#Brain Data Analytics

[mastergarryblogs]

The Next Tech Gold Rush: Why Investors Are Flocking to the Brain-Computer Interface Market

Introduction

The Global Brain-Computer Interface Market is undergoing transformative growth, driven by technological advancements in neuroscience, artificial intelligence (AI), and wearable neurotechnology. In 2024, the market was valued at USD 54.29 billion and is projected to expand at a CAGR of 10.98% in the forecast period. The increasing adoption of BCI in healthcare, neurorehabilitation, assistive communication, and cognitive enhancement is propelling demand. Innovations such as AI-driven neural signal processing, non-invasive EEG-based interfaces, and biocompatible neural implants are enhancing the precision, usability, and real-time capabilities of BCI solutions. Growing investments in neurotechnology research, coupled with regulatory support, are accelerating industry advancements, paving the way for broader clinical and consumer applications.

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Brain-Computer Interface Market Overview

Brain-Computer Interface Market Driving Factors:

Surging Demand in Healthcare Applications – BCIs are transforming neurorehabilitation, prosthetic control, and assistive communication, benefiting individuals with neurological disorders such as ALS, Parkinson's disease, and epilepsy.

Advancements in AI & Machine Learning – AI-driven brainwave decoding and neural signal processing are improving the accuracy of BCI systems, leading to enhanced cognitive training and neurofeedback applications.

Expansion into Consumer Electronics – Wearable BCI technology is gaining momentum in brainwave-controlled devices, VR gaming, and hands-free computing.

Government & Private Sector Investments – Increased funding in non-invasive neural interfaces is supporting BCI research and commercialization.

Military & Defense Applications – BCIs are being explored for drone control, pilot augmentation, and direct brain-to-computer communication for enhanced operational efficiency.

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Brain-Computer Interface Market Challenges:

High Development Costs – The cost of R&D and complex neural signal interpretation hinders scalability.

Regulatory & Ethical Concerns – The use of neural data raises privacy and cybersecurity issues, necessitating stringent data protection measures.

Hardware Limitations – The variability in electrical noise, signal fidelity, and device usability poses significant engineering challenges.

Key Brain-Computer Interface Market Trends:

1. Non-Invasive BCIs Gaining Traction

Non-invasive BCIs are dominating the market due to their ease of use, affordability, and growing consumer adoption. Wireless EEG headsets, dry-electrode systems, and AI-powered brainwave analytics are revolutionizing applications in mental wellness, cognitive training, and VR gaming.

2. Brain-Computer Cloud Connectivity

BCIs integrated with cloud computing enable real-time brain-to-brain communication and remote neural data sharing, unlocking potential in telemedicine and collaborative research.

3. Rise of Neuroprosthetics & Exoskeletons

Innovations in brain-controlled prosthetics and robotic exoskeletons are restoring mobility to individuals with severe motor impairments, fostering independence and quality of life.

4. Neuromodulation & Brain Stimulation Advancements

The development of brain-stimulation-based BCIs is expanding therapeutic applications, aiding in the treatment of depression, epilepsy, and PTSD.

Brain-Computer Interface Market Segmentation:

By Type:

Non-Invasive BCIs – Holds the largest market share due to its widespread use in rehabilitation, gaming, and consumer applications.

Invasive BCIs – Preferred for high-precision neural interfacing, primarily in neuroprosthetics and brain-controlled robotics.

By Component:

Hardware – Accounts for 43% of the market, including EEG headsets, neural implants, and biosignal acquisition devices.

Software – Growing rapidly due to AI-driven brainwave decoding algorithms and cloud-based neurocomputing solutions.

By Technology:

Electroencephalography (EEG) – Largest segment (55% brain-computer interface market share), widely used for non-invasive brainwave monitoring and neurofeedback.

Electrocorticography (ECoG) – Preferred for high-fidelity neural signal acquisition in brain-controlled prosthetics.

Functional Near-Infrared Spectroscopy (fNIRS) – Emerging as a viable alternative for real-time hemodynamic brain monitoring.

By Connectivity:

Wireless BCIs – Dominating the market with increasing adoption in wearable smart devices and mobile applications.

Wired BCIs – Preferred in clinical and research settings for high-accuracy data acquisition.

By Application:

Medical – Leading segment, driven by applications in neuroprosthetics, neurorehabilitation, and neurological disorder treatment.

Entertainment & Gaming – Expanding due to brainwave-controlled VR, immersive gaming, and hands-free computing.

Military & Defense – BCIs are being explored for combat simulations, brain-controlled robotics, and AI-assisted warfare.

By End User:

Hospitals & Healthcare Centers – Holds 45% market share, expected to grow at 18% CAGR.

Research Institutions & Academics – Significant growth driven by increasing investments in brain signal processing and neuroengineering.

Individuals with Disabilities – Rising demand for assistive BCI solutions, including brain-controlled wheelchairs and prosthetics.

By Region:

North America – Leading with 40% market share, driven by strong investments in neurotech research and medical applications.

Europe – Projected to grow at 18% CAGR, supported by technological advancements in neural interface research.

Asia Pacific – Expected to expand at 21.5% CAGR, fueled by increasing adoption of consumer BCIs and AI-driven neuroanalytics.

South America & Middle East/Africa – Emerging markets witnessing gradual adoption in healthcare and research sectors.

Competitive Landscape & Recent Developments

Key Brain-Computer Interface Market Players:

Medtronic

Natus Medical Incorporated

Compumedics Neuroscan

Brain Products GmbH

NeuroSky

EMOTIV

Blackrock Neurotech

Notable Industry Advancements:

March 2024: Medtronic unveiled an advanced invasive BCI system for Parkinson’s disease and epilepsy treatment.

January 2024: NeuroSky introduced an EEG-based wearable for neurofeedback training and mental wellness.

April 2023: Blackrock Neurotech launched an ECoG-based brain-controlled robotic prosthetic arm, enhancing mobility for individuals with disabilities.

February 2023: Brainco developed an AI-powered BCI system for cognitive performance enhancement in education.

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Conclusion & Future Outlook

The Global Brain-Computer Interface Market is poised for exponential growth, driven by rapid advancements in neural engineering, AI integration, and consumer-grade BCI applications. With increasing investment from healthcare institutions, tech firms, and government agencies, the BCI ecosystem is set to expand beyond traditional medical applications into consumer electronics, defense, and education.

Future developments will likely focus on:

Enhancing non-invasive BCI accuracy for mass-market adoption.

Strengthening cybersecurity protocols for neural data protection.

Advancing AI-driven neurocomputing for real-time brainwave analysis.

As regulatory frameworks mature and accessibility improves, BCIs will continue to reshape human-machine interaction, revolutionizing healthcare, communication, and cognitive augmentation.

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[willosword]

sigh. sigh. ok. fine. i'm gonna start my post-comics invincible rewatch i guess

[jcmarchi]

Non-fiction books that explore AI's impact on society  - AI News

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/non-fiction-books-that-explore-ais-impact-on-society-ai-news/

Non-fiction books that explore AI's impact on society  - AI News

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Artificial Intelligence (AI) is code or technologies that perform complex calculations, an area that encompasses simulations, data processing and analytics.

AI has increasingly grown in importance, becoming a game changer in many industries, including healthcare, education and finance. The use of AI has been proven to double levels of effectiveness, efficiency and accuracy in many processes, and reduced cost in different market sectors. 

AI’s impact is being felt across the globe, so, it is important we understand the effects of AI on society and our daily lives. 

Better understanding of AI and all that it does and can mean can be gained from well-researched AI books.

Books on AI provide insights into the use and applications of AI. They describe the advancement of AI since its inception and how it has shaped society so far. In this article, we will be examining recommended best books on AI that focus on the societal implications.

For those who don’t have time to read entire books, book summary apps like Headway will be of help.

Book 1: “Superintelligence: Paths, Dangers, Strategies” by Nick Bostrom

Nick Bostrom is a Swedish philosopher with a background in computational neuroscience, logic and AI safety. 

In his book, Superintelligence, he talks about how AI  can surpass our current definitions of intelligence and the possibilities that might ensue.

Bostrom also talks about the possible risks to humanity if superintelligence is not managed properly, stating AI can easily become a threat to the entire human race if we exercise no control over the technology. 

Bostrom offers strategies that might curb existential risks, talks about how Al can be aligned with human values to reduce those risks and suggests teaching AI human values.

Superintelligence is recommended for anyone who is interested in knowing and understanding the implications of AI on humanity’s future.

Book 2: “AI Superpowers: China, Silicon Valley, and the New World Order” by Kai-Fu Lee

AI expert Kai-Fu Lee’s book, AI Superpowers: China, Silicon Valley, and the New World Order, examines the AI revolution and its impact so far, focusing on China and the USA. 

He concentrates on the competition between these two countries in AI and the various contributions to the advancement of the technology made by each. He highlights China’s advantage, thanks in part to its larger population. 

China’s significant investment so far in AI is discussed, and its chances of becoming a global leader in AI. Lee believes that cooperation between the countries will help shape the future of global power dynamics and therefore the economic development of the world.

In thes book, Lee states AI has the ability to transform economies by creating new job opportunities with massive impact on all sectors. 

If you are interested in knowing the geo-political and economic impacts of AI, this is one of the best books out there. 

Book 3: “Life 3.0: Being Human in the Age of Artificial Intelligence” by Max Tegmark

Max Tegmark’s Life 3.0 explores the concept of humans living in a world that is heavily influenced by AI. In the book, he talks about the concept of Life 3.0, a future where human existence and society will be shaped by AI. It focuses on many aspects of humanity including identity and creativity. 

Tegmark envisions a time where AI has the ability to reshape human existence. He also emphasises the need to follow ethical principles to ensure the safety and preservation of human life. 

Life 3.0 is a thought-provoking book that challenges readers to think deeply about the choices humanity may face as we progress into the AI era. 

It’s one of the best books to read if you are interested in the ethical and philosophical discussions surrounding AI.

Book 4: “The Fourth Industrial Revolution” by Klaus Schwab

Klaus Martin Schwab is a German economist, mechanical engineer and founder of the World Economic Forum (WEF). He argues that machines are becoming smarter with every advance in technology and supports his arguments with evidence from previous revolutions in thinking and industry.

He explains that the current age – the fourth industrial revolution – is building on the third: with far-reaching consequences.

He states use of AI in technological advancement is crucial and that cybernetics can be used by AIs to change and shape the technological advances coming down the line towards us all.

This book is perfect if you are interested in AI-driven advancements in the fields of digital and technological growth. With this book, the role AI will play in the next phases of technological advancement will be better understood.

Book 5: “Weapons of Math Destruction: How Big Data Increases Inequality and Threatens Democracy” by Cathy O’Neil

Cathy O’Neil’s book emphasises the harm that defective mathematical algorithms cause in judging human behaviour and character. The continual use of maths algorithms promotes harmful results and creates inequality.

An example given in  the book is of research that proved bias in voting choices caused by results from different search engines.

Similar examination is given to research that focused Facebook, where, by making newsfeeds appear on users’ timelines, political preferences could be affected.

This book is best suited for readers who want to adventure in the darker sides of AI that wouldn’t regularly be seen in mainstream news outlets.

Book 6: “The Age of Em: Work, Love, and Life when Robots Rule the Earth” by Robin Hanson

An associate professor of economics at George Mason University and a former researcher at the Future of Humanity Institute of Oxford University, Robin Hanson paints an imaginative picture of emulated human brains designed for robots. What if humans copied or “emulated” their brains and emotions and gave them to robots?

He argues that humans who become “Ems” (emulations) will become more dominant in the future workplace because of their higher productivity.

An intriguing book for fans of technology and those who love intelligent predictions of possible futures.

Book 7: “Architects of Intelligence: The truth about AI from the people building it” by Martin Ford

This book was drawn from interviews with AI experts and examines the struggles and possibilities of AI-driven industry.

If you want insights from people actively shaping the world, this book is right for you!

CONCLUSION

These books all have their unique perspectives but all point to one thing – the advantages of AI of today will have significant societal and technological impact. These books will give the reader glimpses into possible futures, with the effects of AI becoming more apparent over time.

For better insight into all aspects of AI, these books are the boosts you need to expand your knowledge. AI is advancing quickly, and these authors are some of the most respected in the field. Learn from the best with these choice reads.

[yuzu-adagio]

Every once in a while I get a lil bummed that the numbers aren't bigger or growing much, but the conclusion I keep coming back to is: I'm making friends, and at the end of the day I'd rather have friends than numbers, and if you take a step back it's pretty dang cool to get either one of those! Ain't anybody obligated to give you their time just because you make a thing, and those "numbers" are made out of people who can do whatever they dang want.

[lactosegremlin]

Please enjoy this email exchange with my data analytics instructor this morning.

[natsaffection]

Redline. Bonus 5.1 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!Racing!Driver!Reader

Warnings: Mention of sex, feeling of replacement

Word count: 10,8k

A/n: I didn't think I'd type the title above ever again, but I'll have to do it a second time tomorrow, as there will be a second part..thank you so much ☀️ for this grandiose idea!!! Let's see if one of you finds the "mistake"/difference to the other parts..

The morning sun hadn’t even kissed the sky yet when your alarm buzzed quietly beside you. You silenced it with a quick swipe and glanced to your right. Natasha was curled up beneath the covers, her red hair spilling across the pillow in a rare moment of peace. Her breathing was soft, slow, even, and you took a second to soak it in.

You slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake her, and tiptoed across the suite to grab your gym bag. Your heart was already pumping, not just from excitement, but from something deeper, older. That itch in your chest that only the track could soothe. It was race season again. Time to put on the helmet and become who you really were.

The gym was empty, the way you liked it. No cameras. No agents. No engineers. Just the rhythmic hum of your breath and the burn of muscle as you pushed yourself through circuit after circuit, focusing on agility, reflexes, core strength. Every crunch, every punch, every bead of sweat was a promise you made to yourself, and to Natasha.

This season was going to be yours. Again.

By the time you stepped out of the shower, skin still tingling from the heat and heart pounding with post-workout adrenaline, you were practically vibrating. You wrapped a towel around yourself and padded back into the room, already mentally drafting a cheeky comment to wake Natasha with, something flirty, maybe teasing about her sleeping in while you were already hustling.

But the bed was empty. Still neatly made. A flicker of confusion passed through you. You checked your watch. Not that early..

You dressed quickly, tugging on a clean hoodie and joggers, and made your way down the hall to the team’s suite of offices. Most were still dark, except for one. Natasha’s. The door was open just a crack, enough to let the light spill out across the floor.

You approached slowly, the buzz in your veins dimming just a bit. Inside, Natasha sat behind her desk, eyes locked on her laptop, posture stiff. A dozen tabs were open on the monitor..data, driver analytics, telemetry charts. She didn’t look up right away when you stepped in. But you didn’t need to see her eyes to know something was off. You felt it, the way you feel a car start to slide just before the tires lose grip.

“Nat?” you said softly.

Natasha looked up, and her face didn’t match her usual morning calm. She had that tight look around her mouth, the one she wore when she was about to say something she didn’t want to.

“Hey. You’re up early.” Natasha said.

“I could say the same about you.” You leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t expect to find you buried in data at six am.”

“I needed to get ahead of some things.” Natasha sat back in her chair, folding her arms. “Come in. Sit for a second.”

You blinked. That tone.

Not “I missed you.”

Not “How was your workout?”

Not even her clipped professional cadence.

Something else entirely. You crossed the room and sank into the chair opposite Natasha, studying her with narrowed eyes. “What’s going on?”

Natasha hesitated for a beat. Then she spoke.

“Willow Petrov.”

The name landed like a dropped wrench in a silent garage. Your brow furrowed. “From Formula 2?”

Natasha gave a short nod. “She’s twenty, Russian, ran with LunaTech last season. Three podiums. Got the best reaction time average in the pack. I’ve been watching her for a while.”

You tilted your head slowly. “Okay… why are we talking about her?”

Natasha exhaled. “She’s driving for us now. As your teammate.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. You blinked again, slower this time. Your brain raced to catch up, to reorganize the shape of your expectations. “What?”

“I signed her last night.” Natasha said, voice calm but unreadable. “It’ll be announced this afternoon.”

You stared at her. “I thought we were running solo again this season.”

“We were. But the board’s been pressuring for a second driver since last year. Sponsors too. We need more data from track simulations, better car-to-car telemetry feedback. And frankly, Willow’s too good to let go.”

A dozen thoughts flooded your head at once. You remembered Willow, bright, sharp, fearless. The type who cut corners like a knife and grinned at the podium like she belonged there, even when she didn’t win. A rookie, yes..but a talented one.

“She’s good.” you said slowly. “I’m not saying she isn’t. But this…changes things.”

“I know.”

“We have to split test runs, telemetry data, garage time. I’ll have to share my race engineer. She doesn’t know the car. Hell, she doesn’t know you. And I-”

Natasha stood then, walked around the desk, and crouched in front of you, placing a gentle hand on your knee. “Hey. Look at me.”

You did. “You are still my number one. On track. Off it. Nothing about that changes. But this team isn’t just about us anymore. It can’t be, if we want to grow. I need you to help me bring her in. Mentor her. Lead her.”

You searched Natasha’s face, heart twisting with something you didn’t want to name. Not jealousy. Not fear. Just..uncertainty.

“Can I think about it?” you asked quietly.

“You don’t have to decide anything. Just meet her. She’s arriving tomorrow.” You nodded slowly. Tomorrow. Everything was already changing.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur.

After the bombshell about Willow, you had thrown yourself into team meetings with a sort of sharp-edged focus, the kind Natasha had come to recognize over the months. When you were rattled, you didn’t fall apart, you doubled down. Your voice was steady during briefing, your analysis sharp as ever, but Natasha could feel the undercurrent. The quiet weight behind your eyes. The slightly-too-stiff posture. The questions that weren’t really about strategy.

Still, no one else in the room seemed to notice. To them, you were the reigning champion. The top driver of the Romanoff Racing team. Unshakeable.

Natasha knew better.

“Alright.” she said as they wrapped up for the day, clapping her hands once as the crew began dispersing. “Tomorrow we welcome Willow to the garage. I want everyone on their A-game. Let’s show her what a real team looks like.”

You didn’t speak as you gathered your notes. Just nodded and slipped your phone into your pocket. Natasha let you walk beside her in silence down the corridor, until you reached the private team garage, a sacred space for the two of you when the world felt too loud.

You finally spoke, voice quiet. “You think she’s ready?”

Natasha glanced at you. “She’s raw, but she’s smart. She’ll adjust. But she’s not you.”

You gave a tiny laugh under your breath. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

Natasha smiled faintly. “I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m telling you the truth, Y/n.”

Dinner that evening was something simple. Homemade pasta. Natasha had cooked, which in itself was a rare gesture, part apology, part grounding ritual. You sat on the couch, legs tangled under the blanket, eating straight from the bowls, a slow jazz record playing softly in the background.

You finally started to loosen. You leaned into Natasha’s side, head resting on her shoulder, chewing quietly.

“She’s going to ask questions about you.” you murmured after a long stretch of silence.

“She might.”

“You gonna tell her we’re together?”

“I’m going to tell her you’re my top driver.” Natasha said with a smirk. “Everything else, she’ll figure out the moment she sees us look at each other.”

You gave a small scoff. “You’re obnoxiously confident sometimes.”

Natasha pressed a kiss to your temple. “And you love it.”

Later that night, the apartment had gone quiet. Natasha had gone to wash up, and you stayed curled on the couch, hoodie pulled up over your head, the laptop balanced across your legs. The screen glowed softly in the dark, video after video, all the same subject.

Willow Petrov | Rising Star - F2 Highlights

Willow Petrov Onboard | Monaco Hairpin Dive

Willow Petrov: 2024 Season Recap

Her style was aggressive, but clean. No wasted movement. Calculated chaos. And she had this look behind the helmet, fierce, wide-eyed, maybe even a little reckless. She reminded you of yourself, once.

Too much.

So when Natasha padded back into the room, damp hair tied in a loose knot, wearing only a black tank and sweatpants, she paused in the doorway, smirking at the screen before speaking.

“You stalking your new teammate already?”

You startled, slammed the laptop shut too quickly. “I was just..researching.”

“Mm-hm.” Natasha crossed her arms, clearly entertained. “Researching. With that little frown and everything.”

“I’m not jealous..” you muttered, cheeks flushed. “I’m just…making sure I know what I’m working with.”

Natasha stepped forward, eyes gleaming as she knelt in front of you, resting her hands on your thighs. “It’s okay if you are. A little.”

You met her gaze, trying to hold it, trying to be cool. But something warm bloomed in your chest at how amused Natasha looked, like this was something endearing. Like you weren’t being ridiculous, but…cute.

“She’s not a threat.” Natasha said softly. “To your seat. To us.”

You swallowed. “I just don’t want to lose what we have.”

“You’re not going to.” Natasha’s voice was sure, low, steady. “You’re mine. On every track. In every city. In every way that matters. There’s no one else I want in that car..or in this bed.”

You looked down at her, and your voice was barely a whisper. “Promise?”

Natasha rose onto her knees, kissed you slow and deep, her hand slipping to the back of your neck. “I promise.” she murmured against your lips. And for the first time that day, you let yourself believe it.

The next morning came bright and early, sun slicing through the tall windows of the paddock hospitality suite like a blade. The team’s logo, sleek and minimal, black and red, gleamed from banners, transport trucks, even the espresso machine. A few engineers were already moving in the garage, prepping telemetry equipment and adjusting the simulator booth in the corner.

You stood just outside, arms folded, watching the driveway. You told yourself you weren’t nervous. You’d given track tours a dozen times. You’d welcomed new engineers, new sponsors, new assistants. You’d even done a handshake round with a crown prince once, back when Natasha’s team had first gone international.

But something about this one felt different. When the black car finally pulled up, you recognized her instantly. She practically bounced out, tiny compared to the hulking luggage she hauled behind her. She wore the team’s new windbreaker, sleeves a little too long, brown hair in a messy braid, and a smile stretched across her face like it had been glued there for hours.

Big eyes. Too much energy. Nervous as hell. You swallowed a smile and stepped forward. “You must be Willow.”

Willow straightened like she’d been caught doing something wrong. “Y-Yes! Hi!”

“Hi.” You offered your hand. “Welcome to Romanoff Racing.”

Willow shook it with both hands, her grip too eager, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Oh my God, I can’t believe this is real..” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been watching your races since I was fifteen, I mean, not in a creepy way, I just-God, that sounded creepy, didn’t it?”

You let out a short laugh. “You’re fine..” Willow blushed deeply, nodding rapidly.

Just then, Natasha stepped out from the garage, clipboard in hand, her presence commanding even in jeans and a fitted t-shirt. Willow visibly straightened again, as if she were back in military school. Natasha gave her a nod, eyes cool but not unkind.

“Willow. Good to have you with us.”

“Th-Thank you, Ms. Romanoff..” Willow stammered.

Natasha turned to you, that subtle look passing between you like a secret no one else could read. “I’ve got a strategy meeting with the core team. Think you can show her around?”

You nodded. “Sure.”

“Stick to pit lane, garage, and test paddock. Don’t take her near the media center yet. They don’t know we’ve signed her.” Natasha paused. “And for the love of God, don’t let her try to sit in your car.”

Willow blinked. “I would never- I mean, just looking! I swear!”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed again. Natasha smirked, kissed your cheek (subtle but intentional), and then disappeared into the garage.

Willow watched her go with wide eyes. “…She’s terrifying.”

“She’s not that bad.” you said, walking toward the pit entrance.

“She is. But like, in a powerful-boss-woman way.”

You shot her a glance. “She’s also my girlfriend.”

Willow froze. “Oh. Oh. Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean..I didn’t know you two were, um- wow. Cool. Very cool. That explains the…cheek kiss.”

You arched a brow, biting down a grin. “You okay?”

“Yeah!” Willow squeaked. “Just trying not to implode.”

The track was still quiet, only the faint sounds of drills and tires being moved echoing through the pit lane. You walked her through the various zones: the telemetry stations, tire warmers, pit boxes, the private rest pods hidden behind the main lounge.

Willow asked questions, so many questions. About the car’s brake bias system, about fuel management in wet conditions, about how the team handled your post-crash comeback. Her eyes sparkled with a thousand unspoken thoughts, and despite yourself, you started to like her. She was too earnest to hate.

You stopped just at the edge of the garage, where your race car stood under soft LED lights, its sleek chassis black with crimson accents.

Willow gasped. “Is that yours?”

You nodded. “Every piece of her.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s temperamental, high-maintenance, and will betray you the moment you relax.” You ran a hand across the wing. “But yeah. She’s mine.”

Willow stepped forward, a little reverent. “What’s it like? Sitting in her. That moment right before the lights go out?”

You turned to her, studying the rookie’s hopeful face. “It’s like…you disappear. And all that’s left is instinct. Speed. Survival.”

Willow looked down, serious now. “I don’t know if I’ll be good enough.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”

“I thought I’d have more time..” she admitted. “To grow. To learn. And now I’m being dropped next to you. You’re a world champion. You’re her partner. What if I screw up?”

You softened. “You will.” you said simply. “We all do. But we get better. That’s how this works. Just don’t try to be me.”

Willow looked up, surprised. “Be you. That’s who she signed.”

Willow nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll try.”

You gave her a small smile. “That’s all you need to do.”

The tour ended as the midday sun baked the tarmac in a golden shimmer. Willow had talked nonstop for nearly an hour, and though you didn’t admit it out loud, the kid had started to grow on you. Somewhere between her overly enthusiastic obsession with brake cooling systems and the way her eyes lit up when they entered the data lab, you felt something unfamiliar settle in your chest.

Not irritation. Not jealousy. Something closer to nostalgia.

You returned to the garage, where the hum of the team buzzed around you like bees, techs checking tire pressure, interns typing rapidly, radios crackling between engineers. The pulse of the season was coming alive again, and you could feel it deep in your bones.

Natasha appeared just as you stepped back into the paddock. She’d changed into her track jacket, her red hair pulled back in a low ponytail, clipboard tucked under one arm. Her presence was casual, but commanding, as always.

“How’s the tour?” she asked, directing the question to Willow, though her eyes flicked briefly toward you.

Willow straightened again. “Incredible. I..I don’t even know how to process it all. I feel like I’m dreaming.”

Natasha gave her a small smile, the kind that was rare and real. “Good. I like drivers who know how to appreciate where they are. But now it’s time to stop dreaming and start driving.”

Willow blinked. “Wait. N-Now?”

Natasha gestured toward the second car in the garage, sleek, matte gray, less tuned than your beast but still mean enough to roar.

“Nothing major. Just a few laps. Get the feel of the track. It’s different when it’s ours.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t waste any time, did you?”

Natasha smirked. “Neither do you.”

Willow looked between you, nervous again but clearly vibrating with excitement. “I- yes. Absolutely. Thank you, Ms. Romanoff.”

“Call me Natasha when we’re not in front of sponsors.” she said, turning to toss her clipboard on the table. “Suit up. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Within twenty minutes, Willow was in the car. The Romanoff test track wasn’t part of any international circuit. It was private land, built with obsessive precision, modeled after the most complex corners of Monaco, Silverstone, and Spa, all folded into a brutal loop of tight chicanes, high-speed straights, and elevation changes that punished hesitation.

It wasn’t a track for rookies.

You stood with your arms crossed beside Natasha at the observation deck just above pit lane, watching the camera feed light up as the car pulled from the garage.

“She looks scared.” you said.

“She should be.” Natasha replied. “Fear keeps your hands steady.”

The engine roared to life and Willow was off, taking the first few laps with visible caution. Corners were wide, braking early, no aggressive downshifts. You leaned against the railing, unimpressed.

“She’s holding back.”

“She’s learning the rhythm.” Natasha said, not taking her eyes off the screen. “Watch.”

You did. And after lap three, something shifted. The lines tightened. Her timing smoothed. She stopped dancing around the turns and started slicing through them. Lap four, she nailed the uphill chicane without touching the apex rumble strip. On five, she drifted wide just enough to preserve tire heat without compromising the downforce.

Your brow furrowed. “…Huh.”

Natasha’s smile was faint, knowing. “She’s good.”

“She’s very good.”

You watched in silence as Willow pushed through another two laps, faster each time. Still not elite, but promising. Focused. Hungry. She cut the final corner too sharp on the last run and skidded slightly, catching herself at the edge of the gravel. She brought the car in after that, helmeted head turning as she entered the garage and coasted to a stop.

When the engine went quiet, you let out a low breath. “…Okay,” you muttered. “That can’t go unanswered.”

Natasha turned. “Oh?”

Your smile grew slowly. “Give me ten minutes and my girl back in the paddock.”

“You want to race her?”

You turned to her, eyes gleaming with challenge. “You wanted her tested. Let’s see how she handles the heat.”

Natasha considered you for a beat, then nodded.

“Don’t go easy on her.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Ten minutes later, you were back in your suit. Helmet in hand. Every step toward the car felt like slipping back into a second skin. The hum of the garage faded. Everything outside the cockpit was background noise.

As you lowered yourself into the car, you glanced toward Willow, who was standing by the pit wall, helmet still on, clearly unsure whether to be thrilled or terrified. You gave her a thumbs-up before the visor came down.

And then, the track swallowed you. Willow took the lead on the first lap, you let her. Let her feel that taste of control, let her believe for a second she had the upper hand.

But by lap two, you were tightening the gap. By three, you were on her tail, reading every line she chose, every hesitation. On the fourth lap, as you hit the blind uphill switchback, you saw your chance.

You dove in, late brake, tighter line, a calculated brush that skirted legality, and took the inside.

Willow blinked. Hesitated. That was all you needed. From then on, it wasn’t even a contest. The next lap was yours, sharp, precise, and punishing. Your car became an extension of your body. Every muscle aligned with purpose. You were wind and fire, all instinct and fury, tearing up the track to prove one thing:

You still had it.

And by the time you crossed the line, your car a full second ahead, the point had been made loud and clear. When you pulled back into the garage, engines cooling with the ticking sound of victory, you climbed out, removed your helmet, and walked toward Willow, whose face was flushed behind her visor.

She flipped it up slowly.

“…Holy shit..” Willow whispered.

You smirked. “Welcome to the big leagues.”

Natasha joined you then, arms folded, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips. “I think that counts as your initiation.”

Willow looked between you, still catching her breath. “I want to be that good.”

“You will be.” you said, slapping her lightly on the shoulder. “Just not today.”

As the sun dipped behind the track’s final corner, casting long shadows across the asphalt, Natasha’s voice cut through softly, “Looks like I’ve got two monsters on my team now.”

You looked over, and for the first time since the rookie’s name was mentioned, you smiled without reservation.

“Yeah.” you said. “But only one queen.”

——

It had been six days since the race. Six days since you smoked Willow on the track. Six days since the rookie came off the tarmac breathless and wide-eyed like she’d touched fire, and wanted more.

Since then, the team had shifted into full gear. Training simulations. PR meetings. Car telemetry reworks. Everyone was running on caffeine, deadlines, and pit-lane adrenaline. And somewhere in the chaos, you started to feel it:

Distance.

At first, it was small. A skipped coffee. A missed debrief. Natasha pulling Willow aside in the garage, gesturing with that intense, low tone she always used when she wanted to build a driver up from the inside out. You had heard it before. You remembered how rare it was to be spoken to like that.

Now you watched it from a distance. On the fourth day, you showed up early for simulator drills, but Natasha had already booked Willow in your slot. No heads-up. Just a polite nod from the tech.

“Romanoff said to prioritize rookie reflex calibration..” he mumbled.

You had just nodded and turned away, jaw tight. You weren’t the rookie anymore. You weren’t the rescue project. You were the reigning world champion. And somehow, you felt completely invisible.

That night, the compound was unusually quiet. The rest of the team had gone out for a media dinner, but you had passed. Natasha hadn’t even asked if you were coming, she’d assumed you weren’t, too caught up talking setups with Willow, who had practically bounced through the garage all day with her notebook and never-ending questions.

You stood alone now in the garage, long after the rest had left, staring at your car in the low lights. Just you and the beast. The car didn’t judge. The car didn’t compare. You ran your hand across the edge of the carbon fiber bodywork, fingertips ghosting over the Romanoff logo near the cockpit.

How many times had this car saved you? How many times had Natasha? And now it felt like none of it was enough.

A sharp click of heels on the concrete behind you broke the silence. You didn’t turn.

“I figured I’d find you here.” Natasha said quietly.

You swallowed. “Thought you had dinner with the prodigy.”

Natasha approached slowly, a slight edge of confusion in her voice. “Willow went with the tech crew. I was looking for you.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of looking lately.” you said, the words out before you could stop them.

Natasha paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You finally turned to face her. “You tell me. You’ve been glued to her since the day she arrived. Training, testing, feedback loops, hell, you even rearranged my sim time.”

“That wasn’t personal, baby.” Natasha said. “She needs the hours.”

“And I don’t?”

“You’re already a world champion.”

“Right..” you snapped, stepping back. “So now I’m just the legacy act? The girl who came broken, who got rebuilt, but isn’t new enough or shiny enough to get your attention anymore?”

Natasha’s face hardened. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “You didn’t have to fight for her. You didn’t have to convince her to stay when her nightmares made her puke at night. You didn’t hold her hand when she spun out and started screaming because she thought she was flying into a wall again. She came ready-made. Clean slate. Untouched.”

Natasha flinched, subtle, but it was there. “I never saw you smile at me like that, back then.”

“You mean when you didn’t trust anyone and couldn’t look me in the eye?” Natasha’s voice was low now. Dangerous. “Don’t rewrite history just because it hurts.”

Your breath caught. You stared at each other for a long moment. Everything in your chest was burning, shame, longing, fear. You hated how small you felt. How much you cared.

“I know what this is..” you said quietly. “She’s the driver you always wanted.”

Natasha stepped forward, firm. “Stop it.”

“She is.” you insisted, voice cracking. “No damage. No baggage. You didn’t have to rebuild her. You just got to mold her. And I-“

“You were never a project to me.”

“You say that, but it’s starting to feel like I was.”

The silence between you was deafening. Natasha took a breath, slow, deliberate. “Do you really think I love you because I had to?”

You didn’t answer, and natasha’s expression softened, less sharp, more raw. “I love you because you fought. Because you refused to stay down when every bone in your body told you to quit. I love the way you clawed your way back to the wheel, even when no one else believed in you. That’s not pity. That’s admiration.”

“Then why does it feel like you’ve forgotten I’m still here?” you whispered.

Natasha looked stunned, just for a second. Then she reached out, gently, cupping your face. Her thumbs brushed your cheeks, you hadn’t realized you’d been crying until then.

“I haven’t forgotten you, Y/n.” Natasha murmured. “I’ve been looking at you every day and thinking: God, she’s still the fire I fell for. But I didn’t realize you were feeling this.”

“I didn’t either..” you said, your voice hoarse. “Not until she showed up and you stopped seeing me the way you used to.”

Natasha shook her head. “No. I see you. I always see you. You just started turning away.”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to believe her. Wanted to let it go. But the doubt sat heavy in your gut like lead.

“You need to tell me when I miss something.” Natasha said, pulling you in closer. “Not when it’s too late. Not when you’ve already built a story in your head.”

You rested your forehead against hers. “She’s good.”

“She is.”

“But I’m still better.”

Natasha smiled. “Goddamn right, you are.”

A beat passed. Then you added, quietly, “But I still needed to hear it.”

Natasha kissed you then, slow, grounding, a promise sealed without words. And for the first time in days, you let yourself believe that you weren’t being replaced. You were still the heart of this team. Still hers.

——

The press tent was larger than usual, elevated seating for journalists, polished banners on either side of the platform, and every camera lens locked in with laser precision. The Romanoff Racing emblem hovered on every backdrop, flanked by the logos of their newest sponsors. A gentle buzz filled the air, expectation, speculation, heat from the lights.

And at the center of it all: Natasha.

She walked onto the stage like she owned it, because, in a way, she still does. Her tailored black blazer, fitted white blouse, and subtle smile made her look every bit the icon. Calculated cool. Controlled grace. She stood at the mic with the same poise she showed when strategizing before a stormy Grand Prix.

“Ladies and gentlemen..” she began, her voice even, but firm. “Thank you for joining us today. As most of you know, Romanoff Racing is entering its fifth season on the circuit. We’ve broken records, rewritten what a comeback can look like, thanks in large part to our champion, Y/n.”

There was a small wave of applause, and backstage, you exhaled slowly as the spotlight grazed you for a moment, just enough to burn.

“But this year..” Natasha continued, “we’re growing. I’ve made the decision to bring in a second driver. A rising star. Someone with the kind of raw instinct and racing spirit I haven’t seen in a long time.”

A pause. “Please welcome our new official team driver: Willow Petrov.”

The tent erupted. Cameras flashed wildly as Willow stepped onto the stage, her team jacket pressed and spotless, her blonde braid tucked neatly under a Romanoff Racing cap. Her cheeks were pink from nerves, but she beamed like a kid on Christmas. There was no hiding her awe.

She took her place beside Natasha and gave the mic a nervous glance before speaking. “It’s… honestly insane to be here. I used to watch her replays on YouTube between my F2 races..” she admitted with a laugh. “and now I’m wearing the same patch. I’m here to learn, grow, and drive my heart out for this team.”

Natasha smiled, laying a subtle hand on Willow’s shoulder as she guided her back a step. Then came the volley of questions, standard press fare at first, then sharper, messier.

“Natasha, was this a long-term plan to bring in new blood?”

“Willow, do you feel pressure being compared to a world champion teammate?”

“Y/n, how does it feel to share the spotlight after carrying the team solo for so long?”

That last one hit. You, seated now beside Willow and Natasha, leaned forward to the mic. Your smile was tight, practiced.

“We’re not here to compete with each other. We’re here to win, together. That’s what matters.”

A professional answer. Unshakable. But inside, something twisted. You watched as Natasha angled slightly toward Willow during the Q&A. A nod here, a subtle prompt there, encouraging. Guiding.

The same way she used to do with you. You didn’t even realize you were clenching your fist under the table until Willow’s elbow bumped you gently.

“You good?” Willow whispered, low enough the mics wouldn’t catch it.

You blinked and looked at her. The girl’s big blue eyes were full of concern, not competition.

And for a moment, you felt bad for being annoyed with her. “Yeah.” you murmured back. “Just waiting for the fun part.”

After the conference, you were ushered outside for the official media line, step-and-repeat photos, handshake shots, and a trio pose in front of the new car prototype. You had done this a hundred times. You knew how to stand. Where to smile. When to tilt your chin for that ‘effortless confidence’ angle.

But today, it all felt tight around the edges. “Okay, Natasha in the middle, Y/n on the left, Willow on the right..perfect!” one of the PR reps called out.

Flashbulbs exploded. Willow grinned wide, clearly new to the pressure but trying her best to keep up. Her hand hovered awkwardly near your back, unsure if she was supposed to pose with you or not.

You glanced at her. Then, with a tiny sigh, you reached out and gently pulled Willow a little closer.

“Relax..”you muttered. “We’re not enemies. We’re just expensive mannequins right now.”

Willow laughed, nervous but grateful. “You’re kind of intimidating, you know that?”

You raised a brow. “Me? You’re the one everyone’s calling the future of Romanoff Racing.”

Willow looked over at you, more seriously now. “Maybe. But you’re the heart of it.”

That stung in a way you didn’t expect. You weren’t sure if it was pity, or admiration, or just awkward honesty, but it cut through the noise.

More flashes. Another angle. Another forced smile. Then Natasha stepped between you for a tighter photo, resting a hand on each of your backs. The press roared, headlines already forming.

“The Queen, the Champion, and the Prodigy.”

You tried not to flinch at the way Natasha’s hand lingered slightly longer on Willow’s shoulder than yours. Tried not to let your smile falter. Tried not to think about how much had changed..and how fast.

Later, when the crowd had cleared and the cameras were packed away, you stayed behind in the now-empty paddock, hands stuffed in your pockets, sunglasses still on. Natasha found you there, leaning against one of the sponsor walls, staring at nothing.

“You did good.” Natasha said softly. “Held your own.”

You gave a small shrug. “I’ve had practice.”

There was a beat of silence. “You looked like you wanted to be anywhere but next to me up there.”

You turned toward her, finally taking the shades off. Your eyes were tired. Honest. “I just miss when I didn’t have to share you.”

Natasha didn’t smile. She didn’t lecture. She just stepped forward and took your hand. “You don’t have to share what we have. But you do have to trust it.”

“I’m trying..” you whispered. “But every time you look at her like she’s something special, I wonder if I’m just…fading.”

“You’re not fading.” Natasha said, her voice low and firm. “You’re shining. And the only reason I even brought her in was because I wanted to protect you. Give you someone beside you on the road. Not behind. Not in front. Beside.”

You closed your eyes, leaned into her touch. It still hurt. But at least now you knew: You weren’t invisible.

Not yet.

The week leading up to the race had been relentless. Training drills. Lap simulations. PR follow-ups. Tire compound testing. A new aero package install that barely made it past Friday’s technical inspection.

And somewhere in between, you had started sleeping with one arm under your pillow and one hand curled into a fist, like you were bracing for something you couldn’t quite name.

Willow, for her part, had thrown herself into the grind with youthful fire, running morning laps in the rain, asking the race engineers questions until midnight, sipping black coffee like it was a secret weapon. Her natural instincts were beginning to polish into something sharper. More refined. You noticed. And for the first time, you stopped feeling jealous, and started feeling hungry.

The qualifying day sun was harsh and dry, high in a cloudless sky, beating down on the Romanoff Racing paddock like a spotlight that wouldn’t turn off. The air shimmered with heatwaves above the tarmac. Cameras hovered, drones buzzed, and pit crews moved like silent machines around their cars.

This was it. Solo time trials. No traffic. No slipstreams. Just driver vs. track, one at a time. Every corner counted. Every tenth of a second was a kingmaker, or a curse.

The starting order for the qualifying runs had been drawn the night before. Willow would go out first for Romanoff Racing. You would go last.

The reigning champion. The final roar.

Inside the garage, Willow paced back and forth in her suit, her gloves half-on, eyes bouncing between her race engineer and Natasha. The kid was wired like a live wire, bouncing with nerves, soaking in every word Natasha fed her through the headset mic.

You sat on a stool in the corner, helmet in your lap, one leg crossed over the other, quiet and observant. You weren’t jealous, not really.. But there was a grating sound in your head you couldn’t turn off. Natasha’s voice. Gentle. Encouraging. Proud.

“Take a clean line through 11, watch the outside rumble. Brake later if the tires warm fast enough.”

“Like that. That’s the right read.”

“Trust your gut, don’t overthink the apex.”

You ground your jaw. You used to hear those words. Back when you needed them. Now, you didn’t get so much as a nod.

Willow stepped into the car and rolled onto the track. The garage emptied to the pit wall, where engineers stood with headsets, telemetry readouts glowing. Natasha followed, slipping on her shades like she was watching her personal investment roll into orbit.

You didn’t go with them. You stayed in the shade. Then you stood up, pulled your cap low, and walked. Elsewhere on the paddock, the atmosphere was different, less rigid, more relaxed. Some of the other drivers were lounging under the sponsor tents, sipping water, exchanging banter, or pretending not to care.

You wandered near the corner where some of the lesser-known, but fast, independent drivers hung out. Guys from underground teams. Not rookies, not legends..just raw talent.

You leaned against a stack of tires, arms crossed, not saying much at first. “L/N, you going soft on us?” one of them joked, a smirking Frenchman named Jules. “You’re not watching your little protégé?”

You shrugged. “She’s not mine.”

“You saying that like it’s not already in the headlines..” someone else teased. “The Queen and the Kid. All eyes on Romanoff.”

Another chuckle. Then a quieter voice chimed in, “You hear about that circuit run? Off-record? Midnight, no cameras, real speed.”

You raised an eyebrow. The group shifted subtly, gauging your interest. You didn’t respond right away, but your gaze held. One of them, stocky, buzz cut, tattooed fingers, grinned. “What, the world champ thinking about getting her hands dirty?”

A few laughs. Someone leaned closer. “Wouldn’t that be something? You on a back-alley grid with the rest of us rats.”

You gave a lopsided smile. Didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny. But something about it thrilled you. The rawness. The danger. The lack of polish. No PR team. No pressure..

Just you and the car.

They saw that spark in you. And they liked it. You didn’t agree. But you didn’t shut it down either. And somewhere deep in your gut, the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched.

You walked back in just as Willow’s final lap flashed across the telemetry screen:

1:20.408

Gasps. Claps. A low cheer from the Romanoff Racing pit team.

P1. For now.

Your stomach dropped. Natasha turned to you, eyes bright behind her sunglasses. “She nailed it. Best lap of the day so far.”

You didn’t reply. Just reached for your gloves. Something in Natasha’s tone, maybe pride, maybe surprise..lit a fuse inside you.

Willow climbed out of the car moments later, flushed and beaming, helmet off and braid soaked in sweat.

“I think I blacked out during sector three.” she panted.

“You didn’t.” Natasha replied. “You just drove like you meant it.”

You met Willow’s eyes briefly. The girl still looked like she worshipped you. But that made it worse somehow. Because now you had to remind everyone who built this team’s legacy.

Your lap was up next.

You pulled on the helmet. Closed the visor. The world shrunk to engine hum and breath.

Radio check.

“Comms clear. You ready?”

“Always.”

“No overdrive early. Hold back on sector one, save the tires for the back half. We only need one clean lap. Not a death wish.”

You tightened your grip on the wheel.

“I’m not here to be clean. I’m here to be fast.”

Natasha didn’t reply. The light turned green, and you floored it. You took sector one tight, ignoring Natasha’s caution. The tires screamed at the high-speed curve through turn six. You leaned hard into the chicane, barely clipping the apex, riding the edge of the curbs with millimeter precision.

Sector two: near-perfect. You braked a split-second later than anyone else dared at turn eleven, kissing the wall on exit without losing speed.

Sector three: the fast zone. No brakes. Pure throttle. Pure fury.

You were flying. By the time you crossed the line, your final time flashed across the board:

1:19.774

Silence. Then a collective inhale from the pit. You sat in the car, helmet still on, staring ahead as the data streamed in.

P1.

Back in the garage, Natasha pulled off her headset slowly. The corner of her mouth lifted. “She’s still got fire.”

Willow watched the screen, eyes wide, but there was no bitterness. Only awe.

“She’s not human..” Willow whispered. “She’s art with an engine.” Natasha didn’t reply. But the look in her eyes said enough.

You returned minutes later, pulling off your helmet in one slow, deliberate motion. Your eyes met Natasha’s. Not smug. Not smiling..Just raw.

“I needed that..” you said quietly.

Natasha stepped closer. “You earned that.”

Willow came up beside you, flushed and panting. “I thought I had it…”

You gave her a glance. “You almost did.”

You stood there in silence, three women. First, second, and the one who saw both sides. For now, Romanoff Racing ruled the grid. But underneath the steel and sweat and smiles..Something else was brewing.

——

The hotel room was quiet.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sparkled under a velvet sky. Horns in the distance. Soft wind curling through the open slats of the terrace door. The whole world was moving, just not here.

Here, it was still. You lay on your side, facing the window, bare shoulders half-draped in sheets. Your hair still damp from a late shower, your mind still too full from the day. The numbers of your lap time looped in your head. 1:19.774.

A victory. But somehow, not enough. Behind you, Natasha was lying on her back, one arm tucked behind her head, the other resting near your spine. Not touching. Just there.

The silence between you was soft, not cold, but it carried weight. You don’t know how to speak the ache that lingered in your chest. The quiet, bitter curl of doubt that still whispered..

What if she doesn’t need me anymore?

Then, without warning, Natasha shifted. She reached, slow and deliberate, and pulled you gently onto her, guiding your body across her own like it was something she’d done a hundred times, and it was. Legs tangled. Hands at your waist. You blinked down at her, surprised.

“…What are you doing?”

Natasha looked up, eyes calm, steady. “Reminding you.”

You frowned, confused. “Of what?”

“That you don’t have to be scared.” Natasha said simply. “That I’m not going anywhere.”

You froze. Of course..Natasha’s fingers brushed your lower back, tracing the faint curve of your spine with absent reverence. “I know that look in your eyes..” she murmured. “The one you try to hide behind your helmet. The one that says ‘I’m slipping.’”

“I’m not-”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Y/n.”

You closed your mouth. Natasha’s voice softened, like velvet over steel. “You think because I’m proud of her, I’ve stopped being proud of you.”

“I know you are..” you whispered.

“Do you?”

You looked away. That silence told Natasha everything. She sat up slightly, pressing her forehead against yours. Her breath was warm. Her voice firm.

“You are not being replaced. Willow’s a driver. You are everything. You are the reason this team has a heartbeat. You are why I built this whole empire in the first place.”

Your throat tightened. “I just..sometimes I feel like-”

Natasha didn’t let you finish. She kissed you. Deep, slow, anchoring. And you melted into it, not because it was heat, but because it was home.

When Natasha rolled you fully beneath her, fingers trailing down your ribs, her mouth never left yours. Her touch wasn’t demanding, it was declarative.

You are mine. You are seen. You are still the fire.

You didn’t speak again. You didn’t need to.

The Next Morning – 6:48 AM

The car ride to the track was quiet in the front. Loud in the back. Natasha drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting easily against the center console. Her face was set, calm, already mentally halfway through the first ten laps.

In the rearview mirror, she watched you. Head against the window, music in your ears, hoodie up, one hand loosely gripping your phone in your lap. You weren’t asleep, but you weren’t here, either. Lost in thought. In routine. In preparation.

Natasha didn’t say anything. She just watched you. Softly. In the passenger seat, Willow was a whirlwind of motion. She had her phone out, snapping photos of the sunrise over the city skyline, the rows of transport trucks pulling into the paddock, the backs of race trailers covered in sponsor logos.

“God, this is insane!!” Willow muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “I can’t believe we’re really here..”

Natasha smirked faintly. “It’s always real at the first corner.”

Willow didn’t even flinch. “I’m ready.”

She meant it. Her excitement wasn’t childish anymore. It was focused. Sharpened. Natasha glanced at her, proud. Then back at the mirror.

Your gaze was on the road. But your fingers tapped once, almost in rhythm to Natasha’s signal light. A quiet acknowledgment.

The moment the car pulled into the underground entrance to the paddock, cameras began flashing. They hadn’t even stepped out yet.

Natasha cut the engine and sat for a beat. “You two know the drill.”

You pulled out your earbuds and tucked them into your pocket. Still silent, but sharp now. Willow adjusted her jacket and reached for her media pass lanyard.

“God, there’s already like fifty of them..” she muttered. Natasha stepped out first. The sound of shutters exploding hit instantly. Flashes. Voices. Shouts.

“ROMANOFF, OVER HERE!”

“WILLOW, SMILE FOR SKY SPORTS!”

“Y/N! ANY COMMENT ON THE RIVALRY?”

You followed, hoodie up, sunglasses on. No expression. Willow followed last, almost jumping at the barrage of attention, but she didn’t flinch. She smiled wide. Waved once.

They didn’t stop walking. They didn’t answer questions. The three of you moved in sync toward the garage, driver, driver, boss. And behind every flash, the story was writing itself:

“Romanoff Racing Arrives, One Team, Two Stars, All Eyes On Gold.”

But behind the headline, between the silences and the stolen glances, only one truth mattered: You were here. And you were ready to burn the track down.

You sat in your chair, arms folded, legs crossed. Your race suit was half-zipped, the sleeves knotted at your waist. Your face unreadable.

Willow was across from you, helmet on the table, bouncing her leg under the chair, nervous energy leaking through the edges of her focused expression.

Natasha stood at the head of the room, pointer in one hand, the other resting on the back of her chair. Not smiling. Not lecturing. Just speaking, measured and exact.

“We’re going soft-hard-medium. Staggered stops. Y/n, you’re opening with pace. I want a gap by lap 12.”

You nodded. “Copy.”

“Willow..” Natasha said, voice shifting subtly, “you’re staying with Costa and Wolfe. Buffer zone. You’re not chasing him, not unless I call for it.”

Willow’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t argue. “Understood.”

Natasha clicked a button. A screen lit up with a predictive sim. “There’s a 20% chance of light rain in sector three near the end. If it happens, we hold track position. No unnecessary battles.”

You tilted your head, watching her closely. This wasn’t her usual tone. There was something behind it. A stiffness. An uncertainty.

Minutes later, you sat in pole, visor down, surrounded by cameras and chaos. The air reeked of fuel and heat. A heartbeat pulsed under your palms, yours or the car’s, you didn’t know anymore.

“Y/n, final check. Comms clear?”

“Clear and ready.”

“Good. Watch your rear into turn three. Wolfe will try to dive late.”

“Let him try.”

“Willow, confirm comms.”

“Clear. Heart rate’s at 110. I’m breathing.”

“Good. Just survive the first five laps. The rest will come to you, okay?”

Your jaw twitched inside your helmet. There it was again..The tone-

Lights out.

The roar was immediate. Four-wide dive into the first corner. You took the inside clean, perfectly timed gear shift, shutting the door on Wolfe and Costa with ruthless precision.

By lap 2, you had already opened a 1.7 second lead.

Smooth. Surgical. Untouchable. Behind you, Willow stumbled. Turn six..wide. Lap four..too much brake into the chicane.

“Willow, pull it together. Reset your rhythm. Don’t chase, stabilize.”

“Copy. Sorry.”

Lap six, Willow found it again. She overtook Costa in a brave, inside line maneuver that nearly kissed the gravel. You heard the pit crew cheer. Natasha’s voice crackled with unexpected joy.

“That’s the fire. Keep it clean. Wolfe’s losing grip. You can take him in two.”

You grit your teeth. The car roared under you like a living thing, engine screaming at full tilt, tires gripping tarmac like claws on glass. You breathed slow. Measured. Intentional. Every part of you synced with the machine, the wheel, the brakes, the tiny flicks of balance that made or broke lap times.

You were leading. Clean start. Clean pace. Fastest lap by lap 11. Smooth as silk, precise as a scalpel. This race was yours.

In your rearview mirror, you saw Willow, P2 now, holding position. Not threatening, not faltering. Just…there. You didn’t think about her. You didn’t have time.

You thought about your line through turn 9, the slight understeer near the tunnel curve, the way your grip was softening on the softs with every corner carve. Your body was singing with focus. This was your world. And nothing, not the crowd, not the pit crew, not even Natasha’s voice, could shake it.

Until lap 34.

“Y/n. We’ve got a situation.”

“Talk to me.”

“Willow’s rear gearbox sensor is pinging. Possible instability. Data’s fluctuating. If Wolfe pushes DRS range and forces a brake duel, that casing could fail.”

You blinked through sweat. “Then pull her back.”

“No. We’re issuing a position swap. Now.”

Silence in your helmet. Your hands tightened on the wheel. What?

The wind outside felt louder. The engine scream thinned into white noise. “…No.”

“That’s not a request.”

“She won’t survive the lead! Not with a blown rear and Wolfe charging!”

Natasha was more cold this time,

“And she definitely won’t if she doesn’t have a wall behind her.”

“I am the wall, Natasha! Let me hold the front. Let me finish this.”

Another beat of silence. Then..

“Y/n. Position. Swap. Now. You protect her or she crashes out. Those are the only outcomes.”

Inside the garage, Natasha stood stiff at the pit wall, headset pressed tight, heart hammering harder than she’d admit. You hadn’t obeyed.

She stared at the live feed, your car just ahead, clean lines, perfect balance, but no sign of lifting. And Willow, driving beautifully, but unaware of just how fragile her car was, was still in second. Vulnerable.

Natasha knew what this was. This wasn’t disobedience. This was fear.

Not for Willow. For you. Letting someone pass when the win was in your hands? When every ounce of your soul knew you were better?

That wasn’t just sacrifice. That was surrender.

Your jaw was tight inside the helmet. Your heart hammered against your ribs, not from fear, but from fury. Your fingers ached on the wheel. Every instinct in you screamed to ignore the call.

This is your race. You built this team. You bled for this damn car.

But Natasha’s voice echoed in your mind, not just the words, but the way her tone had shifted. The ice. The command.

You didn’t want to listen. But Natasha wasn’t asking. She was telling.

You swore under your breath and eased off the throttle. Just enough, and Willow swept past you on the straight. The crowd screamed. The leaderboard updated.

P1: Willow Petrov

P2: You

And behind you, like a wolf in a storm, Wolfe loomed in P3. You gritted your teeth and dropped behind Willow, matching her pace, locking the line tight. If Wolfe tried anything now, he’d hit a wall of steel.

“Thank you.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not without your voice cracking.

Final Laps

Willow held the front with everything she had. Her lines weren’t as perfect, her exits not as sharp, but they were enough. You buffered every corner, forced Wolfe wide, stole DRS range every time it threatened to open. You weren’t racing anymore. You were guarding.

Lap 39.

Lap 40.

The checkered flag waved. Willow crossed the line first. You followed, less than a second behind.

Back in the garage, Willow was pulled from the car by techs and PR and cameras. The first win of her Formula 1 career.

And you? You climbed out in silence. Helmet off. Sweat running down your neck. Eyes unreadable. You stood there beside the car, breathing hard, ignoring the cameras.

Across the garage, Natasha didn’t move. She just watched you. Not as a manager. Not even as a lover. But as a woman who had just asked someone she loved to let go of something sacred.

You walked past her. Didn’t stop. Didn’t look at her. Natasha reached for your hand, just a brush, but you pulled it away gently, and disappeared into the corridor.

Part 2

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[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O9

“𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋”

“We’re designed to fit,” he says, and you don’t know if he means your powers, your patterns, or the way your hand doesn’t shake in his.

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 6,7k

content: reality anchors, the quantum physics are quaking, yoongi being bossy again (and hot about it), elevator scene tension 10/10, jumping across buildings like it's casual (it is NOT), spatial distortion flirty edition, golden tendrils 2.0 (they touched... physically and emotionally??), temporal signature matching (yes it’s hot), someone finally says “we’re designed to fit” and i screamed, drone murder attempt ig, jungkook makes a dramatic entrance and is so annoying about it, team regroup ft. unexplained powers and too many secrets, portal time but make it traumatic.

— author’s note

KAY. LISTEN.

I know I say this every chapter but THIS ONE. this one fried several neurons and may have permanently altered the molecular structure of my spine. I started with “hm what if they walked through a reality anchor” and ended with “what if they synchronized their temporal signatures mid-freefall and touched tendrils in public like absolute whores.” I don’t know what to tell you. I blacked out. This is between me and my caffeine addiction now.

Let’s talk about the jump scene. Yes. You clocked it. That moment where Noma is calculating the distance and Yoongi says “don’t think, just need” and then she LAUNCHES HERSELF INTO THE VOID? Yeah. That may or may not have been deeply inspired by Neo’s rooftop jump in The Matrix (1999, my beloved). I am a massive Matrix nerd. That whole visual of someone standing on the edge of a building, trying to defy the physics they were born into, and being told “your mind is the thing in your way”? It’s been living rent-free in my frontal lobe since I was 13 and thought trench coats were peak fashion.

Because this chapter is, like, extremely about trust. And control. And the horror of not understanding what’s happening inside your own body. It’s about Noma confronting the fact that her mind—her beautiful, precise, analytical mind—is what’s limiting her. And Yoongi, who already knows, who’s BEEN like this longer, who knows what it’s like to break through that threshold and feel the laws of reality tilt around your perception, he’s just THERE. Guiding her. Softly threatening to reset time like a feral little guardian angel.

Also… let’s not ignore the fact that she destroys a drone with her brain and he’s like “cool. moving on.” Sir?? She just folded metal into origami. But okay go off I guess.

AND THEN THEY SYNCH TEMPORAL SIGNATURES. don’t even look at me. I wrote that and sat there like “huh. interesting. so that’s what soulmates sound like in science fiction.” I had to go walk around the block. I made them fit on a molecular level. I made their body chemistry harmonize. Why? Because I am unwell and this is my therapy.

Anyway. Thanks for reading I love you all. Scientifically.

— read on

ao3

wattpad

Reality Anchors are alive.

No one ever told you that part. No briefing, no memo, no research paper had ever mentioned that these imposing structures breathe.

The anchor in front of you rises 37.2 meters from ground to apex, its surface composed of quantum-stabilized alloy that shouldn't—couldn't—pulse like that.

Yet it does. Every 7 seconds, a wave of molecular adjustment ripples from base to tip, disturbing air molecules in concentric patterns that register against your skin at precisely 0.3 pascals of pressure.

Fascinating.

Your retinas register the faint blue luminescence emanating from seams in the structure-temporal energy bleeding through containment fields. 

It feels like reality itself is being compressed into a more efficient configuration.

"Mesmerizing," you murmur, cataloging the observable data. "The quantum-stabilized glass panels are oriented at exactly 73 degrees to maximize temporal field distribution. And the energy consumption must be—”

"No."

You blink, neural processes stuttering at the interruption.

Agent Min has stopped walking and turned to face you fully, his stance registering as 37% more rigid than his baseline.

"I didn't say anything," you point out, tilting your head 12 degrees in genuine confusion.

"Didn't have to." His eyes narrow by approximately 0.3 centimeters.

"Then what are you saying no to?"

"You know what."

"I genuinely don't." Your brow furrows, creating a 0.4-centimeter depression between your eyebrows. "It seems statistically improbable that you could accurately predict my thought patterns without established baseline data."

His mouth twitches—suppressed micro-expression, 0.7 seconds in duration.

"Were you or were you not thinking of using a little detour to satiate that insane curiosity of yours?"

Your silence registers at approximately 3.2 seconds. 

Longer than optimal for casual conversation.

"Exactly. No."

"I find your anticipation of my mental processes presumptuous," you counter, eyes returning to the reality anchor when the uppermost floors shimmer slightly—a temporal distortion effect that standard human vision would filter out. “And I do not appreciate it.”

"Get used to it," he says, resuming walking at a pace 7% faster than before. "You will."

You match his stride automatically.

"The probability of you developing accurate predictive models of my cognitive patterns seems—”

"Already developed," he interrupts, checking his modified Chrono-Sync Watch with a quick glance. "Seventh time you've tried to investigate a reality anchor. Always the same pattern."

This statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies. You've never attempted to investigate a reality anchor before. Your security clearance wouldn't permit it.

Yet your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

"How would you know that?" 

He doesn't answer, instead gesturing toward the adjacent tower—a colossal structure of similar materials that rises at least 100 floors into the artificially blue sky.

"Travel spot is somewhere in the upper levels," he says, eyes scanning the building's facade. "We need to access it through the anchor first."

You process this information, calculating optimal routes.

"Why can't you pinpoint the exact location?" you ask, question emerging from your analytical centers. "Your previous statements implied familiarity with the network."

His jaw tightens by approximately 4.3 newtons.

"Travel spots shift position by 0.7 meters every 73 minutes," he explains, voice roughened. "Quantum uncertainty principle applied to spatial coordinates. Prevents CHRONOS from establishing fixed monitoring."

"That seems inefficient for a resistance network," you observe.

"That's the point." He checks his watch again—third time in 7.3 minutes. "Inefficiency creates unpredictability. CHRONOS systems are designed for pattern recognition."

You approach the base of the reality anchor, where a standard-looking entrance is monitored by temporal signature scanners disguised as decorative elements.

"How do we bypass security?" you ask, noting at least three visible monitoring devices and calculating a 94.7% probability of additional concealed systems.

"We don't," he says, reaching into his jacket and extracting what appears to be a standard CHRONOS identification card. "We walk in like we belong."

The card in his hand triggers your pattern recognition— holographic security features match authorized maintenance personnel credentials.

"Falsified identification carries a minimum penalty of 73 days in temporal isolation," you note automatically.

He almost smiles—left corner of his mouth lifting 0.2 centimeters.

"Only if you get caught."

He approaches the entrance with casual gait, and you follow—still processing the anchor's structure. 

The quantum equations rippling across its surface follow a pattern that suggests...

"I told you to stop analyzing," he murmurs, voice barely audible at 17 decibels. "Your temporal signature fluctuates when you're thinking too hard. Makes you detectable."

You attempt to modulate your thought patterns, an unusual exercise that creates a 0.3-second lag in your cognitive processing.

He swipes the identification card through the scanner, which responds with a soft tone at exactly 432 Hz—the standard confirmation frequency.

The interior of the reality anchor is even more fascinating than its exterior.

The lobby appears standard-neo-minimalist design, temporal-stabilized plants arranged at mathematically significant intervals—but your enhanced perception detects the subtle wrongness of the space.

The air pressure is precisely 0.7 kPa higher than standard atmospheric conditions. 

The lighting pulses at a frequency of 7 Hz, which is imperceptible to normal human vision but clearly designed to reinforce temporal compliance in visitors.

"Maintenance elevator is on the left," Agent Min says, guiding you with a subtle gesture. "Don't look at the central column."

Naturally, your eyes immediately flick toward the center of the lobby.

The sight momentarily overloads your visual processing. 

A column of pure temporal energy rises from floor to ceiling, contained within quantum-stabilized glass. The energy moves in patterns that defy standard physical laws—simultaneously flowing upward and downward, existing in multiple states… at once?

"I said don't look," he hisses, fingers closing around your wrist to redirect; not enough to cause discomfort.

"What is that?" you ask, unable to fully suppress your curiosity despite his warning.

"The anchor point," he says, voice tightening as he guides you toward the maintenance elevator. "Direct connection to the Master Clock. Looking at it too long causes temporal vertigo in most humans."

You save this information, filing it under high-priority data.

"And in non-humans?"

His steps falter—0.3-second hesitation.

"In Outliers," he corrects quietly, "it can trigger awakening."

The maintenance elevator requires another scan of his falsified credentials. 

As the doors close, enclosing you in a space of approximately 2.3 cubic meters, you notice the absence of standard temporal monitoring devices.

"Why aren't there cameras?" you ask, scanning the ceiling corners where monitoring equipment would typically be installed.

"Reality anchors generate too much temporal interference for standard surveillance," he explains, pressing the button for floor 30. "Creates blind spots in their system."

"That seems like a significant security vulnerability," you observe.

His mouth quirks again.

You don’t know why you’re starting to find the gesture attractive.

"Why do you think we're using it?"

The elevator ascends at precisely 3.7 meters per second, which you note is faster than standard civilian elevators but slower than executive transport. Your inner ear registers the acceleration, adjusting automatically.

"The travel spot," you begin, mind working through the problem. "You said it's in the upper levels of the adjacent tower. Why can't we access it directly?"

He leans against the elevator wall, posture relaxing by approximately 7%.

"Security protocols," he says. "The tower has standard monitoring. The anchor doesn't. We cross through the anchor's 30th floor-maintenance level, and then we use the connecting bridge to access the tower."

"And after that?"

"After that, we find the travel spot." He checks his watch again—fourth time in 12.7 minutes. "It should be somewhere between floors 90 and 97."

You calculate the search parameters.

"That's approximately 7,432 square meters of potential location space," you note. "Seems inefficient."

"I'll narrow it down once we're closer," he says. "My temporal sense can detect the quantum fluctuations at closer proximity."

The elevator slows as it approaches floor 30, and Agent Min straightens, resuming his alert posture.

"When we exit, walk like you're supposed to be here," he instructs. "Maintenance personnel check this level every 73 minutes. Current interval gives us approximately 47 minutes before the next sweep."

"Understood," you confirm, automatically adjusting your posture to match standard CHRONOS maintenance staff parameters—shoulders back, gaze forward, movements economic and purposeful.

The elevator doors open to reveal a stark corridor illuminated by temporal-stabilized lighting. 

Walls are lined with quantum-reinforced panels marked with mathematical equations that your pattern recognition identifies as temporal field calculations.

Agent Min steps out first, fluid and confident. 

You follow, checking every detail of this restricted environment that few civilians ever see.

"Don't touch anything," he warns, leading you down the corridor. "Some of these panels are directly connected to the temporal field generators."

You resist the urge to examine the equations more closely, focusing instead on maintaining the appropriate walking pace and posture.

"The connecting bridge is 23 meters ahead," he says, voice low. "Once we cross, we'll need to take the service stairs. The tower's elevators are monitored."

"Stairs?" you query, calculating the energy expenditure required to ascend approximately 60 floors. "That seems—"

"Necessary," he interrupts. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to CHRONOS why we're accessing restricted floors."

You concede the point with a slight nod.

15 degrees downward, 15 degrees upward.

As you walk, your mind continues processing the reality anchor's structure, the equations on the walls, the subtle vibration beneath your feet that suggests massive energy manipulation occurring somewhere below.

"You're thinking too loud again," Agent Min murmurs, not turning to look at you.

"That's not physically possible," you counter automatically.

"Your temporal signature disagrees," he says, tapping his temple with his index finger. "I can feel it fluctuating."

This statement contains another logical inconsistency. 

Standard humans cannot detect temporal signatures without specialized equipment.

Yet once again, your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

"How—" you begin.

"Bridge is just ahead. Stay close."

But the bridge…

It’s not offline. It’s gone.  

You stare at the empty space where reinforced glass and temporal alloys should’ve formed a secure pathway. 

Only support beams remain, jagged edges still glowing from whatever energy weapon severed them.  

Agent Min’s eyebrows do something statistically improbable—contracting inward by 0.9 centimeters while the skin between them folds into three distinct creases. 

You’ve never seen his face execute this particular combination of micro-expressions before.  

“They altered this sector’s infrastructure,” he mutters, more to himself than you. 

His left hand twitches toward his Chrono-Sync Watch, aborting the movement halfway.  

You pivot toward the window, retinal sensors catching a faint outline-maintenance door, 3.2 meters left of the destroyed bridge. 

Beyond it: a sheer drop, then the adjacent tower’s western face. 

Your mind calculates the distance before your ethics committee can veto the idea.  

“We could jump.”  

He doesn’t immediately dismiss it. 

That’s how you know things are bad.  

“Distance?” he asks, joining you at the window.  

“14.7 meters horizontally, 3.3 meters vertical elevation differential.” You tap the glass, triggering a subconscious visualization overlay. “Structural analysis indicates the target building’s exterior has adequate grip points for—”  

“For me,” he interrupts. His breath fogs the glass near your fingertip. “Not for you.”  

You tilt your head, analyzing his profile. “You’re suggesting I remain here while you—”  

“I’m suggesting you stop suggesting suicide vectors.” His jaw works, a muscle ticking at 2.7-second intervals. “There’s another route. Has to be.”  

You let him pace—eight steps toward the elevator, twelve back—before interrupting.  

“Average human long jump record is 8.95 meters. My enhanced musculature could theoretically—”  

“Theoretically splatter across sixty floors of neo-Brutalist architecture.” 

You frown. “We’re only thirty floors up.”

“From the anchor,” he says. “The tower’s foundation sits two levels below base-grade. It drops into a full infrastructure pit—ventilation shafts, temporal gridwork, CHRONOS substation access. You fall here, you don’t just hit pavement. You keep falling.”

He gestures down through the glass.

“Sixty floors straight into the sector’s hollowed-out gut. Like getting thrown down a well lined with concrete and death.”

How does he even know all that?

But before you can let curiosity get the best of you again, he stops mid-stride, pinning you with that look again. The one that makes your internal processors skip. 

“But—”

“No.”  

You frown, press your palm against the window, feeling the tower’s vibration through the glass. 

“Then you go first. Anchor a line. I’ll follow.”  

He’s already shaking his head. “Temporal energy doesn’t work like that. Can’t manifest solid constructs without—”  

“Without triggering every sensor in the sector. Yes.” You turn from the window, meeting his glare. “So, again, that leaves one option.”  

For three seconds, the only sound is the reality anchor’s low-frequency hum. 

Then he swears—a creative combination of English and technical jargon your language centers can’t fully parse.  

The maintenance door handle feels colder than ambient temperature suggests. You’re calculating wind shear variables when his gloved hand covers yours, halting the motion.  

“If we do this,” he says, voice stripped to its raw edges, “you follow my instructions exactly. No deviations. No calculations mid-air. Understood?”  

You nod, the movement precise. 

15 degrees down, 15 up.  

He releases your hand to grip both shoulders instead, leaning in until his mint-and-ozone scent overrides the tower’s sterile air. 

“When you jump, you don’t think about falling. You don’t think about distance. You think about needing to be on that ledge. Your entire existence becomes that single purpose.”  

You open your mouth to request clarification on biomechanical feasibility—

“No.” His fingers tighten. “No questions. Your body knows how. You just have to stop overloading it with doubt.”  

The paradox registers immediately. 

“But without understanding the mechanism—”  

“Understanding comes later.” His thumb presses into your collarbone, exactly where that freckle hides beneath synthetic fabric. “Surviving comes now.”  

You glance past him to the abyss. 

He opens the door.

The wind’s howling at 37 knots now, whipping hair into your eyes. 

“Probability of success?”  

He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Sixty-eight percent. If you focus.”  

“And if I don’t?”  

For the first time, his face contracts—a fractional widening of pupils, a minuscule catch in his breathing rhythm.  

“Then I’ll reset time until you do.”  

The words register as raw, hovering between you for a few seconds before he finally turns toward the void.  

You watch him leap—no hesitation, no visible calculation. Just pure intent translated into motion.  

He makes it look effortless.  

And then it’s your turn.  

The wind screams. The city sprawls below, a mosaic of blue-lit grids and shadow. 

You psych up the variables: air density, potential updrafts, the exact angle of your target ledge.  

Then you stop thinking.  

You launch, and the world narrows to wind and numbers.

For a moment, there’s no sound, no up or down. Just velocity and the impossible distance between you and the ledge. 

Adrenaline floods your system, not sharp but heavy, like a stone pressed to your sternum. 

You’re aware of your own mass, the drag of your body through air, the way your limbs cut a path no algorithm could ever predict.

Agent Min is already there, turned halfway, eyes tracking your arc. His mouth moves—maybe a warning, maybe your ID number—but the rush drowns it out. 

You think of the other side. You need to reach the other side. 

The imperative is simple, absolute. 

Not crossing means plummeting. Not crossing means becoming a data point in a CHRONOS incident report.

You make the mistake of looking down.

Thirty floors up, the city is abstract. 

Cars, people, light—all reduced to static. 

The void is real. 

You feel it in your teeth, in the way your stomach seems to invert, in the cold sweat prickling your palms. 

Your calculations fracture. The ground is coming up fast.

You look up. 

Agent Min’s silhouette sharpens against the skyline, mint hair a streak of color in the blue haze. His eyes widen—first time you’ve seen that particular fear. 

He’s reaching for something, or maybe just reaching.

You’re falling.

The world tilts. Air roars past your ears. Time dilates, then contracts. 

You’re aware of every heartbeat, every useless attempt your muscles make to grab onto empty space. 

The ledge is gone. The city is too close.

Then—discontinuity.

You’re upright. Feet planted on solid ground. Breath caught in your throat. 

Your hands move before your mind does, fingers flexing, checking for fractures, for blood, for any sign of what should have happened. 

Everything responds. No pain. No missing time.

Agent Min spins, posture radiating pure stress and panic. 

His face is a study in shock—mouth open, eyes blown wide, like he’s seen a ghost.

You blink. He blinks.

Your heart is still racing, but your body is whole. You’re here. You made it. The numbers don’t add up, but the outcome is undeniable.

You’re alive.

Agent Min’s gaze darts between your left and right pupils, rapid assessment mode engaged, as if he’s scanning for damage or data.

“Damn it, Noma,” he mutters, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “Holy hell.”

His hands clench into tight fists at his sides, knuckles whitening under the strain. 

You note the micro-tremor in his fingers-2.3 hertz, consistent with suppressed impulse. 

He exhales, a controlled release of 1.7 liters of air over 3.1 seconds, then drags a gloved hand down his face, smearing frustration across his features.

Before you can catalog further, a mechanical whine pierces the air-high-pitched, 17 kHz, consistent with a CHRONOS surveillance drone. 

Agent Min’s posture shifts instantly, weight forward, arm half-raised to shield or shove you aside. 

“Watch—”

You tilt your head back, a reflex, not a decision. 

There’s a sound—metal crumpling, like foil under pressure—and the drone’s frame twists mid-flight, folding inward at impossible angles. 

It drops, a lifeless heap, 4.7 meters below the ledge.

He stares at the wreckage, then at you. 

“Well. Alright then.”

Your mind is already running diagnostics. 

“Did I cause that?”

He lets out a long, resigned breath, shoulders dropping by 1.2 centimeters. 

“Yeah. You did.”

“How?” 

Your spatial awareness logs are blank—no memory of intent, no record of action. Yet the evidence is undeniable: twisted alloy, a perfect collapse. 

You flex your fingers again, searching for a trigger, a mechanism. “Was that a manipulation of spatial configuration? A localized distortion field? I need parameters.”

He steps closer, mint and ozone cutting through the sterile tower air, but his expression is all weariness. 

“We gotta move, Noma. Now.”

You plant your feet, shifting your center of gravity to counter his subtle pull. 

“Explanation required. Did I alter the drone’s physical positioning? Compress its structural integrity via spatial warp? Or—”

He makes a sound full of resignation. 

“Look, Noma, I l—”

He cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut with an audible click. 

A recalibration. 

“I get it. I do. But we don’t have the luxury of a debrief right now.”

Your brow creases, a 0.5-centimeter furrow. 

“Understanding the mechanics of an undocumented ability is not a luxury. It’s a necessity. If I can replicate—”

“You will,” he interrupts, voice low but firm, carrying a weight you can’t parse. “Just not here. Not with drones sniffing our temporal signatures.”

You glance at the wreckage again, mind spinning through theoretical models. 

No data, no precedent. 

Just a gut—deep certainty that you reshaped reality without conscious input. 

The implications are staggering. 

If you can do this instinctively, what else lies dormant? What are the limits? Energy costs? Detection risks?

He’s watching you, reading the cascade of queries behind your eyes. “I know that look. And I’m telling you to shelve it. We’re exposed.”

“Five seconds,” you negotiate, already cross-referencing the drone’s design against known CHRONOS tech. “If I can isolate the method—”

“Zero seconds.” He grumbles, fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you behind him. “Survival first. Science later.”

Your logic centers protest, but the risk assessment aligns with his. 

You exhale—petulant, probably, but you do not care. 

Because whatever you did, it’s a piece of the puzzle. A fragment of who—or what—you are. 

And you’ll dissect it, variable by variable, until the equation balances.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the air shifts.

Up here, it tastes different. 

Thinner. Filtered, maybe. Like someone cleaned it too well, stripped it of anything real. 

The ground is nothing but blur—washed out in streaks of artificial white and synthetic blue haze. Designed to erase depth perception. To flatten the concept of below into something distant. Forgettable.

CHRONOS engineering at its finest.

You step closer to the edge, boots scraping faintly against the metal grating. 

The city is unrecognizable from this height. Not a city at all, just layers of grids and light. Soft pulses of movement that don’t quite feel alive. No wind reaches this far up, only some sort of hum—low, steady, mechanical. 

You wonder if the workers stationed here can still hear it when they sleep. 

If they ever sleep.

You’ve read the reports. Rotating shifts, twenty-hour cycles, neural stimulants to bypass natural fatigue responses. Cognitive degradation flagged as acceptable collateral. Worker retention rate at 37.2%.

In other words: not sustainable.

But great pay.

You press your fingertips lightly to the edge of the railing. Cool to the touch. Grounding, somehow. 

You scan the skyline, calculating angles, distances, escape vectors you’re not sure you’ll ever need but catalog anyway. 

That’s what you do. 

What you’ve always done.

But the sky pulls at you. Quietly. Persistently.

Dark velvet stretched wide above your head, broken only by the scatter of stars. 

You tip your chin back, gaze locking onto a thousand silent points of light, each one burning impossibly far away. 

Data points you can never reach, but something in you reaches anyway.

And there—framed in that endless black—

The moon.

Not in any model you’ve ever studied. Not filtered through facility-grade optics or distorted by atmospheric interference. 

Just… suspended. Brilliant. Whole. A perfect sphere painted in shades of silver and shadow. 

It’s too much, too big. 

Your breath catches again, chest tightening like something fragile just cracked open inside you.

It escapes before you can stop it. A single word.

“Beautiful.”

Soft. Uncalculated.

You freeze the second it leaves your mouth, pulse stuttering in your throat. 

You didn’t mean to say that. 

You never mean to say things like that.

A breath stirs the space beside you. Not yours.

“…Yeah.”

Quiet. Barely more than air.

“…Beautiful.”

The confirmation scrapes against something unsteady inside you. 

You shouldn’t turn. You know you shouldn’t. But your gaze shifts anyway, slow and reluctant, as if giving your body too much permission might undo you entirely.

He’s already watching.

Agent Min.

Not the skyline. Not the moon. Not the impossible stretch of space yawning above you.

You.

And he doesn’t look away.

For a suspended second, nobody speaks. 

Then his eyes flicker gold. 

It's the seventeenth time you've seen it happen. Seventeenth. You've been keeping count, tracking when it occurs, searching for the pattern. Not random—nothing about him is ever random—but the trigger remains frustratingly elusive. 

Is it emotional response? Memory access? Some kind of power regulation failing?

You step closer until you can detect the subtle heat radiating from him—always running warmer than human baseline. 

His pupils track your movement, dilating slightly.

A measurable response.

His fingers tighten on the railing, leather creaking under pressure. You note this detail, file it away. 

He stares at you.

You stare back.

"I've been meaning to ask," you say, keeping your voice even despite the strange pressure building under your sternum—like something's trying to expand beyond the confines of your ribcage.

His throat shifts as he swallows. Blinks once.

“Ask what?"

"Your eyes." 

His gaze slides away, avoiding yours for exactly 3.2 seconds before returning. Avoidance behavior. 

Why?

The silence grows heavy between you. 

If you were better at social interactions, you might understand why he doesn't respond. 

But you're not, so you elaborate.

"I have noticed they appear to shine at certain moments." You tilt your head slightly. "The same color as your tendrils. But I can't seem to figure out the why."

His focus drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. Quick. Almost imperceptible. But you catch it—and the flash of gold that accompanies it. 

Interesting correlation.

He looks at your lips = eyes change.

Cause and effect?

Sexual response?

Your gloved hand lifts toward his face, hovering in the space between you. 

Not touching. Not yet. Just... there. Testing a hypothesis.

"Noma," he says, your nickname rough around the edges. "That's... not advisable."

Why does that name feel so familiar when he says it?

"Why not?" The tilt of your head increases, curiosity sharpening. "I'm collecting data. Your ocular anomalies appear to correlate with specific emotional states."

You watch his pupils expand, blackness swallowing the iris except for that gleaming ring of gold.

"It's not a lab experiment." His jaw clenches, muscle rippling beneath skin.

He's restraining something. But what?

"Everything is data," you counter, your hand still suspended between you. "The gold appears when proximity decreases between us. When conversation shifts toward personal topics. When you look at my—"

You stop yourself. Recalibrate.

"When certain visual attention patterns emerge."

His breath changes rhythm—slower in, quicker out. You track this shift automatically. 

"And what conclusion have you reached based on these... observations?" His voice has become unsteady. 

In it, a roughness that wasn't there before.

The scientist in you needs to categorize it.

The rest of you just wants to hear more of it.

"Insufficient evidence for definitive conclusion." Your palm drifts closer to his face. "Hence the need for additional testing parameters."

"Agent." Warning laces his tone, but you note the contradiction in his body language—the slight forward tilt, the micromovement toward your hand. 

Your watch beeps softly. Temporal variance: 0.87%.

Why does your temporal signature fluctuate around him?

Why does your body recognize patterns your brain can't access?

"The gloves provide sufficient barrier protection for initial contact testing," you say, though in the back of your mind, you know that's not why you want to touch him. Not really. 

"It's not about the barrier," he says, still not pulling away.

"Then what is it about?" 

His eyes lock with yours, longer than his usual pattern. Something shifts in them—not just the color, but something deeper. 

Like barriers cracking.

"It's about..." He pauses, searching for words. "Restraint."

"Explain." 

Not a request. A need.

One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Demanding tonight, aren't we?"

Your hand inches closer. 

"Is that why your eyes change?" You push for answers, always pushing. "A failure of restraint?"

A sound catches in his throat, something between amusement and pain.

"They change when I'm..." He stops, recalibrates. "When I feel things too strongly."

"What things?"

"Anger. Fear." 

His gaze drops to your mouth again, longer this time. 

"Want."

The word settles into your chest, makes a home there. 

Your lungs feel suddenly insufficient, breath coming shorter despite oxygen levels remaining constant.

"And now?" Your voice sounds different to your own ears, pitched lower. "Which is it?"

His hand leaves the railing, wraps around your wrist. Not pushing away—just holding. Containing—touch gentle but unmistakably firm.

"What do you think, Noma?" Your nickname sounds different this time. 

Softer. Almost tender.

Why does it affect you when he says it like that?

You mentally catalog his physiological responses: dilated pupils, elevated respiration, muscle tension patterns indicating both arousal and resistance.

"Want," you determine with absolute certainty.

His eyes flare gold again—holding this time, not flickering away.

"Good analysis," he murmurs, still not releasing your wrist.

Your pulse thrums against his fingers. You can feel it jumping, betraying things your clinical mind refuses to name.

"May I?" Your gloved hand moves closer to his cheek.

Why are you pushing this? Why does it matter?

This isn't efficient data collection.

This is... something else.

His throat works as he swallows. 

"We shouldn't," he says, strain evident in every syllable. "That's my professional assessment."

"We're both still wearing gloves," you argue, logic centers frantically constructing justifications. "Barrier intact. Risk parameters acceptable."

"You know it’s not about statistics." His grip loosens slightly. 

He doesn't elaborate. 

Something complicated moves across his face, too fast for even your pattern recognition to decipher.

You need to know. You need to understand.

Why him? Why you? Why now?

Decision made, your hand pushes forward, breaking through his weakened resistance. Your gloved fingers make contact with his cheek.

And—

Oh.

The sensation defies categorization. Despite the barrier of fabric between you, something passes through the touch. 

A current.

An echo. 

Something your scientific vocabulary can't properly name.

His eyes close. He looks suddenly vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Your temporal signature," he says quietly, "it just... aligned with mine."

Your eyes drop to your watch. Temporal variance: 0.00%.

Perfect stabilization.

That's impossible.

There's no precedent for this in any temporal physics model.

"How?" The question slips out, unfiltered and raw.

His eyes open slowly, gold filling them completely now. 

Steady and bright and impossibly beautiful.

Beautiful.

"Because," he says simply, "we're designed to fit."

You should process this information. Should file it away with all your other observations about Agent Min and his inexplicable abilities. Should create new theoretical models to explain the perfect temporal alignment currently registered on your watch.

Instead, you just... feel. 

The warmth beneath your fingers. The impossible gold of his eyes. The way your body seems to recognize him on some cellular level your mind can't access.

‘We're designed to fit.’

The implications of that statement should terrify you. 

Instead, they feel like coming home.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You're staring into his golden eyes when a low whizz cuts through the air. 

Your auditory processing centers register the sound at approximately 17kHz—just within human hearing range, but with a distinct mechanical oscillation pattern consistent with CHRONOS drone propulsion systems.

Before your brain can fully process the threat, Agent Min's head whips around—reaction time approximately 0.3 seconds faster than optimal human baseline. His pupils contract, gold flares brighter, mouth opens to form what appears to be a warning.

Too late.

Something hits you from behind—force vector approximately 47 newtons, angle of impact suggesting deliberate trajectory. The pressure against your back lasts precisely 0.7 seconds.

Then nothing.

Air rushes past your ears at increasing velocity. Your inner ear fluid shifts dramatically, sending conflicting data to your vestibular system. Gravity reasserts its dominance with brutal efficiency.

You're falling.

Again.

Acceleration rate: 9.8 meters per second squared.

Terminal velocity approaching.

Probability of survival without intervention: 0.003%.

The analytical part of your brain calculates these figures automatically while your body experiences what can only be termed as terror—heart rate spike of 73%, adrenal glands flooding your system with cortisol and epinephrine.

"NOMA!"

The sound tears through the rushing air—raw, primal, carrying a frequency range your pattern recognition flags as desperate. 

You twist mid-air, arms instinctively moving to shield your head from inevitable impact.

That's when you see him.

Agent Min. 

Yoongi. 

Falling just above you, body positioned in a perfect diving form that creates maximum aerodynamic efficiency. 

His trajectory indicates purposeful action.

He jumped after you.

He's saying something—lips moving rapidly—but the blood rushing in your ears creates a noise barrier approximately 84 decibels. His words are lost in the chaos of your fall.

Your abilities.

The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity. 

You teleported earlier. Spatial manipulation. If you could replicate that effect now—

Focus. But how? What's the trigger mechanism?

Your thoughts scatter across multiple processing centers, frantically searching for the neural pathway that activated during the previous incident. 

Agent Min never explained the mechanics.

He should have.

You’ll make sure to have that conversation later.

If you survive, that is.

Golden tendrils emerge from his outstretched fingers, extending at velocities that defy standard temporal physics. They reach toward you, pushing against the air itself as if trying to accelerate his fall beyond normal gravitational parameters.

You struggle to replicate whatever neural pathway activated before. Nothing happens. Your fingers flex, your mind focuses, your desperation builds.

What triggered it before? Survival instinct? Specific neural configuration? Direct threat vector?

The golden traces stretch further, now mere centimeters from your reaching hands. Their movement creates visible distortion in the air, like reality itself warping around their influence.

Then—

Something shifts within you. 

Not gradual. 

Not building.

A sudden quantum change in your neural configuration. 

Your cognitive perception splits for exactly 0.7 seconds—awareness operating in multiple states simultaneously.

Tendrils emerge from your own fingertips.

Golden, like his, but fundamentally different. Where his flow like liquid, yours crystallize like faceted gold. Where his move in clockwise patterns, yours rotate counterclockwise.

Opposing rotations. 

Perfect complements.

They reach out—not by your conscious command but through some deeper programming—and intertwine with his traces. The contact creates an immediate energy transfer that registers across your neural receptors as both hot and cold simultaneously.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the world blurs. Spatial coordinates shift in ways that violate every physical law you've ever studied. Distance compresses, then expands.

You're in his arms.

The transition happens without intermediate steps—one moment falling separately, the next secured against his chest, his left arm wrapped around your waist with exactly 82% more pressure than necessary for stability.

You register multiple data points simultaneously:

- His elevated body temperature: 39.1°C

- His heartbeat: 172 BPM

- His breathing: rapid, shallow, 24 respirations per minute

- His face: positioned 3.4 centimeters from your cheek, over your shoulder

So close. One small movement would bring skin against skin. 

Your temporal readings spike at the mere possibility.

Before you can process this new configuration, another force vector impacts you both—lateral trajectory, approximately 93 newtons. 

Not from Agent Min. 

External source.

Someone else.

Your coupled bodies are propelled sideways at high velocity. 

The world blurs again as you and Agent Min, still locked together, phase through what appears to be solid matter. 

Glass. Concrete. Steel. 

Your molecular structure should be encountering significant resistance, yet moves through these barriers like they're nothing more than projections.

Quantum tunneling? Spatial displacement? Molecular phasing? Your scientific vocabulary struggles to categorize the experience.

Impact comes suddenly—both of you hitting a solid surface at approximately 37% of terminal velocity. The force disperses through your skeletal structure, joints absorbing kinetic energy at efficiency rates that exceed normal human parameters.

You roll, momentum carrying you across hard flooring. Pain signals to your central nervous system—data indicating tissue stress but not structural failure.

When you finally stop, every bone in your body aches with the signature of controlled landing trauma. 

Not optimal, certainly not comfortable, but survivable.

Survivable by design.

You inhale sharply—2.1 liters of air in 0.8 seconds—and your eyes search frantically for Agent Min.

Where is he? Was he injured in the landing? Who pushed you? How did you phase through solid matter?

Your golden tendrils have vanished, leaving only lingering warmth on your fingertips where they emerged. 

Your watch beeps an unfamiliar pattern: Temporal-spatial variance detected. Recalibration required.

You blink rapidly, visual processing recalibrating as you scan the environment. 

Sleek walls. Polished concrete floor. 

Location unknown. Sector indeterminate.

Blood drips onto your hand. Your nose is bleeding again—heavier flow than before. Your fingertips come away stained crimson. Your skull throbs in pulses, each one making your vision blur at the edges.

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook, you almost killed them!" 

Taehyung's voice cuts through the fog in your head, sharp with that specific tension you've cataloged as his version of concern.

"I was literally on the clock before they became sidewalk art!" Jungkook shoots back, hands gesturing wildly. "Next time maybe give me more than a seven-second window!"

"Seven seconds is generous considering—"

"Generous?" Jungkook's voice cracks slightly. "Try mimicking two completely different abilities at once! My brain feels like it's been microwaved!"

The argument washes over you in waves as you press your palm to your forehead. 

The pain isn't unbearable, just... insistent. 

Demanding attention like everything else in this mess of a situation.

Your eyes find Agent Min, seated on the floor several meters away. His right hand grips his left shoulder, features tightening in a microexpression of pain he's clearly trying to suppress. 

The joint looks wrong—angled slightly off anatomical baseline.

"We don't have fucking time." His voice slices through the bickering, rough-edged and final. "They're onto us."

Jungkook whips around. 

“No shit? Why do you think we had to pull this stunt?" His hand sweeps through the air. "We couldn't even reach you with Taehyung's interfacing—you were completely out of range! Thank god Y/N's abilities are something else entirely."

Agent Min's eyes narrow, focusing on Jungkook with an intensity that carries clear warning. 

Not a word. 

Just that look. 

The one that stops conversations dead.

Jungkook registers it immediately, jaw snapping shut, body language shifting from confrontational to compliant in under a second.

Interesting.

They're hiding something about your abilities.

What exactly don't they want you to know?

Taehyung clears his throat—a sound designed to redirect attention. 

He points behind him toward what can only be described as a tear in reality itself. A circular formation pulsing with quantum uncertainty, its borders shifting between states of matter in ways that shouldn't be physically possible.

"What about base first, arguing later?" he suggests, voice calm in that way people get when they're trying too hard.

You wipe blood from your upper lip. Your eyes find Agent Min again, seeking his reaction. His gaze meets yours briefly before sliding away, gold still lingering at the edges of his irises.

Why won't he look at you properly?

What does he know that you don't?

"What is that?" The question falls from your lips before you can stop it, analytical systems demanding data despite everything else.

"Travel spot. Portal to headquarters," Taehyung answers, shoulders relaxing slightly at the subject change.

You shift your weight, preparing to stand, when your temporal readings spike without warning. The numbers flash red: 3.17%

That's not good.

"Stabilize her," Agent Min orders, voice clipped. "Temporal cascade imminent."

Jungkook moves fast, crossing the space between you in under a second. 

His fingers press against your temporal monitor, executing adjustments with practiced precision.

"Breathing," he instructs, tone sliding into something steadier. "Seven in, seven out. Match me."

The contact triggers something—a flash of memory that doesn't quite feel like yours:

Different hands.

Same words.

"Breathe with me, Noma. Focus."

Pain spikes behind your eyes as incompatible memory patterns try to align. The room tilts slightly.

"What happened up there?" Taehyung asks, attention on Agent Min.

"Temporal ambush," he answers, face tight. "Drones masked behind a reality field."

Taehyung's eyebrows rise. "That's still in R&D."

"Apparently not anymore." Agent Min pushes himself upright, grimacing as his shoulder shifts. "They're adapting faster this time."

This time.

As opposed to when?

"Your tendrils connected with his," Jungkook says quietly as he monitors your readings. "That's what stabilized you both mid-fall."

You blink, memory fragments of golden light intertwining in freefall. 

The way your body reacted without conscious direction. 

The impossibility of the physics involved.

Agent Min moves toward the portal with measured steps. "We need to move before CHRONOS tracks the spatial distortion."

"She deserves to know what she can do," Jungkook says, voice low but firm.

Agent Min stops, spine stiffening visibly. 

“When she's ready."

"And who decides that?" Jungkook challenges, though his hands remain gentle on your monitor. "You?"

The tension between them feels old somehow. Well-worn. Like terrain they've crossed many times.

"Portal stability dropping," Taehyung interrupts, hand cutting through the air. "Either we go now, or we're stuck here."

Agent Min's eyes flick between you and the portal, calculations running visible behind his eyes.

“We are leaving.” He simply mutters, final.

“Of course we are.” Jungkook replies with a hint of something almost like resignation.

Your temporal readings begin to stabilize: 1.47% and decreasing.

Jungkook's hands withdraw from your monitor. "Stable enough for transit."

Agent Min approaches, movements careful despite his obvious discomfort. His right hand extends toward you, gloved palm up.

"The first transit is... disorienting," he says, voice dropping to something softer. "Holding on helps with the spatial realignment."

You stare at his outstretched hand. The leather creases in familiar patterns. The angle of his fingers seems to match your palm perfectly.

‘We're designed to fit.’

His earlier words echo through your mind, connecting dots you didn't even know existed.

"Noma," he says quietly. "Trust me on this one."

The nickname bypasses all your analytical systems, triggering responses you can't explain or quantify.

Your hand moves before your brain fully catches up, fingers sliding into his with strange, impossible familiarity.

Your watch beeps once more: Temporal variance: 0.73%.

Stabilizing.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Let’s go.”

goal: 275 notes

next | index

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevanille @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jukeboxsweethearttt]

Introducing Coconut!Reader

You can call it sleeping around. I call it strategic networking.

Paired with Rafe and Ward Cameron

content warning: Cheating? if you consider that but mostly just father and son sharing the same woman

Requests for this au OPEN/closed

Divider by THE QUEEN @starfxkrinc

Coconut is all bounce and gloss silk robes, ballet pink nails, designer heels with bows, rollers in her hair, and gloss on her pout.

Think “Barbie meets bombshell” all soft curves, plush lips, and giggles. People see her and assume she’s just another pretty face who majored in “how to smile pretty.”

But the bitch has a 4.0 GPA, graduated top of her class in pre-law as summa cum laude. and she’s currently securing her degree in urban development with a business minor. Brains so sharp they could cut glass.

Former Miss North Carolina Teen and a Miss USA Top 5 finalist. Her pageant walk is so precise it could hypnotize a room, and she’s got a terrifyingly sweet voice she uses like a weapon.

She knows how to network, flirt, disarm, and charm thank you, pageant training. That’s how she landed her internship at Cameron Development.

She flutters her lashes in interviews but hits harder than any other candidate in data analytics. Ward said, “You’re too pretty to know what zoning codes are.” She replied with the entire state regulation index from memory.

Ward is intrigued first by her body, then by her mind, then back to her body. When he offers her a “bonus” for working late, she acts shy, but takes it.

She starts sleeping with Ward because he throws money at her like she’s a damn trust fund. Cashmere sets, vintage pearls, a new Cartier bracelet “for being such a good little intern.”

She lets him call her “doll,” but only if she gets the black Amex when she wants it. She’s not ashamed he’s the one panting at her feet.

Rafe catches her sneaking out of his dad’s office in smeared lipstick and thigh highs. She tries to lie. He laughs.

“You’re not even subtle,” he growls, cornering her in the elevator. “You’re gonna fuck him and not me?”

She’s cocky about it until he makes her beg on her knees right in Ward’s office chair. After that, Rafe makes Ward share.

Now she’s their perfect little secret silk and lace between two generations of Cameron power.

Her biggest kink? Making men underestimate her and then owning their entire business plan in one sentence.

She wears pastels and keeps her voice sweet, but she’s vicious behind a keyboard.

Ward lets her sit in on meetings just for the view, but she ends up correcting his executives mid presentation.

Rafe starts letting her take calls for him because she negotiates harder than he does.

Ward calls her “Sugar,” “Princess,” and “Sweet girl.” He likes her docile, on his lap, brushing her curls while he sips bourbon.

Rafe calls her “My little intern,” “Pretty bitch,” and “Cameron Property.” He likes to wreck her lipstick before board meetings.

She lets them think they own her when really, she owns them both.

She’s a pillow princess with Ward, soft moans and legs open while he worships her like a dirty church prayer.

With Rafe? It’s rougher. Meaner. Messier. He likes to see the lipgloss smeared, the pageant girl ruined.

They both think she belongs to them but she’s got their names memorized in her planner like appointments:

9am: Blow Ward before morning meeting.

1pm: Let Rafe bend you over the desk.

6pm: Pretend like nothing happened and look pretty at the fundraiser.

Ward buys her a house. Rafe buys her a car.

Ward wants to take her to Europe for “company expansion.” Rafe threatens to move her to his penthouse just to keep her close.

She smiles through it all, files her nails, and books both flights. Who said you couldn’t have sugar from two sides of the spoon?

She’s using all of this for her thesis: “Gender, Power, and Capitalism: Sleeping With The American Elite.”

And yes she plans to publish it anonymously, after graduation, once she’s long gone… with the Camerons’ secrets and their money.

ALTERNATE ENDING I couldn’t decide which one so requests are open for Both!

Eventually, Ward proposes. Of course he does. She’s the perfect southern wife on paper, smart, stunning, obedient in public.

The engagement is a society spectacle thousand dollar cake tastings, Vogue coverage, diamonds bigger than her ego. She says yes with teary eyes and crossed legs. It’s what she was raised for to secure a name, a legacy, a life of luxury.

The ring never stops her. On the night of her engagement party, Rafe sneaks into the bathroom and takes her from behind while she moans into the marble.

The pearl necklace she wore to the dinner is still around her throat when he finishes. Ward knows. He always knows. He just doesn’t care not as long as she comes home to his bed at the end of the night, looking like money and ruin.

She’s a wife, a whore, a scholar, and a mastermind. She knows Ward will die loving her and Rafe will die chasing her. She keeps both. Rafe calls her a slut when he’s buried inside her. Ward calls her Mrs. Cameron. She lets both speak. She never loses.

In the end?

She doesn’t just have the crown.

She is the empire.

[millersbabe]

ˏˋ 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 ´ˎ˗

part five

♡ joel miller x f!reader angst + grumpy joel + some violence + swearing

The thought of work for some made their eyes roll to the back of their skulls. Some people in moments of despair wish for a world in which they don’t have to work. And blaming them would be unfair, but you didn’t mind it. You do your part, you go home. That was the deal you made with yourself.

But long gone were the days where you could decide between an office job or labor. Finances, data analytics, marketing, it was all obsolete. Now, your options were helping towards food, helping towards safety, or helping towards community.

You slept on the conversation you had with Tommy, considering yourself doing many things. Working on crops and creating food for the town? Helping with cattle? Manning the walls? Patrolling?

Patrolling seemed like the obvious answer. You’d dealt with years of infected, raiders, anything that stood between you and safety. You’d made up your mind, patrolling was your answer. Following routes, checking traps, protecting the community.

Your mind considered Bonnie for a brief moment, how would she cope if something fatal had happened on a patrol. You’d finally found safety within these walls and you were just as prepared to throw it away again. But as long as she was safe, you’d spend hours on the outside of Jackson protecting her.

Bonnie was successfully dropped to school, and today was your task of tidying the art store with Tina. The air was warmer today, you’d left your hat back home and your ears weren’t missing it. It was slowly heading into spring and you couldn’t be happier about it. You weren’t at greeting stages with any residents of Jackson yet, but you gave a brief smile as you passed them, to show Tommy hadn’t dragged in any delinquents.

“Just the woman I wanted to see,” Tommy’s voice beamed from behind you, both hands of his clasping your shoulders. You instinctively tensed, until your brain registered it as him. You smiled cheerily, despite feeling quite the opposite. “Thought any more ‘bout what you’re gonna do?”

“I think I’ll choose patrolling.”

Tommy grimaced. “You sure? You wanna get back out there so soon?”

“It’s gonna take a lot more than some vegetables to shut my mind up.” You joked, except you weren’t really joking, more so your tone. “It’s all I’m good at.”

Your eyes looked desperate, staring at Tommy as he thought over your decision.

“I’m sure that’s not true. But you got it. I’ll put your name down on the list, you’ll get a partner who’ll show ya the ropes.” Tommy instructed. “If ya change your mind, you tell me. I’ll find ya somethin’ else.”

His tone came with more of a warning. Like if you didn’t tell him, he’d ground you for a week. But you let him go with a smile, enjoying Tommy’s presence around you. He felt like a big brother. Someone you should’ve had through all this, who decided to join some kind of militia in the name of protecting you. That was the past. You let the memory of Jack lie with good thoughts, the small, foggy memories of him being a good brother.

“Good morning to you, dear,” Tina greeted as you stepped through her door. “Snows really clearing up, huh?”

“Morning, Tina.” You breathed. “Yeah, soon the sun’ll stay out.”

You and Tina made some tea from behind her counter, sipping on it and discussing the task at hand. Tina was unlike any woman you’d met before. So comfortable in whatever she had going on, whatever was going on around her. She made her peace with it and moved on. You envied her, no doubt she’d wrestled with her own anxiety throughout these years. But you’d never know that from first glance.

“So how did you come into running an art store?” You asked, placing the small porcelain mug onto its matching saucer. Every time looked up, there was something new to look at.

“Only one who showed an interest, I guess,” she laughed, “a lot of people turned to making art. They’d share it around, get overwhelmed when people would offer to buy it, and give up.” She explained, fingers obsessing over a stain on her countertop. “So I proposed the idea of selling it through a store. Now everyone donates their art, and collects a small commission through ration cards or things I’ve traded.”

“And it’s something people will always want.” She added.

You began dusting shelves, old paintings that sat in a pile untouched, rotating them so the back ones get some light. All whilst talking to Tina, who offered many words from her walks of life. You avoided bringing up anything you’d been struggling with recently, you weren’t sure this was something she could heal. Unless by total surprise, she’d led her group of people fearlessly, putting to sleep anything that threatened her.

“How goes it with the little one?”

You weren’t sure where to begin. “I think I’m in over my head, to be totally honest.”

“Most kids’ll make you feel like that. ‘S why I swore off ‘em.” She commented.

You giggled. “You don’t have children?”

“No, I did. Never said I was successful at swearing off ‘em.” She casually mentioned. “Only one boy. Gave his life to protect me, got me here.”

“I’m sorry.” You breathed, eyes burning as they watered up. Losing anyone on these terms was world-ending. Feelings are more powerful than before, because losing someone has become so real. So normal.

There was a silence between the two of you. It looked as if a memory had crept up on Tina, but she wasn’t mad about it. You decided to leave her with her thoughts, finishing up on sweeping the floors. The store was looking better by the hour, and talking to Tina made time fly. It also changed your perspective on life a lot. Tina was someone you wanted to keep around.

“I think you’re about done here, dear.” Tina declared, hands on her hips as she strolled around the fresh store. You grinned with satisfaction, feeling accomplished for such a mundane task. “Go enjoy the bit of sun there is.”

“If you need help again, Tina. Please come find me.” You offered. “I enjoyed helping out.”

Joel strutted through the stables after stabling his horse, another peaceful patrol down. He was currently doing buddy shifts with Jesse, who was one of the younger guys wanting to join patrol. He was also friends with Ellie, meaning Ellie was up his ass about joining in too.

The moment they were in the clear from any threats, Joel left him in the dust. Or more accurately, the dirt. Jesse talked a lot, asked a lot more, and gave Joel a migraine only coffee could cure. But he had a brain, which he couldn’t quite say the same for most other patrollers.

Joel unlatched the gate, letting it click shut before turning on his heels to walk home. Catching eyes with his baby brother.

“Why is it I only ever see ya when you’re wantin’ somethin’?” Joel glared, walking past Tommy and listening for the scuffling of his feet behind him.

“That’s not true.” Tommy interjected. “Last time I wanted somethin’, I asked Ellie.”

“Semantics.”

“Come on,” Tommy groaned, “I need ya.”

Joel stopped. Siblings across the universe agreed on one thing; they’d give their sibling any organ they needed, but they drew the line at doing them a favor. “What.”

“Got a newbie for patrol. She—”

“Nope.”

“Jesse can handle his own now, and you’re the best we got.” Tommy reasoned.

“I know.” Joel grumbled, weighing his very limited options. “I assume it’s the only new person we’ve had in months. Whatsername?”

“You know who I’m on about.” Tommy rolled his eyes. “She chose patrol. And she’s not a bumblin’ idiot.”

“Makes a change.”

“Quit ya one-liners.” He huffed. “She can handle ‘erself, broke the poor kid’s nose the first time we saw her. She’s got this.”

“Fine.” Joel crossed his arms over his chest.

Tommy grinned, patting his big brothers back. “I knew you’d be a good sport ‘bout it.”

Joel was about ready to storm away, acting like the bratty younger sibling. But Tommy had more left to say, it was clear by the hesitation in leaving.

“Spit it out. What’s the catch?”

“No catch, but if you see she ain’t handling it, tell me. That one’s a time bomb.” Tommy spoke quietly, giving small smiles to residents as they passed the two brothers.

Time bomb. Great. Joel thought. Someone who doesn’t much like talking about their problems, cramming it all into a little glass bottle and when it shatters, out comes years worth of trouble. There was a small reflection in that analogy, Joel could see himself through a scattered shard of bottled glass. Willing him to wake up and see his fate.

Another new person to train on patrols, another method of Tommy’s to get Joel socialised under the guise of him being the best. He’d seen it all before.

“And our teacher, Mandy, let us play outside all morning! Then we read a book about animals.” Bonnie was explaining her day on your walk back to the house, shuffling along the thin layer of snow with a smile from ear to ear.

You held her hand tightly, careful of her slipping on the still icy floor. You let her talk and talk about her day, her friends, what she’d learnt, and your heart contracted at how happy she was. She was settled, you just wish you could say the same.

“Can I play at my friends house tomorrow?” She questioned, bouncing from one foot to the other as you crossed onto Oak Street. Your house was in sight, you couldn’t wait to get back and watch the evening go by.

“Sure,” you replied, fiddling with the keys in your pocket, “I’ve got work tomorrow. I’ll be late picking you up, okay?”

“Okay. I can stay at my friend’s house.” She declared, stepping into the house and stomping her boots off. You followed, shoving her boots beside the door and closing it behind you.

“Okay, go play with your toys,” you sighed, “I’ll call you for dinner soon.”

She’d never decline playing with her toys, after going so long without them. So you knew she was occupied when you’d stepped out to your backyard and laid in the snow.

Spread like a snow Angel, you stared up at the cloudy sky above. Now you wanted it to snow, bury you amongst tiny icicles, to be found frozen over in the spring. Instead, you closed your eyes. Imagining you were elsewhere, floating through that nothingness you quite often saw at night. Your mind felt like a hardened rock, one you’d float by in space somewhere. You wanted it to stop, for one night. The anxiety, the guilt, the constant feeling of impending doom. Being stuck in the cycle of fight or flight.

You could hear what sounded like footsteps on your porch, blessing your good hearing from countless nights of listening for threats whilst Bonnie slept. You quickly sprung up from your patch on the snow, darting into the house and reaching for the door. Expecting it to be Tommy or Maria, you slapped a smile on.

“Oh— Joel?”

[s1llyalabaster]

When mediocrity meets the supremacy - veritas ratio

Where the Doctor narrows his eyes at the trailblazer for stealing his partner's attention.. ~700 words, SFW (not necessarily connected, but read part 1!

AU where reader followed the trailblaze before quitting to pursue further studies in various fields of science with Dr. Ratio himself in the Intelligensia Guild. (Might not be entirely lore accurate, trailblazer doesnt go to Belobog)

Your mind brings you back to the soft swishes of water during your bath with you beloved. it had been almost 5 system hours since the last few drops of bathwater went down the drain, small petals being the only thing that signified your intimate rendezvous with the Doctor himself.

You shake your head, forcing yourself to pull away from the sweet, dream-esque scene. You find yourself struggling to focus on the task at hand, the smug face of Vertitas Ratio plastering itself all over the wals of your mind like the "WANTED" posters all over belobog's brick walls you saw during the journey to Jarilo VI with your old friends.

Speaking of the trailblazers, you had planned a small gathering with the Astral Express members in the evening, since they were visiting. You had yearned to see the faces of Marth 7th, Dan Heng, Himeko, Welt, even Pom Pom. You've heard from March that there had been a new member of the Astral Express, going by Caelus. Judging from March's bombarding texts of photos and videos, he seemed to have a quite....eccentric personality, but bore a kind expression nonetheless.

You'd adequately dressed yourself up after returning to you and Dr. Ratio's humble home, opting to switch to a fancier outfit. It was a speical occasion, after all. You loosely linked your arm around Veritas' very reluctant arm, walknig towards the round table where the members were sat.

"It has been a while, hasn't it?" Himeko addressed your name, and drifted her eyes to the grey-haired trailblazer to the opposite of you. Dr. Ratio narrowed his eyes, you slightly nudged him to get rid of that old habit, hard enough to get a small grunt out of him.

"Say, Trailblazer. How has the Astral Express been treating you?" You asked, watching as the gears slowly spun into action in his head, almost as if someone was controlling him through a game screen.(teehee)

"Well..I've been through lots of unforgettable journeys with the Astral Express, and they've shown me much care in a...familial way."

You nod your head, satisfied at the answer before you. You reminisce about your days spent on the Express. Whether it be happy or hurtful, significant but sad. A clink of the wine glass drew everyone at the old-fashioned western-styled restaurant's attention.

"Come on! Won't a handsome man just come up and sing along to this song with me?!"

The woman dragged Caelus' arm towards the center stage, handing him a hat. He gracefully donned it on his head as you watched in admiration. Since Caelus was younger than you, you had an almost...motherly love to him. But Veritas didn't seem to take it that way.

You clapped along to the rhythm of a song sang by the singing duo - composed of a random woman, and the newest member of the Astral Express. The soda bottles hopped in joy as the trailblazer returns to his seat. Ah, a livehouse, I see.

Throught the scene, Ratio's eyes trailed alongside your movements; every captivating smile, every clap sent to the trailblazer, every whoop or cheer sent to him, every---

Graphs and charts were buzzing about in his mind. His analytical brain was working at full speed. "What made him to be so charming when it was me that needed to be appealing?!" No amount of data or statistics could account for how much love he had for you in his heart, yet he couldn''t show it, and you were about to be taken away by--

"Veritas? Are you alright?" He had awoken to your soft touches on his face. He'd abruptly sat up on the bed that he once laid on. Pause. An epiphany occured in his mind, "You...the party...!" He tried to compose himself, yet his drunk-dazed (teehee) mind wouldn't cooperate. "The party went greatly, dear! Half the time, you were zoned out, just staring at some random poster about Robin and Sunday!"

Veritas' eyes widened. "I didn't say anything....preposterous, did I?"

"Well...only something about wanting me to be your super private secretary, and only yours-" "Ridiculous! Utterly absurd!"

Putting on his alabaster head, facing away from you. Looks like the Doctor won't be able to admit to his jealousy...

[whitefootedgoats]

Asking @quiddie if she'd talk shop w/ me about the storytelling of WBN, part 2: the data!

Stats Beyond Number

When I get intrigued by a story, I like to deep dive, but it's never my first choice, because that process is only exciting for my writer brain. After writing 1M+ words of fiction, the urge to analyze every narrative choice is a hard thing to turn off -- but the first three episodes of Worlds Beyond were doing exactly that. My reader brain was delighted to be carried off to a new world by storytellers who I knew and trusted, and the early going was captivating, enchanting, exciting, etc.

Then at the 45m mark of episode 4, Suvi says to Ame:

"If this is what you need to do, then fine. But please, I ask you as a friend, do not presume to know how I feel, and NEVER contradict me in front of strangers."

Without my writer brain engaged, I reacted as I might in a real-life social encounter: instant red card, I'm never interacting with this person again.

But I wasn't going to let a little bump disturb me, especially with a project that was perfectly tailored to my interests. Longform, earnest fantasy storytelling with pro sound design and such a dream cast it might as well be made by Sega? I pressed on.

Episode 6, Suvi to Ame:

"Hey, shut up? Shut the fuck up."

Now I was starting to rationalize: it's early days, the Simpsons didn't even look like the Simpsons until like, season 3? I'll hang in.

Episode 11 -- the one where Suvi spins out in the shrine of Orima -- was so viscerally unpleasant I yanked my earbuds out in the grocery store and forgot about the podcast for a month.

During that time, the writer brain started to whir in the background.

I couldn't remember the last movie affected me like that. And there was something exciting about what Aabria was doing, on a technical level: it felt like she was jeopardizing the story's viability by going after a core tenet of most actual plays: good vibes only between PCs. Could the story work if the party doesn't get along? If, every week, the audience was at risk of TPK via psychic damage? Forget dangling your protagonists over shark-infested waters, that's real suspense!

So I got back into the story, this time with my analytic brain switched on. It was enjoyable! Watching four people writing in realtime is engrossing. While I struggle to appreciate emotional PVP in an unscripted context, it wasn't hard to appreciate the scene work between Aabria and Erika, and soon I was back on board -- Suvi actually became my favorite PC. For a goof, I ran some analysis on the transcripts, to see if I could find any fun patterns, but no real shockers in there. (It was a little wild to see that Steel was talking more than Eursulon, though.)

I got bored w/ the annotating after the second arc though, because of course the real thing a writer should study is: how's the audience responding? And there's a much more direct way to figure that out.

Part 3 on Friday: 10,000 reddit comments.

[ladykatibeth]

Also (in addition to my previous post) intelligence wise I have been fully convinced by a fic of the headcanon that Stone is a more numbers/logic puzzle/data for efficiency maximization type of thinker.

Also I think Stone is capable of engineering what he has blue prints for fairly quickly, but he’s not as good of an engineer inventor wise as Robotnik because he’s just not as fast. Robotnik has a more natural skill of being able to see things in 3D space and apply accurate physics to it in his brain, so he’s more creative of an engineer and extremely fast to engineer mechanical based solutions.

On the flip side, Stone is not as naturally skilled at this type of 3D thinking (so not as good of an engineer) but abstract information wise (heist planning, or getting people to do what he wants, or number crunching to get a desired outcome, data point analysis and probability, deductive logic) he’s extremely intelligent. More so than Robotnik even. Your worst analytical nightmare. Robotnik’s analytical daydream….

Give me diversity in forms of intelligence or give me death!

[kybercrystals94]

Deepest, Wholehearted Regards

Read here on Ao3!

Whumptober 2024 - Day 7 - Prompt: Only for Emergencies / "It's us or them."

@prompts-of-bad-batch Week 3 Prompt: "Sometimes I think he's still here..."

Rated: G | Words: 914

21 BBY

Wrecker is in the gunner’s mount. He doesn’t want to listen to the argument at his back, doesn’t want to think about how it started or why. He doesn’t want to hear about Tech being too analytical, or Crosshair being too emotional. He doesn’t want to hear Hunter try to mediate. 

But the ship is too small for that. 

And so he hears everything, whether he wants to or not. 

Plan 99. 

He hates it.

Crosshair hates it too. Hunter won’t say either way, but Wrecker knows Hunter can’t possibly be okay with it. But Tech thinks they should have a plan for everything. Every possible scenario. It is only logical, he says. 

“If one of us were to become unrecoverably compromised,” Tech is arguing, “it would be advantageous to have the ability to communicate such an event discreetly.” 

“Having a plan to sacrifice ourselves should not be an option.” Crosshair is seething, voice dangerously low. 

“It is a very feasible last resort,” Tech counters. 

“Be human for one second and think about how that sounds!” 

“That’s enough!” Hunter’s sergeant voice is distinct, leaving no room for argument. “Crosshair, go cool off.” 

Something slams down hard, the sound of heavy boots retreating to the cockpit, and the hiss of the door closing. Then heavy, thick silence. Wrecker twists his hands together. He wishes he had Lula. 

“I did not mean…” Tech says quietly, but he stops short.

Wrecker thinks Hunter must’ve signaled him to be quiet, to let the conversation drop. Please. 

There is a sharp intake of breath. “That is to say,” Tech continues, but his voice sounds strange now, “I did not mean for such a plan to be offensive or macabre. Rather, I believed it would provide a chance to relay information we might not otherwise have an opportunity to express in an event where our demise is imminent.” 

Hunter sighs. He sounds tired. “What kind of information?” 

“Our deepest, wholehearted regards and our innate desire to put the lives of our brothers above our own,” Tech says. “Plan 99 would embody such sentiments without losing time to do so.” 

“That’s a good plan, Tech,” Hunter says after a long stretch of silence. “One I don’t intend for any of us to use.” 

“That would be preferable,” Tech agrees. “And I thought it would also serve as a remembrance, for Ninety-Nine. I know he would have conveyed the same information, had he had the chance.” 

“Yeah,” Hunter says softly, “He would’ve.”

19 BBY

“Wrecker, I need your help,” Omega says, climbing up into the crash seat next to him. 

Wrecker laughs. “Sure, kid! What do ya need?” 

Omega gives him her data pad. “Tech is having me memorize all of Clone Force 99’s plans. Can you quiz me?” 

Wrecker holds the data pad up where Omega cannot see the screen. “Okay…Plan 7…” 

Omega carefully relates each plan in detail, even when Wrecker tries to trick her by repeating a plan a time or two. The girl only laughs and recites the plan again without a hitch. 

“Your brain must be almost as big as Tech’s, kid, memorizing all those plans like that,” Wrecker tells her, passing over the data pad and ruffling her feathery blond hair. 

Omega giggles and ducks away. “Wait, you forgot one,” she protests, pushing the data pad back at him. 

“I did?” Wrecker asks, frowning. 

“Yeah! Plan 99.” 

Wrecker’s heart drops. “Oh, well, yeah. That’s not really a plan. Not like the other plans, ya know?” 

“It only says the sacrifice,” Omega says. “What does that mean?” 

“Oh, um,” Wrecker stammers, “maybe you should ask Hunter or Tech. Or Echo.” 

“Why?” Omega asks. 

“They can explain it a whole lot better than me,” Wrecker says. 

Omega frowns. “It makes you sad, doesn’t it. Plan 99? It’s for when something bad happens.” 

“Sort of,” Wrecker agrees. “It’s for if one of us has to do something we can’t come back from.” 

“I don’t like that,” Omega whispers, and she presses in close, curling up under his arm. “I hope we never use Plan 99…ever.” 

“Me too, kid,” Wrecker mutters, hugging her close. “We never want to use it…but if we ever did use it, did you know it’s a secret message? Only for us?” 

Omega hums a wordless question. 

Wrecker continues, keeping his voice as low as he can. “If someone ever says Plan 99 because they know they ain’t coming back, it means they care about you so much, in more words than they have time to say ‘em. It means they are putting your life first, that they want you to keep living, to keep fighting.” 

“It means ‘I love you,’” Omega says, voice muffled against him. 

Wrecker swallows. “Yeah, kid. It means ‘I love you.’”

**

Wrecker is in the gunner’s mount room. He doesn’t want to listen to the silence at his back, doesn’t want to think about how it started or why. He wants to hear Tech being analytical, explaining the galaxy away as though it were simple. He wants to hear Crosshair cleaning his rifle, Hunter discussing strategy with Echo. He wants to hear Omega laughing. He wants to pretend that he might be too far away to hear any of it. Sometimes he thinks they’re still there…if he pretends long enough. 

But the ship is too small for that. 

And so he hears nothing, whether he wants to or not. 

Plan 99. 

I love you too. 

Let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list!

Tag List: @followthepurrgil @amorfista @mooncommlink @arctrooper69 @proteatook @ezras-left-thumb @maeashryver @baddest-batchers @laughhardrunfastbekindsblog @omegafett99 @heidnspeak @fionas-frenzy @dreamsight73 @royallykt

[mesmericmonad]

I just finished Spirit. I wish I could write out many more thoughts than I can do rn. This was some of my favorite Doctor Who content overall tbh. Leela and Romana's differences in personality, beliefs, and logic on full display are exactly what I didn't know I needed. Leelas unique and curious role as an outsider in these high-stakes political games was always a factor playing into her character through the series, but it was really the focal point here in a great way. Romana and Leela both represent radical ends of an irl split in epistemic beliefs. I guess people would see Leela as "superstitious," but I really don't think anything she said even comes close to superstition. It isn't religious or fantastical to suggest that there's something "more than" simply biological fact, and everything Leela brings up ("The fruit IS beautiful"; "How does a bird fly for months to reach its home?") is perfectly compatible with rational metaphysical schemas and certainly with evolution. Narrative-telling is constitutive of humans' biological reproduction. If anything, Romanas insistence on a purely empiricist paradigm over Leelas metaphysical tale only reveals that both are just two sides of the same coin. They are both frameworks to apprehend and predict causal efficacy. They both lead to unique and intense views of how the world operates. But neither is wrong. They're both complimentary.

This comes full circle when the two seem to gain parts of the others' personality, which supports the other side of the coin. Romana suddenly *feels in her body* instead of always in her head. She isn't intellectualizing everything through an analytical lense. Instead, she's really feeling her body for the first time. She probably never could feel the way that oxygen cleans her bloodstream so clearly as she did then. Leela feels uncomfortable with her new intellectual abilities. She isn't relying on the multitude of sense-organs distributed across her body to synthesize the presented data. Instead, she's intellectualizing every wave of information, and her brain organ is perhaps much more hyper-active than it was before. In short, Romanas reliance on a rationalist-empiricist epistemology aligns closely with her *inability* to utilize her sense organs deeply, accurately, and with intimacy. Leelas reliance on the specifically neuromuscular and sensory knowledge allows her a more nuanced interaction with the corporeal landscape around her, but perhaps forbids her from constructing a systematized methodology of propositional logic in the way Romana could.

Neither side of this coin is "better" and in fact us humans have the task of delicately tending to both parts of our makeup, both sets of data-gathering tools. The metaphysician and mathematician Alfred North Whitehead essentially investigates the foundations of these differing personalities in his magnum opus Process & Reality (1929). P&R is one of my favorite works ever and to see the Gallifrey series so brilliantly convey the gradation between his categories of "withness of the body" and "presentational immediacy" through the relationship between Leela and Romana has been an absolute delight. Amazing series

"You think of your body as a machine, but it is not. How can such a big mind be so narrow?" -Leela

"But we must—to avoid 'solipsism of the present moment'—include in direct perception something more than presentational immediacy. For the organic theory, the most primitive perception is 'feeling the body as functioning.' This is a feeling of the world in the past; it is the inheritance of the world as a complex of feeling; namely, it is the feeling of derived feelings. The later, sophisticated perception is 'feeling the contemporary world.' Even this presentational immediacy begins with sense-presentation of the contemporary body. The body, however, is only a peculiarly intimate bit of the world. Just as Descartes said, 'this body is mine'; so he should have said, 'this actual world is mine.' My process of 'being myself' is my origination from my possession of the world." -Alfred North Whitehead

[curio-queries]

ARE YOU SURE?!

Episode 4 production Notes

Again, I genuinely didn't think I'd have anything to say at this point about this episode. I had such a good time the first time I watched it, just smiling the whole way through. There is one thing that did stick in my brain a little bit though so here I am again with another post.

Episode Break Points

We honestly can't be making any final conclusions at this point but there is starting to emerge a picture of how the production team approached the development of this show as an episodic release. The question that was rattling around my brain after watching episode 4 was how they are choosing their cut points between episodes. We really only have three data points right now which is not enough to definitively identify their intent but it does start to paint the picture a little bit. Sometimes, the break point is beyond obvious, like cutting ep.2 at the end of the USA trip. But when there's not a definitive line, a choice has to be made when to bring one episode to a close and start another.

Some shows use the changing of the day as a break point but that's not necessarily always the best choice to make for the narrative of the show. For example, the break between eps 1 and 2 is in the morning after JK has his coffee and makes the stone tower. This better served the momentum of the episode and wrapped up the story beat of JM's rough night. Ep 2 then starts on a high note with JK's motorbike ride. In my opinion, this was an excellent choice as we close ep.1 feeling all cozy and ep.2 begins with a little bit of excitement.

A Look Back

So why am I bringing this up now? It's because I was so confused as the choice of when to break these two episodes. I don't know if I've decided if it was good/bad/somewhere-in-between but I absolutely was not expecting Episode 4 to start the way it did. Ep 3 ends at the Go Karts and feels like a complete story beat. While ep 4 starts with the drive to the Omakase.

To me, it feels like we're picking up on the last remains of the previous episode and not starting a new section. Which is honestly, kind of counterintuitive. Why would it feel like that? They're literally on their way to the next activity. I suspect it has more to do with the tonal momentum. The guys are still coming down from all of the energy they expended from Rock Climbing and racing and are having a well-deserved relaxing drive. Even the brief moments we see of JK on the motorbike are quite chill. (mostly because there's not really a great way to get action footage on a bike in the dark lol).

So...to see if I could support my suspicion, or if I was just bringing something else into my viewing experience, I decided to rewatch the whole series so far and rank every story beat on a scale for how energetic/intense I felt the narrative was supporting.

A couple of notes before you judge my rankings:

This data is the very definition of subjective. if I redid this same exercise even the next day, I'm sure I would disagree with myself on certain rankings so you certainly don't have to agree with my rankings.

If a storybeat had a noticeable tonal shift, I entered it twice and included both rankings. If it just varied a bit, I entered a ranking more representative of the scene as a whole.

This won't be reflective of the time occupied by each story beat. Some sections are longer than others but with sustained energy so it doesn't translate in this visual representation how much of an impact on the overall tone of the episode any one of these are.

I also added a star at the end of each episode of my median scores. I feel that this was a better representation of the overall tone of each episode rather than an average but that's just my personal view on this teeny dataset. Please don't come for me analytics folks! This is just a post for funzies, not proper analysis!

So What?

The point was curious about is in the gap between eps 3 & 4. Everywhere else there's a pretty clear shift in the start and end of the energy but that gap looks like it was just a step that was missed in what could have been a continual episode.

Here are the runtimes of each episode so far:

USA: 56 min

USA: 72 Min

Jeju: 56 min

Jeju: 70 min

I don't have any conclusions about why it was done this way other than they felt the tonal break was the sacrifice for keeping the Omakase story line in tact. Which honestly, I agree. There would have been time to include the drive in the previous episode but it would have left us on an unfinished storybeat. This is one of the reasons that we never get footage of the members return trip from their travel shows. Bon Voyage ends every episode with the members remarking on the trip overall. Even though we know they have to return home, we don't see it because that would start to build energy for whatever they're doing next and not the story of their trip.

Even in ITS1 when the members do return home in the middle, we see them packing up and getting in the cars but the episode ends before they really start traveling. (Actually it ends before they even let Jin in the car so they're definitely not on their way yet!)

Commercials?

I have a question for anyone that's watching this with ads. I don't really watch streaming content so I'm curious, do the ad breaks just randomly occur? Or does it seem like they're intentionally scheduled? Building story breaks for commercials was a huge focus of legacy tv and I'd be interested to learn more about how streaming services are incorporating it (not enough to not have commercials though, I get insta-rage when the content I'm consuming is interrupted lol). I vaguely remember getting frustrated when I was attempting to watch something at my parent's over the holidays but I don't recall if it seemed structured or not.

That's it. That's all I've got to say right now. We're definitely getting a lot more to the story of this show and I'm absolutely loving it. I'm going to be away for a bit next week and I honestly don't know when I'll fit in watching episode 5 but I'm very much looking forward to it!

If you've seen this post and are interested in some more of my thoughts on Are You Sure, here's a link to my AYS MasterList. Still can't believe I've rambled so much about this show but it's been fun! Thanks to everyone that's been rambling with me!

[probablyasocialecologist]

Some people, in defense of generative A.I., will claim that A.I. builds from influences the same as human beings do.  This is, to me, the first indication that I’m talking to somebody who either does not understand how A.I. works, how human creativity works, or most likely both.  Something that needs to be clearly understood is that A.I. has no intelligence.  It does not “think”.  It is a predictive text program that simulates human expression by ingesting unfathomable amounts of data and trying to replicate that data.  It does not know and can not know what meaning its outputs have.  Further, it has no desire and no emotion to motivate action or decisions.  It simply runs a program and assembles pixels or words to match what seems most like other correct pixels and words in its vast data set.  It aggregates.  It produces averages. Humans, obviously, do not create like this.  Humans have intentions and purpose to what we do.  These intentions are sometimes deep, sometimes shallow, sometime clear, and sometimes nebulous.  But we always have emotion and thought connected to what we make.  What we create is guided by intent colliding with discovery, and these two states feed each other.  And the influence that we draw from existing work is not an analysis of pixels, but an emotional response to how that work makes us feel.  Even in analytical study of form or anatomy, our brains do not operate like computer programs.  While committing information to memory, we also interpret and seek to understand and this affects how that information is later able to be used.  Because we are each an individual, infinitely complex being, our different physiological, environmental, and cultural variations bring us to infinite different endpoints.  Like it or not, we all see the world slightly differently and our creative expressions reflect this. It has become standard to describe A.I. as a tool.  I argue that this framing is incorrect.  It does not aid in the completion of a task.  It completes the task for you.  A.I. is a service.  You cede control and decisions to an A.I. in the way you might to an independent contractor hired to do a job that you do not want to or are unable to do.  This is important to how using A.I. in a creative workflow will influence your end result.  You are, at best, taking on a collaborator.  And this collaborator happens to be a mindless average aggregate of data. To some, the prospect of collaborating with the sum average of all artists is apparently an attractive prospect.  Maybe you feel you are below average in some areas and the A.I. will therefore raise the quality of those areas.  But every percent that you hand over to the A.I. is a percent less of your unique voice, perspective, and intention.  And for folks who use A.I. generations wholesale, that comes out to a 100% loss of anything personal or unique that they might bring.