Ok U All , Ignore My Editing Skills, But Keep This Wonderful Picture In Mind For Future Use )

Referring to the post I made earlier this morning, do u all think vale played a roll in the way pecco , Marco , Franky or other riders from the academy view Marc ? Especially that now Marc and Pecco are teammates and seem to get along most of the time + plus Marco at silveratone and some small interactions with Franky

CHAPTER ONE: The Shadow Rider

The engines screamed through the Tuscan hills like thunder in a bottle. Mugello. June 2025. A circuit steeped in glory, blood, and memory.

Marc Márquez sat alone at the back of the VR46 garage, helmet cradled in his hands like a confession. Outside, Pecco Bagnaia’s Ducati purred with the sound of dominance — pole position again. The applause of the tifosi rolled in like a wave. For Marc, it was thunder without rain. Cheers he used to imagine for himself.

He tightened his grip on the helmet.

“You’ve got the talent, but not the discipline.”

Valentino’s voice echoed in his mind , not cruel, just true. Like always.

There was a time Marc dreamed of being under the Honda awning, riding the same bike his older brother Alex had turned into a scalpel. Six-time world champion. Mr. Perfect. The King of Precision. The Márquez name was Alex’s crown, not his.

Marc had taken the other path. VR46 Academy. Not out of love but defiance.

But now, at 28, it felt like his story was still being written in someone else’s font.

“Two minutes,” a mechanic called out. Marc didn’t look up.

Across the paddock, in the golden hue of the Repsol tent, Alex Márquez was already suited, standing tall, serene. Eyes forward. Champion’s focus. The camera crew hovered nearby, drinking in the legend.

Alex didn’t flinch.

Marc watched him from the shadows — the younger brother, the unruly storm to Alex’s pristine sky.

Then, a familiar voice behind him. Low. Graveled.

“Stop watching him. Your race is here.”

Marc turned. Valentino. He hadn’t aged much, but his eyes held weight now. Manager. Mentor. Father figure. Ghost of Sepang past — a past that never fractured them.

Marc bit back a smile. “Can’t help it. The cameras love perfection.”

Rossi cocked his head. “They love a story more. You just haven’t given them the right one yet.”The words stung, but they weren’t wrong.Marc stood. Fastened his helmet. The VR46 leathers creaked as he moved. Bagnaia passed by, already visor-down, a silent nod exchanged. Civil. Cold. Like teammates who used to like each other.

Something had cracked during that race in Le Mans. Pecco pushed wide. Marc dove in. Rubber touched rubber. Marc came out ahead. The Italian press crucified him.

“The brat Márquez strikes again.”

“Rossi’s mistake?”

Pecco never said a word — that was worse than shouting.

Now, here at Mugello, something electric hung in the air. The paddock could feel it. Two riders. One team. No love left. And the ghost of a different Sepang loomed, not between Rossi and Marc, but Pecco and Marc. One spark away from combustion.As Marc walked toward the grid, the sun hit his visor just right. In the reflection, he caught a glimpse of his brother mounting the Repsol Honda across the pit lane.

Their eyes didn’t meet. But maybe they didn’t have to. Maybe the next story wouldn’t belong to either of them — but to the moment that would finally break the silence.

valentino rossi is like if a cigarette wished to be human

Enjoy chapter two everyone 😉

CHAPTER TWO: The Line You Don’t Cross

The grid was a battlefield dressed in ceremony.

Mechanics in tight formation. Team principals hiding nerves behind sunglasses. Heat rippled off the tarmac like a warning. As the riders mounted their machines, Mugello held its breath — the kind of silence only nature can offer before a storm breaks loose.

Marc Márquez exhaled inside his helmet.

Focus. Forget the noise. Ride the damn bike.

But he could feel it — the weight of Pecco, just ahead. P1. Confident. Unbothered. The favorite son of Italy, of Rossi, of the VR46 legacy.

Marc’s bike growled beneath him, restless, aggressive. Unlike Alex’s Repsol rocket — elegant and smooth — the VR46 Ducati felt like a beast that wanted to bite. Marc liked that. Maybe too much.

Through the din, he could barely make out Rossi near the pit wall. Stone-faced. Watching both his riders like a man who knew what was coming — but not from whom.

The lights went out.

GO.

Marc launched perfectly. Tucked tight into Pecco’s slipstream by Turn 2. He could’ve waited. Should’ve waited.

But he didn’t.

At Turn 3, Marc lunged — hard.

The Ducati dove down the inside, front tire nearly brushing Pecco’s swingarm. The move was clinical, millimeters from disaster.

Pecco sat up. Forced wide.

A puff of dirt. A fraction of hesitation.

Marc slipped through.

He was ahead.

The crowd erupted — confusion, fury, and awe, all at once.

By Turn 6, Pecco was back on his rear tire. The chase began.

Pecco struck back.

he flew past Marc with a daring outside line. The two bikes touched — barely — but enough to make the crowd gasp. Marc shook his head, laughed bitterly inside his helmet.So that’s how it was going to be.

Lap 9. Turn 15.

Marc dived again.

But this time, Pecco closed the door.

Contact.

Marc’s front wing snapped off. Pecco ran wide, nearly into the gravel. A chorus of boos erupted from the grandstands. Yellow VR46 flags waved in fury.

Race Direction flashed:

“INCIDENT UNDER INVESTIGATION – RIDERS #93 & #63.”

Marc knew what that meant.

Déjà vu.

Only this wasn’t Sepang 2015. This wasn’t Rossi and Márquez.

This was his turn to be the villain.

Back in the pit wall, Rossi ripped off his headset. Face pale. Silence heavier than thunder.

“He’s forcing it,” muttered Uccio.

Rossi didn’t answer. His eyes locked on the monitor, where his legacy was unraveling.

Was this karma? Was this the moment he had created?

Marc and Pecco were at war — and this time, he couldn’t protect either.

Final lap.

Marc led. Barely. His damaged aero made the front end twitchy, unpredictable — just like him.

Pecco stalked him, every inch the assassin. The grandstands trembled with anticipation, fans on their feet, flags whipping like war banners. Yellow for Rossi. Red for Ducati. A few orange — for Márquez. For this Márquez.

Turn 12.

Marc braked late, too late.

Pecco dove inside.

Contact.

Marc didn’t yield.

Elbows out. Bikes tangled like wild animals. Gravel sprayed.

Pecco lost the rear — violently.

His bike spiraled. Down.

Marc stayed up.

He crossed the finish line first.

———————————

The crowd exploded.

Not all boos.

Cheers. Screams. Fists in the air.

It wasn’t love — it was awe. The kind of reaction a gladiator earns in the Colosseum.

He had beaten their golden boy. He had survived.

————

In parc fermé, Marc ripped off his helmet, sweat clinging to every part of him, jaw clenched, heart drumming louder than any engine. He raised his arms.

The cameras flashed — not out of joy, but hunger.

The crowd behind the barriers surged forward, yelling his name.

“MÁRQUEZ! MÁRQUEZ!”

Some roared in approval. Others jeered.

It didn’t matter.

For the first time in years, they were yelling his name.

Not Alex’s. Not Rossi’s.

His.

⸻

Then came the questions.

Journalists swarmed like hornets.

“Do you regret the move?”

“Did you take Bagnaia out on purpose?”

“Will VR46 suspend you?”

Marc smirked into the mic, blood still rushing in his ears. “I came to race. I don’t apologize for winning.”

⸻

Back at the VR46 motorhome, Rossi stood alone in his office, lights low, screens still replaying the crash in a silent loop.

Pecco was okay — bruised, angry, humiliated. But it wasn’t just the result that haunted Valentino.

It was the way Marc rode.

No fear. No caution. No mercy.

Just like him.

Uccio entered quietly. “The press is going to crucify him.”

Rossi’s jaw tightened. “They should.”

“But he won.”

“I know.”

Valentino turned to the monitor — the shot frozen on Marc raising a single fist, jaw tight, eyes blazing with something Rossi knew too well.

Not celebration. Not joy.

Vengeance.

“He’s not just like me,” Rossi said under his breath.

“He’s worse.”

⸻

Across the paddock, Alex Márquez watched the replay on a monitor, arms crossed, unreadable.

A reporter approached him.

“Alex, any comment on your brother’s win?”

He paused. The crowd still echoed in the distance, half love, half war

Finally, he said quietly, “He wanted to matter. Today… he does.”

⸻

Back on the podium, the Italian anthem was replaced by stunned silence.

Marc stood tall, trophy in hand, fireworks behind him.

No teammates beside him.

No Rossi.

No Pecco.

Just himself.

The shadow had finally stepped into the light — and it burned like hell.

I read not so long time ago a ff on here ( gonna tag if I remember the username) about Marc being a VR46 rider . Let’s say , what IF , Marc would have actually become on in real life , with everything still going on the same , especially the 2015 incident . Do u guys think that the outcome of vale and Marc would have been different??

Domenicalli is going to Mugello😭😭😭

Every time he goes to a race Marc crashes on a Sunday

god no!!!!!! i don’t want marc to crash in front of all his opps

Going trough a writing impulse so enjoy

CHAPTER THREE: Fire Doesn’t Apologize

Monday morning hit like a highside.

Marc Márquez stepped into the VR46 team’s base surrounded by silence. Not cold—just waiting. Mechanics looked up from their screens. Engineers paused mid-keystroke. Conversations died mid-sentence. Everyone knew the numbers. Everyone had seen the headlines.

But it was the way they looked at him that had changed.

Not with pity. Not with awe.

With caution.

Marc dropped his backpack, nodded at no one in particular, and moved toward the briefing room.

He’d felt this before. Not on track—but at home. At ten years old, when Alex won his first junior title. When their father smiled a little longer. When the cameras started showing up for the other Márquez. Marc had always known what it felt like to be noticed too late.

Not this time.

He had forced the world to look.

Even if it hated what it saw.

———

Inside the briefing room, the air was thick. Pecco sat on the far side of the table, arm in a sling, bruised but not broken. His expression was ice.

Marc took the seat opposite. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize.

Valentino entered last.

No VR46 hoodie today. No sunglasses. Just a black t-shirt, a cold stare, and the weight of an empire on his shoulders.

He didn’t sit.

“Let’s begin,” Rossi said, voice flat.

The room stilled.

The head of strategy started in a shaky voice: “We’ve reviewed telemetry, onboard footage, and external angles. There was contact. But no breach of technical rules. Race Direction ruled it a racing incident.”

Marc exhaled, once.

Pecco said nothing.

Rossi turned to Marc. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

Marc met his gaze. “Then ask what you want to ask.”

The room tensed.

Valentino’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

“Did you mean to push him off?”

Marc’s silence was an answer.

Valentino stepped forward. “This isn’t about what the stewards say. This is about who we are as a team. What we stand for.”

Marc leaned back in the chair, jaw locked. “You mean who you are.”

Wrong words.

Pecco stood. Chair scraping behind him. “You wrecked everything. The team. The race. My season.”

Marc shrugged. “You left the door open.”

“You forced it off its hinges.”

“Enough!” Rossi barked. For a moment, the Doctor was back. Commanding. Ferocious.

He turned to Marc.

“You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know what this is? You want to be noticed. You want to matter. But this? This is how you get remembered for the wrong reasons.”

Marc didn’t move. But his voice, when it came, wasn’t angry—it was razor-sharp.

“Then why did I hear my name louder than his?”

Silence. Even Pecco looked away.

Because it was true.

The people had cheered. They had hated him—but they had watched. For once, he wasn’t a side note. He was the story.

“You taught me to fight,” Marc said. “You picked me for this team because you saw fire. But fire doesn’t apologize.”

Valentino stared at him for a long, brutal moment.

Then: “You’re suspended for the next round.”

Gasps. Even Pecco blinked.

Marc’s jaw tensed. “You’re serious?”

“This isn’t about punishment,” Rossi said. “It’s about control. And you’re losing yours.”

Marc stood. “And if I walk?”

“Then walk. But you’ll do it as the rider who was handed everything—and chose chaos instead.”

The words landed like a punch.

Marc didn’t respond. He just left. Walked out of the room, through the paddock, through the stares and the whispers and the storm he had started.

And yet… outside, the fans waited.

Not just one or two. Dozens. Then hundreds.

They chanted his name.

They held signs.

They wanted pictures, autographs—even if they hated him.

Because love fades. Hate fades. But legends don’t.

Marc stopped. Signed a VR46 cap. Smiled at a kid with his number scrawled in marker on his cheek.

He looked up at the cameras watching him from a distance.

Let Rossi suspend him. Let Pecco hate him. Let Alex be disappointed.

He was no longer the shadow.

MARC ON ONEEEEE , why do I feel like this shit it’s gonna be the happiness before the storm cuz mugello it’s coming up 😭

Roser kissing pecco , so sweet 😭😭😭😭

At this point I feel like she gonna become a pecco fan just to annoy Marc 😅😂