The Ecclestone Institute: a venerable monolith, an excruciatingly exclusive school, it is said, for only the best - just barely over twenty students per year! - with top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art facilities and lavish, sprawling, green-draped grounds. So it is said - but behind the genteel facade, it is a facility created for one reason and one reason alone: to find The One - the foreordained champion. All the work - and the education is indeed among the world’s best - all the sport, all of it amounts to nothing for the young men remaining…who are not The One.
This year’s crop is especially promising, each chosen for special qualities that underline their potential to be The One they seek. It is impossible to tell aforehand who it will be - only when the time comes, will the sign be unmistakable. At the semester’s start, they are all still bathed in the gold light of promise. Jenson Button. Nico Rosberg. These are two names that have been discreetly raised this year, mentioned for their intelligence. And as intelligence is wont, they have begun to investigate, at first apart, but, after a chance meeting in the shadowy regions of the vast school grounds, together - for two heads are better than one, and the more they search, the more they find not all is right. Far, far from the main building, far in the choking undergrowth, there is a river. On the opposite bank, there is a hut. In the hut, there is an old woman, and she has, she says, been here for a long, long time. And what do you think, she says, becomes of the boys who are not The One? An apprehensive shiver runs through them - but even as they consider her words, growing is the awareness that their wet hands, unthinkingly clasped for support, fit perfectly together, and are comfortingly warm.
The other eighteen or nineteen possess no such distractions. They are gathered in a briefing room, dark save the glow of the projector. They have been waiting - the presentation, they have been told, is about to start - they will be waiting for a while longer yet. They look cautiously from face to face. Over time, they begin to whisper, first wary, then slowly conspiratorial. The One? Are you The One? Who is the One?
But the most prominent name is not among them. The presentation is delayed because Sebastian Vettel is yet to arrive. Sebastian Vettel is in a car, speeding the rough-wheeled vehicle through sand and dust. He is not happy, and it is written all over his face. He is not happy because he knows he should be The One - but he now knows that he is not. He should be The One and he is not. Everything about this is wrong, and every fibre of his being screams against it, but he has looked down the roster and he knows he must do this. The name that is missing. The name he must now collect, whether he would come or no. Fernando Alonso. The One.
…And then I woke up and realised it was a convoluted analogy for the upcoming season. Did I ever mention that the week before the Abu Dhabi GP 2010, I dreamt that Seb would win the race (and the Championship) and Nico would come in fourth? Yeah, still kicking myself for not having put money on that. Not that, I don’t think, I’ll be putting money on this…@5 days ago
#jenson #nico #jb and nico #fic #dream #au #i know we haven't posted anything meaningful in a bit and i have stuff to reply to - we will soon #it's just rl as usual so sorry thank you!