#inertiaverse

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updated grid of my F1 OCs!

From left to right, descending row-by-row: Esteban di Fernandez (BRA) and Natalie Bertrand (FRA) Darian Espinoza (ESP) and Marco Bianchi (ITA) Marcus Harding (GBR) and Nikolaus Hautala (FIN) Yōjirō Nagamatsu (JPN) and Sergei Shepov (RUS) Imogen Kane (GBR) and Bernardo Molina Velazquez (VEN) Cassidy Kimball (CAN) and Emilia Monteiro (POR) Devon Holtzman (NED) and Freya Larsen (DEN) Callista Fontecchio (ITA) and Dominik Leitner (AUT) Jordan Thackwell (NZL) and Mireille Guérin (FRA) Holly Martin (AUS) and Levi Callaghan (USA) Kurt Roth (DEU) and Aaron Giles-Westley (GBR) Ervin Kesküla (EST) and Víctor Ocampo (MEX)

Factfiles and bios on each individual driver will be coming soon! Please feel free to send asks about these guys and provide me with a socially acceptable way to scream about them on here because god knows I've been talking the ears off the F1 writers' groupchat!!

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Uncertain - OC kiss week, Day 1

Prompt: A kiss that means nothing to one person - and something to the other. Pairing: Natalie Bertrand & Callista Fontecchio (one-sided) Summary: Back when Natalie and Callista were F1 teammates at Octane MRT, they developed a close friendship that's still going strong in 2024. On Nat's end of things, however, this is how it became something quite different... Word count: 1,306

Uncertain

Monza, 2019 Monday, early morning - after the Italian Grand Prix.

Despite the ungodly hour, the night air was balmy and did little to dispel the sheen of sweat on Natalie Bertrand’s skin. After a night of drinking and partying to celebrate Sunday’s Grand Prix, she was beginning to sober up, and once again wondering why the hell she’d chosen to end another Grand Prix weekend getting drunk and going to a variety of too-loud, too-conspicuous clubs. She checked her phone: it was 2:04 AM, and she still had no signal.

Callista mumbled something in the general direction of Nat’s right shoulder. She eyed her teammate cautiously; the older woman was three inches taller than Natalie, and significantly more drunk. Nat had an arm locked around her shoulders, but Callista’s constant swaying and moving made it hard to keep balance.

“What?”

Callista squeezed herself against Nat’s shoulder, and Nat hated the thrill that went through her at the contact. “I said, isn’t it pretty here? God, we’ll—I have to…we’ll come back here in the daytime. Sometime.”

The little cobbled alley they were walking down was typically Italian. Ornate lampposts cast soft yellow accents onto shadowed frescos, and the buildings seemed to lean on each other like old friends. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she muttered, pointedly refusing to look at Callista.

“Ugh—tesoro, sei proprio una guastafeste—I’m serious!”

“The only thing I’m serious about is calling a fucking Uber to get your drunk ass back to the hotel. We have a team event tomorrow, in case you’d forgotten, and we fly out in the evening!”

“Pshhh,” Callista said, flapping her hand in front of Nat’s face. Nat tried not to concentrate on the way the streetlights outlined the soft contours of Callista’s fingers, or the lingering smell of her rose-scented perfume. “Little, little Natalie. Always so serious. You had so much fun tonight! Why do you tighten up like—like the screws and bolts?”

“Someone has to.”

“Stron-za-te!” Callista sang in a mocking falsetto. “We are drivers some of the time, yes, but we are humans all of the time. Take work off your mind, live a little, breathe a little. You are what—twenty-four? Yet you act like you’re, eh, already planning for retirement. Bank account, pension, little house, little husband—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Natalie was being to feel herself getting annoyed with her teammate. She liked Callista, but sometimes the Italian’s bluntness—especially under the influence of alcohol—was incredibly grating. “I came out clubbing with you, didn’t I? You did keep asking me—”

“Yes! Yes, you did! And you had fun tonight, no?”

“Well…” Nat remembered the tang of shot after shot, the kaleidoscopic whirl of a multi-coloured dance floor, the sweaty, slippery warmth of Callista’s hand in hers. “Yes, I suppose…”

“Good, good! I am not saying we should, ah, do this more often, but just let yourself loosen up a little more without the drinking and the parties, yeah? I like you, Natalie, but sometimes you look so…so…aspro, impassibile…”

Natalie snorted, nudging her teammate. “Cut that shit out. You know I can’t speak Italian.”

“Ah, doesn’t matter. I liked hanging out with you! You’re fun when you’re not being so uptight.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t quite have as much fun as you did, if that’s what you’re getting at. How many men did you end up kissing in there?”

Callista threw back her head and laughed. “God, you’re not really such a prude, are you? Three, maybe four. Nothing to it, nothing by it. Just some harmless fun. Plus,” she lowered her voice to a stage whisper, “there were some pretty fine examples on display tonight, no?”

Natalie grimaced. “Seriously?”

“What? You got a boyfriend or something? I just bet you do. Nice, respectful, Mama and Papa love him, you are waiting for this season’s pay cheque to clear so you can put a deposit down on a house—”

“You are such an asshole!” Natalie replied, but she was giggling. “No, no boyfriend. And I don’t want to kiss men in some horrible sticky club. I have standards.”

“Pfft. You are such a bitch sometimes, Nat. That's—that's why I like you so much.”

Before the sudden nickname could register in Natalie’s brain, Callista swept her own arm around Natalie’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Despite how much she’d drunk, the contact was surprisingly gentle: Callista’s lips whispered against her cheek for a few seconds before she pulled back, shooting Nat a dazzling grin. Natalie stared at Callista’s mouth, stupefied. Callista had kissed her. Kissed her. On the cheek, yes—a completely friendly, totally platonic thing which was totally normal, and probably expected given how much alcohol they’d both drunk. So why the hell had it felt so tender? And why the hell did she feel so disappointed? It wasn’t as if Callista had grabbed her by the chin and kissed her fully on the mouth or anything—

Dimly, she felt pinpricks of heat rising in her cheeks.

“Fuck, you are too cute!” Callista said, bringing Natalie back into focus. “Are you blushing? Am I so good at kissing that even women swoon at a friendly peck on the cheek?”

Friendly peck. Right. “Don’t flatter yourself. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“I thought we agreed, not so much thinking, thinking, thinking, all the time?” Callista sighed, turning away from her to roll her eyes in mock-exasperation at the cloud-scudded night sky. Her short, wavy brown hair was limned in soft lamplight, and Natalie was seized by the crazed impulse to reach up and sweep it back from her forehead. Instead she coughed, and cleared her throat.

“I’m just wondering where the hell the cell reception’s gone. I need to call an Uber, or a cab, or something.”

“There’s a road up here,” Callista replied. “Honestly, they’ll have a cab driver sitting here waiting, I know it. Maybe more than one. Honestly, they’re vultures, they wait for drunk people wandering home…”

Natalie nodded, and let her teammate’s rapid-fire ranting wash over her, barely noticing as both Callista’s volume and use of Italian words increased. All she wanted was a cold drink of water, a long shower, and as much sleep as she could scrape together. Her brain felt like a football being kicked down flight after flight of stairs. She remembered the club, how Callista had been by her side most of the night. How safe she’d felt when Callista was there, and the filaments of drunken listlessness that had stolen over her whenever she hadn’t.

Fuck. Natalie ground the heels of her hands against her eyes. Sleep. She just needed sleep, and water. Everything else would be swallowed by tomorrow.

After turning a corner, they reached a narrow road, and the two waiting taxis confirmed Callista’s suspicions. She watched silently as her teammate went up to the nearest one, a blue taxi that looked several years past its best, and haggled with the driver in machine-gun Italian before turning back to Nat.

“Giuseppe here will take us back to the hotel, the fastest way he can—giusto, truffatore di basso livello?”

Giuseppe rolled his eyes at her, but motioned for the pair of them to sit inside all the same. It was cramped in the backseat. Nat was uncomfortably aware of just how much of her skin was pressed against Callista’s as the taxi pulled away; the silence between them prickled in the dark. She resisted the urge to look at her teammate, instead keeping her gaze locked on her knees.

“I’d call that a successful night out,” whispered Callista, her vodka-scented breath tickling Natalie’s earlobe. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

She resisted the urge to touch her cheek. The ghosts of Callista’s lips burned into her skin, as if branded there.

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Kiss It Better - OC kiss week, day 2

Prompt: Post-injury kiss. Pairing: Niko Hautala/Sabrina di Angelo Summary: Niko's been injured in a crash during the Belgian Grand Prix. Luckily, his girlfriend Sabrina has her own kind of remedy - even if she might be enjoying her role as 'doctor' a little too much... Word count: 943

Kiss It Better

Niko had never crashed at Spa-Francorchamps before. Sure, there’d been a couple of mechanical retirements, but you could walk those off, mutter a few commiserations to the press and mark it down as something that wasn’t your fault. The worst thing was, his crash had been a stupid, unforced error. The kind of mistake a rookie would make. He’d slipped over the kerb at Pouhon, lap after lap, and Toby had told him he was doing it, and then the front end had just skipped away from him—

He wheezes out a shallow breath, collecting himself. The important thing was, he was okay. His back hurt like hell, and he’d probably have a treasure map of bruises for the next month, but nothing was broken, and he hadn’t hit his head. At least he could be grateful for that. The same couldn’t be said for the car, however. He’d gone off the track, spun 180 degrees and hit the wall rear-first, still traveling at about 80 miles an hour. Images of the mangled chassis, shattered and slumped against the outer barriers—blown up to ridiculous oversized unreality on the trackside screens—crowd together in his mind.

The medical centre is surprisingly calm. He’s sitting on a collapsible bed, shirtless, as a young trackside doctor buzzes around him, shining lights in his eyes and taking note of the bruises and cuts on his skin. Finally, he comes round to face Niko, smiling incongruously.

“You’re all cleared,” he says, his accent lilting with a touch of something Eastern European. “I would advise you keep an eye on those bruises and take it easy in terms of your physical regimen for the next few days. Your injuries are not serious, however, and I don’t believe they will prevent you from racing. You’re lucky we’re going on summer break soon, eh?”

Niko flashes the doctor a quick grin. He hopes it looks like less of a grimace than it feels. “Thank you. Ah, can I sit here for a moment, just…” He trails off, but the doctor nods, seemingly understanding the things he doesn’t have words to say.

“Of course, of course.”

He turns to leave Niko in peace. As he slips out of the prefabricated doorway, Sabrina sidles past him. She eyes Niko from across the room, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the distant buzzing of racetrack ambience.

“You know, you look hot when you’re all bashed up,” she says, finally. “Never thought I’d say it, but the bruised and battered look is kinda working for me.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were almost glad I crashed out.”

“Well, I’m glad you know me better then.”

She strides over, smiling. That’s one thing he’s always admired about Sabrina—she’s constantly decisive, assertive. When you meet a woman who knows what she wants from you, his father had once told him, you’d better make damn sure you’re ready to give it to her.

He’d never understood the significance of those words until he’d met her.

Her hands slide over his bruise-mottled shoulders, cool against the sweat-flecked flesh, and he winces. Not so much from the pain, but from the sudden intimacy of the touch.

“Aw,” she says. “Want me to kiss it better, Nicky?”

As always, Sabrina doesn’t wait for an answer.

Her arms are coiled around his neck; he’s leaning up and into the kiss, hands in her long brown hair, as if hanging onto her. At first, it’s something of a respite. Then she leans in more, tilting him back so that he’s almost lying across the bed. Her lips move down to his jawline, then down his neck. Her breath tickles his throat, and he has to close his eyes at the sensation. When the pressure withdraws, it’s almost a relief: then she’s kissing a bruise on his collarbone, her cheek pressed soft as silk to the skin. The pain flares within him, mingling and wrestling with pleasure, and he lets out something which he hopes is a grunt but probably sounds like more of a hiss.

“We should—probably—stop,” he manages to get out. Sabrina looks up at him, tracing a finger languidly down his chest, pressing at a bruise on his side until he murmurs a teeth-gritted curse.

“Now, where’s the fun in th—”

“Mr. Hautala!” Footsteps in the doorway. Niko bolts upright. Over the shoulder of Sabrina’s cashmere jumper, Niko has a perfect, head-on view of the young doctor re-entering the room. “Mr. Hautala, I just need you to—”

He stops. Takes in the scene. Niko’s still shirtless, with Sabrina awkwardly perched on his lap and her legs facing inwards. There’s a smear of dark red lipstick trailing down his neck to his collarbone. Sabrina’s staring back at the doctor, her smirk wiped away as easily as a coffee mug stain under a damp tablecloth. The doctor gulps, blinks, decides that this particular situation is significantly above his pay grade, and backs swiftly out. The room rings with the silence.

“Well, fuck,” Niko says eventually. “How am I gonna explain that?”

Sabrina shrugs, the smirk working its way back onto her face. “Who says you need to?”

“Uh, the team I race for, the FIA, the poor doctor we just traumatised? Wh—I mean, technically speaking, you’re not even supposed to be back here! Much less… doing… that.”

“Doing what?” She blinks her eyes at him in faux-innocence.

“You know exactly wh—”

Her fingers snake around to his bare back, squeezing a bruise just above the hip and eliciting a sharp groan. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want me to stop?”

“Well…I, um—”

“That’s what I thought.”

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OC intro: Esteban di Fernandez

Esteban di Fernandez (BRA)

Born: October 18, 1998, Belo Horizonte, Brazil (age 25) Debuted: Australian Grand Prix, 2017 Race number: #6 (currently using #1, as reigning champion) 2024 team: Electron Motorsport (AUS) F1 World Drivers’ Champion 2022, 2023 Favourite track(s): Hungaroring, Imola

2014 Italian Formula 4 champion 2015 GP3 Series champion 2016 GP2 Series champion

The reigning world champion, Esteban di Fernandez, is without a doubt angling his way up the ladder of all-time Formula 1 greats. He won titles back-to-back all the way up the junior formula ladder, including back-to-back rookie titles in both GP3 and GP2. He became the youngest debutant in Formula 1 history at just 18 years old when he joined Scuderia Espini in 2017: Under the wing of Electron teammate and 2018 world champion Yōjirō Nagamatsu, di Fernandez became the youngest Grand Prix winner in history after winning the 2018 Bahrain Grand Prix. After Nagamatsu’s serious, life-threatening crash in the following year’s Brazilian Grand Prix, di Fernandez spearheaded the team and went on to win both his and Electron’s first world titles in 2022, at the age of 24.

Ice-cool under pressure with a penchant for ruthless comeback races, di Fernandez is arguably the most complete driver on the current grid. The Brazilian is known to play his cards close to his chest: despite his sociable reputation, he has little patience for PR and paparazzi, and little is known about his personal life.

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OC kiss day 4 - A Gesture of Affection

Sorry about missing day 3 - unfortunately I was busy and not feeling too well, so I didn't get time to write. Feeling a little better and mercifully had a day off today though, so here's day 4! Prompt: Kissing an inanimate object. Pairing: Devon Holtzman/Arrignon AF31 Formula 1 car (lol) Summary: He was the world champion nobody expected, for the team nobody had counted on. After his 2009 title victory, first-time World Champion Devon Holtzman shows a unique way of appreciating the machinery that got him there - and gives rise to one's of the sport's most iconic images. Word count: 553

A Gesture of Appreciation

Devon parks the car behind the second-place marker in parc fermé. The noise is enormous; there’s 180,000 fans here at Interlagos, all screaming their throats out, all on their feet, chanting. Wilson may have won the race, but Devon’s second-place finish has ripped the rug from under his rival’s feet at the last gasp. Three points ahead, seventy-four points to seventy-one, accounting for the Esprits’ disqualification. He’d known it before he even crossed the line, had run the maths over and over in his head lap after lap, but now there was no taking it away; Devon Holtzman was, is and always will be a Formula One world champion.

He levers himself out of the cockpit, still in a post-race stupor. Lactic acid thrums in his shoulders and spine. Cameras flash in his peripheral vision: he turns to face them, grinning, spreading his arms wide to the gunmetal Sao Paulo sky in triumph. A shape bursts through the perimeter of the crowd—his race engineer, Pierre—and holds him tight, hands pressing firmly against the back of his race suit.

“I knew you could fucking do it!” he bellows into the side of Devon’s helmet. “Top of the world, top of the world! Bet you didn’t think you’d be saying that at the start of the year, eh?”

Devon slaps him on the back, eyes bright through his visor, before fumbling for his helmet’s strap release. Unbuckling his helmet feels like surfacing from the bottom of a swimming pool: the cacophony of sounds intensify, and the flecks of detritus at the corners of his vision are gone. Spinning around, he makes a show of waving and grinning to the crowd. He knows he must look like a real prick right now, but he’s the drivers’ world champion, for fuck’s sake—he’s earned the right.

Lastly, he turns to the car that made this all possible. The AF31 is a pretty car, he’s always thought, with its stormy blue livery and citrus-yellow contour lines draped around it, but now—dirt-flecked and sleek on the tarmac—it’s more beautiful than he ever could’ve imagined. He takes a few faltering steps towards it, kneels in front of the carbon-fibre nosecone. It’s sponsorless, devoid of almost any decal save for the number 12 in thick, bold yellow numbers. He trails a hand over the front wing. Somehow, despite Arrignon’s shoestring budget, the last-minute contract extension, the way the team had prioritised Andrea all season—they were the ones sitting here, the world titles burnished forever with their names. They’d be in the history books, no doubt about it.

Seized by some ridiculous impulse, he bends down to the tip of the car’s nose and kisses it. The carbon-fibre’s warm and slightly dusty under his lips, and the car tastes faintly of rainwater. Devon stands quickly, wipes his lips. Part of him itches to salute the car, some kind of sentimental fanfare for the year they’d been through together, but he decides against it. The press are already having a field day as it is.

He catches Wilson staring at him as he walks away and rolls his eyes at his defeated rival. He's the World Champion now. His eccentricities were no longer weird—they would be on the front of magazines, slapped on merchandise, factored into stock market prices.

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OC intro: Marcus Harding

Marcus Harding (GBR) Born: February 4, 1985, Bristol, England (age 39) Debuted: Australian Grand Prix, 2007 Race number: #54 2024 team: Silverstream Grand Prix (DEU) F1 World Drivers’ Champion 2008, 2010, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2021 Favourite track(s): Silverstone, Monaco

2003 British Formula 3 champion 2005 Formula 3 Euroseries champion 2006 GP2 Drivers’ champion

If you've mentioned F1 at any point in the last fifteen years, chances are Marcus Harding’s name wasn’t far from your lips. Born to a working-class family in Bristol, Marcus fought tooth-and-nail despite a lack of funding and inferior equipment, establishing himself as a karting prodigy and quickly living up to that reputation in junior formulae. Originally linked to an F1 seat at stalwart British outfit Chilton, he shocked the world when he instead showed up on the 2007 grid for Japanese team Matsuyama, and even more when he won his first race at the 2007 Monaco Grand Prix, in just his fifth race start. He went on to win his first of six Drivers’ World Championships a year later, an all-time record which he still holds today. After winning another title with Matsuyama in 2010, he transferred to Silverstream in 2014 (for a record-breaking sum) and won three consecutive world championships, with a level of dominance that has yet to be matched.

Harding’s ability to extract unheard-of pace from a seemingly struggling car is one of his greatest strengths: it’s not uncommon to see him setting fastest laps on worn tires long way into a stint. Despite turning 39 years old, and Silverstream falling from their previous record of dominance, he is still a formidable opponent, with two wins in the 2023 season alone. An intensely private driver, Harding’s infamously difficult love life and cool demeanour has left this beloved champion a mystery to millions.

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OC intro: Natalie Bertrand

Natalie Bertrand (FRA) Born: June 9, 1995, Rouen, France (age 28) Debuted: Singaporean Grand Prix, 2017 Race number: #39 2024 team: Electron Motorsport (AUS) Favourite track(s): Spielberg, Sakhir

2013 Formula Esprit Eurocup champion 2015 European Formula 3 champion

To partner one of the greatest drivers in Formula One is no mean feat—but Natalie Bertrand has shown herself more than capable of it. Following a patchy junior career characterized by brilliant underdog performances and a chronic lack of funding, Natalie found herself promoted to Octane’s main driver seat mid-season after Kurt Roth’s shock transfer to Esprit. Her performances were good enough to get her a full-time contract in 2018, where she established a quick reputation as one of F1’s up-and-coming young drivers. When Electron Motorsport came knocking in 2022 for a second driver to partner Esteban di Fernandez, Natalie jumped at the call.

Bertrand is often portrayed as the antithesis to di Fernandez in terms of racing philosophy, with excellent tire-saving skills and metronomic consistency that make her a vital rear-gunner in Electron’s bid for the Constructors’ world title. Withdrawn and shy, Bertrand nevertheless sticks close to former Octane teammate Callista Fontecchio, with the pair often being seen together.

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OC intro: Niko Hautala

Nikolaus Hautala (FIN)

Born: 30 September 1991, Rovaniemi, Finland (age 32) Debuted: Australian Grand Prix, 2013 Race number: #54 2024 team: Silverstream Grand Prix (DEU) F1 World Drivers’ Champion 2020 Favourite track(s): Albert Park

2009 British Formula 3 International Series champion 2011 Formula Two champion

Forming the other half of Silverstream’s wildly successful line-up is Finnish driver Nikolaus ‘Niko’ Hautala. The Finn’s journey to the top of Formula 1 was anything but conventional: born into a shipbuilding family, he rebelled against family expectations by grabbing hold of anything land-based and fast. He was a Finnish junior motocross champion at just 14 and left home at 17 to bankroll himself into a Formula 3 seat. As a complete wildcard, Hautala stunned the paddock by taking the British F3 title in his rookie season. Without the funds to compete in GP2, he won the lesser-known Formula Two series instead, debuting in 2013 for the struggling Chilton team. Rebuilding the British’s squad place in the midfield, he was soon picked up by Silverstream to replace Devon Holtzman, where he won his first (and so far, only) title in 2020.

While Hautala may not be as quick over a lap as his more illustrious teammate, he is famous in the paddock for his unflinching consistency. During his title-winning 2020 season, he never once finished outside of the top 5, and made a record-breaking 27 consecutive front-row starts between 2019 and 2021. Affable and easy-going, the friendly Finn is in a close relationship with Italian Olympic swimmer Sabrina di Angelo and maintains a close personal friendship with his fellow F1 drivers Kurt Roth and Yōjirō Nagamatsu, being the godfather to Kurt’s eldest son Mathias.

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YOOOO Ok for the ask game!! Let me get a #41, a #16, and a #20 Dealers choice on which OC's you answer for, go as crazy as you want!!

Thank you for the ask Gryph! I've already done #20, so let's see what the grid has to say about #41 and #16:

16. What's their favourite comfort food?

Devon, as the grid's resident Dutchman, is a huge fan of kibbeling - a Dutch street food that consists of battered and deep-fried fish pieces, served with tartare-based dipping sauce.

Natalie is a bit of a health foods enthusiast, and has the weirdest addiction to celery. She says it's the texture and crunch of it that works for her; she can often be seen in the Electron garage, scrutinising telemetry while crunching on a piece.

Sergei, despite his hugely wealthy background, is a man of very simple tastes - his go-to comfort food is any kind of chocolate, although teammate Jiro is having success with getting him to try crispy seaweed.

41. Have they ever broken a bone?

Emilia suffered a pretty heavy crash during the 2015 6 Hours of Spa, when a crash involving a slower GTE class car sent her almost head-on into the track barriers at Blanchimont. She broke her wrist and one of her ribs, and missed Le Mans that year.

Jordan practically made a hobby out of breaking bones in his younger years. His worst accident wasn't even related to racing - when he was twelve, he was dared to land a ridiculous jump on his BMX, failed to do so and broke his leg really nastily. He very nearly lost his karting career due to the severity of the injury.

Levi has never broken a bone! He was an exceptionally careful driver in his junior career (his father would say TOO careful) and grew up exceptionally sheltered, so never had the opportunity to break anything otherwise.

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HII DEARR!! 4, 20, 27 for ur blorbos!! whoever u wanna talk about hehe

Thanks for the ask Kellin! I'll write three different drivers' responses for each question:

4. Their favourite season?

Callista is definitely a summer-weather person - she lives in her native Italy, and loves catching the Mediterranean summer sun when she can.

Kurt doesn't really have a preference (at least, he'd never tell you) but he has a soft spot for springtime flowers, so I suppose that counts.

Imogen is a big fan of the autumn. If she wasn't an F1 driver, she'd probably spend all day at Starbucks downing pumpkin spice and playing in leaf piles.

20. Something they do that seems childish to others?

Bez is pretty heavily into videogaming. Everyone assumed they meant sim-racing (which is kinda taken seriously by drivers), but no, they just love playing Call of Duty and Halo on Twitch until a stupid hour of the morning.

Jiro makes a lot of origami creations, a habit that borders on obsession. Most people find it weird and a little confusing, but it was a method he used in physical therapy after his crash to regain control in his hands and fingers.

Darian takes great delight in annoying and winding up Esteban, usually by making ridiculous comments in interviews or pranking him during race weekends. Nobody knows why.

27. Do they get angry/lose their temper quickly?

Mireille is pretty hot-headed. Not as bad as some drivers, but suffice it to say that Jordan's probably the voice of reason in the Espini garage. She has very little patience for those who can't keep up.

Esteban makes a big show of remaining ice-cold and unflappable under pressure, but maybe the time is right for someone to test his limits...

Aaron has a famously bad temper and is generally considered a nightmare to work with if you're not constantly on his good side.