Chapter Text
The first time George Russell met Andrea Kimi Antonelli, he was convinced Mercedes had accidentally recruited a child. Not metaphorically. Literally.
George had arrived at Brackley that day half asleep after a sponsor event in London, still carrying airport coffee and the kind of exhaustion that made human interaction feel medically dangerous. Toto’s message had been vague—something about introducing him properly to “the future of Mercedes.”
George expected another academy driver. Tall. Loud. Terrified. Probably trying too hard to sound mature. Instead he walked into the simulator room and found a teenager curled sideways in an office chair watching onboard footage while eating dry cereal directly out of the box.
For several full seconds, George genuinely thought someone’s younger sibling had wandered into a restricted area.
The kid looked impossibly young. Soft curls falling into his eyes, oversized black hoodie swallowing his frame, one foot tucked underneath himself like he’d forgotten how chairs worked. There was absolutely nothing intimidating about him. Nothing sharp or polished or corporate-ready the way Formula One usually demanded.
Then Toto appeared beside George. “Kimi,” Toto said warmly, “this is George.”
The kid looked up immediately and smiled. George would later describe that smile as the beginning of his problems because it wasn’t arrogant. Not nervous either. Just open. Honest in a way that felt bizarre inside Formula One.
“Hi,” Kimi said. “Sorry. I think I stole your chair.”
George looked at the chair. Then at Toto. Then back at the teenager holding a cereal box like a hostage negotiation item.
“This,” George said carefully, “is the future of Mercedes?”
Toto looked proud. “Yes.”
George waited for more explanation but none came.
Kimi held out the cereal box politely. “Do you want some?”
George stared at him. “No.”
“Okay.”
And that should have been the end of it. It should have been a mildly strange first meeting with a rookie several years younger than him. Instead, George made the catastrophic mistake of sitting down beside him. Because the second Kimi started talking, things became deeply confusing.
Not because he sounded immature but quite the opposite: Kimi spoke about racing the way religious people spoke about faith. Calmly. Completely. Like he’d been born with telemetry already running through his bloodstream. He talked about tire temperatures and braking confidence and rotation through high-speed corners with an instinctive understanding George usually only heard from drivers twice his age.
Then, without transition whatsoever, Kimi asked: “Do British people really eat beans for breakfast every day?”
George blinked. “…yes?”
Kimi looked horrified. “Why?”
George had no answer for that. Neither, apparently, did Mercedes.
From that moment onward, every interaction with Kimi became psychologically destabilizing, because one second he would sound like a future world champion engineered in a laboratory specifically to continue Mercedes dominance for another decade and the next he’d ask questions like: “Do fish ever get thirsty?” Or: “If someone punches a kangaroo first, is it self-defense?” Or, memorably: “If I became pope, could I still race in Formula One?”
George had initially assumed this was an act. Some kind of elaborate personality tactic. Nobody could alternate that seamlessly between frightening brilliance and complete absence of normal thought patterns. But then came the simulator incident.
George still thought about the simulator incident sometimes late at night with the exhausted numbness of a trauma survivor. It happened during Kimi’s second week. The engineers had been preparing him for hours. Long meetings. Data review. Endless technical adjustments. George remembered walking past the room and hearing Kimi speaking in perfect detail about aerodynamic instability through fast directional changes.
Everyone inside had looked impressed and George had been impressed too. Then one engineer casually asked Kimi if he felt ready.
Kimi had nodded confidently. “Yes.”
“Good,” the engineer said. “The sim is free now.”
And Kimi — future star of Mercedes, generational talent, terrifying prodigy — had immediately walked face-first into a glass door.
Not hard. But hard enough that the sound echoed through the corridor. George remembered the silence afterward most vividly.
Kimi stumbling backward holding his nose. The engineers frozen. Toto staring into the middle distance like a man suddenly questioning all his life choices. And George—
George had laughed.
Not polite laughter, not restrained amusement. Real laughter. Violent laughter. The kind that physically weakens you.
Kimi, to his credit, had looked more offended than embarrassed. “The door was invisible,” he argued.
“It was glass,” George wheezed.
“Yes.”
“That’s how glass works.”
“Well that seems unfair.”
George had laughed even harder. And that, unfortunately, was the exact moment everything became irreversible. Because afterward Kimi started following him around.
Not intentionally at first. At least George hoped not. But somehow they kept ending up together. Simulator days. Gym sessions. Flights. Marketing shoots where Kimi looked physically distressed anytime someone tried teaching him media training. George became, against his own will, the person responsible for explaining normal adult life to Mercedes’ newest prodigy.
Which was difficult because Kimi seemed fundamentally unequipped for survival.
He forgot luggage constantly. He lost team passes at statistically impossible frequencies. He once left his phone inside a refrigerator because he “wanted water and got distracted.” And yet, somehow, every single person who met him immediately adored him.
George watched it happen over and over again with growing suspicion. Engineers softened around him within hours. Mechanics stayed late to help him. Even journalists became gentler during interviews, which George had previously believed impossible.
Worst of all was Toto.
Toto Wolff, terrifying corporate emperor of Mercedes Formula One, looked at Kimi the way medieval kings probably looked at long-awaited heirs: proud, amused and alarmingly forgiving. The first time Kimi crashed a practice car, George had prepared himself for catastrophe but instead Toto sighed deeply and asked if Kimi was okay before asking about the car.
George pulled him aside afterward in genuine disbelief.
“You realize this is how dictatorships begin.”
Toto stared at him. “What?”
“He’s manipulating all of you.”
“Kimi forgot his own birthday meeting yesterday.”
“That’s what makes him dangerous.”
Toto laughed for nearly thirty consecutive seconds. George had not been joking.
And then came Max Verstappen. Which was when George realized the situation had escalated beyond containment. Because Max did not like people, at least, not naturally. Max tolerated people the way storms tolerated buildings.
But the first time Kimi wandered into Red Bull hospitality by accident and apologized in broken Dutch for stealing coffee, Max had immediately adopted him like a stray cat.
George watched it unfold in horror: Max teaching Kimi swear words, Kimi asking Max bizarre philosophical questions mid-paddock, Max looking visibly fond whenever Kimi appeared unexpectedly beside him. It was unnatural.
George tried warning people but nobody seemed to listen. And now, months later, George stood in Mercedes hospitality watching Kimi explain penguin mating rituals to Max Verstappen over breakfast while both of them looked perfectly content.
George felt the same cold certainty investigators probably experienced before becoming conspiracy theorists: something deeply sinister was happening here but only George could see it.
By the third race weekend of the season, George Russell had developed three deeply unfortunate habits.
The first was stress-cleaning the Mercedes driver room whenever Kimi Antonelli was nearby. The second was staring at Kimi with the haunted vigilance of a medieval priest who strongly suspected a child in the village had been replaced by a fae creature. And the third was keeping a running list on his phone titled:
Evidence That Antonelli Is Not Human
At first it had been a joke but then Kimi had arrived forty minutes late to a simulator session carrying a tiny paper bag of pastries, apologized in a sleepy little voice to every engineer individually, and somehow escaped consequences entirely because everyone in the room immediately decided he was “adorable.”
George had added three bullet points to the document that same afternoon.
Now the list had reached twenty-seven entries and included phrases like:
— smiled directly at Toto after crashing FP2 car
— mechanics visibly willing to die for him
— suspiciously silent when plotting
— can activate Max Verstappen paternal instincts at will
— definitely knows exactly what he’s doing with the eyelashes
George knew how insane this sounded and that was the problem, because every time he attempted to explain it out loud, people reacted like he was suffering from sleep deprivation-induced psychosis.
Which, admittedly, he probably was. Still. He was right.
And one day everyone would realize it, but unfortunately for George, today was not that day.
Today was Miami. And Miami was already going terribly. It started at breakfast inside Mercedes hospitality, as George walked in expecting peace. Instead he found Kimi sitting cross-legged on one of the couches with a bowl of fruit in his lap while Max Verstappen lounged beside him looking weirdly relaxed for a man usually fueled entirely by road rage and caffeine.
Kimi was talking (again) animatedly about something involving penguins and Max was listening like it was a state briefing. “…and they steal rocks from each other,” Kimi explained seriously. “To impress females.”
Max nodded once. “That’s hilarious.”
George stopped walking. There it was again: the phenomenon. Max Verstappen did not listen to anyone speak about penguin mating rituals before eight in the morning. Except apparently Kimi.
George narrowed his eyes immediately. “Kimi.”
Kimi looked up brightly. “George! Good morning.”
Too bright. Far too bright. George pointed suspiciously at the bowl in his hands. “What’s that?”
“…fruit?”
“Where did you get it?”
“The kitchen.”
“You hate fruit.”
Kimi blinked. “What?”
“You complained about blueberries for twenty minutes in Bahrain.”
“I said they were mushy.”
“Exactly.”
Max looked between them slowly. “Do you two always interact like divorced parents?”
“Yes,” George answered immediately.
“No,” Kimi answered at the exact same time.
Max started laughing already. George ignored him and continued staring at Kimi with the exhausted determination of a detective who knew the suspect was guilty but lacked physical evidence.
Then Kimi smiled softly and held the bowl toward him. “Do you want strawberries?”
George froze. Because this was how it happened, this was how Kimi got people. Not manipulation in the traditional sense. Nothing obvious. Nothing intentional. He simply looked at you like you mattered for approximately four consecutive seconds and suddenly you wanted to buy him soup during winter.
George resisted heroically. “No.”
Kimi tilted his head slightly. “There’s chocolate on them.”
George hesitated. Max saw it happen in real time and nearly choked on his coffee. “Oh my God,” Max whispered delightedly. “You’re weak to enrichment tactics.”
“I am not.”
“You literally almost folded because he offered you fruit.”
“It wasn’t fruit anymore. There was chocolate involved.”
Kimi quietly pushed the bowl closer anyway. George took a strawberry before he could stop himself. Max burst into full laughter and Kimi looked pleased. And George realized with horror that he had once again become a victim of psychological warfare.
“See?” he said furiously to Max while eating the strawberry anyway. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“What, that he shares snacks?”
“That he makes people lower their guard.”
“Kimi,” Max said patiently, “forgot his passport in Italy two weeks ago.”
“That’s a cover.”
Kimi frowned slightly. “George, why do you always say I am evil?”
“Because you are suspicious.”
“I gave you strawberries.”
“EXACTLY.”
Max physically bent over laughing now and Kimi looked genuinely wounded. And because the universe despised George personally, several nearby engineers immediately turned to look at him like he had just kicked a puppy.
George pointed around helplessly. “THIS IS WHAT HE DOES.”
Nobody listened. Nobody ever listened.
Things deteriorated further during media day. George had been trapped doing interviews for nearly two hours already, which meant he was operating on the edge of civilized behavior. The final straw came when one journalist smiled knowingly and asked:
“So, George, what’s it like mentoring Kimi?”
George smiled professionally with the expression of a hostage blinking in Morse code. “I am not mentoring him.”
The journalist laughed. “Oh, come on. You clearly have a protective dynamic.”
George thought briefly about the fact he had once watched Kimi nearly walk directly into moving traffic while distracted by a bird. Protectiveness was perhaps unavoidable.
“That doesn’t mean he’s harmless.”
The interviewer blinked.“…what?”
George leaned forward unconsciously. “I’m serious. Nobody understands. He looks innocent, but there’s something deeply wrong happening there.”
Behind the cameras, George heard familiar laughter and he closed his eyes immediately, because of course Kimi had arrived at the worst possible moment. Kimi stood there wearing oversized Mercedes team gear and holding an iced coffee with both hands. His curls were a mess from the wind and he looked about fourteen years old.
The cameraman visibly melted. One of the interviewers whispered “aw.” And george wanted to die.
Kimi wandered closer. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to warn people.”
“About?”
“You.”
Kimi looked genuinely startled. “What did I do?”
George opened his mouth. And then stopped, because the problem was that Kimi never technically did anything, not really. That was the issue: there was no concrete evidence, just patterns, subtle destruction, the slow emotional collapse of everyone around him.
George narrowed his eyes again. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
Kimi stared at him for several seconds.
Then, very quietly: “I really don’t.”
The worst part? George believed him. Which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying. The interview ended shortly afterward because Max arrived and immediately became distracted trying to teach Kimi Dutch swear words.
George watched in numb horror as Kimi repeated one of them accidentally loud enough for Toto Wolff to hear. Toto nearly inhaled his own coffee laughing.
No consequences. Again.
George pointed furiously. “See?”
Max grinned. “He’s funny.”
“He just swore at our team principal.”
“And Toto loved it.”
“That’s because he’s bewitched.”
Kimi looked deeply concerned now. “George,” he said gently, “are you sleeping enough?”
There it was. That tone. Soft. Patient. Like George was the unstable one. George stared at him in outrage while Max collapsed against a wall laughing again.
The true disaster happened later that night because George made the catastrophic mistake of agreeing to dinner with Max and Kimi. In his defense, he had assumed public space meant safety but he had underestimated Kimi completely.
The restaurant was quiet, warm, dimly lit. Mostly team personnel scattered around after a long day. George arrived first. Max showed up ten minutes later. Kimi arrived twenty minutes after that looking mildly panicked and carrying a helmet bag for reasons nobody understood.
“I got lost,” he announced immediately.
“You’ve been here before,” George said.
“Yes.”
“Three times.”
“Yes.”
“HOW?”
Kimi considered this seriously. “I forgot left and right.”
Max started laughing instantly while George rubbed both hands over his face. “You have a driver’s license.”
“That is unrelated.”
“It is directly related.”
Kimi sat down beside Max and immediately stole fries off George’s plate with absolutely no hesitation.
George stared at him but Kimi kept eating calmly.
“Those were mine.”
“You were not using them.”
“THAT DOESN’T MATTER.”
Max was nearly crying and laughing by now. Other nearby tables had started listening openly. George pointed accusingly at Kimi again.
“Do you see this? Nobody normal behaves like this.”
Kimi looked confused. “Carlos steals food from Charles constantly.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
George opened his mouth but nothing came out, because unfortunately Kimi had a point.
Max leaned back in his chair, grinning lazily now. “You know what your problem is?”
“I don’t have a problem.”
“You keep acting like Kimi is some evil mastermind when really he’s just…” Max gestured vaguely toward him. Kimi was currently trying and failing to open a ketchup packet.
“…that.”
George looked at Kimi and Kimi looked back. Then the ketchup packet exploded directly onto George’s white shirt and Max made a choking noise while Kimi froze in absolute horror.
Very slowly, Kimi whispered: “…I think maybe I am evil.”
Max lost control completely. He folded forward laughing so hard the entire table shook. Even George — exhausted, irritated, deeply vindicated George — felt laughter threatening the edges of his composure. Because Kimi looked genuinely devastated.
“George,” he said quietly, “I am so sorry.”
And there it was again: that thing, that impossible sincerity that made anger feel ridiculous.
George sighed heavily. Then handed him a napkin.
“You’re still suspicious.”
Kimi smiled a little. “But you forgive me?”
George stared at him for a long moment. At the stupid curls. The worried eyes. The ketchup packet still clenched in his hands like evidence from a crime scene. And somewhere deep in the horrifying center of George Russell’s soul, a realization began unfolding with the slow dread of an incoming natural disaster.
The problem was not that Kimi Antonelli was secretly evil.
The problem was that George was beginning to like him anyway.
Which was, frankly, much worse.