... --- . .-.. ... . ..--..

Later, Niki stared at the sleeping villain, dead to all the world as he drooled over his precious gears. 

“Legacy,” the Rat King said mindlessly. “And after all those words, telling me to make them remember, you don’t yourself, do you?” 

He placed a blanket over him, sighing. “Who are you really? Because I know trocking well that you’re not Alain Prost. ”

No response, but that was usual. Never an answer from this man.  .- .-.. .-- .- -.-- ... - .... .. ... --.- ..- . ... - .. --- -. --..-- .. ... -. .-..-. - .. - ..--..

Chris rolled off the silk sheet with a pleasant, “oof”. Groaning, he rubbed his fingers against his brow as he tried to alleviate the headache that was banging against the roof of his skull. 

How strange. He remembered the days where the second he came to awareness he would instantly reach for a blade. Of course, he had been sleeping in dingy inns compared to the plush, meticulous bedroom he was in now , but you never knew when danger would strike. Chris had gone soft; his mornings had become slow and lazy compared to the rigorous routines he used to have. 

At least there was still a knife under his pillow, silk cover or not. 

The man who was to blame for his new, luxurious mornings was currently standing in front of the vanity, brushing beeswax into his hair. Seeing that Chris was awake, he made a small noise and said, “The servants have set the morning meal. See it how you like.”

He hadn’t even turned around. Chris swore he had never met a man more vain than Albert Wesker. He put more time in his looks than some of the women that Chris had to unfortunately take out. 

(And yes, some of them had been in front of a mirror. Sorry Margaret.)

Stretching, Chris yawned. “Are you not joining me?” 

“I’m afraid I have a meeting with a rather important man, and he does not appreciate lateness,” Wesker said as he put the finishing touches on his hair. 

A meeting? Was Wesker actually beginning to do work? Despite the man’s well off lifestyle, Chris hadn’t really seen Wesker doing any sort of labor. In the beginning of their relationship, he had wondered if the blonde had been some noble with his polished clothes and expensive taste. Yet there were no ties to any sort of nobility Chris had found, and nothing to show he was some sort of rich merchant (seeing that again, this man didn’t do any kind of work). 

It is for that reason Chris had concluded Wesker to be some sort of son of a cast off baron or merchant that had his pockets full enough to live a lifestyle without toil until his last day. 

Some people were just given more favor from the heavens, weren’t they?

(Bits of guts on your hands, and you wonder if the young maiden’s stomach was worth enough for the next day’s meal.)

He shoved those thoughts away. It was no matter now, Chris still had his work and he actually liked Wesker, who let him lay off a few of his more… darker jobs. “Would you like me to accompany you? You should actually use the mercenary that you pay for; currently you’re just wasting all your silver and throwing it into the river.”

“I wouldn’t call it wasting,” the man purred, “We had a wonderful night, did we not?”

Chris rolled his eyes. “I am not a courtesan. I meant use me for the work you actually hire me for? Like guarding you?”

A hum. “If I recall correctly, you hired yourself.” Wesker shoved the wax into the olive drawer. “I can protect myself just fine without you.”

The assassin furrowed his eyes. “I did not just ‘hire myself’; I simply saw your aptitude to find yourself in an increasingly more deadly situation. Like now,” he added as he snatched the ceramic cup from Wesker’s hand. Taking a sip, he spat the tea off to the side. 

Wesker looked at him dryly. “Despite how I often share my spittle with you, I would rather not have it in my drinks.” He reached his hand out for the cup, silently requesting it back. 

Instead, Chris poured the rest of the poisoned drink out of the window. “And this is exactly why I hired myself! This had wolfsbane in it.”

“Which is why I was not going to drink it,” the man sighed. “Chris, I can take care of myself fine. I have done so through all these years, I can live through one meeting without you.” 

That only made Chris frown more. Despite the man’s supposedly unnoble status, Wesker sure did get a lot of assassination attempts. “I don’t understand why so many people have it out for you.”

“I am a rather irresistible man.”

Sometimes, Chris wondered what made him fall for Wesker. Definitely not his humor. “Wesker—”

He gave Chris a hard look. “Drop it, Chris.”

His mercenary glared back but did what he was told. “Fine, but don’t blame me when you choke on whatever food they feed you.”

“I won’t.” Wesker’s eyes still had an annoyed look in them and it made Chris a little guilty. 

“I didn’t mean it,” Chris said, more gently. “I am just worried for you.” When he saw the irritation in the man’s face, he added, “Look, I’ll make it up to you; I’ll take you out for dinner.”

The expression on Wesker’s face turned to disgust. “To what? The tavern?”

“Excuse you, I’m from the tavern.” There was no offence in the words, rather humor as Chris wrapped his arms around the man. “Though I would understand if it is too… befouled for your pristine taste.”

Wesker’s face was still taught, but his shoulders relaxed, telling Chris he was off the hook. “Fine then.”

Surprised, Chris responded, “Really?” The offer had been made as a joke as he didn’t think Wesker would actually take it up. 

“Were you jesting?” Wesker asked as he set the smoky quartz lens onto his face. 

Chris had always found them slightly strange. He had never seen such things before he had met the blonde man, who had told him some years back that they had been bought from the East. Something about blocking out the sun. “No.” The only thing they blocked out for Chris was the man’s pretty, ice blue eyes. (Again, not something he would say to Wesker’s face.)

“Then it is settled, I’ll meet you back here tonight before we head off for the tavern.” As Wesker got up and headed for the door, the man paused. “What will you be doing until then?”

He shrugged. “Probably visit the inn, see if I can pick up a few other jobs alongside this one, seeing that I am not used very often.” Translating: Chris would go to headquarters and see if there were any new notes from the top. 

Wesker made a lewd joke and Chris responded with a fond smile. The blonde made a move to leave, but the assassin caught the man’s arm to stop him. 

Giving him an exasperated look, Wesker said, “Chris, I really cannot be late to—” He was interrupted as Chris pulled him in and pressed his lips into the other’s. Wesker made a surprised noise. “Chris.”

For such an indifferent person, Wesker sure did blush a lot when he was with him. It was almost too easy. Eventually, the man did give in. 

They broke up after a while, with the blond’s face still flushed. “I do have to go now.”

Chris pushed a loose strand of hair back into place and shooed him off. Amused, he wondered how this so on ‘important man’ was going to react when he saw the rosy faced and disheveled Wesker. 

Sometimes he felt a little guilty. Who was a person like Chris, who had the blood of more than dozens of victims on his hands, to be able to hold someone like Albert Wesker with the same hands. He acted like a rich, haughty noble half the time, but he was still Wesker, a man who hasn’t seen, hasn’t done, half the things Chris had to. 

(And yet you still haven’t left the job, have you? Because even with all the thirty silvers in your pocket, you still don’t know what to do with yourself. 

Who are you, Chris Redfield, if you don’t have red on you?)

And maybe that was why he loved Albert Wesker, because he was able to do something that Chris could never do after the age of four. 

Chris hadn’t been lying to Wesker when he said he was heading off to the inn, just not to where the man thought he was going to. 

The B.S.A.A. base of operation actually laid in what people would assume was the wine cellar. In truth, it was an actual old catacomb that some members had dug out until it was a complex path of rooms and halls.  

Chris wondered vaguely, in his more drunken nights, how the residents of the town would feel if they knew that the worst of the world’s evils and cutthroats walked right under their busy market street. 

Like Jill once told him, what people didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. 

He flicked a gold coin between his fingers. Ding! Click. 

Click. Ding! 

The main room was quieter than normal, but it was afternoon and people only started pooling in just before sun sets. They all found it the best time to collect their gold and wait for the night’s notes. Chris himself came in earlier than the rest, usually around the ninth hour. 

A little secret for any newcomers to the job: want the first pick of your target? Notes are first come first serve. 

But really, Chris had been hoping to ask around about a certain blonde man. The repeated assassination attempts had been getting on his nerves, he needed to see who had been putting the notes on his lover.

(Wesker was his.)

Absent-mindedly, he checked the board for anything new that might pique his interest. It was the usual numbers, there were a few new Umbrella merchants and ratted out spies, another  few out for the so-called Organization. Slim-picking. 

 Nowadays, Chris was fortunate to be able to pick out his targets. He remembered the days (the ones long before his BSAA ones, where he was only a straggler in between the legs of drunken men) that whichever note that was hidden on the tavern’s board was the one he took, as long as he was tall enough to grasp it. Other times Chirs dwelled on what must have been the last thoughts of his victims, seeing the tiny hand on the knife that had killed them.

Lucky. Chris was lucky now.

On top of all of the others, one note stood above the rest. The Crown Prince, heir to Spencer, or the BSAA’s most wanted man. 

Technically, if you overlooked the unlawfulness of their business, the BSAA worked directly under the Crown. The Kingdom had their Knights Guard and DSO, but anything dirty they wanted done? Anything under the table the monarchy didn’t want their people to see? Those coins were slid over to the BSAA, and their little note was stuck with wax and knives to the beaten wooden board in the main room. Easy, clean, and it got everyone home with full stomachs, whether that be with a hearty meal from the tavern or your own blood. 

Now, weary traveler, whose death does the Crown so possibly desire so much to need to turn to dirty underfellows like Chris to do the deed? Well, nobody else but the want-to-be usurper Spencer and his little underground of Umbrella men. 

(Really, what was an umbrella anyways?)

Besides their obvious rebellion against King Benford, the insurrectionists also had a vast amount of crimes under their belt, from the provision of unregulated materials to the selling of their own notes against the Crown. 

It is the BSAA's purpose, among others, to keep the Kingdom safe, just… in the darker parts of the underground where people didn’t prefer to see. The knights get the praise and honor, Chris and the rest of his assassin friends get the gold that kept them fed. 

Click. Ding!

  “What, is your big old duke not feeding you enough?” called a familiar voice from behind you. 

Chris snorted a response as he turned around to face Jill Valentine, the BSAA most valuable asset and the most wanted criminal of Racoon. “For the last time, he’s not a duke.”

Jill’s eyes went towards the roof. “No, I forgot. Just the son of some rich far off king or whatever you said. I still don’t know what blessed dice you rolled to get a lucky break like him.”

“You’re working a job tonight?” Chris tried to change the subject. 

“Who’s not?” she scoffed as she ripped off a note from the board. “Not all of us get a plush mansion to return to at night. Unless—” she looked up from the parchment in her hands, squinting at him. “Do you really not know?”

“Know what?”

“The advance tonight.” At Chris’ confused gaze, she gestured down the flickering opening. “Go talk to Clive; I don’t want to explain it.” 

Internally, he let out an annoyed breath, walking down the catacomb. Chris liked his independence; he didn’t join the guild to report to a master. 

And somehow he always ended up back here. 

His hand rapped against the wooden table, making Clive glance up. “Redfield,” the Master of the BSAA commented, neither unpleasant nor friendly, “What brings you down here?”

“Jill said I should talk to you,” he replied, his eyes darting around the room. Clive was relatively defenseless, except for the knife he had in his belt and the larger blade that Chris knew the man had hidden under the table.  The room itself told another story, with two shadowed figures guarding the doorway and another behind the shelf (Was he really thinking Chris didn’t see him?).  “She mentioned an ‘advance tonight’? How come I wasn’t made aware of this?”

Clive raised his eyebrows. “It is widely known knowledge, though perhaps not for you, seeing you don’t join us for our congregations.”

The assassin sat himself on the table. “Well I’m here now, so lay it on me.”

“I really don’t have the—”

Chris leaned in so his shadow loomed over the other man. “Make some.”

He heard the other men moving towards him, but Clive raised his hand to gesture to them to stop. “It is fine.” Shifting his eyes back to Chris, he said. “I’m not in the mood for your wild game Redfield, so I’ll keep it short. We found the Prince.”

Stillness. “What?”

“That is what our attack is for tonight,” Clive explained. “During the first sleep, Umbrella will flock to the Spencer Estate. We heard that Spencer’s heir and he himself will be there. Therefore, the attack.” 

Was it really that simple? After all these years of chasing, wrong corners or wrong targets, was the heir really just going to walk into their hands? “Where did you get the news from?”

“Does it matter?” Clive said impatiently, waving his quill at Chris. “Look, Redfield, I really do not care if you take the note or not, there are enough going out tonight that it does not matter. At the end of their day, the heir is dead, and the Crown, myself, and the sell-sword goes to bed constantly. Are we done?”

Slowly, Chris slid off the table. “Yes,” was the cautious reply. He gave the guards a half-hearted wave of the hand as he hurried off. 

The BSAA. He doesn’t remember when he joined the guild, was it before or after he met Wesker? Chris had still been taking any job he could find back then, so probably before. He had never really cared for their ideology. Fighting the dirtier wars for the Crown? Please. 

The guild were only their loyal dogs, the gold they slipped the scraps they threw under the table. 

(But you stayed, didn’t you?)

And yet, he stayed, and even if he didn’t care for the guild itself, he cared for the people. Sheva, Rebecca, Piers, Jill.

Should he warn them? Tell them they’re walking into a trap?

No, he shouldn’t. He was not even sure it’s a trap. For all he knew, the heir really will show at the Estate today, and their eternal war against Umbrella will finally finish. 

(And where would you go then?)

Flip a coin, he told himself. Heads, he would warn his friends, tails, he kept quiet. 

Click. A gold coin spun through the air, gleaning against the dim candlelights of the catacombs. Ding!

Heads.

He kept quiet and flipped the coin until it landed back on tails. Click. Ding!

Chris returned to Wesker’s estate around the twelfth hour. Flopping onto the bed (it had to be softer than clouds!)He found a piece of parchment laying on his pillow. 

Sorry dear, it read with perfect, scrawling handwriting, I will not be able to make it tonight. I’m afraid my little meet-up is taking longer than expected. I will make it up to you soon, unless you still want to take me to that mangled old tavern of yours. 

– Wesker

A fond smile crossed his face as he placed the parchment back onto the pillow. It was alright, Chris doubted he could enjoy the evening anyway, too busy worrying about the attack. 

Oh, he was free now, wasn't he? Theoretically, Chris had the time to head over the estate and try his hands on the Prince. If it wasn’t a trap, of course. No, he shan’t go, it would be such a waste of time, and he didn’t need the annoyance of the consequences of murdering Spencer’s heir to get in the way of him and Wesker. 

He settled back in bed. This was fine. 

Chris flicked the gold coin between his fingers, restless. 

(Their blood will still be on your hands, Chris Redfield, directly or indirectly. Sin of omission.)

No, they chose that for themself, and who was Chris to try to stop them? 

(Ah, once you get your plush and lavish lifestyle, you abandon the rest? Above them all now, aren’t you?)

Shut up. He slammed his fist against the bedrest, wincing as the ornately carved wood broke and splintered off into his arm. Ouch. 

As he wrapped his wound, he reflected on his decision to keep silent. It wasn’t exactly because he didn’t want to tell them, it was more that he already knew their reactions. 

Jill would probably scoff and call him complacent, Sheva, less so than Jill, but would probably frown at him disbelieving. Piers and Rebecaa might agree to his reason, but he doubted they would listen. It wasn’t like Chris had any actual proof, all of this being just a gut feeling of his. 

(Or are you just leav—)

Chris groaned just to quiet his thoughts. Do you want me to go to the death trap willingly?!

(And now you’re feeling sorry for yourself. Oh poor Redfield, his conscience is telling him to do one good thing in his miserable, cowardly life.)

“I’m not a coward!” he snapped. 

(But isn’t that what you’re doing? Running away once again. It’s the BSAA first, and then it’ll be your friends. Who’s next? Your precious–)

He smacked his head against his fist. If only that would work to actually silent his thoughts. 

A drink. A drink would shut it all up.

(The inn, the bar, and a blonde head that was raising an eyebrow at him. There are parchment posted behind him, and Chris knew if he peels them off he would find the faces of dead men. 

 He wondered what he was doing here. He of all people cannot be doing this, he doesn’t deserve to be next to people, and he definitely doesn’t deserve to have someone actually care for him. 

But the blood was dripping from every corner, darkness’s hand colder than the winter night, and his guilt a burdensome weight. Most of all, in this room packed with hundred other townsmen, Chris felt so alone. )

 And so Chris was a guilty coward with his pockets filled with thirty silver coins, but somehow, someone found the ability to love him, so maybe Chris could find it in himself to do the same. But not like this. Not as the man he is. 

So to the mansion he went into Death’s open arm. 

Hey, maybe he would try his options. Afterall, Wesker technically just stood him up tonight. 

After taking a quick stop to the back of the tavern (where Chris hid most of his gear that wasn’t absolutely necessary), he changed into the thicker, leather clothes and strapped his multiple blades into place. The setting sun told him he still had some time to sneak out the walls and head up the mountain, so he went out and around to go buy himself a new cloak (the other one had been ripped apart by the castle dogs). 

One new, mottled black cloak later, Chris carefully scaled up the wall. It was easier than facing the guards themselves, and it saved him the time from the traffic of the main roads. He dropped himself with a grace that was very unlike the man of his size. 

He hadn’t been in the Estate in a long while, but he was confident that he could find his way. 

It was the time of year where the weather wasn’t warm or cold. There was still snow higher up the mountains, but you could see the budding plants coming up from beyond the white. 

Chris felt the mansion before he saw it. The forest around had gone quiet, the low whistle of birds and rustling of animals fading away long before the building appeared in his sight. 

It was beautiful in the way that the night was beautiful. Intricacy that laid in shadows, all of its secrets never to be truly seen. It would be peaceful too, if not for the sense of dread that was settling at the pit of his stomach. 

The door opened with a large creak that grated on his nerves. What was with creepy old doors and their ominous noises? 

A fact about entering a new environment: your eyes take time to adjust to a sudden change of light, like a total darkness or flash of light. Your ears need to recover if it is blasted with a large noise or zero into a low hum of breaths. 

But smell? It hits you full on. 

So the first thing that Chris realized as he stepped into the dank room was the smell of copper. 

His hands creeped for the blade at his side, but he couldn’t sense anyone, or anything in that matter, in the immediate vicinity. The entrance was empty. 

Was the smell of blood so strong that it could appear rooms away?

Unease. And Fear. Boy, had it been a long time since he felt fear. When was the last time? When he was twelve? Or the time that he had failed in the assasination of the Princess and almost caught?

(He could almost feel those hands now, centimeters away from his shirt, reaching— Chris was going to get caught. He was going to hang—

Chris was going to die.)

Yes, it had been a long time since Chris feared the knocking of a skeleton hand on the door. 

(And now you have something you fear to lose too. Then again, better him than you, isn’t that right?)

He needs to turn back and walk out, right now. There was still going back, Chris could still get out of this. 

Instead, he yanked the blade out of his sheath and followed the smell of copper. 

The farther in he headed down the halls, the louder the noises became. At first it was the odd sound of clattering, then there was the familiar noise of a body hitting the ground. 

The screaming came right after that. 

Chris had to stop himself from breaking into a run. He was sure that he could keep his steps quiet, but less so on if the sudden movement might attract any unwanted attention. 

He kept his prudent advance. 

Almost halfway down the floors was when Chris ran into the first person. 

They were running down one of the hallways, shaking so much that Chris almost thought they were ill. He was only a few steps away when he could make out the figure’s face. 

Enrico, if Chris remembered correctly. The man’s name was Enrico. A highly regarded BSAA agent, it was a stark contrast to who Chris was facing now. 

Seeing Chris, the man shoved a blade at him. “Get away!”

He raised his arm up placidly. “It’s only me, Redfield. You’re okay.”

“No!” the man yelled. Chris winced. It was like the man wanted to get caught. 

“Quiet down,” he hissed. 

Enrico looked at him with almost crazed eyes. “Don’t go down there, Redfield.”

“What’s down there?” Chris tried to coax an answer out. 

The arm holding the blade was quivering. “A monster,” Enrico whispered, “Don’t go down there; only monsters and deadmen walk out.”

A sudden strike from the shadows, if Chris was any lesser of a man, he wouldn’t have seen it. But his eyes had been trained for years to see such movement, trained to watch from the corner of his eyes of surprises or threats. But also— 

The movement had been a gesture of an actor, a flourish that was exaggerated for their audience. He was supposed to see it. 

Red began dripping from Enrico’s throat, and it fell on the floor in small drops and splatters. The assassin started choking, a hand reaching for his own throat, but it was already too late. 

With one last dreadful look at Chris, he collapsed to the floor and away from life. 

Even before he heard the noise of the body falling, Chris’ hands had already tightened around the blade. His eyes searched the room for the source of Enrico’s killer, but there was no one there. 

His eyes returned to the body in front, and for what seemed like the hundredth time, Chris asked himself if he should turn back. 

(Ah, the coward’s move once again?)

He continues on, if only  to spite the voice.

 (Or prove me right. )

It was at the final floor when the bodies began to pile up, one after the other. Chris didn’t even know that the guild had so many assassins. Maybe the Crown had hired mercenaries from outside the kingdom. 

Some of the bodies were already cold, others still warm, and still others that were awake, gurgling the last of their lives and staring at Chris with pleading eyes. 

There was nothing else he could do but to put them out of their misery. 

Ahead of the mound of bodies, the assassin spotted the shadow of a figure. The heir, Chris, recognized almost instantaneously, he had seen that silhouette almost a hundred times in the notes that were posted around Racoon. 

Clive hadn’t been lying then, just severely underestimating his target. A rookie’s or an egotist’s move. 

Foot sliding against the slick, red floor, Chris launches himself from the ground. He doesn’t waste his time on words— he only spoke once he was assured that those words would be the last to whoever was unfortunate enough to hear them. 

He saw it all then, the arc of the blade, the exact location it would fall, how long it would take for his target to bleed out judging on their body size. Chris often came off as a natural fool to many who met him (which was not exactly untrue), but boy, was he good at his job. 

You had to be, if you wanted to survive. 

Chris saw the red before it was there, he could already feel the thick, warm liquid in his hands, it was fate, it was inevitable. Death came with the reaper, he came with Death, and whoever meets Chris would meet the end. 

He thrust the blade at the heir of the usurper, the Crown’s most wanted man, and the Killer of his Guild. Chris saw it now, the eyes, he could already see the empty look of dead man’s eyes as the head turn round—

The head turns round, and the Reaper of Racoon meets the face of his lover. 

(Because, Chris, you always knew that Albert Wesker’s blood would stain you. The only question was when.)

There was the thrust of the blade, its arc, the time it took for a man to fall out, the warmth of copper, and the last image to be seen, this was the truth, this was fate that could not be changed. 

It was the inevitability of his life. 

But the thrust of the blade did not come, the arc did not fall, there was no dropping of body or sticky copper, and there was no final image. There was no truth. 

Between the smoky grey lens, the eyes of a reaper found the eyes of his love, and could not find it in himself to finish the inevitable. 

Oh i don’t know what the heck im writing and i need to write more.

Paradox,  an argument that apparently derives self-contradictory conclusions by valid deduction from acceptable premises.

“What,” he whispered between his teeth. 

Familiar, pale lips that Chris had kissed a hundred times twitched up into smirk. “Hello, love.”

Heads lolled to the side, watching him with the blank look that Chris saw more than he saw alive. Some of his fellows, others his rivals, and  still others he did not care much for. 

Others, he thought, under the mound of limp limbs and agape mouths, were his friends. Was it Sheva under that pile of men, was it Jill that was hanging halfway from the loft? 

Two hands came wrapping around his throat. One was the same that Chris always saw, pale and soft and unweathered like his own that were filled with scars from too many mistaken cuts and purposeful wounds. The hand that would brush up against him in fondness during their shared dinners together or before they fell into the land of dreams. 

The other hand was its opposite, covered in a black leather glove, bloodied with the red of the BSAA’s sellswords. It smeared onto Chris’ skin as it pressed down upon his throat, choking, so unlike the hand that fondled through his hair. Oh, there was no air in Chris’ lungs, he couldn’t breath, he was going to die.

(In some way, he’s happier this way. Really, if his nightmares were of Wesker’s blood on his own hands, this was practically the bliss of dreams.)

He felt the world blacking around, Death’s awaiting arms, and Albert’s face. It could’ve been Chris hallucinating in his final moments, but he could swear his expression was one of confusion. 

You know, Chris believed in heaven. 

People were surprised to hear this (at least, the people who were alive enough to respond), because you never really expect the Reaper to have any beliefs in an afterlife, especially a good one. 

But it was the truth, Chris believed in heaven. He didn’t really know if that was more of a strong conviction in his head that there must be something after, or just wishful thinking (because he had some souls to apologize to, and others to reunite with). 

Imagine his surprise, however, when the world came back not in heavenly choruses and golden gates, but sheets that were soft as clouds underneath him. 

He was not dead, he was only dreaming. A nightmare. 

Only there were ropes around his arms, the coolness of a metal shackle on his right leg. This was not safe. 

Reflexively, he tried to reach with bound arms to the knife under his pillow. A strong hand clamped around his wrist. 

Someone was here. 

No. The hand was familiar. 

There was something covering his eyes. Soft fabric, tied taut around his face. 

“My, my, Christopher,” a soothing voice came from above him, “the moment you wake, you reach for the blade.”

The words came out without thinking. “Albert.”

A hum. “Did you really think I was going to let you keep your knife under the pillow?” Chris felt a cold point at his chin, tipping it up. His knife. “Then again, I took it away moons ago, and you never noticed. Not very vigilant, for the most famed killer of Racoon.”

Moons? Had the blade really been gone for so long that Chris had never even noticed its disappearance? When was the last time he checked?

(You’ve grown soft.)

The knife was always there because Chris had been worried that someone would’ve attacked them in the depths of the night (not that he needed one to protect them, he could’ve strangled anyone who would even dare with one hand), but he had never expected Wesker to be the one to take it out. 

(You never expected a thing.)

“Oh Christopher,” his lover (were they still lovers?) sighed. “Were you really so foolish to think I never knew? You left your track so obvious, always saying you were heading off the inn when it is common knowledge that it's the BSAA’s guildhall. Even this knife has the guild’s crest stamped in the metal.”

Chris almost chuckled at those words, wondering what Clive would think when he found out his precious little BSAA was just ‘common knowledge’ in Wesker’s words. Probably break out in a fit of rage. 

Hot breath against his ear. “But really, I always knew. Since the day we met at that tavern.”

…What?

Wesker must’ve seen the silent question in his lips; Chris could already imagine the smirk crossed over his face. “You must be asking,” pride flushed through the traitor’s voice. “Why would I risk myself to be a BSAA assassin? The answer is, I just thought it’d be fun. You’d be my little toy. Imagine it, the Reaper playing into my own hands. ” A sinking of the feather stuffed bed as Wesker leaned back behind him. “Father was so boring. Crown this, crown that. Little did he know of my own ambitions.” A short cackle. “In between all those words, he never paid much attention to what his heir was doing. I bet he’s regretting it now.”

A dryness in his mouth. Was Spencer— “What did you do to him?”

“Cut him here, just so.” Chris felt the knife’s blade at his throat, slowly cutting against his skin as a small trickle of blood dripped down his chest. “A faster death than he deserved, really, but I had to prepare for my next show.”

Chris could feel the pounding headache against his skull. It was probably caused by the mix of an empty stomach, no sleep, and getting knocked out by one Albert Wesker. “The BSAA, I presume?”

“Ah, so he does learn. Yes, my play is for the Crown, or in actuality, their mangled little dog.” A finger began brushing against his cheek, and if Chris was none the wiser, he would say it was fond. “Easier than I would’ve thought, funnily enough. I tipped your master off myself, and everything set itself together.” 

So Wesker was playing a game with the Crown. “Why?” Because why target the guild that was nothing but mud under the common people’s feet, when he could’ve targeted the golden boys Knights or the famed DSO? He would’ve won so much more in the long run, especially if he was aiming for the throne itself. 

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” Irritation crept into Wesker’s perfectly controlled words. “‘Why’ do I set up this elaborate trap for the BSAA?” A scoff.  “Because of you.”

“Me,” he repeated slowly. He could already feel the pangs in his skull pounding harder. 

“Yes, ‘you’! Because how dare the BSAA even think they can just send their puppy off and expect him to seduce me of all people,” the heir (or was he even the heir anymore, if he had taken Spencer’s place) seethed. “The arrogance!”

Wesker rattled on more and more about the BSAA, but really Chris could care less. He wanted to hit his head against the bedrest. 

After a long while of listening to the man’s complaints, Chris asked. “Did it work?”

The blonde stopped midsentence. “What are you saying?”

“The seducing. Did it work or not?”

Wesker snapped back immediately. “Of course not, you fool! You tripped over your first five words!”

More griping and explaining about how he only stayed because Chris was his little ‘experiment’. The man was starting to sound almost defensive. 

Yet the assassin couldn’t find much in him to care. The pounding of his head would not go away, and couldn’t even try to rub his brow to alleviate it. Interrupting Wesker, he said, “Did you kill them?”

A pause. “Who?”

“Sheva. Jill.” Who knows who else. 

Another beat. And then the hand that had been fingering his cheek seized his jaw. Ouch. 

“After all of this, you’re asking about your friends?!”

“Yes,” he retorted back. The ache in his head was not helped by the new companion of one smushed jaw. “Did you hurt them?”

(Because what if it was Jill’s blood that was on Wesker’s glove? What would Chris do then?)

Sharp nails digging into the soft skin of his face as Wesker hissed. “I skinned them, Redfield, I skinned them slowly and let them bleed out against a carpet of their own flesh. I’m going to make it a rug.” 

“So you didn’t.”

“What? No I just—”

“You were lying,” Chris responded dryly. “This is your ‘I’m making a joke at your own expense’ voice. Therefore, you didn’t hurt them.” A breath. “You really could’ve just told me, Al, your jokes aren’t too funny.”

Wesker shoved his head away. “Stop it with that pet name!”

“Sure, love.” Chris said in exasperation as he clenched his eyes shut. So his friends were fine. That was good. Clive had either listened to his own suspicions, or had already known, if Chris’ suspicions of him being cohorts with Wesker correct, and kept his more valuable assets away from the mansion. 

Jill must’ve been furious. 

(They’re alive.) 

A wave of exhaustion hit him at that moment as the night’s events flew at him in full force. His lover was the traitor to the Crown with Clive probably being one as well, half the BSAA was dead, but his friends were fine and he was back in bed with Wesker. Who was probably going to kill him, but currently Chris was too tired to really care. 

He dropped his head onto Wesker’s shoulders, burying his nose into the nook of the man’s neck. It was cold, but that was usual, and Chris never minded it. He smelled distinctively of the beeswax, expensive perfumes, and bits of copper. The last one was an outlier, but was nothing compared to Chris' years as an assassin. 

It felt like home.

(And it had been a long time since Chris had a home.)

He could feel Wesker’s body freeze up under him. “What are you doing?” 

Chris grumbled in lieu of a reply. 

“I can kill you right now,” Wesker threatened. 

Ignoring him, Chris only buried his head deeper into the crook. “What do you want, Wesker?” he asked finally. “Is it that? Killing me? Because I’m right here.”

A beat . “Why?” the man growled. “You can’t just die!”

“That’s what humans do, Albert,” was said in a matter-in-fact voice. 

“You can’t just give up.”

He groaned. “Yes I can. Now tell me what you want so I can go to sleep. Or you can kill me. Preferably before my headache becomes the killer.”

Chris heard the man take a deep breath, as if calming himself. “What I want,” the man said, “is for you to tell me why.”

TELL ME WHY AIN’T NOTHING BUT A HEARTACHE

“Why what?”

“Why would you play such a long game!” Wesker snapped. “All those dinners with me, trailing me and pretending to be my loyal guard, staring down all my chefs to make sure I wasn’t poisoned. All those tender nights, all those kisses goodbye, you had me at armslength.”

“Is there a question there?”

“Yes!” the man had begun grasping at his shirt. Oh, Chris wasn’t in his leathers anymore, someone had changed his clothes. Was it Wesker? “All those days, our long game of pretending you cared, and you never even did anything.”

Don’t tell him. Was Wesker feeling betrayed?

His lover continued on. “Do you know why tonight happened, Christopher? Because I got tired of being played! I knew you were lying from the start, but you never made your move. This whole show? The BSAA agents? It was done so I could finally force you to make your move. And what do you do? You just gave up!” 

Oh my, Wesker really was feeling salty. For the second time that night, he wanted to break down in laughter. 

Wait. If Wesker was feeling salty, that meant the man had actually cared. He actually was feeling deceived because of Chris. 

“You can’t be serious,” the assassin said as he sat upright. “You fell in love with me. Despite knowing that I was from the BSAA.”

“No! How many times do I have to tell you, you’re my plaything, my toy—”

“You actually fell in love with your assassin,” Chris reveled in amazement. “The great heir of Spencer the usurper, fell in love with the BSAA cutthroat. Knowingly. “

“You weren’t even doing your job!” Oh, Chris bet that man was blushing if he could see past the blindfold. He really was too easy. “You didn’t even let any of the other assassins try to kill me!”

“I’m not letting you drink nightshade.” 

“Exactly that! Why would you go through such lengths to pretend to love me when you didn’t even try!” 

Oh. 

Albert Wesker almost sounded hurt. 

Chris softened his tone. “I wasn’t pretending.” The blonde snorted. “I wasn’t!” he insisted again. “I do care. I do love you, Al.”

Wesker’s hand tightened against his scalp. “Shut up!

“And unlike you, I wasn’t playing anybody,” the Reaper of Racoon said, disregarding the man’s previous words. “I really just wanted to be your lover. To me, what we had was real—though I don’t know about you, seeing that you keep calling me a toy. But I appeared to you that day of my own accord, no Clive or BSAA sent me.”

“So you just wanted to play me as well.”

Chris rolled his eyes under the fabric. “Not everyone is as weird as you. And I didn’t even know you were the heir in the first place.”

A long silence. “What?”

“I mean, how was I supposed to know?” Chris reasoned. “It’s not like the face in the notes even looks like you.”

Suddenly, he was slammed down against the broken bedrest. “You can’t be serious right now,” Wesker’s voice was shaking with fury. “You’re lying.”

“No, I genuinely just thought you were some pretty looking, wealthy man, that I managed to grab at the tavern.” Honest answer, Chris swore. 

The blindfold was ripped from his face, and Chris' head jerked back. Man, maybe warn the person next time?

Oh, Chris could see again. 

He glanced up to the body above him. Yep, his pretty, wealthy lover who just happened to be the most wanted man of the Crown.

Eyes laced with anger, the man shoved a note in Chris’ face. “There are hundreds of my notes everywhere, how could you not have known?!”

Chris shrugged. “Again, the drawing doesn’t look like you. That got your nose all wrong.”

“It has my name. All over it.”

The assassin squinted at the note again. Was that…?

Looking up at Wesker, he said, “I can’t read.”

Wesker stared at him. Chris stared back. 

“What do you mean you can’t read?!” the man spluttered. 

Chris raised his eyebrow. “No one ever taught me. I was an assassin at the age of four, love, I don’t have time or the money to be taught. 

“How– What–” Look who was stumbling over their words now, Wesker. “How do you read the notes?”

“There are pictures for a reason,” was the simple answer. Chris really needed to go to sleep. He sunk into the silk sheets and tried to close his eyes. 

Wesker was still baffled. “Did no one, not even the BSAA mention my name?”

“They might’ve, but we usually just called you ‘the heir’ or ‘the prince’. And it was not like I was actively listening to their conversations. I don’t even go to their meetings.”

He could feel Wesker’s gaze boring into him. “Why are you even part of the BSAA? You don’t listen to Clive, don’t have their ideals, don't care to attend their meetings, and don’t even know who your most wanted target is. What’s the point of even being in it?” 

Ah, the question Chris asked himself everyday. Lucky day for Wesker, however, Chris had the answer for a while. “Because I don’t know what else to do with myself.”

“You don’t know what to do with yourself,” Wesker repeated. 

Another shrug. “It’s the truth. I’ve been an assassin my whole life, I don’t see myself doing anything else. “

“You could’ve left. Been a mercenary. Maybe even a knight,” Wesker tried to argue. “Money couldn’t have been the problem, you’ve been with me for years.”

Chris hummed. “Lay down,” he said as he tried to pull the man into the bed. Wesker gave a futile struggle before falling next to him. He continued explaining. “The thing is, Al, there will always be red on me. Blood of the guilty, blood of the innocent. Doesn’t matter, it would always be there.”

Deadpan, Wesker replied, “And being in the BSAA of all places helped?”

“It was for some kind of purpose. At least there, I could’ve pretended all the killing I was doing was for something, instead of me just feeling lost.”

A sort of quiet engulfed them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was the sort of comfortable silence that Chris always loved, because it was a peace he usually lacked, but it wasn’t quiet either, Wesker’s presence a guard against the screaming of his mind. 

“Would you go back to the BSAA now?”

“Maybe,” the assassin said honestly.  “Probably not.”

Chris felt the man lean closer. “Would you come if I hire you? Actually, not the little game we were pretending, but my actual guard.”

“I was your actual guard!” he exclaimed before quieting down. “I don’t know, but its too late, or early, to say. We can talk about this later.”

A mumble of a response. Was Wesker drifting off to sleep?

“Could you take me chains off? They’re getting a little uncomfortable.” Chris would rather not have to sleep in shackles more than he already has. 

More mumbling. “No,” were the muffled words into Chris’ chest. “Don’t want you,” something Chris couldn’t make out. “Run away.”

“I’m not going to,” the assasin said annoyed. No use, the man was already asleep. 

Sometimes, Chris really wondered why he loved Albert Wesker. 

Five years later...

Pounding of footsteps behind, Leon could hear the the clattering of the knight’s metal suits chasing after him. 

He ducked over the corner and laid himself flat against the wall. Soon, the racket of the armor fell away and Leon was left to the pure, eerie silence of the castle. Taking a deep breath, he sent a prayer of thanks to the heavens. 

If you had told Leon six years ago that his life in the future would be spent being hunted like a traitor, he would’ve laughed in your face. 

Look at him now. 

After the death of King Benfordd of the rise of Wesker, the knights of the fallen monarchy were hunted down like game. What little men were left after the original decree had soon escaped the kingdom

The few people had stayed were already hidden away in fear of having the same fate as their friends. For Leon to have found any remnants of the Old Guard had been a miracle, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t wish to have a few more men to join his rebellion. 

This day had been planned impeccably for the last three years. Every men had a job, every task had a backup, every route had two entrances and five exits. Leon knew it in his bones that his sword, the same sword that was gifted to him by the deceased king, would be the one to slice Wesker’s head off once and for all. 

And then Leon had stood in the throne room, once painted in golden lights and fond memories, the room of his purpose, with the sword struck through the plush, red fabric of the chair. 

It gleaned in the dim light, not a single speck of blood to be seen. 

(His king’s smile dropped away as Benford’s head went rolling off, only for a dark, satisfied look of the Usurper to replace it.)

Another blade had appeared under his throat. Leon had recognized it, faintly, as the Imperial standard, signified with the black coloration of metal and the engraved stars of the constellation Serpens. 

But no, the stars weren’t aligned in that familiar snakelike pattern, but rather a triangular fashion. It formed a familiar dog. 

Canus Major. Orion’s loyal dog. 

It all the man’s fame, no one had ever saw his face. Really, more people had came out alive seeing the imposter king’s face than his dog. 

Well, until Leon. 

His face had been grizzled over with bits of hair, more wrinkles and scars around his the features, but Leon could never mistake the look in the man’s eyes. 

Chris Redfield, as Leon lived and breathed. 

Well, not for much longer, if the rebel didn’t get out of here anytime soon. He poked his head out of the corner: coast clear. With a sigh of relief, Leon made to leave. 

A muscular arm engulfed his neck. “Going anywhere, Leon?”

Nevermind, Leon’s plans on a happy, peaceful life by the seaside was now ruined forever (or really, all his plans on actually living, not that he was complaining too much). “Bingo night.”

A chuckle. “Never lost your sense of humor, did you?” 

“No, but it seems you lost your sanity,” was his irritated reply. 

The chokehold around his neck only got tighter. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know,” Leon bited back, “the whole, working for Albert Wesker thing ring a bell?”

“Well, I don’t really know about working for him,” Redfield mused. “It’s more like a make sure he doesn’t get himself in any foolish messes that might get himself killed. Happens more than you think.”

Leon glanced around his surroundings. If he could just make it down that hallway and take a right, he knew there would be an exit down the stairs to the Main Room, or better yet, the cellars underground. However, that would require getting out of here, which would also required the impossible task of breaking out of Redfield’s grip. 

He needed a distraction. “What would your sister thing of this?”

“Claire?” Redfield asked. “Oh, have you seen her recently? I know the two of you were close when you were in the Knights Guard.” The man seem almost fond recounting the memory. 

“Yes. But she never mentioned anything about you being Wesker’s dog.”

The bigger man chuckled. “I wouldn’t say I’m his dog, per say, more his probably wiser guardian. The whole dog thing came from rumors.” 

And then something happened that shook Leon’s whole ginormous worldview for the second time that night (and no, it wasn’t that he liked men, he knew that ever since he laid eyes on one Luis Serra), but Redfield loosened his grip.

Instantly, Leon pushed himself away. Wesker’s dog only raised his arms in surrender, the same stupid grin on his face. “Hey, hey, off so fast?”

“Why are you doing this?” the rebel rasped through his sore throat. 

Redfield raised his eyebrow. “Letting you go? I mean, I was never going to kill you Leon, we were friends last time I checked. And Claire would never speak to me again if I did.” 

He growled. “No! I meant why would you ever work for him? He killed Benford, not to mention the massacre of the Old Guard and your own BSAA.” 

“Oh,” the smile on his face turn sadder. “You meant that.”

“What else would I mean?!”

The Reaper of Racoon, Guard Dog of the Imposter King, and one of Leon’s best friends looked up to him with his terrible, warm brown eyes and simply said, “Because I love him.”

Any response Leon had dried out at those words.

Seeing the expression on the rebels face, Redfield only gave him a small nod. “You know I wouldn’t have played this whole cat and mouse game with your otherwise, right?”

Leon licked his dried lips. Honestly, he hadn’t known what he thought when he saw that the man holding the blade of Sirius had been Redfield himself. He opened his mouth to say more, but the sound of clanking armor came back once again. 

Redfield’s head jerked to the side. “That’s your cue, Leon. I suggest you get out of here as fast as those big old legs of yours would take you, less you wanted to actually get hanged.”

As quick as the rats that Leon used to hunt when he was a child, he darted to the opening. He would have to take the windows out, he supposed. Might as well do a flip while he was at it. 

Before launching off, Leon paused and looked around. He had one last question for his friend. 

Clearing his throat, he asked, “Why do you love him?”

Redfield, who had gone back to twirling a gold coin between his fingers, looked up in surprise. “What?”

The rebel glanced anxiously through the window. He still had time. “Why could you love Albert Wesker, after everything? I don’t exactly see any endearing traits in him.”

“Because of he’s more wealthy beyond belief,” Redfield joked and Leon rolled his eyes. 

Click. The old reaper flicked the gold coin up into the air, and Leon watch it glimmer against the moon’s bright glow. Tone become more serious, Redfield continued, “But really, I didn’t stop loving him after I saw the truth.”

Ding! The coin began its descent, and a large palm caught it. “You really should go now, Leon, the guards are almost here.”

Leon pursed his lips. “That really isn’t much of an answer.” 

Chris let out an exasperated breath. “Fine, how about this. He started loving me despite knowing everything,” a melancholic laugh. “Heavy, blood money ladened pockets and probably out to get him, somehow that foolish man still fell for me. Insane, no?

Leon wanted to ask more, but Redfield was right, the noise was getting louder and louder by the moment, and soon they would be around the corner. Regretfully, he gave Redfield an exaggerated wave as he jumped out the window, but not before he heard the man’s final words. 

“I love him because he saw the whole truth since the beginning, and still found it in him to love me.” 

And Leon could never fault his friend for that. 

Niki hadn’t come back after the bombing revelation of one Lewis Hamilton. 

(A memory of a call came back to him, years ago, to another man in another situationship. It was not the same, because no two stories could be, but close enough that Alain himself could see the parallels. History repeating itself, and no matter how much he warned, nothing could really break the wall built of pride and a grudge.)

The Frenchman had resigned himself to crutching himself home. He was hungry, and he missed Ayrton’s face. A face that had a genuine smile on it, not the fake one he showed to the crowds, or the predatory one he gave to the Professor. 

Getting up the stairs was a pain, and exhaustion hung on every bone. He really did hope Ayrton wasn’t home yet, otherwise he had a lot of explaining to do. Every step came with a loud clang that rang in his ear. 

Ringing, ringing, ringing. 

Shut up. 

Alain reached the top of the steps in a record pace (for a man that half-blind and currently in crutches) and quietly swung open the door. He froze in his steps. 

There was someone besides Ayrton here. You might ask him how he knew? Alain knew because the noise of the man’s footsteps were embedded in his mind, right next to the sound of his own breath and heartbeat. The steps in the restroom, those were not Ayrton’s. 

Alain reached for the blaster in his belt. While he was reluctant to take it from Niki when he first offered it to him, the man had insisted he needed it in case he was caught away from his gear. He dropped his crutch at the edge of the door and began to inch closer. 

“Adrianne,” a voice unexpectedly called from the bedroom, “Are you done?”

Ayrton’s voice, Adrianne…

Oh.

Alain almost let the blaster clatter to the floor. Almost. 

“Just about.” A familiar, melodic voice replied back. Alain had only seen the woman around a few times in the paddock, here and there, but in no doubt it was the same. 

A hum. 

Alain was intruding into a private moment. He shouldn’t be here (well, a smart voice in his head replied, you are supposed to be here. This is your apartment. He told the voice to shut it). 

There was a sound of a door opening, and Alain immediately hid behind the counter. A small click of a lock. 

“…”

What had Alain expected? What was he even expecting in the first place? Ayrton… Ayrton was a beautiful man with a force that attracted pretty things from miles. Someone as charming deserved the same. 

(And Ayrton was never his in the beginning.)

The man must have been exhausted, always looking after Alain, always switching between work and the injured man. He didn’t ever really get some time for himself, did he? He never even got to celebrate his championship win…

(‘Did you really expect him to choose you?’ a hissing voice that sounded strangely like the dream man cackled. 

‘He said… he said.’)

Yes, Ayrton Senna was a handsome thing, a sculptor's favorite piece. Something so stunning needs something matching, gorgeous women and kind souls. 

Not Alain. Not Alain that was always broken, half-blind with a crooked nose, always running, always a coward, and always shattered in all the jagged pieces that cut anyone who came too close. He was certainly no beauty, the sculptor’s failure that he pushed to the side. 

Ayrton Senna was not Alain’s to take, not him to have. 

(You can’t even save him.)

His back began to ache, a pressing throb that made him want to crumple to the ground. Fatigue wanted to drag him under, but Alain couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t, when Ayrton was in the other room… 

Alain dragged himself back to his crutch. Niki’s airport headquarters, that was the best choice. His mind had already flipped though all the other options like it usually did when faced with a problem.

Was this a problem? No it wasn’t, Alain’s idiot brain was just making it one. 

(Just go.)

One step. The other in front. 

His knee gave out and he collapsed to the floor. Everything flashed white for a moment as he choked on the pain. 

“What was that?” a voice asked.

A shuffling of feet. Ayrton’s feet. 

Alain scrabbled to his own feet and ran, yanking the crutch behind him. Fear took the edge of the pain more than any drug could. He was out the front door before he knew it, and he shut his eyes as he heard the faint conversation between a man and a woman. Ultimately, he heard the two go back in the room. 

One. 

Two. 

Three.

Four. 

He needed more painkillers. Or better, a pack. 

The airport wasn’t that far, but as Alain stared at the hundreds of stairs under him, it felt like years before he’d reach it. 

Keep going. 

Adrianne’s face. Ayrton’s happy face when he looked at her. They were good together, anyone could see that. Alain could see it. 

So why couldn’t his heart?

(Because your heart is a selfish thing, the voice told him. That’s how you win races, that’s how you will save him.)

He repeated those words in his head. This was enough. 

It was not enough. 

Niki was back when he arrived, and he seemed surprised to find Alain back. “Alain, what are—” He saw the expression on his face, the drained look in his eye, and didn’t finish. Instead, he took Alain by the arm and dragged him to the cot in the infirmary. Alain practically sunk into it, his mind almost drifting off into dreams about what Ayrton could possibly be doing now. 

Something heavy was laid on top of him. His eye shot open. “Huh,” Niki was laying a blanket over him. “Niki,” he protested, “you don’t have to do this…”

“If you don’t shut up and go to sleep,” Niki snapped, “I’m going to kick you off to the curb.” Alain bit his lip but let his body settle into the object. Softer, the man said, “We’re talking about this tomorrow.”

No they weren’t, if Alain had anything to do about it. His eyes shuttering close, he fell asleep to the ‘almost’ caring look of Niki Lauda. 

You know, if the man could care.

-. --- - ... .--. .. - . .-.-.-

“Do you think this formula will work?”

The machine is pushed to the side as a hand goes to balance the centrifuge. “Frank trusts it will.”

“Well, after all we did to get it, of course Frank says it’ll work.”

“So you think it won’t work,” the bottle was shoved at the person’s face and shaken. “Have some faith, we developed it.”

“It’s not that I’m scared it won’t work… I’m afraid of the consequences…”

The bottle was taken away and put to the side. “What do you mean? FIA already approved, and all our tests showed positive results.

“There’s a lot more to the game than just approval and results. You’re not even a little afraid?”

“Fear? I am a little fearful, but who isn’t. Most of it all though, aren’t you excited? We’re ushering in the new generations of heroes!” Something is checked on the clipboard. 

“And ending the older one. What are the consequences?”

A sigh. “Are you always this moody, come on! We just created the biggest scientific breakthrough of the century, we’re soooooo getting the championship this year.” The head ducked as another hand came to reach out for it, “you’ll see… Me and you! On the podium.”

“Sure.”

The two figures stood up and there were footsteps. The lights dimmed and the room was left in darkness. A faint glow came from the corner, bright and yellow, and a soft noise could be heard buzzing. No…

Ringing. 

Ron Dennis looked at the mess in front of him. 

The season was over, the mess of Prost and Senna was over. They had secured the championship, the money, the territory. Berger was a good hero. Not Prost good, but that's better in the way that at least McLaren’s two heroes weren’t trying to constantly kill each other. 

Berger was funny, and that was a hundred times better. Especially toward the public. 

Senna had been acting miserably after his partner left, but that was understandable. Ron predicted it himself. He had let his guard down more in fights, let them hit him more, but as long as the Brazilian brought home the wins, it was controllable. It gave a good fight.

But, le Professeur, that was a whole other problem. 

When the terrorist, no, villain had first attacked Senna’s apartment, Ron had found it no big deal. At most a small nuisance. It was the FIA’s problem that they would surely solve quickly, and Ayrton had the money to buy a dozen more if he wanted to. 

The first fight happened. Senna was defeated, humiliated. It was worse, but it was still controllable. A beat down of the main protagonist, every good story had one. 

It was later that the true problem came in. McLaren had an off season. The Professor didn’t. 

So now, when the team was supposed to be having a break and preparing for the next season, they had to deal with a villain constantly attacking them. 

It was usually in Woking, they never travelled farther than England when they did attack outside of the city. That was how Ron knew the villain’s main focus was on them. Or really Senna, because that was who the man only fought. Any time Berger or any other hero from another team showed up, the villain would either give them a small scrimmage that lasted less than a minute or just ride away altogether. 

It was only with Senna did the man give any kind of fight. And the hero was willing to give it to him, still trying to get his revenge for his humiliation. From that first fight, neither had been able to get the drop on the other. While the Professor was able to get Senna back to the ground one more time, the man was never able to tie him up. And when Senna was able to get the upperhand, it never lasted long enough before the villain slipped away back to the shadows again. 

The media loved it. 

An unregulated, FIA banned fighter. A true villain that could rival Senna’s power. A fight that every man or woman could get on, no matter what team’s territory they were in. 

It was story gold. 

The one good thing about it was that McLaren was lining up with sponsors. They all wanted to be part of the epic fight, be part of Senna, the man who would bring the true villain down. Money was flowing in, but Ron would still really like to have his break season. 

Not to mention that he had a dark feeling of what Frank was cooking up…

Oh, and did he mention that the Professor had somehow gotten himself laser swords. The fans had gone wild when the blue and red had started glowing from the hilt in the villain’s hands. The teams themselves had gone wild. Where the lect did this man get this unsupervised tech? 

From what little words they had gotten from the Professor, the man had nicknamed it his “lightsabers”. 

What terrible names. Also a question of where the man got it from.

But Senna…

Senna was full of life (or as full as life to a man who had put his whole life into the homicide of the Professor). 

Ron had never seen the man like this before, maybe at the peak of his and Prost’s rivalry, before it went downwards and the Frenchman had gone (well insane was a little foul, but it was true). There was fire in his every move, and he began to talk to the engineers endlessly, ranting about his assessment of the Professor's latest fight. Senna was watching their fights constantly, before turning back and rewatching it again, looking for any hidden detail or clue that could give him the advantage. He wanted new tech, something new to go against the man, or something he could pull over him. 

Obsession.

Senna’s obsession was back, and perhaps that was what the Professor was going for all along. 

The thing was, the Professor wasn’t even the best of the fighters. Compared to half the heroes in the grid? Perhaps he could rival the back-markers, but to the kings of the Game like Senna? It wasn’t even close. He could fight, yes, get in a few punches, but there were obvious weaknesses anyone who’s been in the game long enough could see. The second the villain saw the fight was turning against him? An instant retreat into the Underground.  

Yet the media didn’t care about that. What they cared about was the idea of him, a true enemy of Senna, perhaps more so than Prost. Not because of his ability but because of his story. Prost was beyond good, that man could rival Senna, but people didn’t like him for the simple fact that the idea of him was boring. Calculating and cold reason, the man would take second if it meant the ultimate win, but it didn’t make for a flashy show. 

The Professor? While his fight was nothing special if you looked closely enough, the story was eminent to anyone who watched it. Senna’s rage was palpable, only egged on by the Professor and the fans, and the mystery of the villain made for the lack of considerable fighting abilities. 

In conclusion, Senna was obsessed, the Professor was a nuisance, the media was not on their side in it, and Ron Dennis had a mammoth of a headache. 

.- -. -.. -.-- . - --..-- .. -. -.-- --- ..- .-. ... .--. .. - . --..-- -.-- --- ..- -.-. .- ..- ... . -.. .. -- --- .-.. .- .-.-.-

“There’s nowhere to run,” Senna said, pushing Alain against the corner of the building. The tip of the McLaren standard blade was at the villain’s chin, threatening to tip the mask off. “Time to show that pretty face of yours,” he said grinning. 

Alain had been successfully unarmed by the hero, with his own “lightsabers” (as he dubbed them affectionately after Star Wars, but sadly Niki nor Senna found the same humor in the name as he did. What a sad world.) laying a couple of meters behind Senna. “I can assure you I’m not as handsome as you think.” Underneath the mask, there was a large frown on his face. This fight has gone longer than he had wanted it to, and Senna was being more annoying than his already infuriating self. 

(Perhaps it was because Alain was losing ground this time.)

“Don’t worry, your terrorism and criminal career makes up for the ugliness. Ron always hated my love for bad-boys.”

Alain almost choked. He did not recall Ayrton being this… this what? Not something Alain wanted to name. “Sorry to say, my personality is as dry as a rock. Maybe you should get another date.” 

What was this? His fourth time being cornered by the hero? It was even shorter than the last time, Senna finally optimizing on Alain’s blind spot. It was less of a problem in the beginning, but even then the man had already begun to notice… How much longer could he keep this up? 

How much longer until the game ended for him?

“Oh, but I want you.” The McLaren hero whined, but there was no humor in the Brazilian’s eyes. The knife abruptly went to strike Alain’s head. “It’s the forbidden relationships that attract me, Professor.

A dodge. “The ugly mug of mine isn’t going to look any better if you cut up my face.” Not that Ayrton hadn’t already done that.

Alain needed to find his edge back, or hopefully relearn his past’s edge of the fight. Otherwise he was not going to last much longer. 

“It’ll give you a sort of ruggedness!” Senna exclaimed. There was a wild grin on his face, but Alain could see that it never reached his eyes. “You can’t be a true bad boy if you don’t get the gruff look.”

A strike and a duck of a head, which gave Alain an opportunity to push past the man and snatch his sabers. “While I appreciate the offer Senna, I’m afraid I enjoy my freedom more than the view.” Today was not the day Alain was going to win any battles. He needed to retreat, especially from the man’s words. “Get yourself a better looking date, mon amour.” 

Ayrton gritted his teeth, infuriated, and half-heartedly tried to chase him, but they both knew once Alain jumped into the Underground, no one was finding him.

Alain still made sure to do his usual circles around the alleys to lose any followers. No one. 

Taking a deep breath, he took note of the sky.  It was the time of day where it wasn’t really day anymore, but not dark enough to call it night. Evening, with skies that of bright blues waving goodbye and splatters of pink flowers. Alain liked it more than the afternoons where the Sun always beat down on you, and he liked it more than the bright morning sun where Niki had to drag him out of bed. 

It was also the time that took him back home. The day shone too much of the Underground, every crack and disintegrating wall, showing how much of the city was beyond disrepair. At night, it was only shadows that crept onto you from the walls and a chilling freeze that clung to your bones. 

Evening balanced it out. The last of the Sun’s dying embers chased away the shadows, but the amber lights didn’t bring out the deterioration of the city.  It filled in the cracks with liquid gold, reminding Alain of the Japanese pottery practice. What was it? Kintsugi? It casted the land into an old medieval world, where kings and knights still ruled the land. 

Who was the King? Alain knew there were other people in play in the city, but he didn’t know them well enough to figure out who led them all. He did know that Niki had to be the dragon of the Underground, always guarding his broken down airport and horde of gear that he had stolen from the teams. 

Alain was currently walking towards the airport, still dressed in his gear from his previous fight with Senna. The comfortable weight of the ‘sabers sat on his back, a new addition to the Professor's gear. How and where Niki was able to get his hands on lightsabers, that was the true question. Or maybe the true question was how Alain was able to survive the man’s sword training. Alain shivered just thinking about it. 

 Something in his mind pushed him towards taking a longer route than usual. Ringing, it was the ringing coming back, shoving him toward another route. It only quieted when he went a certain direction, as if guiding him to a place he needed to be. He was contemplating this when he heard a rumbling noise from above him. Peeking up, he found himself under Woking’s main track. Has the season already started? 

Alain should get himself out of there quickly. Most of the time, the world above was able to protect the Underground from the worst of the blasts, but Alain didn’t want to be the one who proved it wrong. 

He was nearing the edge of the track and the route back to the abandoned airport before an ear-splitting scream stopped him in his tracks. He wheeled around to see the earth collapsing on itself. The track buildings were falling. 

And in the middle of it was a small looking boy, just staring at the falling debris. 

His mind told him not to do it, he, despite it all, was not suicidal. That was proven in his races, where he resigned him to second and let his opponents take the place above, because he knew if he fought just a bit too much he wouldn’t place at all. Better to be second than to not finish at all. Better to be second than to be dead.  So reason and self-preservation told him no, that boy was unsavable. Too much falling debris, too much of a distance to go and travel back without getting both of them killed. 

But instinct, conscience, and his soul stole his legs and he ran. The world above was falling, collapsing, and oh was this the way Alain was going to die, how stupid, how stupid, how stupid! I am stupid. 

It went by in a flash, his eyes focused on the boy in front and nothing else. If he did, he knew he would freeze up on the spot and the both of them would become a pancake of gore on the ground. 

What a terrible idea this was, his mind told him, as he crashed into the boy. What a terrible, foolish, trocking plan this was! But as his arms wrapped around the boy and the heavy rocks struck him down, as the world flashed in black shock and white pain, he knew he didn’t have any other choice. 

Because, if Alain’s could not even handle shooting the enemy in front of him, it would not handle watching a boy be crushed by the fight’s crumbling aftermath. 

The sound of falling rocks and debris stopped eventually, but Alain could not move from his position. His back felt like it became a mashed paste, and he gritted his teeth in pain at the thought of just shifting his body. No, staying there felt perfectly fine. 

Alain would’ve stayed in that world forever if not for the crying boy. It reminded him too much of another one, years and worlds apart, but nevertheless still etched in his brain in second nature. It pulled something in his heart, yanking it tight, and he realized that he had to, had to move. 

Alain Prost could not die here, under what seemed to be a hundred meters of concrete and steel. He could not let this young boy die with him. 

He could also not let Ayrton Senna starve to death without him. Alain had not gotten any groceries, and anymore of that mac n’ granola was going to poison the man beyond belief. 

Alain could do this. The rubble weighed down on his body, so there was no way of pushing it off. His mind flew through the different options, measuring the pros and and cons of each one and which was the less likely to kill the both of them. 

Opening his mouth took effort. “Ki— Kid,” his brain felt like it was shattering into a million different pieces. “Under the chest.” He felt something thick and coppery and the edge of the mouth and told himself it was not blood. 

The kid must have heard him, because he felt a tight grip around his waist. Okay, okay, Alain could do this. Closing his eye, he put every single ounce of his will into moving his arm. A finger twitched, and then another. His hand moved and then with a pained grunt, he reached for his back. 

The villain was scared that the saber had fallen off during the destruction of the track, but the harness was a good one and kept it secured to his body. The one downside is that it made for a terrible struggle of getting them out. 

“Ack!” he grumbled as he felt the hilt come loose. He did not have the energy to try for another, so it would do. 

Making sure that the saber was pointing the right way, he flicked the switch on, and a gentle hum and cool blue light filled the void. He could now see that there was not much room to move, so he would have to do this the hard way. 

He thrust the saber up with all his might, slicing the first piece of broken down steel. He felt the world above rumble, and the boy whimpered. 

Alain had to be strategic about this. One wrong move and the whole world would come crumbling down on them again. In the dim light, he tried his best to predict the points that were the least likely to cause an avalanche on him. 

One. 

Two.

Three. 

Four. 

Five. 

Thrust, slice, wait, and listen. If nothing happened, continue to cut. If you feel something is grumbling, stop and pick somewhere new. 

It was a tedious process that required all of Alain’s concentration, but he was nothing but a focused man. 

What seemed to be an hour later, Alain managed to cut them a passage out of the debris. He scrambled out in a daze, with both him and the boy collapsing to a heap. 

Alain felt the bones and his spine shifting from beneath him, and he had to bite his lips just to keep himself from screaming in agony. The adrenaline was wearing off, and with it came the pain.He felt a shifting from over him. Oh right, the boy. 

Shifting his head up with a wince, Alain saw a small, dark-skinned boy huddling over them. There was a large red scrape on their face, but the boy seemed to be busy crying in his chest. 

“Hey–” The modulator mixed the bloodied words into hard edges, but Alain didn’t have the energy to try to take it off. Also, he probably shouldn’t, otherwise the kid might recognize him. “Are,” he choked, “ Are you hurt?”

The boy slowly looked up. “I, I,” the boy hiccuped, “I think my arm is broken.” 

Alain glanced down, and sure enough, the boy's arm was swelling a very concerning amount. He needed to get this kid to a hospital, and quickly. 

But Alain couldn’t do that. He was still dressed in the Professor’s gear, and he’d be sure to be immediately arrested if he just waltzed into a random hospital, especially with a random boy in his hands. That was also ignoring the problem of Alain actually getting there. Just standing up felt like too large of a feat. 

The whimpering kid in his chest pulled some hidden heart strings that hadn’t been hidden for a while (strings that had been slowly pulled away by a certain Brazilian).  What other options did he have?

Niki’s airport. There were supplies there, and hopefully, the infirmary was already set up. It wasn’t far either, only a few roads and alleys down from where they were. The only objection would be the danger of the boy learning of the Professor's headquarters. 

If anyone found out…

Alain did what he always did. He weighed the risks with the rewards. Was it worth potentially selling out their secret and home just to help the boy?

“Can,” the Frenchman wiped the blood on his face. A heavy fabric scraped some skin off as well. His gloves were still on apparently. “Can you keep a secret?”

The boy nodded vigorously and Alain looked up. He could see the faint, shifting lights in the distance. The rumbling noises had calmed down, which meant that the FIA would certainly come soon to clean up.  

Alain had to go. 

With the rest of his remaining might, Alain took the hands from under him and pushed them against the ground. The world turned black for a second, and he groaned. 

“Mister!” the boy yelled, shocked. “Mister, are you okay?!” 

“Quiet down,” Alain said as he tried to shake the throbbing ache in his head away. As gently as Alain could in his state, he shoved the small body off his chest. Now for the hard part, sitting up. 

His back screamed in protest as he pulled himself up. It felt like a bunch of knives were stabbing at him all at once. 

Keep going, he told himself and shifted his weight to his legs. Slowly and shakingly, the man stood up. 

Alain would’ve fallen down if the boy hadn’t caught him. Breathing in shallow breaths, the vigilante found that the boy was taller than he thought. Probably a young teen, judging by the boy’s height. 

He shouldn’t be leaning on a kid’s broken arm, Alain realized. Stiffly, he moved to stand on his own. 

The boy kept his hands behind him, steadying him. “What do we do now Mister?”

He weakly gestured to the road in front, thankfully mostly clear of any rubble. “Follow me, we’re going to my place.” 

Together, they hobbled at a slow pace towards the abandoned airport. The sky had already turned dark, the shadows of the Underground returning to haunt them. 

“Where are your parents?” Would they be looking for their child? It’d be bad if Alain got caught holding their injured kid, especially dressed as the Professor. 

The boy didn’t answer for a while. “They went off to the Third War,” he said finally.

Alain processed the words. The Third War? What the trock was the Third War? The villain was quite curious about this supposed ‘war’, but he felt better than to ask the kid about it, seeing the distress in the child’s face. 

Instead, he asked, “Is there anyone who might come looking for you? Where do you stay?

The narrower roads from under the track slowly changed to the wide, more suburban streets. That was a good sign, it meant they were nearing the airport. 

“I’m staying in the Shacks,” the boy answered, “and my friends won't start looking for me until tomorrow, if you’re worried about getting in any trouble Mister.”

“You don’t have to call me Mister.” The Shacks? Alain had only visited that part of the Underground once, and he had never wanted to return after. The buildings, if you could even call three sheets of metal nailed together a building, were constantly crowded by ghostly men, haunted with the cries of starved children and the yells of fights happening constantly after. 

And this kid lived there?!

The boy saluted him seriously. “Okay Professor.” 

“You know who I am?” While the Professor had become infamously known around the Upper World, he wasn’t sure about the Underground. 

“Of course I do!” The boy jumped up excitedly, making Alain grimace as the movement jostled his ribs. 

“Stop moving around so much,” he scolded, “we’re both still hurt.”

“Sorry,” the boy had the wisdom to look remorseful. “But of course I know who you are! You’re a hero in the Underground!”

Alain sputtered. “I’m a hero?” The idea was so unexpected. What had he done that would put him anywhere close to the hero name?

“Yeah! Fighting against those superhero pigs!” 

“They’re not… pigs.” Alain said, mildly offended for the hero community and being a retired hero himself.   

Facing souring, he replied, “Yes they are. After all they did to us? Those trockers deserve someone to give them a beat down.”

Alain had to ask what they had exactly done to earn this hate from a small child (it was a teenager, but his small frame made him forget). For now, they needed to get medical care. Opening one of the many gates that led into the airport, Alain watched as the boy's mouth dropped open in amazement. 

“Is this your secret headquarters?” gushed the boy. 

Alain locked the door behind him. “You said you could keep a secret.”

“Oh yes, Prof!” the boy nodded seriously, “It’s a promise.”

“It better be,” he muttered. It wouldn’t end well for any of them if anyone else found out. 

Hobbling to the main center of the airport, Alain deactivated any alarms and traps on his way. It had almost become second nature, a forced habit after a younger him had almost blown his face off first walking in. 

With the place so big, Niki was able to afford having many rooms for different purposes. After Alain’s villain entrance, the man insisted they added a makeshift infirmary. The Frenchman had argued that the room would be practically useless, seeing any minor injury he could take care of himself and anything worse… Well there was no point in saving a dead man, metaphorically (getting caught by the FIA would be a guaranteed fate if he did end up with any major injuries) and literally (aka. Senna stabbing him again). 

“This place is huge,” the kid was still whispering in wonderment. “Is there anyone else here?”

“Just the rats…” Hopefully Niki wasn’t here, otherwise this injury would feel like nothing compared to the beating the Austrian was going to give him. Did Alain feel like a teenager sneaking through the door from a midnight outing? Yes. But the embarrassing thought was better than Niki any day. 

Speak of Niki Lauda, and he shall mysteriously teleport from the sky. 

“Proffesor,” the man said tonelessly. “Why are you back so late?”

Alain wanted to scream at whatever trocking fate always made Niki appear at the worst of times. “I got in a bit of a situation walking back.”

Niki raised an eyebrow. “That tells me a lot,” he commented. Leaning closer, Niki asked, “And who’s this kid?”

There was no point lying to Niki. “I took the route under the track coming back, and something happened up there. Probably in the aftermath of my fight, Senna blasted me pretty badly up there. Me and the kid got trapped under the debris, and I think he broke his arm? Well, lect, I know he broke his arm. The hospital is too dangerous, and going anywhere else would be a hassle.”

Niki looked at the kid suspiciously. “And why were you back under the track?”

The kid, oh lect, it was a teen (but he was so small!), shrunk back. “I like seeing the fights,” the teen mumbled. 

Niki looked like he was going to say something more. Alain shot him a look. “Niki,” he declared tiredly, “Both of us are injured. Can we go to the infirmary now?”

The Rat King nodded tightly, a doubtful expression still on his face, but he led them to a room on the far corner of the west hall. “Alain,” the vigilante ordered, “sit down.”

“The kid first,” Alain announced

A frown of the lips. “No,  you look like you’re about to fall over.”

Usually, that look from Niki would make Alain cower and listen immediately, but the kid was still there with a broken arm, and the adrenaline must have finally worn out because the kid’s finger started to clutch their sleeves in pain. “The kid first,” Alain repeated. 

Niki opened his mouth, thought above the ethics of fighting a disabled and injured man, and shut it close. “Fine,” Niki muttered, “it’s at the own cost of your own health.” The Austrian gestured roughly for the boy to sit down, who hesitantly hopped onto the make-shift bed. Niki took the arm carefully, avoiding the inflamed area as he observed the limb. “I’m going to need to set it,” Niki concluded.

The boy nodded curtly. 

“At the count of five then.” Gripping the boy’s arm, Niki started. “One, two, three—” Crack!”

“Augh!” the boy yelped, bowing down in pain. Tears in his eyes, he confronted Niki. “That wasn’t five!”

Niki shrugged. “You would’ve braced yourself too much if I got to five. The faster you get it done, the easier. Oh stop crying, it’s over now.” Turning to Alain, he glared. “Now you, get on the bed.”

Alain gulped but did what he was asked. The Austrian walked around him until he was facing Alain’s back. Taking his hand, he put it over the man’s ribs. “Breath, deeply. In and out.”

“Can you even hear my breath?”

“Stop asking questions and breathe.”

Breathing in, Alain almost doubled over in pain. What the trock? Was this how bad it truly looked?”

“See?” Niki grouched. “Now I need two more breaths” 

“Do I need an X-ray?” If it felt this bad… Certainly something had to be broken, or worse. 

“What the lect is an x-ray?”

“Guess not,” Alain let his breath out. It hurted less now than before. “What are you going to do then? 

The Rat King shrugged. “Wrap you up until it becomes a makeshift brace. Put some ice on it. There' s nothing much else to do without a hospital.” Alain gave him a hopeful look and Niki exhaled. “And you can have some painkillers, but I swear you’re going to get yourself addicted. Next time you do something stupid, I’m cutting them off. Hopefully it’ll discourage you from pulling off any ridiculous stunts."

Niki went to grab the materials he needed, so Alain’s gaze returned to the boy in front of him, who was staring guiltily at the floor. “What is it?” the vigilante questioned wearily. 

A quiet pause for the boy exclaimed, “I’m sorry!”

“For what?” What could the kid practically be sorry for?

The teen gaped at him. “What do you mean ‘for what’?! None of this would've happened if I wasn’t stupid enough to go to the tracks. You wouldn’t be, well,” the teen waved at Alain. 

Alain looked at the kid. Truly looked at him. He had harrowed eyes, more than what any kid should have in it. Again, his frame was smaller than it should be, but so was his face. The skin on his face stuck to his cheekbones, creating a small conclave of sunken cheeks. Hunger and fatigue drooped from every bone of the boy’s body. Not mentioning the guilty look, a stark contrast to the excitable boy from earlier. 

“If you ask me,” Alain said slowly, “there is no point in ‘what-ifs’, it gets you nowhere. And besides, where I am,” he gently swatted the teen’s hand away, “is where I decide to be. Do not feel guilty for the choices I make.”

(Hypocrite, a familiar voice said). 

“But—”

“No buts,” Alain gently tutted. He carefully slid off the bed, wincing as he felt his back shift one more. Taking two hands, he placed them onto the boy’s shoulders. “You’ve said I’m a hero, right?” Nodding. “Then let me be an actual hero for once and save someone, hmm?”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he moved to say something before Niki came back and shouted, “Back in the bed, Professor!”

Alain shook his head in annoyance at Niki, giving a secretive smile and wiggling his eyebrows at the boy, as if sharing a joke that only the both of them knew at the other man’s expense. The person in question glared as the teen giggled. 

“I know what you’re doing, Professor. Now get in bed before I take away your painkillers.”

Niki Lauda is a dangerous man to piss off. 

He probably wrapped the splints on Alain tighter than he could’ve, and the coldness of the ice dug into the Frenchman’s skin. “Is this really necessary?” he gasped out. 

“If you want to get back in the fight, yes,”  was the irked reply. Niki turned his attention to the boy. “Now, I need to know, do you know who we are?”

“He’s the Professor,” the boy pointed at Alain, “but if you’re asking me who you are, I don’t know the lect.”

“Mhm,” Niki remarked, “and nothing about who we really are, yes? Not our identities or anything more?”

Alain glimpsed Niki’s hand creeping nearer to his utility belt. He clenched his fist. Niki wouldn’t, would he? The man would do whatever he needed to protect his interests…

The better question was if Alain would be able to stop it. Could he beat his mentor? Especially in the state he was?

The boy’s eye found Alain’s, and it begged for an answer. Alain bit his lip and nodded curtly. 

“No.” Short and sweet. Straight to the point.

Niki turned that answer around in his mind, scrutinizing the boy over up and down, before repeating the process again. At last, the Rat King nodded. “I believe you,” the boy looked up, surprised, “but not because I trust you. I just know Alain is smart enough to not be giving away his identity, unless he wants to be killed. Or at least, I hope he’s smart enough.”

The Austrian started wrapping a splint around the boy’s arm, who tried to pull away, “I can’t pay for this!”

“Quit struggling,” he snapped, “unless you want to have to set the whole bone around again. You don’t have to pay a dime, just don’t cause any trouble.”

The boy’s voice snapped towards Alain, who shrugged. “Half these things we stole from the teams, it’s fine.”

Maybe in another life Alain would be guilty for committing so many crimes, especially against the Red Horse, but then again, he did have another life before. With Ferrari. And boy did Alain feel good about getting back at them.

Niki finished up on the boy. “I have a meeting to get to,” the man said, handing Alain a crutch, “escort the kid out of here.” Throwing his gloves in the trash, Niki walked out the room. 

Alain grumbled, popping a Vitodin in his mouth as he moved to the crutch. “You heard the guy, we got to go. Where in the Shacks do you live?”

“South,” the boy responded, peeking at the door behind them. “Why do you let him talk to you like that?”

“Who? Oh do you mean N–” Alain cut himself off halfway through,”the Rat?”

“Rat?” The boy wrinkled his nose. “That’s a terrible name. And yeah, why?”

Alain hobbled through to the main halls, pushing back the doors. “He’s my mentor, and plus, he’s the only reason I can be here.”

“But still… You’re the Professor! You don’t let people just order you around!” 

Alain turned his head to glance at the boy. “Do you really not know who he is?”

The boy shrugged. “Should I?”

Alain smiled. “Not many do, so maybe not. You did say you lived in the Shacks, though. You really don’ t recognize his mask?”

 Biting his lips, the boy thought. “Wait,” he said, “He’s not.. Is he the Rat King?”

Alain averted his eyes, but he let the smile stay on his lips. “He wouldn’t want me telling, so I don’t know where you got that from.”

The boy began skipping around with the same vigor. “That’s amazing! So the Professor works with the Rat King?”

“More like I work for him, seeing how you say he orders me around,” Alain muttered, as he opened the gate that led to the Southside. “I’ll see you around, kid. Though I probably shouldn’t keep calling you ‘kid’...I never did get your name did I?”

The boy slipped past him, entering into the void painted alleys. “Oh, yeah! I never told you! My name is Lewis,” they shouted before the shadows swallowed him whole. 

Hm. Lewis Hamilton. 

-.. .. -.. -. .-..-. - -.-- --- ..- ..--..

Alain sat on the couch with his phone at hand, gazing at the ceiling. 

“It went well, I presume?” Niki's voice came out. 

“Yes,” Alain said. “I did everything you wanted me to.”

“And more,” grumbled Niki. “Was all of that really necessary?”

The Frenchman bit back a smile. “You wanted me to humiliate him, so I did.” And perhaps he did have a little guilty fun in it as well. Alain thought about it as payback, seeing the bruises on his right side was not going to heal up anytime soon.  Ayrton had hit hard, and the man had found his blindspot too. 

“...Whatever you say, Prost,” was the judgmental reply. Shuffling of papers. “The press is reacting like we wanted them to. We will have to see how the FIA reacts, but everything is going to plan.”

“And my gear?” While Alain was able to get the upperhand this time, he didn’t think he would be able to win every fight by going for Ayrton’s crotch. Today’s fight had ended mostly in luck, had it kept up, Alain would be in chains right now. Despite all his training, he was still no match for the other hero. He also needed something to keep up with the McLaren  hoverboard. 

“It’s coming along. You said you wanted… a car?” A note of disapproval. “They will not keep up with McLaren's or Ferrari’s tech.”

A grin. “Well you don’t know them like I do.” Alain couldn’t wait to feel the wheel, a proper steering wheel, under his hands again. 

His only response was a disbelieving grumble. 

There were footsteps from down the hall. “I got to go Niki.” Alain spun the phone close just as the door opened. 

“Ayrton,” he said.

A groan. The sound of treading shuffled over until Ayrton stood over him. “Move over.”

Alain did what he was told. His friend sank down next to him with a large sigh. 

“Are you okay?” Ayrton did look a little worse for wear. Maybe Alain shouldn’t have been so rough…

“You didn’t happen to watch the fight today, did you? Ayrton griped, shoving a pillow over his face. 

“Oh, the Professor?” Alain noted. 

The pillow was off the Brazilian’s face. “How do you know his name?” he asked suspiciously. 

“McLaren released an official press statement a few hours after your fight.” Technically true. “What about him?”

The pillow crumpled under Ayrton’s hands. “I’m going to kill him.” He said darkly. 

“Strong words,” Alain replied carefully. “McLaren’s?”

“Mine.” He rocked back and forth. “He blew my house up, and now he humiliated me across the media.”

“I thought it was quite funny,” Alain said before stopping. 

Ayrton glared. “Of course you did.” 

“Not many could beat you in a fight like he did,” he remarked. 

“You could.” Ayrton defended. 

“Ah, but I was never on a rival team, so I never had to really try to defeat you. Besides,” Alain waved to his face. “I’m not much of a fight anymore, hmm?”

“We’ll see about that.” A wicked smile. 

“What—” The pillow whacked him across the head.

“You’re just going to sit there?” Ayrton asked amusedly. “I thought better of the great Alain– Oof!” Alain’s own pillow went flying face-first at Ayrton. 

“Game on.”

The… pillow fight ended up with both of them grappling on the floor, laughing. 

“I think I won that,” Alain asserted, pushing the pillow over Ayrton’s head. 

“The marks on your face would disagree.”

Alain got off the floor and offered his hand out to the hero. Ayrton took it, grimacing as he stood up. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yes,” Ayrton answered, "Professor slammed me down hard earlier.”

Maybe Alain did put too much power in that hit. “You should take the bed tonight.”

Ayrton shook his head violently. “And leave you to sleep on the couch? It’d be better to sleep on the floor at that point. 

“Exactly why you need to take the bed.” Alain already forced Ayrton onto his brick couch, he didn’t want him to be sleeping on it with wounds that he also forced onto the man. 

“I’m not letting you sleep on your own couch.” Ayrton crossed his arms, which also forced him to cringe.

“And I’m not letting you sleep on it either.” At Ayrton’s stubborn look, Alain argued.  “Only for a night.”

Ayrton thought it over. “You should just sleep with me.”

One. 

Two. 

Three.

“Huh?!” 

The hero blanched. “I mean, you should just share the bed with me. It’s big enough for the two of us, no? And it seems like neither of us are going to bed if we don’t choose.”

Sharing a bed. With Ayrton Senna. 

They were going dangerously close to caring, to something that Alain didn’t want to name. 

But Alain didn’t want Ayrton to sleep with his wounds on that wooden couch, and it’s not like he lost anything by doing this. It was fine, just sharing a bed, he did that with other boys when he was younger. 

Just a bed. 

“Fine,” he said, turning around. 

If he hadn’t, he would've seen the victorious (and smug) look on his friend’s face. 

Alain took a while to slip into the sheets. When he did, the lights were already out and Ayrton was already in bed. The man must be exhausted. 

This was fine. Alain was in control. He let his head fall on the pillow, and his hand reached for the lamp. The light clicked off, and a hush fell over the room. 

Should he say something? It is late, maybe Alain should let the peace carry off into sleep. But would Alain be able to fall asleep like this, with this man resting mere inches away from him?

“Alain?” Ayrton uttered, breaking the quiet, much to Alain’s relief. “What do you think of the Professor? Truthfully, with no media or whatever bias.”

Good, Alain can answer that question. Avoid the obvious and tension filled topic, just like they did when they had called. Talk about the race, talk about the turns and the mistakes, do not talk about them. 

“Le Professeur?” Alain mused. “He is doing something completely new, but maybe we should have expected it sooner. We will have to see how well he does against everyone and the FIA. If you ask me, he was very rash.”

A rustle of sheets, and Ayrton was facing him now. A glimmer of light peaked from behind the curtains, framing the Brazilian with soft flickers. This was an image that Alain shouldn’t have, shouldn’t deserve. It was an image shown only for him, and by the stars, Alain doesn’t know how was able to have it. “You have more to say though.”

“He is something you need,” Alain breathed out. The Professor was something Alain needed. “A fight, a rival, but most importantly, an equal.”

Ayrton snorted. “We are a long way from there. He beat me in one fight.”

“He beat Ayrton Senna. Even I can’t boast that achievement.” Technically he could now. At Ayrton’s unconvinced look, Alain tried a different tactic. “What I am saying is that from what little I saw, that vigilante or terrorist or villain, that man is going to give something you’ve been missing since I’ve left.”

Raise of an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“Purpose.”

Stillness. And then a chuckle as Ayrton rolled onto his back. “Strange words as usual. You speak as if you know me.”

But didn’t he? He knew Ayrton, at least, back when they still raced. Back when the other man’s thoughts came to him as easy as passing everyone but him on the track. If he pushed the gas, Ayrton would react like this, if he pushed the brake, Ayrton wouldn’t. He couldn’t turn the steering wheel too much, or he’d push  past the man’s boundaries, but he couldn’t not turn, otherwise he would never get anywhere with Ayrton. 

But it had been years, and this was not the Ayrton he knew. A repeated idea yet not the same man. “Maybe, but I know how you fight, and I see how it was on the screen today. You loved every second of it, and you know it.”

“Love is a strong word.”

“Nevertheless, you missed it, didn’t you?”

A hum. “Yes, but not as much as I’ve missed you.”

Alain’s stomach tingled. “On the track?”

“Yes,” Ayrton reached his arm out, hovering over Alain’s head. “But I liked having this… version of you too. You should come back to the team, or just the game in general.”

Alain gazed at the hand that was mere centimeters away from his lips. “You’re,” his voice wavered, “a selfish man.”

“Why is that?” Ayrton asked imploringly, genuinely curious, if not a little defensive. “You keep on saying that, with no explanation.”

He bit the inside of his lip. “You want too much. If we were both back in the game, you know the two of us wouldn’t be like this. Or friendship wouldn’t last under all that stress. You want to win too much.”

“And why can’t I have both?” The glow of the city outside cast its own world in Ayrton's eyes. How Alain wished to live in it, instead of the one he was in now. 

“Because I’m a greedy man as well.” That was what made them the best of the drivers, because they always wanted too much. Now Alain was at it again, taking with so much hunger. Why did he get to have Ayrton at his side, to be the only one to have his warmth, to have his soft expression and life filled eyes, eyes only for him? It was not fair for Alain to have it, because he couldn’t. 

Ayrton didn’t belong to him. 

So why was he here now?

“What are you so afraid of losing?” Ayrton asked. The words were low, low enough to be lost even in the short distance between them. The world was not allowed to hear this, otherwise they’d steal it too. “Is it what you’re always looking for, when you stare at me and search for a man behind?”

“No.” That thing, that man was long gone now. Alain… Alain wasn't able to save him. The same man is back, but it wasn’t him (yet at the same time, he wasn’t not). “Yes— I don’t know. I’m afraid of losing something I cannot protect.”

The hand landed on his cheek, and Alain closed his eyes. How dare he covet such things? He shouldn’t allow this, but hadn’t he sacrificed enough, just for this touch? “I’ll protect it for you.”

A humorless laugh. “You’d do a worse job than me.”

“It’d be easier if you told me what it is.” Was that a slight, pleading tone in Ayrton’s voice?

“I’m afraid of Imola.”

Confusion. “What is at Imola?”

Too much. Not enough. Everything and nothing between. “Something I cannot seem to save, no matter how hard I try.” Alain shouldn’t be telling him this, but it is too easy, Ayrton’s touch is like a drug. But these words couldn’t be taken away. He needed to change the topic. “Come racing with me someday, Ayrton.”

The man’s nose scrunched up in disgust. “In a car? Even Ferrari’s gecko-cycle—""It’s not a gecko cycle— ""-can go faster than that.”

What a change, hmm? For Ayrton to turn away from a race, to even dislike it. What a world. “If you believe that, then you truly haven’t raced before.”

“Fine,” Ayrton gave in, “I’ll go racing with you. But! When that day comes, you have to do something in return.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re going to tell me what you’re truly afraid of. No more riddles or strange answers, the straight truth.”

A hmph. “Sure, you'll probably forget by then.”

The hand is removed from his cheek and placed in front of Alain, a pinky sticking out. “Make me a promise.”

“You can’t be serious Ayrton,” the Frenchman stared at the hand in front. “We are too old for this.”

A gasp of mock offense. “This is more sacred than any contracts Ron makes. You want to race? Make the promise.”

Alain thought over the offer. “How about a bet then? If you win the race, I will tell you. If you lose, however, you’re leaving the game.”

Ayrton furrowed his brows. “Alain,” he said slowly, “you know I can’t—”

“Just a break year,” Alain said. “Only a year.”

“That’s a lot more than just telling me what you’re scared of. Not very fair, no?”

“You’re saying that you can’t win this race?” Alain challenged. 

“Oh,” Ayrton smirked. “You’re talking to Brazil’s go-kart champion here, don’t get so cocky.” 

“Mmm, and you’re talking to the four-time World Driver Champion.” Alain said fondly. 

“That is a creative one,” Ayrton responded. He beamed, and his teeth glinted with the white lights of the city. It softened him more than he wanted to admit. “Is it a bet then?”

Alain took his pinky out and wrapped it around Ayrton’s. “It’s a promise.”

He was a greedy, greedy man. Ayrton deserved to be with the most beautiful of women, with lovely bodies and long luscious hair. Not with an old man like him, who was more broken than the shattered glass that still littered his apartment floor somewhere. Ayrton shouldn’t have to deal with someone so damaged, share his warm fire to a cold, lecherous person. These smiles, this banter, these promises, they weren’t Alain’s to take. 

So why does he keep taking them?

--- .-.   -.. ---   -.-- --- ..-   -. --- -   ..-. . . .-..   .-   -... .. -   --- ..-.   .--. .- .. -.   .- -. -.-- -- --- .-. . ..--..

The office. But no, they’re not in the office. Alain was in his bed surrounded by old frames and books. 

Senna’s helmet sat in the corner as usual, unshaken from the previous earthquake.

The figure was sitting on Alain’s legs, their own in a criss-cross position. “It’s true,” they whispered out. Their hands extended out, fingers brushing over Alain’s right eye. 

It was strange, he could see out of both now. Dreams do not listen to reality. 

Out of nowhere, the fingers clenched at his hair and tugged his head, slamming his head downwards. “What were you thinking?!” The voice screamed, and it shook the whole room. “How can you be so careless with your life? You are Alain Prost, your moves are all calculated, you are not this suicidal. So why?!”

Alain’s eyes moved slowly next to him, where there was a lump underneath the blankets. Senna.

How can he be here?

The figure followed his gaze. “You,” and his voice changed. Cold, colder than the Underground or the biting winds in the skies. It was worse than the rage, the anger. This voice, this voice was pure loathing. 

Before Alain knew it, the figure lunged. Their hands wrapped around what seemed to be Senna’s throat. Choking, choking, but Senna only laid there, still and asleep. 

No.  No. 

 No!

Alain was stuck— He couldn’t move– But he had to! Senna could not die here, in a dream, by a shadow of a man that was only supposed to haunt Alain. No, he refused to let that happen. No, No, No.

So he pushed. He placed his hands on the wheel, his foot on the throttle, and he pushed through the straights and corners. He pushed through the other drivers, not too much, otherwise he would crash and all of this would be for nothing, but enough to cross the line, to get the point, to break free.

First lap. Second. Third. Fourth. Fifth. Sixth. 

Seventh lap. 

He lunges out, and his hands grasped against fabric. He pulled at the figure, dragging him away with all his might. “Don’t you dare touch him!” Alain snarled.

Alain’s hands were sinful, too sinful to touch a man like Ayrton Senna. But this… thing? This thing that took Senna’s eyes and wrapped his dirty fingers and dared to hurt him? 

They would burn. 

Alain was slammed to the ground. The figure hung above him, and a silhouette of a face watch from above. 

“Your eyes,” Alain growled. He recognized those eyes, those were the eyes from the loud flashy streets that had pushed him into the wall. The red eyes. “You took his body.”

The figure seemed to study him. “I have forgotten,” the thing said, almost lustfully, “I have forgotten you see everything, Mr. Prost.”

No, not everything. He could not see what the thing was. He could only see Ayrton and what was not. The eyes were not Ayrton’s, it only took a glance to know. He could see a glimpse of the future, the inevitable, but he could not see the solution to fixing it. 

“Why are you here?” Alain asked. “Why are you haunting me?”

The thing sinks down closer to him. They are inches from his face, but just like before, their breath was frost cold. “I have to win.”

“Win what? And better yet, why am I here? What do you need me to do to win whatever game of yours?” 

“The game that has been played for a hundred years. And you’re here because,” a cold nuzzle against his neck. Alain shivered and hated himself for it. “You’re my last pawn. I lost my queen and I need a new one. I believe the move is called queening.” 

“I’m not your pawn.”

 The thing breathed in the crook of his neck and sighed. “Clearly not. Why won’t you listen?”

“Because I don’t listen to the ghost of a man and… I can’t live without him.” Because, something deep in Alain told him that if Ayrton was not here in this world, Alain wouldn’t be able to live. Not because he couldn’t survive it, but because there was a large difference between just surviving and living. 

And in this lonely world without any other friend, Ayrton was his only purpose. 

“Yes, yes you can!” The figure scoffed. “He does not deserve you. All this man does is hurt, take, and betray. Your eye is only proof of that! And does he feel any guilt for it? No!”

Alain hands curled into fist at the figure’s body. “It is not up to you to decide what I deserve.” If anything, Alain does not deserve Ayrton. 

“He has been messing around here,” the voice said darkly. 

“Who?”

Ringing, ringing, ringing. The world did not rumble but it rings and it burns at his head. Ringing, ringing, ringing. 

A knocking noise from the door. 

“Go away!” Someone shouted. Him or the figure? Hands slam down at his ears, but it did not help. “He is mine,” the thing screamed, “You cannot have him, he is mine and mine alone!” Something in the figure’s eyes…

Possession. 

The ringing was getting louder and Alain felt himself breaking. He could not keep this up. He had to give in. 

There was banging at the door now. 

“Alain!” The voice yelled. “This villain of yours is going to get you killed. It’s going to get Ayrton killed. Do you hear me? Alain!”

“Alain!”

The Frenchman shot up from his bed. His hands are already in fists, finally freed of his chains. “Alain,” Ayrton said, softer. “It’s me.”

Oh, he was not in the dream world anymore. The walls were back to their cold, blank greys. The sheets are back to being uncomfortable. The world was back to being only half of what it was. 

The being next to him was back to being warm. 

“Sorry I woke you up,” Alain muttered. 

“You are always sorry,” Ayrton said disdainfully, but there is a troubled look on his face. “Was it a bad dream?”

Yes. “Only a small nightmare, flashbacks to the worser days long gone now.”

“Oh,” Ayrton laid there for a moment, unsure what to say. “Will you tell me about it?”

It was like a child asking for a bedtime story. Alain almost snorted. “Why do you want to know?”

“I just want to know more about my friend.” The Brazilian moved under the sheets, self-conscious. “And what could have gotten him so agitated that he woke up like he did.”

Alain stared at the man. His eyes were a warm brown under the soft lights of the Upper City, soft and gooey like a bubbling apple pie. 

Puppy eyes. Trock you Ayrton. 

“Okay,” the hero perked up. What should Alain even say? “Sometimes I get dreams that I’m stuck in, uh, a metal trap. It is running around at a million kph, and there is screaming all around, but neither of those is what I mind. It is the people around, who are also in the same traps. They do not scream, but,” Alain hands curled up into the pillow. “The trap crushed them all eventually.”

Ayrton did not say anything for a while. Alain saw the words on the lips, the ‘what funny dreams you have Alain’, or ‘this is what you woke me up for’, or the 'that's terrible’. 

The words that came out in the end were, “Who were they?”

Who were they? “My enemies, my friends. You.” 

Always Ayrton. Always the man running off into Imola. They chased each other, until red and white and blue crashed, and no longer could they chase. 

“And then you wake up?”

“Sometimes,” Alain answered honestly. “Other times, I continue to dream. I see the aftermath, the grieving people, the shock and disbelief. Your— The funeral.” Alain closed his eye and pushed the ever surrounding memories away. “It is late, Ayrton, and I do not want to talk about it. Let us go back to sleep.”

Time passed, and Alain felt like Ayrton listened to his words and did go back to the land of dreams. Alain himself laid flat on the bed, still. There was still a faint noise of ringing, and a lingering fear of the cold emptiness.

Something started thumping at his chest. Alain’s eye shot open, and there he saw Ayrton’s fist softly falling down on his chest. Up and down. Up and down.

“Ayrton,” Alain’s voice asked shakily. “What are you doing?”

“Um,” the man sounded sheepish, “when I was a kid and woke up from a nightmare, I would always run into my mother’s room. I was never able to go back to sleep, and so my mother would take her hands and pat me gently until I fell back to sleep. I don’t know, it just reminded me of that time, sorry.” He hesitated. “It made me feel better, knowing that someone, that my mother was next to me. I can stop if you want me to.”

Alain allowed his eyelid to fall shut again. He listened to the rhythm of Alain’s hands slowly rapping over his heart. One, two, one two. 

“No,” Alain replied sleepily. “It’s okay. Don’t stop.”

Ayrton was right, the sound did soothe him. Someone was there, Ayrton was there, and not back on the track. The thumping was not the rumbling of an engine or the ringing of his mind, just Ayrton’s weapons that had been turned into a soft reassurance. For Alain. 

It is the first time Alain does not remember falling asleep.

It was good. 

.- .-. . -.-- --- ..- .-. . .- .-.. .-.. -.-- - .... .- - .... . .- .-. - .-.. . ... ... -. --- .-- ..--..

A heavy thud broke Alain out of sleep, and his head shot up from the desk to meet one annoyed Niki Lauda. 

“It’s three hours before the fourth in the afternoon,” Niki announced. “How are you still sleeping? Better yet, why are you sleeping here?”

“Can’t sleep at home.” Alain's sheets were too unfamiliar. How strange that the ones at Senna’s guest room could be more comfortable than the ones he had chosen himself. 

It had been about two days since he had burned down Ayrton’s apartment. The Brazilian had settled into Alain’s own place. Alain had tried to make him stay in his own bedroom, but the hero refused, saying that it was rude to make Alain sleep on his couch. 

That had tripled Alain’s guilt. Now not only did he take away Ayrton’s things and home, he also forced him to sleep on the brick of what the previous version of him called a couch.

Alain was right when he foretold his future shame as he let the man into his apartment. The hero had tried to hide his surprise when walking into the room, but Alain saw the distress dripping out. 

(‘Why is there glass all over the floor?’ Ayrton had asked in agitation. 

 Oh, Alain had never gotten around to finishing cleaning that up, had he? ‘Sorry about that.’ 

‘Where are all your things?! I know you like your order or whatnot, but this place is empty.’

‘These are all my things,’ Alain had snapped, ‘And the rest is none of your business.’

Ayrton had backed off from then on, but there was still concern written all over his face that made Alain want to crawl under a rock and die (especially when the man had found his pantry that only consisted of mac n’ granola).) 

“Ayrton?” Niki assumed. Alain nodded. “You brought thought onto yourself. Along with this.” Niki slapped a pile of papers onto the desk. 

‘Mysterious terrorist attacking heroes’ apartments,’ Hero Times read. 

‘Hero teams swear to hunt down vigilantes,’ said the Daily Mail.

‘Warning against any unauthorized fights by the FIA after terrorist attacks,’ read the Guardian.

All of them were accompanied by photos of the burning wreck of Senna’s apartment as well as photos of Prost. 

His face was hidden under the cowl, but you could clearly make out the charred, blue cloak he had been wearing. There were images of him breaking out of the window, scaling down the stairs, all of the photos painting him in the fiery light of his destruction. 

“This is bad,” Alain said in a hush tone. His hand brushed over his face, rubbing over his eyes in an attempt to get the rest of the sleep out of him. 

“No lect, Prost.” Niki said. “I would ask you again what you were thinking, but obviously you weren’t.” He sighed and pulled up a chair next to Alain. “You’re not going to be a vigilante anymore, you’re going to be a full blown out villain.”

“What do I do?” 

“I would tell you to drop everything and run out of the country, but I doubt you would. So here’s the plan. FIA is going to start hunting you down, and so is McLaren. Doesn’t matter if you drop the villain act and try your best to hide. They have the resources to find you.”

“What's the plan there?” Alain asked, shoulders drooping. 

“I would tell you if you let me,” Niki’s jaw tightened. “You were the one who got yourself into this mess, I don’t owe anything to you to even need to help. Trock, it would be better to get myself out of the mess before I get wrapped into the FIA. But I’m not, because I’m not the one to let people get hanged for nothing.” Niki took out a holo-pad and handed it to Alain. “You're in the game now, Prost. The FIA will absolutely track you down for your crimes in a heartbeat if you keep on going on with it. I know you hid yourself well, but that doesn’t matter. Money talks. So we need to make sure they don’t want to hunt you.”

“And how is that?” Alain asked warily. 

“If you’re in the game, you play.” Niki tapped the images on the pad, opening the files.

Alain gaped at it. “What is this, Niki?” On it was a mocked up version of the FIA’s hero sheet, but Alain wasn’t in McLaren’s uniform. He was in a completely different uniform, a—

“Actors wear costumes, and this is yours. Don’t want to get hunted by the FIA? We play their own game, the one thing they have no control over.”

“The public.” Alain realized. 

Niki nodded, pleased. “Yes, we have to build you a story. The villain, the ultimate one, the one person that is a villain in every place, in every country, not just the ones outside a team’s homebase. The FIA can’t prosecute you the regular way if you’re someone the public cared enough about.”

“But I’m a villain, don’t the public want me to go down?” Alain squinted his eyes as he studied the mock-up.

“Yes, but not through the boring, FIA legal system,” Niki explained. “They would need to take you down the big, showy way, with millions of fans and a final takedown. Not through shadowy means of searching through pixels of information trying to arrest you. At least, not at first.”

Alain tried to process all the new information. Hero, no, villain suit. FIA arrest. Back in the fight, the game. “This is not going to last long.”

Niki gave him a long look, jaded and… unhappy? “The hero game was never a long one Prost. That’s why I’m asking you, I'm giving you one last chance to back out. There is nowhere else to go but down from here. Is it worth it?”

‘Is Ayrton Senna worth it?’

No, he was not, reason told him, the reason that kept him alive on track and alive here. But with Ayrton, Alain was never good at listening to his own reason, was he? 

Alain could not sacrifice his morality to Ayrton. He could not sacrifice another man’s life, not Berger’s, not Piquets, not his opponent. He could not, would not, be able to destroy like he had done before, wreck a man’s life like he did Ayrton’s when he blew up his home. 

He could not burn the world for Ayrton Senna. 

But his own life?

“Yes.”

The Austrian lips turned down. “I was afraid so.” The man got out of his seat and headed out. “We do not have time to waste then. Before this whole mess, I was trying to reach around to get gear for you, but it will take more time. You will have to use mine for now.” Niki glanced back at Alain, raising his eyebrow. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Alain really thought he retired from this life. What a funny thought.

They were sorting through usable gear from one of the rooms when Alain asked, “If I’m going to be a villain, don’t I need a name for my identity? It’s not like they can use my name.”

Niki flipped to another page in the pad, handing it back to Prost. He scanned the page, before almost tripping out the gear from laughter. 

“What’s so funny?” the Austrian asked, exasperated. 

“Nothing, nothing,” Alain smiled to himself. “Just a name I haven’t heard in a while.”

.-- .... -.--  .. ...  - .... .- - ..--..  ..  .-. . -.-. .- .-.. .-..

Ayrton found him again.

It was after another boring fight with Lotus’ hero, with  Ayrton having gotten himself ridden with a few new bruises and cuts. He had let his guard down to see how much the new rookie got in him. But ultimately, the fight was nothing but a blink in the records. 

The crowd had spotted him first. A change of noise, from cheers to confusion, fear and apprehension. A slow spin on his heels to find a familiar blue cloak. 

The man. 

A cock of his head. “Hello there,” the terrorist said softly.

“You,” Ayrton hissed. 

Without shadows hiding him, Ayrton could finally see the man was wearing black Tevlar, the hero standard ones. A mask covered half his face, probably equipped with the voice modulator. Above it, there was a visor covering his eyes. 

Ferrari issued. 

Half the gear there had to be stolen from various teams. How had he gotten them? There was no way that a singular man could’ve broken into the multi-trillion companies and gotten away with it. 

Who was this man?

Whatever, who they were was not Ayrton’s concern. His only concern was destroying him.

(Charred flesh, raw under Ayrton’s finger tips. A flinch. 

“It’s going to be a nasty scar,” Alain had said, almost jokingly.

The only thing that stopped Ayrton from tightening his grip was the fear of hurting his friend more. “I'm going to kill him,” he growled. 

Alain had raised his eyebrow, amused and tired. “Okay.”)

Exhilaration of fans spilled in the air, flashes of lights came from the cameras, and  FIA drones hovered from above. All of it, the yelling of voices, colors of lights, buzzing of FIA, they must go away. 

One voice: the one of the modulator. 

One color: blue, a blue of a previously charred cloak. 

One noise from the machine: the hoverboard underfoot and the blaster in his hand. 

Yes, everything else was a background as Ayrton took the rifle in his hand. 

Nothing under his hands. A force had emerged from above, and his rifle went falling through the sky. Ayrton heard a crack as it shattered across the ground far below.

Anger.

His home. Now his rifle. 

No shots. Ayrton will make it hurt. 

With the hard surface of his hilt in his hand, he faced his opponent. His target. 

The terrorist was not on a board or vehicle, simply standing on the roof of one of the many buildings of the city. 

Easy work. 

Move in, measured arc of a knife. Move to kill. 

Dodged. Blocked. 

Everything back was made with equal amounts of force. Did not reach, but left space. Not too far, not to close. Not enough force to take away from accuracy, not too little that it was useless. Everything is perfectly in between. 

Controlled. 

Fine, Ayrton twitched his lips up. 

Let’s play. 

Closing his eyes to the world around, he does not let himself steer the moves. Let instinct, no, what was given to him, skill, purpose, take over. 

The world around was moving, screaming maybe, and he was moving to it. His body danced automatically in the ways it hadn’t in a while. 

He did not notice it. There were only two things in his head. Who was in front, and himself. 

He did not account for the strike or the block that he needed, focusing on his opponent. Every action he needed to do would move for itself. 

Ayrton Senna does not need to measure, he does not need control. Fight to win, and he would. 

The man favored his left side, Ayrton noticed, his right was left more open, if you knew where to look. Weakness. And never had it been known that Ayrton let a weakness get him by. 

If you no longer go for the gap that exists, then you’re no longer a true fighter. 

A hit in, another one below. His opponent falters but doesn’t stop. Ayrton grins underneath the helmet. The man had grit, but after a while, Ayrton noticed the difference between them. Every move that he took was equally balanced out by the man in front. A dancer and his partner stepped to the right and he followed, no matter what move Ayrton threw out. Even. Uniform. Like a scientist at work, the villain was pulling out everything he needed. But he fought like he was still new to this, and sometimes there was more to the fight than the few needed blows. A fight was more than a formula, it was art, kick to the left, punch to the right, and art needed feeling, something that the villain lacked compared to the McLaren hero. Ayrton reached the firm conclusion in his mind that while this fight had been fun, he was ultimately going to win it. 

Until the man aimed for his crotch. 

Awgh!

Ayrton doubled back, the man followed. Control is changed to the cloaked man, he led the dance. 

Thud! Down to the ground as the man slammed him down. Before Ayrton could respond, something cold wrapped around his hands with a click. 

Shock from the crowds, the cameras took more photos, the world is anything but still. 

The man was still on top of him.

“You’re an easy man to put down.” The robotic voice rumbled out. 

Anger. Flushed. “Get off of me!”

Humm of the mask. “No.” Hands reaching for his helmet. 

“What are you doing?” Ayrton growled out. 

No response. Hands teared off the harness of the helmet, pulling it off roughly. 

Ayrton Senna stared at the man in front of him, this time without the sheen of the helmet’s visor blocking him. The balaclava was suddenly tugged off of him. 

There was nothing protecting his head now. The sweaty ends of his hair stuck to his face as the Sun began to beat down on him at full force. Coarse fabric on his cheeks, the man’s gloves.

Ayrton began to fight back with full force, but the man only calmly pushed him back to the ground. “Stay still,” the man ordered. 

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” He will pay for this. 

“Open your mouth,” the voice instructed. Ayrton clenched his mouth shut in reply. Have fun what that, you trocking—

Fingers pried at his mouth, pushing it open. 

“Wrauh,” Ayrton tried to say in shock. Leather, gloved  fingers continued to press down as something was shoved down , and he almost choked. 

A wet hand patted his cheek. “Easier not to choke to death if kept still, mon amour.” With that, the cloaked man stood off, not before wiping the rest of the spit down Senna’s uniform. 

The villain paid no attention to the media or the fans around, only walking to the shadowed part of the building and jumping off. 

So there Ayrton was left to stir in his humiliation. He was still down on the ground, cuffed, and muffled by whatever was stuck down his throat. 

And the media was getting all of it. 

He could already see the headlines. “World Champion is put down like a dog by an emerging villain.”

Ayrton was going to kill him.

McLaren had come to rescue him eventually. They were skittish of the hero, who looked like he was going to snap off at any second and bite someone’s head off. An FIA official had to come to get the cuffs off, because, guess what? They were the FIA standard cuffs. 

He was going to blast the man’s brains off. 

No, that was too lenient, he needed to degrade this man, a hundred times over to the media. He will strip him bare to the press, drag him by the hair, and beat him mercilessly. 

Ron discovered Ayrton stewing in these revenge plans in the office, white knuckles and a glare full of fury.  

“What do you want?!” the hero groused. 

“Your… friend left a message,” Ron said in his cautious, meticulous tone. 

“He is anything but my friend!” Ayrton protested. “And where?”

“He stuffed the message down your throat.” Ron handed him a tube of rolled up paper, which Ayrton snatched from his hand. It is stained darker at the edges, most likely where it had been in his mouth. 

“Let it be known," it read, “from this day on, the hero world must learn to fear the name of Le Professeur.”

Judy stormed in. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. 

“You ask him.” 

Ayrton ignored them, stewing in his thoughts. 

Now that the edge of the adrenaline had faded away, he had time to process the villain himself. The man was trying to wage a war against the hero world, the Game. It was a foolish idea, to do so would mean the wrath of the FIA. 

To them, you were essentially a pesky bug underfoot, an easy thing to crush. 

Yet it wasn’t the FIA the Professor had decided to face. The villain had targeted Ayrton. And while he would normally never care for these kinds of terrorists, letting the FIA deal with them, Ayrton couldn’t help but find he didn’t have a choice now. 

The Professor had doomed himself the second he decided to touch Ayrton’s things. 

(And it wasn’t his house, it wasn’t even the humiliation of the public or the fight. Ayrton could overlook both of them.  

It was a red, scarred over neck and a look of exhaustion as Alain Prost looked down at the body that was slowly became a trophy rack of scars. )

So, Le Professeur, was it the war you wanted? Then he’d better be ready to pay the cost of it.

Alain Prost was Ayrton’s alone. 

... .... ..- - ..- .--.

“We are one of the same.”

Alain's eye shot open with the world on fire and a burning sensation at his throat. Gasping, he can’t breath, he can’t breath—

He was going to die. 

Ringing, ringing, the world was singing again in songs of bells that rung in your ears, and there are flames surrounding you, flames of ashes and dust and a bright white light above—

(Run, you fool.)

Amongst the burning flesh of his throat, the surrounding flames, and the unmissable sound of ringing, there was a dark figure charging at him. Alain spun around immediately, but the only way out was the glass of Senna’s apartment and a million meter drop. 

When had he gotten here?

(Do you want to die?! Jump!)

A force beyond him, instinct or fate, forced him into a run, and soon there was glass splintering off in a shower of rain behind him. He was falling, falling into the sky once again, and he thought to himself, ‘I really need to stop doing that.”

The sky was a dark navy, and lights of the city were already flashing on. The glowing signs were illegible in his fall, blurring away into streaks of colors. Almost like blocks, rectangles, like spines of books….

Bookshelves, a desk, photographs of long-gone faces, and a striking yellow helmet. 

“You can’t be serious,” Alain said deadpan. Here? Now of all times?

But where the trock was the figure?

In the corner of the room, there were dark shapes. Movement, fast, and rough with power, a scuffle, a fight. The figure was fighting something. 

“What’s happening?” Alain demanded. He would rather not have this conversation in the middle of a free fall to his death, but he would prefer some answers. 

No response, but a shadow breaks free from the struggle and is creeping towards him. Alain shrunk back, but he was stuck in the chair. Frozen. Inching piece by piece, he watched the inevitable. 

A cold hand takes him by the face, and it goes as follows:

(The end, the end, and the eye that watches you everywhere— The world was ringing, like bells, and he snatched at the scarred flesh of his throat. 

They were racing, the two of them, but they always were, weren’t they? But not in cars and not even with their feet, only racing in the game of fate. They’re at the corner and then there is fire…)

Burning. You are burning. 

.

.

.

It had been way too easy. Alain had practically been living there, and Ayrton was only home during the evening. The Frenchman just had to be careful to not accidentally destroy the apartments below him, and he shall be fine. Explosives here were more accurate and controlled than in the other world, and the Rat King had plenty. He just had to program them, and then placing them around the building was no problem. 

(Alain had ripped that smirk off his face, hadn’t he? Ayrton Senna did not believe he could lose, and so he had burnt it all down to the ground. )

A single click of a button.

(“God made us one and the same.”)

And the world once again bursted up in flames…And the cycle restarts.)

The world was drowsy when the hand was  snatched off him.

“Go!” the voice of the figure screamed at him, and it was more comforting than it should have been at that moment. 

Falling, the world was falling out from under him again. The books transformed back into streaks of nightlife and shelves into looming towers. The helmet became—

Senna’s face?

A twist of his body and his hand caught onto the railing of the fire escape, almost like instinct. No, he wasn’t wrong, that was Senna. The barrelling voice coming towards him? That was Senna. 

The expression of pure hate and rage? That was Senna.

Who was it aimed at? Alain. 

He tried to scream at the man to stop, but something clogged at his throat. With the other hand, he reached for his mouth. The fingers brushed over a cool metal, a mask, or no, there was a modulator in there as well. Why was he wearing a modulator?

Alain looked down at the rest of his body. He was in black Tevlar (a ripoff of Kevlar he’d assume), combat boots, and a dark blue cloak. Alain was also sure that if he reached for his knees, that he would find knives strapped to them. 

The trock? 

So recount. Ayrton’s apartment was on fire, Alain was dressed up as a full on vigilante, and Senna was currently trying to kill him.

“...”

Did he just blow up Ayrton’s apartment?

Senna was still barreling towards him, so Alain felt like it would be better to not process this new information here. He swung over the railings into the staircase and scaled down as quickly as humanely possible.

Which, compared to Ayrton, was nothing. Alain was so dead. 

He could feel the cutting wind created by the pure force of the hero behind him. Alain gulped. Ayrton was about to snatch him when Alain muttered. “Trock it” and jumped off the staircase. He rather risked the fall than whatever fate laid in his friend’s hands. 

Alain felt a light brush of fingers over his cloak before the shadows of the Underground swallowed him whole. 

As he landed with a thud, he rolled to a stop against the wall, breathing hard. The Underground only took on its own, anyone else was rejected and spurned out, lost to the many alleys and phantoms of the dead city. Yet there was still an instinctive fear that Senna would still be able to find him and get… What? Revenge on him?

He sank to the floor. 

(Alain had settled on blowing up Ayrton’s apartment. 

The more he had thought about it, the more he had known it was the probably only working solution he had. It specifically targeted Ayrton, with no other team or organization getting messed up on the idea of who Alain really wanted to piss off. 

As proven, It would infuse a sense of rage into Senna, because how dare someone destroy what is his? 

It was way too easy.)

These thoughts weren’t his, nor were the thoughts that had been shoved at him in the dream office, but yet it wasn’t like they weren’t. Those thoughts? They belonged to him, the way you knew your hair yours, or that the limbs that extended from your body were yours too. It belonged to him as much as the fate of Imola belonged to Ayrton. 

But he doesn’t remember them. 

“We are one of the same…

(Calculation. Reason. When will their tires give out under them? What would be their reaction if Alain pushed? What if he didn’t. Predict the probable and most likely, it would happen. 

Destroy the apartment. Senna would be furious. 

And there will be no other choice left for him.

But you didn’t expect to get shot at, did you? 

You didn’t expect Ayrton to actually pull the trigger.)

Unconsciously, Alain reached for his throat. The fabric of the cloak was charred off, and whatever was left of the bottom of the modulator melted away. The skin was inflamed under his touch, but some parts were already scarred over. 

Had he..?

(The world was in flames. 

‘We are one of the same.’

But don’t you feel a morsel of regret?)

Alain, if it was even Alain, had just blown up Ayrton’s apartment. The full force of consequences were hitting Alain now. He had just blown up Ayrton’s apartment. That was his home, that was where all the man’s things were, his memories and valuables, and who knew what else. It was Ayrton’s home away from his own, in a country so far and so different. It was his home that he had built from scratch…and Alain had  stolen it and blown it up to smithereens. 

And he couldn’t even remember doing it!

His breaths quickened, and he wrapped rough, gloved hands around his throat. He doesn’t even know how to wire up explosives, how could he have done that?

Why would he have done that?

(NIki most likely would not have approved of his plan. Luckily for him, Alain hadn’t cared for his approval. It had been too long, and Niki was taking too long.)

Niki. Headquarters. He cannot think this over now, here of all places. No matter how much the shadows of the Underground hid him, Senna would find him eventually.

But he couldn’t let  Niki know. Lect, that man would already be furious at him. How was Alain going to explain to him that it wasn’t even him who did it? He would have to confess about the strange dreams and the whole spiel of not even being from this world. 

(But it would take so much off your shoulders.)

No, Alain could not put that on Niki. He was going to have to bluff this off as he usually did. 

Lying and lying some more, sometimes Alain wonders if his whole life here was a lie. 

His body screamed at him as he got up, but he’d told them to shut up. Great, not only was his mind trocked up, so were his muscles. 

He hated his life.

Alain thought he was in the clear as he snuck in through one of the back-doors.He shifted past Niki with quiet steps he had learned from him, and silently into the room that has unofficially become his. There weren’t many things in it, but the neatness of it distinguished it from the rest of the rooms, including Niki’s.

The Frenchman breathes out a relieved sigh. He had made it. Alain was safe. 

“Prost.”

Or so Alain had thought. 

“Care to explain this?”

Alain slowly swung the screeching desk chair around to meet one Niki Lauda. He blocked the doorway and Alain’s potential escape. The rat mask hung from the side of the Austrian’s head, and while his expression was neutral and blank, Alain could see the hidden wrath and fury underneath. 

He gulped but didn’t let any other emotion show. Keeping a straight face, Alain replied, “What do you mean?” 

Niki replied with a silent stare that read “Oh, you know exactly what I mean.’ He flicked his phone up with a twitch of his fingers, and a hologram popped up of Senna’s currently smoking house. 

“What happened?!” Alain doubted he could get out of this by playing oblivious. But if it was the only string saving him from Niki’s rage, he was going to play it as much as he could. 

“You tell me.” Niki pointed at the charred corners of the cloak he had been wearing. It was black and at some edge, already crumbling to dust. The black ashes line the floor in a trail of killing evidence. 

“There was a fire,” Alain lied weakly. “In one of the engine rooms.” 

Niki sighed. It was more disappointed than angry. “Oh, cut the lect Prost. It is too obvious.”

How obvious? Enough that McLaren knew, or the FIA. Enough that Ayrton knew? “How much?”

How could Alain be the only one left in the dark?

Niki bit his lip and looked away. “Not very,” he replied. “I could tell immediately, but if we’re only going by the footage, then I doubt they will find any evidence on who. Of course, it depends on how well you hide your footsteps.” 

“I used a modulator,” Prost pulled at the machine around his neck. “And I wore the cloak and kept to the shadows. Senna didn’t see my face. The explosives I planted were the ones you made from scraps.”

The answer was automatic, Niki words had come in like an input, his own words out in the output. But Alain didn’t,shouldn’t, know this. Yes, he and Niki had discussed explosives before, and yes he knew how to tell the difference between team issued ones and the more…DIY ones. 

The real issue was that Alain doesn’t remember. 

So how was he able to answer that?

“Good,” the Austrian sighed. “That’s good. They’ll know if you have used the ones I’ve raided from their stores. Those all have tags, they’ll catch on immediately.” The Rat King glared at Alain. “What were you thinking?”

Alain would love to answer that question, but he doesn’t know. Something insane, he would think, if it made him burn his apartment down. 

Lect, Alain just committed arson. He burnt down Ayrton’s apartment. He just committed multiple crimes (not like he hasn't been committing many of them in the last month, but that was different).

“You’re not going to be like me anymore,” Niki uttered, words pressing. “You can’t be an underground vigilante. Senna’s house has just gone out in flames, and you think you can just sink back into the shadows? The teams are on you now, McLaren is on you, trock, the FIA knows you, and that’s where things get bad.”

“You’ve stolen Mosley’s papers from right under him, how is this any different?” Alain retorted. They had gone on a wild goose chase just because of that incident, with the Frenchman almost getting caught. 

Maybe Alain could actually get out of this. 

“Because that was done in the dark, Prost. It was in the Underground, and things in the Underground stayed there.” Niki stalked toward him and Alain willed himself to stay where he was. He couldn’t back down now. “The Underground can be controlled. But you, you blew up Senna’s apartment. You made it public, and now the whole world can see. They can’t just brush it off and pretend it never happened. You shot in the air and made yourself a challenge to them, and so they will have to reply.”

Niki leaned down so they were eye to eye. One man’s eye was scarred all around, burnt tissue from the mistake of a machine, of a team. One man’s eye was gone entirely, not really a mistake and not really a betrayal, but an acceptance of what must be sacrificed. “Heroes up there, they’re not defending. They’re putting on a show. And you, Prost, you just entered the stage.”

“Then I’ll act.” 

Because beyond making the calculation of what is worth it and what is not, that was what Alain was good at. Alain put on a mask for the press, and another for the team, and then another for the fans. He puts one on for his teammates, and another for his enemies, and then he puts one on for Senna. He posed and he played, even as he raced.

Alain was putting one up now, for Niki, yes, but mostly for himself. A lie that Alain was still in control of himself, of his thoughts, of his memories, of his body. 

He doesn’t know, trock, he doesn’t know a thing, but that is a weakness he cannot admit. 

Weaknesses got you killed. 

A noiseless room. Tense. Niki backed down first. “I have more to tell you off on, but I have no doubt that Ayrton is already razing off half the globe looking for you.”

Alain shrugged. “That’s why I’m hunkering here, I have to wait for the storm to pass.” That and to actually be able to process his thoughts for once without being either burnt alive or chased down by one vengeful Brazilian. 

Niki rolled his eyes like he was stupid. “He’s not looking for the man who blew up his house. I meant he’s looking for you, Alain.”

Oh. 

Uh-Oh. 

He had to go, he had to make sure Ayrton wasn’t doing anything stupid. Of course, Alain couldn’t go in these clothes. It had all the evidence written all over. He immediately began to strip down. 

Niki diverted his eyes immediately. “Prost,” the man said, annoyed, but his cheek was dusted with pink. “Ever thought it was impolite to randomly start stropping naked in front of people?”

Alain hummed distractedly. “Just changing.”

Niki shook his head in disbelief. “The French,” he said. The man paused, rolling his eyes.   “But it’s not even them. It's just you.”

Alain had a store of extra clothes under the desk. He needed a change after his spars with Niki, otherwise Ayrton would be questioning why he was always coming home to Alain drenched in sweat. 

Alain was done in a flash, but as he was running out the door, Niki grabbed him by the shoulder to stop him.      

“Be careful.” Niki’s mouth was opened to say more, but he shut it closed. “Never mind,” he mumbled. “Go.”

Tell him something he didn’t need to know. 

Alain found Ayrton scrambling around the same parts of the Underground as last time. He wondered if the hero had been walking around in circles for the last half hour. Judging by the man’s confused movements, he was. 

The vigilante had the brief idea to scare the man by popping out of the shadowy corners, but that would be the opposite of Niki’s ‘be careful’. Alain had a good feeling that if he did do that, he would find his other eye missing. 

As an alternative, Alain quietly called out behind the man, “Ayrton!” 

Dark brown irises meet grey-green ones. Neither move. They are at a stand still, he thought, A stalemate. What should be Alain’s first—

Hands on his face, grasping at his cheeks. Alain’s head gets turned roughly from left to right, up and down, moving down to his limbs as they check his body. The hands moved back to his face and Ayrton asked, “Are you okay? Where were you? Did he get you?”

Too many questions and Alain’s mind was still stuck on the idea of Ayrton's hands. Warm, they were so warm in the freezing cool of the Underground. How easy it would be to lean into them, but focus! Focus Alain, he needed a lie. 

“I was out on errands,” he answered easily. “I saw the bombing on the television and ran back, but you weren’t there. I went around looking for you, and eventually I ended up here.”

Ayrton nodded, focused as he checked the rest of Alain’s face. Tilting his head up, Alain bit down a small wave of pain as the man’s fingers brushed over the burnt wound. 

The Brazilian still caught it and frowned. “Where did you get this from?” He demanded. 

Trock, trock, Alain had forgotten about that. Had Ayrton seen Alain getting burnt during the confrontation? He doubted it, the inchident was too brief and quick in the midst of the world around blowing up. But what should he say? “Accident. I was coming back to the apartment and some burning debris struck me in the throat.”

Ayrton’s face was filled with incredulity, but Alain had made sure to amp up the shameful act as he said it (and perhaps the patheticness, but he will never admit that to either you or himself). 

A breath, hot against his nose. They were close, Alan realized, and Ayrton’s hands were still on his face. The Frenchman’s cheeks became warm, and that was not from the hero’s breathing. The closeness had never bothered him before. Why now? Perhaps because all the previous times Alain was half between a panic attack, drugged in pain (or actual drugs), or simply filled with too many agonizing memories of a previous man that the physical distance had faded away from Alain’s thoughts. 

“You still haven’t answered me,” Ayrton stated.

What did he mean? Was there a crack in his lies? Had Ayrton actually seen him getting shot in the apartment, or worse, he had known it was Alain all along? Was this all a game to let Alain get his guard down so Ayrton could get the upper hand? Why didn’t he just take him in then?

“Are you okay?”

Oh. 

(‘Are you okay?’)

Alain… didn’t deserve the question. Not before, and definitely not now. Ayrton’s eyes are filled with so much earnestness and worry, unaware that it was Alain (not-Alain, but still Alain all the same) that destroyed his home that the man had worked so hard to create. 

(It was the main difference between their apartments here. Alain’s was empty of all life, only expressionless furniture and blank walls. Ayrton had built himself a home on his own, a home in this alien world far from his country, a home full of mementos of homes and photos of friends and family that kept him happy here. 

A home that was all ashes now, all because of him.)

“Why are you asking me?” Alain replied roughly. “Your apartment blew up, along with all your things.”

Ayrton shrugged. “I will buy another.” His fingers brushed against Alain’s chin, carefully avoiding the wound. “I was more worried for you. I was scared.”

He snorted. “Ayrton Senna, scared? For what? An old crippled rival?”

Anger in the brows. “My rival. And you’re not old or crippled.”

“The media would disagree.” All Alain would have to do is open his phone and see the articles and posts about his ‘ultimate downfall’. 

“Well they were always full of lect,” fingers dug into his face. Ouch. “Sorry, but we should get that looked at. How long has that been unattended?”

“Where would we even go? Your apartment is gone, remember?”

Ayrton shrugged. “We could rent a hotel room, and there’s always yours.”

Despite the frequent comparisons, Alain had forgotten he owned his own place. He had gotten so used to staying at Ayrton’s. But did he want the man to see the lifeless rooms, what would be his expressions once he saw them? Confusion? Or disgust at his lonely life, realizing that Ayrton was probably his only friend here and everything was–

“No, we are going to your apartment.” Ayrton decided.

“What?”

The Brazilian dragged him by the arms. “I let you stay over at my place for what, a month? Months? Return the favor for a displaced man.” Ayrton tugged harder. “Come on, I’m hungry, and I need to patch you up.”

Alain didn’t have a decision then. As usual. He sighed and hurried along with his guide. 

They were almost back to the Upper streets when Ayrton remembered something. “Oh, I did manage to save something from my place.”

“Oh?” McLaren gadgets that they had reluctantly lent out? Important files for the next season? Or was it something more personal like a faded photo or a worn book?”

Ayrton shrugged the jacket off his shoulder. “Here.”

The offending item dangled in front of Alain. “What?” That was slowly becoming the only word in his vocabulary. 

“I thought you liked this jacket. You wore it often.”

He stared at Ayrton’s coat. He had worn it… Multiple times. He had never gotten around to getting his own, and he had gotten used to the sleeves hugging around him loosely, with the familiar scent of Ayrton’s cologne that was a barrier to the metallic smell of the Upper world. 

“This is what you saved?” He said with disbelief. Had Ayrton gone back into the flaming wreck to save… a coat? How could this man be so reckless?

“Photos can be reprinted, books can be borrowed, and other belongings can be bought again. But, ”Ayrton smiled sheepishly. “I felt bad if I let this burn, and besides, I liked seeing you wear it.”

What does Alain say to that? 

“Think about it as a gift.” The coat swung around as Ayrton shook it. “Hurry up and take it, I don’t want to stand here all day.”

Slowly, Alain grabbed the coat and slid his body into it. It wrapped around in a familiar warmth, a belonging returning to its owner, or a puzzle piece clicking in place with another.

Something flashed through Ayrton’s eyes. Contentment? No, something darker. Satisfaction? Not that either. Alain couldn’t put his finger on it, and it was gone before he could come to a conclusion. “Yes,” the man said, “It looks good on you. Keep it.”

Alain tugged at the long sleeves that draped over his arms. He felt like a child swamped in their parent’s own clothing. Ayrton had to be lying, but why? Humiliation? But this was a long scheme just to humiliate Alain, there would be better ways.

He shouldn’t dwell on this too long. The coat was his and Ayrton wanted to go home (not home, not-Alain burnt it, remember?). 

“Thanks,” he said as they continued on their trek home, and found that he meant it. “And I apologize.”

“For what?” Ayrton answered confusedly. 

“If I had stayed home, maybe I could've protected the apartment, fight off whoever blew it up. None of this would’ve happened otherwise, and now you lose your home because of it.” It's as close as an apology that Alain could give. 

Ayrton stopped. “This is not your fault,” irritation filled his face. “Why do you always act like all of it's your fault? None of it is!”

So far from the truth. “I am not wrong.”

Pure fury crossed the man’s face. It surprised Alain, because the amount of anger in his features rivaled even that of their spats after the race. 

“Yes you are!” Ayrton shoved him against the wall with a thud. “You blame yourself for everything, and I’m done with it.” Breath against his face, hot, body pressed against each other, firm, the other quivering in rage. His hands were on Alain’s collar, dragging his face to be mere inches from him. “Don’t you get it? I don’t care about my apartment getting blown up. Well, I do care about the man who blew it up, but mostly I care that you didn’t get hurt more. Look what already happened!” Their eyes met again. Cars rushed past, wings and lights running by in dashes of air and light that streaked across their heads. Ayrton stared at the right side of his face,at the patch that covered his eye now. “The apartment means nothing to me, I would blow it up myself if I had to save you.”

Alain’s eyes widened but he kept his voice neutral. “That’s a lot to do for a man that was just your rival the other day.”

“Then tell me,” the lips are so close they brush against his face. “ Using your own questions, if it was me and this world, who would you choose?” The Upper world was flying, the cars were rushing by, and they’re on track again. Alain was watching, watching, as the cars ran by without him, and he’s watching the same race for  the hundredth time. Watching, watching, because the question Ayrton’s asking is the one Alain asked himself every time he found himself here. 

He’s watching, he’s watching. Ayrton's eyes bring him back, black like the  ashes of what is left of his house, decisive, and red like the fires that had brought it. They do not look like Ayrton’s eyes, he realized, but they were, they had to be. It is too dark, and… dominating. Possessive. His breath wasn’t warm anymore, it was cold like the hands of fear and shadows that were grappling at him now. "Because if it was me—” Not Ayrton (but also Ayrton all the same) said. Ringing, ringing, the ringing was back,  “I would burn it all down.”

A paradox. Eyes that had to belong to Ayrton but couldn’t belong to anybody else. 

It scared him, those eyes, because they were lying to him but their words weren't. 

He breathed to calm himself. “No, I couldn’t do that for you, Ayrton.” A lie, but a necessary one. The eyes were searching for an answer and it found it. Satisfied, the… thing retreated away and left Senna in its stead. He was shocked, startled for a second, but it was gone quickly, and Ayrton was fine, if not a little disappointed at Alain’s answer. He began to walk away.

Alain was frozen in place. What was that? Familiar, familiar eyes, the words say, familiar but not the same. Worse.

But he had to worry about that later. Ayrton was walking away, and Alain couldn’t leave him with a lie. He ran after him and dragged him back. “But,” he breathed as he made sure the eyes were gone. It’s only Ayrton now, and that was good, because these words were only for him. The truth, a fragment of it, but the truth in all the ways that mattered. He must tell the truth. “I would burn again for you. Over and over, if that was the thing that could’ve saved you.”

Ayrton’s voice hitched, and this was his Ayrton, nobody else's. Not the dream man’s, not the world’s, not the things's, only Alain’s and only his, the man that he was so desperate to save and never could.

And at that moment, he wanted to kiss him. 

But Alain didn’t, because Ayrton was never his, was he? He was the dream man’s too and the worlds who loved him so dearly. And Death’s, Ayrton’s was always death’s in the end. Never Alain’s.

Alain let go of the grasp and the moment dissolved away. It was not his to hold onto either. Quickly, he stepped away down the street. 

“Alain,” Ayrton called after him breathily. “Alain—”

“Carpe Diem,” he responded without looking back, “Except it is night, and I am tired, so let’s go home, Senna.”

-.-- --- ..- --- ..-. .- .-.. .-.. .--. . --- .--. .-.. . ... .... --- ..- .-.. -.. -. --- - .--- --- -.- . .- -... --- ..- - - .... .- - .-.-.-

It took a few more sessions and meetings before Niki muttered out an “acceptable”. Alain is probably more proud of it than he should be.

“Your punches at least reach me now,” Niki said reluctantly, “and you aren’t getting hit every other second. I would commend your quick learning if it wasn’t something you were supposed to know before.”

“Thanks,” Alain responded, unsure if he should accept the non-compliment. He himself was very pleased with where he got himself, because he didn’t remember the last time he threw a hit at anyone. Sparring had come easier as time went by, and movements came back to him, but there were little things he couldn’t remember, like the ticks that came before a punch. 

“Don’t get cocky, you’re still dead if you're facing anyone with more coordination than a five year old.”

Ouch, but still true. Alain had gotten better with life with one eye. He could walk down the stairs without tripping off the railing, and actually catch the random things that Ayrton might throw at him at random hours of the night. Still, even with fractions of the ability to punch came back to him, his defense was miserable (mostly due to the massive blind spot at his right). 

“Come with me,” Niki motioned Alain to follow him, and so he did. “Let’s go do something actually productive now, hmm?”

They passed through the long, broken down hallways of the airport. Some of them were filled with buzzing gear and engines, all belonging to the Rat King. Others were more empty, packed to the brim with rubble. Over the course of the week (or has it already been weeks?), Alain had slowly gotten used to the drafty but warm feeling of Niki’s dwelling place. 

They were heading off in a direction Alain had never been, so he asked, “Where are we going?”

Niki answered curtly, “You’ll find out later.”

They headed out of the abandoned airport and into the narrow streets and alleys of the Underground. The Rat darted and ducked around corners and pipes like his namesake, and Alain was left to scurry clumsily behind him.

The Underground had two distinct parts. There were the more desolate areas, void of people, with infrastructure that looked like they would crumple to dust, as well as the  places that sat beneath the track above, too threatening to go under. Those were the areas that Niki and Alain spent their time in. 

Then there were the areas that are busy with…. Underground business. It was the complete opposite, they bustled with the hurrying of people and hushed chatter of groups who did not want to get caught. Yet in the dark, they stood tall and proud, because the Underground cities were theirs alone, a place where the ones above do not dare venture. While the cities above shone with white lights that flickered with the neon colors of heroes, the ones below are… Warm. 

Street lamps. Yes, it reminded Alain of the old street lamps of home, or maybe candles. Those that did not flicker with cool and cold white, but the white that brought warmth and a certain coziness that told you you were not alone. 

Alain would take Ayrton here someday, for the candle-lit dinner and food that was somewhat edible. 

Niki moved inside a building, a restaurant, Alain noticed.  It was tight and cramped, but it did not close in on him but rather radiate a feeling of snugness. The booths were wrapped around the tables in compact ways, as if to minimize the amount of space the words of a hushed conversation could go floating off too. 

It was darker there than it was outside, with only the faint lights coming from the dim lamps above. Niki found a booth off to the corner, facing the entrance with one of the televisions. There was a fight playing on it, not with McLaren, but rather some other team that Alain couldn’t name. Williams?

“What are we staking out for?” Alain asked again as he took a seat next to his mentor. He scanned the room for anyone he could possibly know.

Niki opened his mouth to respond when the door opened and one Max Mosley padded in. 

Alain mouthed an “oh.” The man was younger, so much younger, than when Alain had last seen him. But wasn’t that all the people here? All except the people who could not live through being young. 

“Do not stare,” Niki said harshly out of the corner of his mouth. He elbowed Alain. “And keep your head down. He’s going to recognize you instantly.”

Alain ducked his head down, but he kept his eye up ahead at the television, Mosley at the corner of his sight. 

Mosley went to sit down next to a figure that Alain did not recognize. Their table was three tables down from Alain’s own, and he cannot hear their whispered words. “What are they saying?” the Frenchman whispered to his mentor.

The Austrian only elbowed him again to make him silent, so Alain resigned himself to risking it and staring at the men’s lips.

“...powers…. Teams…. New… ahead of the game.” Is what he got from the other man. 

Mosley said something along the lines of. “Who and what, and how far?”

A small glass folder is slid across the table. Mosley takes it and scrolls down it grimly. “New regulations… Danger… Too different and scrambling…”

A small group of people passed, chattering loudly, and the only word that Alain was able to catch was “Williams.”

“New game,” said Mosley. 

They sat there for a while, quiet and contemplating, before another man came in. His was more burlier than the first two, looking more fitting in this environment than the two suited men. 

He needed nicknames. Mosley was Mosley of course, and the other suited man could be… Mr. Suits. That would make whoever just walked in Mr. Muscles. 

Alain was too good at this. His creativity knows no bounds.

Mr. Suits gestured for Mr. Muscles to sit down, but the ragged man only stood there, rigid. Waiting. His back was to Alain so the retired hero couldn’t see anything, but Mosley pursed his lips displeased. 

Mr. Muscles slammed his fist against the table. “We’re not talking unless you pay,” the man declared loudly. 

Mosley and his friend eyed each other, before Mosley sighed and slid a small cylinder across the table. It was snatched immediately by Mr. Muscles, who pocketed it with a quick movement. 

“Well?” Mr. Suits asked.

Niki got on his feet. It wasn’t swift and brisk, but casual, as if to draw as little attention as he could. The three men did not notice, but Alain nervously looked up. 

“What are you doing?” The Frenchman hissed. 

The Rat King fitted his mask on. It wasn’t the elaborate designed ones that Alain had seen originally, with hooked teeth and sharp fangs. This one was simple, black and neutral, like many of the ones that the lurkers of the Underground wore. 

“Get ready to go,” was all the vigilante said in reply. 

Niki started to head off to the table, and Alain observed from his seat, tense. Mr. Muscles dropped his own disk onto the metal table, landing with a clang next to the files that Mr. Suits had given to Mosley. The Austrian promptly made his way through the tables and crowd until he was almost beside the group of men. 

A drunk straggler fell onto Mosley. Mr. Suits cursed the man at his clumsiness, not seeing that it was Niki who had actually pushed the man.

The Rat King was gone in a flash, and so were their papers and disks. Mosley was the first to jump up, followed by Mr. Suits. The poor straggler was left to their anger, but it was not long before they figured out it wasn’t him. Mr. Suits screamed in almost comical frustration as Mosley and his friend dashed out the door. 

And then there was just Alain. What was he supposed to do? He had been abandoned by both his mentor and the people he was supposed to spy on. 

The fight is still going on the television…

“Can we go?” said an impatient voice from behind him. Alain jumped. 

“Niki,” the retired-hero said, surprised, “You’re back.”

He almost felt the man’s annoyance radiating from behind the mask. “Did you think I was just going to leave you here? You’d probably get your other eye stabbed out.” The Austrian tapped the back of the seat impatiently as he watched the doorway. “Didn’t I say get ready to go? They will be back any moment.”

Alain was up instantly, but it was too late. Mosley had come in with his friends. 

“Took too long,” Niki grumbled in frustration. “Let’s go!”

The two of them ran for it. 

The three men dash after them, but Mr. Suits stopped after a few moments, doubled down and panting. Mosley dropped after him, and soon it was only Mr. Muscles that were left behind them. 

Alain could have made it out fine. It was a mistake. 

He had gotten so much better in living with one eye, but sometimes he forgets…  And it only took one misstep. 

Mr. Muscles catched him easily, and Alain was petrified, before he remembered Niki’s words. 

“Don’t let them see your face,” Niki ordered. His words were quiet, but they held a heavy weight that told Alain that he must remember. “If they do, it is all over, the vigilante business, your freedom, oh lect, your life. You do not even have the shield of animosity, you are a former hero. They will know your face.

“Do not let them see.”

They are not in the lights of the Underground city anymore. He is hidden in the shadows, but if the man brought him any closer, and not even shadows could save him then. 

Alain can not let fear get to him. Fear kept you from doing stupid stuff on the track, but it also got you killed. 

Reason. Calculation. That was how he stayed alive in a world of suicidal idiots who raced in metal deathtraps. It is how he became champion. 

Alain had not worn a mask, unlike Niki. He does not have any weapons either, McLaren taking his previous ones and the Austrian had never given him any of his own.  

Okay, Alain could work with that. 

Mr. Muscles had taken him by the scuff of his neck and tried to bring his head into the light. Alain spat in his eyes.

The burly man let him go out of shock. His hands went to his face. Alain is still backed up against the wall, but at least his limbs were free, if only for a brief moment. 

The Frenchman scrabbled out, but the man grabbed him. But he had expected that. Because as the man dragged him back, Alain snatched the blaster from the holster he had seen from Mr. Muscle’s earlier conversation. 

The thug(?) immediately froze. “You’re not going to shoot.” The man said steadily. 

Alain didn’t respond. He couldn’t. What if he recognized his voice? Heroes were much more famous than any driver in the previous world was, his voice would be much more familiar to a random individual here. 

“I have not charged that thing in years,” the man said again. “It’s useless.”

The rookie vigilante internally ran over the words. The man could be lying, but if he was, then why hadn’t he made a move? He could easily hit Alain down now. The thug was scared. This blaster worked, or at least, the man was unsure if it still worked. 

Alain pulled the trigger. The blaster shot hit the wall, a smoking black dent coming from behind Mr. Muscles’ head, who flinched. The retired hero motioned for the man to let him go, and he did. Slowly, Alain backed away, careful as he kept his hand steady and face in the shadows. He signaled Mr. Muscles to face the wall. The man reluctantly turned the other way . 

Alain did the same. 

One. 

Two. 

(Number two on his car, two seconds, two moments, and Senna is there at the corner, and Alain pushes but it is no use.)

The man turned around at breaking speed and went for the blaster. Alain is ready and turns on the balls of his feet. Time is moving slower now, just like when he was in the car when they were side to side, a million miles per hour but the world was moving by centimeters a minute. He raised the blaster. 

Niki was there first. Mr. Muscles was down in an instant. 

Three. 

(Counting, Alain must count, time is important, every second is important in the race. Count and do not mess up the time. Three seconds.)

“He is not dead,” said Niki, answering the internal question in Alain’s mind. “I shot him with the taser. He will be out for a while.”

Niki watched Alain carefully, as if he was looking for a tick where Alain was either going to break down or explode. Alain cannot, he could not. 

‘This is a test,’ he thought, ‘this was Niki’s first test.’ 

A mask. 

(“Do not let them see your face. Expressions are your weakness, it is the gap for your opponent. Mask it, keep your racing line tight. Do not let them in. Do not let them get pass.

You want to win? You want to survive? Wear the mask.”) 

Alain did not have a physical mask like Niki did. His mask was the one which he controlled with small facial expressions. It did not have fangs or a wicked smile of a rat. Instead, he wore a mask of cold eyes and control. 

It was how he had survived the track. It was how he had survived the press. It was how he survived Senna.

It was how he was going to survive this world. 

Niki watched with an expressionless face. Alain studied him the same way, staring down his opponent, calculating the numbers and the weight of the risks. 

He counted. 

At last, Niki shrugged his shoulders and looked away. “Alright, we do not have all the time in the world. We should go before his friends come back.” Niki began to walk away. 

Alain let out a small breath that he did not know he had held. 

He passed. 

.... .- ...- . -.-- --- ..- -. . ...- . .-. . ...- . -. .-.. . ..-. - - .... . --. .- -- . ..--..

Ayrton came back home (when had the apartment become home?) with a red gash on his head and blood that streamed down his face. 

Alain only stared. Ayrton stood there, awkwardly, and it would almost be in a shameful manner if the man knew shame. 

(Struck to the head, reports had said, during the impact. That was how—)

But he was not there. 

Alain managed to unstick himself from his frozen position and move to Ayrton. It was so, so hard, as the weight of images of a cruel, brutal scene and the seizing arms of the endless trail of thoughts dragged him back. Tired, Alain thought, he was so very tired of this. 

Fingers brushed against the gash. Ayrton flinched, but Alain couldn't find it in him to care. Let him feel the  pain. He deserved it, for all that he was doing to Alain. 

Blood stuck to his fingers, thick and thin, slick and glinting in the light. It is Ayrton’s blood, and for a split second, Alain let himself be selfish and pretended that the man in front of him was his Ayrton. That the man really had just come back from Imola with a mere wound on his head, sheepishly standing as Alain stared disappointedly at him. They would share a joke, laugh it off, and head off to the dinner that the Brazilian had promised.

But that Ayrton was not real. That Ayrton’s blood could never reach Alain’s hands in the first place, because they had dragged him away before he could even touch him. The next time Alain sees him was in a coffin. 

Blood red and sticky, was this Ayrton heading off to the ground too?

Alain wanted to smack his fist against Ayrton’s face, but the man had a head wound. Experience told him that doing so was not a good idea. What Alain does instead is drag both hands across his own face. It smeared the blood all over his forehead and checked, a paintstroke of red that went over crooked his nose and eyepatch. 

“Prost! Alain!” called a shocked Ayrton. “What are you doing?”

“Mmmm,” he mumbled into his hands, “I hate you Ayrton. Why must you do this to me?”

“...”

Ayrton eventually got Alain out of his… jumbled mess. Snapping out of it, Alain went to get the first aid kit. 

As he cleaned the wound, Ayrton bit his tongue through the pain (he should) and asked “Did you watch the fight?” 

His head flashed back to the one Underground restaurant, a faint memory of a pixelated recording on the screen of Williams. “I didn’t think McLaren was in that fight.” 

“We weren’t, at least originally, but McLaren had wanted me to assess Lotus’ new rookie. Hakkinen, I think, was his name. ” 

“And you did something stupid.” assumed Alain. 

“It wasn’t,” Ayrton tried to defend himself. “It was not a stupid thing to do. I could beat all of them with a hand tied behind my back. Trock, I could beat them with both hands tied up. Mistake. I just made a mistake.”

“You got hurt,” Alain whispered. “What is the next mistake going to do? You’re fighting in the sky, Ayrton, your mistakes are going to get you killed.”

Ayrton shook his head. How could this man be so sure of himself? “I will not die. God made me to fight, and I will. This is how.”

‘I will not die.’

Alain almost, almost doubled down in terrible, broken laughter. For a man so sure in the abilities God has given him, he has forgotten that he himself is as mortal as any man. This was too easy for him, so Ayrton played with death and fate like it was a game, and didn't realize that a wager goes two sides. 

Time was creeping by too fast, and Alain was wasting time. Niki taught slowly, and while Alain burned his time in the Underground, Ayrton was playing his game upstairs. 

“All men die,” Alain said. He tied off the bandage around his friend’s head. “Do you really think you are exempt from that rule?”

Ayrton gave him a grin. “I will choose how I die,” he said. His dark eyes were assured and determined, just like they were before. 

“You are, aren’t you?” Alain retorted. “And that’s the problem. Everyday you are choosing to die on the track, because of this game,” he tore the bandage and it jerked Ayrton’s head to the side. “It is too easy for you.”

“And what if I want to die there?” Ayrton argued angrily, he bored his eyes into Alain's, as if searching for something in his own eyes. “I die doing what I love, with my names on hundreds of lips, not pitifully off in a hospital bed.”

“Then you are a selfish, selfish man.” But all drivers, weren’t they? To win, you must at least be at least a little selfish, to steal away the first or the second, to steal away the love and the glory, to steal and to take and to push each other off…

“And why is it such a selfish thing?” Ayrton insisted. “It is my life, I’m allowed to choose to do with it what I please.”

“What about your family? Your friends? How will they feel when they attend your funeral? To have to grieve your death, because you simply decided that fighting was too easy and you were bored?”

Ayrton snapped at him. “You know nothing of what they would feel!”

Alain did laugh at this. It was more of a shattered laugh than he thought it would be, more manic and terrible, brokened it all the wrong edges. He laughed and he laughed he couldn’t stop. 

He laughed and did not cry, but in a way, it was only him sobbing some more. 

Ayrton only watched him, the asserted look in his face slowly washed away as he watched the crazier laughter of the usual composed man. 

“Ayrton,” he said after a while, still hiccuping with bits of laughter. “I have felt more than enough to last two lifetimes. You could never be more wrong.”

.... -.-- .--. --- -.-. .-. .. - .. -.-. .- .-.. --- ..-. -.-- --- ..- - --- ... .- -.-- - .... .- - .-.-.-

Ayrton walked into his apartment, and everything felt… off. Dark, it was dark. Usually when he had come back, Alain would’ve started cooking or preparing something for dinner. There was no noise coming from the kitchen, nor heavy incense of delicious aromas. 

He noticed the figure next, draped in the shadows of the setting sun. Ayrton was instantly on guard, blaster in hand and already flicking the switch off. 

“Senna,” the voice went. It is muffled by a modulator, but the voice was programmed to sound like a man. 

They (he?) knew his name. This was no burglar, they had broken into Ayrton’s apartment on purpose. 

He pulled the trigger. 

The shot landed inches away from their head. The figure does not flinch, his only reaction was a slight turn of their heads toward the wall. 

“Who are you?” Ayrton shouted, voice level, yet laced with rage. Where was Alain? Was he safe? Has the figure done something with him?  

The hooded man didn’t respond. 

“Who are you?” Ayrton repeated louder, his grip on the trigger tightening. He was going to pull the trigger again, and this time the shot would not  be going to the wall.

“Ayrton Senna,” the figure pronounced his name meticulously, every syllable made to be concise. “You should know me.”

“I’ve never met you in my life,” Ayrton spat. He scanned around the room, and then the hooded man, looking for any kinds of weakness. His guard wasn’t too good, if the hero picked the right time and the right angle, it would be an easy win. Trock, he could shoot him down right now. 

But a dead man was not a talking man, and Ayrton needed to find Alain.  

The hooded man cocked his head. “Strange… And sad,” the voice said humorlessly. “Because, you know Ayrton,” A flick of the fingers. 

And oh, Ayrton thought at that moment, there wasn’t any time left, was there? He missed his chance, but even half a second too late, he pulled the trigger nonetheless. The shot went flying out—

“We are one of the same.” 

The world shot up in flames. 

“You need to raise your arm higher,” Niki said as his foot went straight into Alain’s chest, knocking the younger man straight to the ground. 

Alain groaned in pain. 

“Remind me again why we are doing this?” He asked with a grumble. This was the third time they were meeting, and the Austrian had begun to “teach” him how to fight properly. In truth, it was just Lauda pushing him around and Alain getting slammed to the floor. Multiple times.

“Because somehow in the two or three weeks you have retired, your defense has eroded into nothing. What happened to you?” Niki asked contemptuously. He dragged Alain back to the center of the “sparring ground” which was only really a larger section of the abandoned airport (or the Ratcave, as Alain had not so affectionately dubbed it). 

“What ‘happened’ is that I lost an eye.” Alain said dryly. “You should be praising me for getting back on my feet so fast and being here.”

Niki waved his words off. “Losing an eye hinders your ability to fight, not make you completely forget how to. It’s like you have lost all your memories on how to block or even punch correctly.”

Bullseye, Niki was absolutely correct is his assumption, but it was not like Alain could admit that now, could he? So Alain only shrugged and looked away, chastened. 

A sigh. “You’re not going to be able to fight Senna like this,” Niki said. He had gotten back into position with a small grin. “Come on, neither of us got all day here, and you want to be back before your roommate goes looking for you. Again.”

Alain put his arms up, a little higher this time. Time to go again. 

They moved around sparring, with Niki trying to improve the Frenchman’s balance and punching technique. 

‘Stop reaching.’

‘I’m over here, Prost.’

More days went by, and Niki continued to stress the importance of their spars. “Since you are not using a blaster, at least to what I am assuming,” the vigilante had said, “you need to know how to fight the man in hand-to-hand combat. I watched your last fight with him. It was miserable.”

Back at Ayrton’s apartment, the feud had calmed down. It went  down easier than Alain had expected, though that was probably because this so-called ‘feud’ was more one-sided on his own part than it was Ayrton’s. 

“I got a new partner now,” the Brazilian said as Alain set the dinner table. The Frenchman had gotten back early and had cooked for once. Apparently everyone here had ordered their groceries online, but Niki was kind enough to show him the Underground’s grocery store. Never would Alain have thought that stand lettuce would have to be next to a pack seller (the world’s equivalent to weed) but here it was. 

“Oh?” Alain asked as he tried to hide the petulant note in his voice, “Who is it?”

“Gerhard.”

One (raise the gun, he is hurt). Two ( do not think, pull the trigger). Three (the shot goes through). 

Four (Berger screams, just like Didier did as they took him away). 

“Is he back?” Alain asked. He did not realize his mouth had opened. His movements had become automatic as his hands moved the two plates across the table. 

“Yes,” Ayrton said, not aware of Alain’s discomfort. “His leg has healed well enough, but I noticed that there is a limp sometimes during a battle. It is not prominent, and I would think it would only be me to see it.”

“He must be terribly furious,” Alain said softly into the collar of his shirt. 

“At you,” Ayrton replied. “But not for revenge.” Pause. Footsteps as Ayrton went to get the cutlery. “And he would never get close enough if he did.”

Alain pulled his chair out. “He is a McLaren hero, he has the ability to.”

“So am I.” Ayrton answered in an irate voice. The skin around his knuckles whitened as he  gripped against the back of the chair. Alain studied it wearily. 

“If only,” Alain muttered, “you cared enough to defend yourself in the same way.”

Ayrton did not seem to hear, or if he did, the man  had chosen to ignore him. It was okay, he will not ignore Alain’s words for much longer. 

The two of them slid into their seats. “God is great, God is good,” Ayrton prayed as he blessed their food. “Let us thank him for our food.”

Some things did not change, no matter what world you were in. Ayrton’s firm belief, for one, and his recklessness in the other. The words of a prayer seem to stay constant too. 

“Ayrton?”

“Hmm?” The man had already dug into his plate of pasta. Alain thought, amusedly, that McLaren’s no.1 hero  must be ravaged after the whole day. 

“What is the difference between great and good?” the Frenchman asked casually. 

Ayrton freezed. A strand of pasta hung, drooping from his mouth. “Hmm?”

“The difference between being great and being good,” Alain wanted to see how the hero responded. “What is it?”

A small pause to think. “The difference,” Ayrton said carefully as he slurped up the noodle. He tilted his head up and put a thumb to his lip. The driver and hero version both had that habit when they were thinking something over. “Well, greatness, greatness isn’t good, it is the power and weight, or the legacy you leave behind.” He points down to the courtyard out the window of the apartment, where a statue of Jackie Stewart stood. “ But good… Good is being kind or righteous, and you must hold honor, but it is a different kind of honor than what greatness has.”

“Then,” Alain watched the setting sun, red and bright in all its marvelous glory. The sun didn’t change in either world. Small constants in a larger equation. “Are you trying to be good, Ayrton, or are you trying to be great?”

The Brazilian had gone back to devour the food. “Can’t I be both?”

“Which one would you rather have?” Alain pressed. The sun, he thought, was more great than it was good, with its bright fire that gave the world life. It was not good for that, because it did not do it out of the kindness of its heart. It only burned because burning was how to live, how to continue to exist and save itself from its eventual doom . Yet the Earth depends on it so dearly, not being able to live without it. 

(Alain wondered if Ayrton was the sun that burned so fiercely only to survive, to live and to win, and if Alain was the Earth that he did not care for, only a consequence of Ayrton’s fire.)

“I do not know,” Ayrton answered sincerely. “It would depend. For the world, I'd rather be great, be for my family, my friends, I’d be good.” 

For you, Alain thought, or dreamed, was the words Ayrton had left out. 

He let the rest of his questions go and allowed himself to enjoy the rest of the dinner. The sun casted shades of tangerine across the living room, and Alain watched as it made Ayrton’s face glow. He was golden, so golden and on fire, but the Brazilian does not realize as the more a star burns, the faster it will die. 

“Alain?” Ayrton raised his head from the plate. “You have not eaten a bit of your food.” In this light, the Brazilians' eyes were not dark, but a warm amber that Alain wanted to sink into. 

(‘It would not be cold in there’, he thought, ‘it may even fill in the blackest, incurable grief that hid in the crevices of his mind and heart, never to be washed away.’)

“Sorry,” Alain said as he took his fork to stab into some of the pasta. “I was distracted.”

The younger man seemed to accept this excuse as he said, “This is…” Ayrton spun his fork around in the air, trying to find the words. “Better than anything I have ever eaten. Besides my mother’s of course. Where did you learn this?”

Alain smiles. He was not a good cook by any means, but he supposes anything was better than purple chicken. “Somewhere far away from here— my home.”

“France?”

He chuckles. “No, not exactly. My original home. You would not know of it, but it is a place I love and miss dearly.” 

Ayrton twirls his fork around the last of the pasta. “Would you go back? He asked, voice low, as if hiding some emotions he did not want the world to see.

That was not a question that Alain had even considered. Would he? Go back? It had never come up, and he wasn’t even sure he could. “It is very lonely here,” he said. Ayrton frowned. “But, Alain added, “I do not think I would. I could not.”

“Why?” Ayrton's eyes drove into his own. “If you missed it so dearly?”

Why? “There are things I… have to do. And some things I would miss more if I didn’t do them.” Like Ayrton’s eyes. They were real here, they had warmth and they had life. The eyes stared and watched and gazed, and it danced around the world. They were not locked away in a wooden box. “If that makes sense.”

“No it doesn’t,” Ayrton smiled back. “But not much of you do.”

Silence sank around the dinner table, but they did not mind it much. It was a comfortable sort of silence, one that could speak more words than talking did. Alain sat back and enjoyed the smile on the man’s face, a smile that was only for him and him alone. 

Yes, he hated this world. The food was terrible, technology too hard to handle, and the cars did not go fast. Death was not considered a real thing here, and Alain hates that the most. This world has also taken his eye, and taken even more from his soul as he holds a blaster up to shoot. 

Ayrton was here though, and Alain can live with bad food, cars, and tech if Ayrton was here. He could fight the teams and the heroes who did not believe in their own mortality or the mortality of those they held in their hands, and Alain would fight himself to keep his own honor that was more good than great ( which was a sin to a world that praised those of heroes). 

He could live with one eye, if that eye could watch two of Ayrton’s own. If it could take in his image, his golden skin and soft chocolate hair, and keep it in sight for more. 

This was not the dinner Ayrton had promised, nor was it close to it. But the Brazilian didn’t remember anyways, so Alain would have to carry it here and try his best to give it to them. That memory was a burden most of the time, until now. 

Ayrton’s eyes were fire like the sun that was saying goodnight, and he smiled like the crescent of the moon that had just begun to break out. The memory was a burden every time, Alain corrected his earlier statement, but that was alright. He would carry it like Atlas did the world on his back, because the pain of his back was never worse than the freezing emptiness without it.

.- .... --..-- -... .- -.-. -.- - --- -... ..- ... .. -. . ... ... .- - .... .- -. -.. --..-- .- .-. . -. .-..-. - .-- . ..--..

Niki was watching television, twisting a blaster around his hand absentmindedly as he thought about the retired-hero he had recently taken under his wing. 

Prost. That man… He was never a reckless one, was he? Always cold and calculated, doing what it took to win, nothing more and nothing less. It was why the crowds never loved him as much as they did Senna or the others, because he was not your typical hero. 

The cannon. Ferrari’s trocking cannon. They had pushed it out before it was even ready. It was desperation, being so utterly dominated by the British team. They were so confident that it would save them, give them the points they needed, or better yet, take out one McLaren’s ace. 

It had failed in its target, with Prost doing the unexpected and taking the hit. It had failed in the target when the fire blasted back at their own hero and mauled half his face. Niki feels it ticking away already, the years, but now that the Frenchman stood in front of him….. 

Had the Italians lied? No that couldn't be, Niki had saw Prost that day, and he was —

“Rat!” A loud and familiar voice comes booming from the door. “Rat! Open up!” 

Niki gets up from his space on the couch, sighing. The door cracks open, and he is met with familiar blue eyes and a mop of blonde hair. 

“James,” he began, but before he could continue the man bursted in. 

“Lauda,” the Briton said. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”

Niki glared before exhaling. “Is that what you come stomping in here to talk to me about? Prost?”

James snapped his fingers together. “So you have seen him,” he exclaimed. “I was going to tell you earlier, but that last pack was a doozy, and I wasn’t even certain he was alive after that incident.”

“Get to the point, James.” Niki said, already worn out by his friend, “I want to go to sleep soon.”

“I was driving home with some girls,” James began.

“I do not see how this is enough out of the ordinary to come telling me about.”

It was James’ turn to be annoyed. “You want me to hurry up, don’t you? Let me talk.” Niki motions him to continue. “I was driving back and was passing by the McLaren’s headquarters, when I saw Prost. He is falling, no car, no hoverboard, no nothing. He was just falling down from the sky, a hundred meters a second.”

“And you didn’t help him,” Niki responded dryly. 

“I thought he was testing out some tech, but clearly he wasn’t.” 

Niki pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what to say. What do you want me to say? That Prost is being weird? Don’t worry, I know that. Everybody does. He is not the same, not as before. And now he’s retired without warning, and Senna is left without him.”

“Speaking of retirement,” James said as he sunk into the couch. “How have you been doing, now that all your responsibilities are gone for good?”

Niki rolled his eyes, “I have more responsibility than just fighting.” Niki pauses, and thinks if he should tell his friend about his new vigilante work. James would keep a secret, he knew he would, but…

“Oh stop doubting everything, would you?” the blonde man exclaimed, dropping his head onto the head of the couch to stare at him.  “I know you’re the Rat King, you don’t need to go around trying to avoid the subject of it. I was just asking how you were doing.”

“You do?”

He snorted. “Of course I do. I practically live in the Underground these days,” the man waved around a pack as to signify what he’s been doing there. “You think I wouldn’t? And besides, I know you too well. Come on, ‘Rat King’, please. I’m surprised no one else got it.”

“Then you know that Prost has recently come to join me in the job.” Niki said carefully. If James knew this much now, there was no point hiding it. He would find out, and the Austrian had wanted someone to confide in.

“Oh? Has he?” James asked curiously, “Didn’t think the man had it in him. Always seemed to be one of those law-abiding rule followers who never knew how to have any fun.”

Niki smiled. “Compared to me?”

“Pot meets kettle,” James said sweetly. “Now I see that both of you are actual menaces underneath. But tell me about Prost. Why did he retire and join your little vigilante fun group?”

“For retirement? Same as us,” Niki supposed. “He is too tired of the laws and politics of the team, or maybe the orders that McLaren gives. And for why he has joined me… Take a guess.”

“Drugs.”

“Very far off. His old teammate actually. He thinks Senna is being too reckless and he thinks becoming an illegal hero would somehow make him less so.”

“Couldn’t he,” James said doubtfully, “just talk to him? Tell him to be less stupid. It is an easier option. And when did he care about his partner so much?"

“I don’t know,” Niki said, breathing out and shrugging. He sank into the couch next to James. “But those two are old stubborn fools who hate each other's guts, so what could I say?”

“Not so different from us, ey?” The Briton asked playfully, wiggling his eyebrows. 

Niki slapped the man’s face away, but he was grinning. “I may be stubborn and hate your guts, but I’m not a fool. The same can’t be said for you.”

They laughed.