#Data Labeling Best Practices

[habiledata]

Human vs. Automated Data Labeling: How to Choose the Right Approach

Today, technology is evolving rapidly, making it crucial to choose the right data labeling approach for training AI datasets.

In our article, we have discussed human vs. automated data labeling and how to select the best approach for your AI models. We have also explored the benefits and limitations of both methods, providing you with a clear understanding of which one to choose.

[lesbianvaljean]

do you love the color of les mis?

[cressidagrey]

The Red Notebook

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Every season, Felicity Piastri keeps a red notebook—meticulously filled with race notes, corner analysis, and tyre data—not for the engineers, but for Oscar.

Warnings and Notes: This adds much needed context to a mention of the Red Notebook in the eventual Silverstone one shot. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar knew every driver had their rituals.

Some tapped the side of the car before lights out. Some listened to the same playlist before quali. Some wore lucky socks. He wasn’t one for superstition. (Unless it was Felicity’s notes tucked into his gloves.)

Oscar was calm, calculated, precise. But if there was one thing in his world that carried the same sacred weight as a prayer before battle, it was this:

The red notebook.

Felicity had been keeping one since he was fifteen.

Oscar had never asked her to do it.

But she did it anyway.

Every season of his career, starting in 2016, from karting to F4 to now, had its own red notebook. Same brand, same size, same weight. Always red. The kind with a soft leather cover and a ribbon bookmark. He’d once asked why that colour.

Felicity had blinked. “Because Racing is in your blood.”

Every year, a new one. Lined up in a quiet row on the shelf at home. 2016. 2017. 2018. All the way through now.

The season’s notebook started the day before pre-season testing. She’d jotted down tyre compound data while he was still learning the steering wheel settings. 

She never missed a race.

Even before they’d been married, even before they’d been anything more than best friends, she’d been the one watching grainy livestreams of karting races at three in the morning. She’d pause, rewind, scribble something, frown, rewind again. Always in pencil first. Always rewatching later with a cup of tea and writing with black ink. 

Oscar still remembered when it started. One day he’d come back to Haileybury from a junior series race, his helmet still damp with sweat, and found her at the kitchen table with a notebook open beside her laptop. She’d been watching his onboard, pausing it at the exit of Turn 9.

"You were lifting earlier here," she’d said casually, as if they weren’t fifteen and chronically exhausted. "Were the rears giving out or was it just the balance shift?"

He’d stared at her. “How do you even—”

She’d shrugged. “I rewatched the last three races. Thought maybe it was setup. But I think it’s tire fatigue.”

She hadn’t been wrong.

She never was.

He’d protested, at first. Told her she didn’t have to. That she could sleep in. That she didn’t need to rewatch every one of his races in painstaking detail. But she’d just looked at him, calm and matter-of-fact.

“I like watching you work,” she said. “And I like knowing how to help.”

Since then, every race season had a notebook.

She’d never stopped. Not in F4. Not in Renault Eurocup. Not in F3. Not in F2. Not even now, when the races were streamed to millions, and Oscar had an entire team of strategists and data analysts and performance engineers.

By the time he got to F1, the habit was ingrained.

Every season had a new red notebook.

Neatly labeled with the year on the inside cover. Oscar – 2019. Oscar – 2020. Oscar – 2021.

 All the way up to Oscar – 2024, tucked beside her laptop, the pen clipped to the side like always.

Each race had its own section—track map hand-drawn in the corner, weather data scribbled in the margins, key overtakes underlined in green, mistakes circled in blue. 

Notes on setup balance, driver behavior, tire drop-off. Observations from free practice. Quali patterns. Sector deltas compared across weekends.

One red notebook for every season.

Lined pages, neatly labelled.

Her handwriting somehow managing to be both clinical and caring.

Oscar sometimes thought about all those notebooks. How they formed a silent record of his life—not the headlines, not the points on a screen, but the real story. The choices. The nuance. The growing.

Oscar had once asked what she’d do with them all.

She’d just smiled and said, “Maybe I’ll give them to you. When you’re old and don’t remember why you did all this.”

But he thought she was wrong.

Because all he’d have to do was look at her.

And he’d remember.

Every Monday night—after every race, whether he won, DNFed, or trundled home in P9—they’d debrief.

Not officially. Not in a team room. Just the two of them. 

Over the phone. Or curled up on a couch somewhere. He’d grab a water bottle. She’d open the notebook. And they’d go through it—one sector at a time.

“You want the good or the bad first?” she’d ask.

And Oscar would always say, “Start with the bad.”

She never softened it. That wasn’t her style. But she never made it cruel. Just observations, always grounded in care.

“You were oversteering into Turn 4,” she might say. “You hesitated on the switchback in Lap 36. And you always get a little sloppy after safety car restarts.”

Then she’d pause. Let him breathe.

“Your tire management in the middle stint was beautiful, though,” she’d add. “And your dive on Lap 21? That was perfect.”

She always ended on that. Something kind. Something true.

It wasn’t just racecraft. She tracked patterns— behavior, tyre drop-off curves, pit wall communications. 

She never shoved it in his face. Never acted like she knew better. She just… saw him. All of him. His driving, his instincts, his cracks, his triumphs. And she held it with reverence. She had, always.

That was Felicity.

Not loud. Not flashy. But constant. Fiercely observant. Quietly all in.

Oscar had always known Felicity was the kind of person who remembered things.

Not in the casual way, either—this wasn’t *oh yeah, I think you mentioned that once* kind of memory.

This was weaponized recall. Pattern-tracking. Observation to the point of quiet obsession.

She always said it wasn’t for coaching. She didn’t have the right license for that.

But they both knew—Felicity’s mind was the license.

Oscar hadn’t missed a single debrief with her since he was fiteen.

Even now — full McLaren kit, media commitments, a dozen engineers and strategists surrounding him — he still came home after every race and sat at the kitchen table with her, red notebook open between them, a cup of tea cooling by her elbow.

She’d never push. Never judge. Just turned a page and say, “I think you started lifting earlier here. Did it feel different?”

And she was always right.

He didn’t know what he’d do without her voice in his ear. Her notes. Her calm, razor-sharp logic that made him better every single season — not by force, but by faith. She believed in him like it was a given. Like his success was a shared equation they were solving together.

That notebook was sacred now. A quiet, red witness to every win, every loss, every hard-earned point. 

Felicity never missed a race. Never skipped a page. Never stopped showing up, quietly and completely, with the kind of devotion that made him ache.

And Oscar knew how lucky he was to be loved like that. To be studied and understood and quietly backed with a red notebook full of margins and maybes.

By 2023, the red notebook wasn’t just Felicity’s anymore.

It was still hers in the way rituals are—quiet, sacred, consistent. But now it had new fingerprints on it. Smaller ones.

Bee had started watching races more intently after the summer break that year. Not just to cheer for “Papa’s car” or to spot “the man who always says ‘box box’ in the funny accent.” No—she started paying attention. The way Felicity did. The way Oscar did.

It began with questions.

“Why did the other car pit sooner than Papa?”

“Was he happy with that last lap?”

Oscar hadn’t thought much of it at first. Just curiosity. The kind of natural interest you’d expect from a kid who was surrounded by racing. And who could identify tyre compounds before she could spell tangerine.

But then, one day after the Dutch GP, he opened the notebook and found a sticky note wedged between Lap 28 and 29. Bee’s handwriting was still wobbly, more squiggle than letter, but it was there. Carefully written in her purple glitter pen:

“I think Papa was fast in the twisty bits. The Red car was slow. Tell him?”

He’d laughed. Soft and stunned and warm all over.

Felicity had just smiled. “She asked if she could help.”

After that, it became a thing.

 Usually marked with a tiny star, or Felicity’s added annotation: “Bee’s call. She might be right.”

And the thing was — sometimes she was.

Bee had an instinct for rhythm. For flow. She couldn’t articulate it like her mother could, but she felt when something was off. Her feedback wasn’t technical, but it was honest. Raw. Oscar had learned not to dismiss it.

After the Japanese GP, she had scrawled, “Car sounded grumpy today.” Turned out there had been a small issue with engine mapping.

Bee’s contributions were scattered throughout the pages like little bursts of joy — added while Felicity reviewed footage with her on her lap or at the table. Sometimes Oscar came home to find the notebook open beside a half-drunk juice box and a crayon drawing of Turn 4 with a heart around it.

He never took them out.

Felicity never corrected them either. Never scolded Bee for scribbling in what had once been her own sacred system. If anything, she looked quietly proud.

“She watches with me now,” Felicity had told him once, her voice soft as she passed him the notebook. “She wanted to write something after Suzuka. Said she thought your car was sliding more than usual in the esses.”

Oscar had blinked. “She said esses?”

“Specifically. She said ‘I think it’s the bit where the car goes whoosh whoosh left right left really fast.’ So… the esses.”

Oscar had laughed. Then paused.

Bee was three.

Sometimes she asked questions that made even him pause — about racing lines and brake bias and why tyre wear seemed worse on warmer weekends. 

Sometimes, when Oscar flipped it open after a race, he’d find a different kind of note squeezed into the margins — messier handwriting, uneven spelling, sparkly gel pen in place of Felicity’s precise script.

“You did really really good at the overtake!!” “I think maybe you were sad in the middle. Was it because the tyres were bad?” “Next time try even more zoom!!”

There was one he’d never forget — a page where Bee had stuck a neon orange post-it and written, painstakingly, in huge capital letters:

“I WAS SO PROUD I DID A LITTLE JUMP.”

Underneath, in smaller, steadier handwriting:

Same. – F

Other times she just wanted to draw pictures of his helmet and write “GO PAPA” in shaky block letters across the page. But she was watching. Really watching.

And the red notebook had become a shared ritual.

Oscar would come home after races and find them curled together on the couch, the replay paused mid-turn, Felicity with her pen and Bee with her toy car in hand, mimicking every motion.

And when the notebook was passed to him, it felt heavier. Fuller. Like legacy.

Because in those pages—lined with analytics and corrections and glittery three-year-old commentary—was something unshakeable.

A family.

A home.

And the quiet, unspoken truth:

They saw him.

Every lap. Every decision. Every tenth gained or lost.

They watched. They learned. They remembered.

And in between the margins and the tyre notes and the childish stickers that said "GO PAPAYA GO!!", Oscar Piastri could read something else:

He was never doing this alone.

And after all these years, Oscar still found himself sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in his hand, watching the girl he loved scribble something in the margin of the notebook — the red one, the current one — and thinking:

She knows me better than telemetry ever could.

He didn’t need a strategist when he had Felicity. He didn’t need a publicist, a hype reel, or a season highlight package.

He had a girl with a red notebook and a brain like fire — and a heart that chose to use it for love.

And when he won—really won—it would be written there, too.

In pencil first.

In ink, later.

With love, always.

Written down. Every season. Every race. Every lap.

[infinitydivine]

PAC: Who is "The One" For You?

Masterlist -Paid Readings-Paid Readings Reviews-PAC Readings

🩷Will you be My Valentine? Sale on Love and Future Spouse Paid Tarot readings

🩷New Valentine's Paid Tarot Readings

Choose your pile intuitively. Take what resonates and leave the other things. If you think this reading is not for you then choose another pile. If still it doesn't resonate then this might not be your reading. There are Three Piles. Pile1- Pile 2- Pile 3

Hello Pile 1~~~

Hello, collectives who are reading Pile 1. Your "The One" has an interesting personality, ngl. This is someone who is highly intelligent. They are someone who is highly respected anywhere they go. It's not like they ask for it, instead, they have a magnetic aura. Wherever they go, they attract attention without any effort. They value truth and honesty. They can be too honest sometimes which makes people around them uncomfortable. I am getting the vibe of a "no-nonsense" approach or mindset. They are not in for short talks and will not entertain my bull$hits. They are often labelled as arrogant or selfish but they don't care about what others think of them. Your The one who comes from a humble background. If they are successful today they have worked hard for it. They are someone who doesn't believe in luck for example, they believe if you have to get something you have to work hard for it. Someone grounded and very practical. They are ambitious and make the most of their time by either working or working out, there is no in-between. This is someone who often undergoes many transformations in their life. They are not afraid of changes and are also quite adaptable to various different circumstances in their life even if it's not comfortable. Your person works quite well under pressure and can maintain a poker face (idk I hear this term while typing this). Some may call them stone-faced faced too since they are not used to showing their emotions on their face. Being with them will make you feel like you are in for a roller coaster ride not knowing what you might expect from them.

↦Their job/s could include working in a profession that requires communication and analytical skills such as a Financial analyst/Advisor, Data Scientist, Lawyer, Judge, Doctor, entrepreneur, etc.

All the best :)

If you liked the reading, you can book a personal reading with me or you could leave a tip for the reader.

Hello Pile 2~~~

Hello, collectives who are reading Pile 2. Your The One's personality is shown as someone who is a natural-born leader. They aren't the one who backs off from a responsibility. I also heard something about them being a natural leader as well as a protector. Their energy is leaning more so on the masculine side. They have a lot of energy and they often might have trouble controlling it. A lot of stamina too. Their aura exudes confidence and they have a strong presence that inspires a lot of people. Could be in the public eye too because of their leadership position. They are very ambitious but often neglect their health and emotions in order to achieve their goals. I also heard something about them struggling with insomnia. I also saw someone with a glass of alcohol. They could be someone who numbs their feelings with alcohol. They have a lot of responsibilities to fulfill in their life which keeps them busy in the daytime but for them, nights are hard when they are alone with their thoughts. But despite this, they aren't someone who let their thoughts control them. They have good control over their thoughts. They aren't impulsive, rather they take their time and make decisions seeing the bigger picture. They may have a charismatic personality that draws a lot of people in, especially something about how they speak. People find your person admirable for what they have gone through but still, they remain humble.

(Pile 2 I wanted to keep this reading simple but their thoughts are wild).

↦Their job/s could include working in a profession that requires leadership and authority, strategic planning, and long-term vision such as CEO/Founder of a successful company, Lawyer, Attorney, Teacher&Professor, Politician, Someone in the public eye, motivational speaker, etc.

All the best :)

If you liked the reading, you can book a personal reading with me or you could leave a tip for the reader

Hello Pile 3~~~

Hello, collectives who are reading Pile 3. Your "The One" has very mature and stable energy. They seem to be the fun kind of person who doesn't take life seriously too much. Out of the three piles in this reading, yours seems to be the least serious. By serious I don't mean they are not doing well in their life but they are someone who has very light-hearted energy almost like a child. When you meet them, you will want to protect them immediately because of their pure energy. Your person has gone through a lot in their life but they stayed the same. They didn't let the hate of the world change them. They are stable, dependable, and successful. Despite the outer circumstances, they can maintain their inner peace. Could be spiritual too. But this is also someone who is focused on becoming the better version every day and is already building security and wealth. Your person is someone who works well with people and can even bring many people together under one roof to work on a project or a collaboration. They have an eye for art and can observe people well even from a distance. They are emotionally fulfilled and confident with their feelings. When they have romantic feelings for someone, they are the first ones to confess. I am getting them being straightforward but it's a lot for others to sometimes take in. They have an eye for art and craft. Could be very interested in art and artists, and sometimes could even donate anonymously to various artistic causes. Being with them will feel like being with someone who will uplift you every day and will make you see beauty in every little accomplishment of yours.

↦Their job/s could include working in a profession that requires them to be creative, someone who values stability and can work with a team& collaborations, and someone who can still enjoy life while working such as An independent business owner, entrepreneur, Musician, Creative artist, Chef, Therapist&Counselor, etc.

All the best :)

If you liked the reading, you can book a personal reading with me or you could leave a tip for the reader.

Thank you and Love,

Infinity ✨

Divider credits to- @lavendergalactic, @strangergraphics  

[pedgito]

𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 | Javier Pena x reader

↝ other fics | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | this is my own entry for the summer lovin' challenge, somehow torturing myself further by writing a fic amongst all my other wips and helping organize this challenge. there's sweaty javi p and office sex, that's all you need to know.

content warning | heavy smut, teasing upon teasing upon teasing, lots of mentions of heat/sweat, perfect use of ice in a situation like this, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, public-ish sex

word count — 5k

You curse quietly over your second paper cut of the day, nursing your pointer finger between your lips and silently reprimanding yourself for agreeing to help Steve—he was good at begging, you could give him that, and a hell of a sweet talker when he wanted to be. He always wore you down, a promise of coffee every day for a week on him, or lunch the following day, anything to sweeten the deal. This time it was neither.

“I rescheduled twice already,” He’s pointed out the reasons on his fingers, extending them out as he numbers them and using his finger to add emphasis as he pressed down on them as he went, “we finally have someone to watch Olivia for us this evening, and you know, you won’t even be alone—Pena’s staying late.”

He wiggled his three fingers like it was the best deal you’ve ever been offered, a smile growing on his face as he attempted to pass over the file that you took with reluctance, blowing out a puff of air and clutching it to your chest, arms crossed over the manila folder as you glance at your dainty watch—four in the afternoon. Not bad. Not great, either. You’ve stayed later—given your commute is only about five minutes. You tended to pick up the slack, for everyone, but mostly those boys. You weren’t sure how it ended up this way, but even Carillo acknowledged it. 

You did grunt work, small and miniscule things in the lives of two DEA agents who were out in the field hunting a notorious cartel leader every day—but you, you were dealing with papercuts and carpal tunnel, it wasn’t nearly as comparable.

And Javier Pena made sure to remind you every chance he had.

You pluck at the group of files labeled La Quica and El Limon, a hefty collection of data that has been compiled for the past several months and felt never ending—you were nearing the point of understanding every piece of information in this room back to front, knowing far too much about the cartel than you originally intended. It was terrifying; even seeing the look on either of the men’s faces when they returned back from a hard day of busts and undercover work.

And, maybe Javier just figured you didn’t care or wouldn’t be able to comprehend half of what was stored away in these files—but he sure wasn’t quiet about it.

It’s been around an hour now, tearing through the unorganized mess that the file room had become.

Mumbling the names under your breath as you drag your finger over the sticky note and kneeling down until your practically on all fours, digging through a box on the floor with your head tucked and oblivious to Javier as he rounds the corner to the secluded room, heavy footsteps falling on deaf ears, too entranced in the task to notice him.

He clears his throat with distinction and your head snaps up, looking clearly disturbed and annoyed—Javier offers a superficial smile and points a finger at the pile on the floor, his shoulder leaned against one of the tall shelves holding boxes upon boxes of crucial information.

Your eyebrows raise in expectation, head shaking slightly at him as you urge him to speak and get on with whatever comment he was dying to make as he continued to stare down, licking his lips briefly before they finally part and—

“Those the files we’ve been asking for?”

That Steve has been asking for—Not Javier, never Javier. He’s too macho and mighty for paperwork and sitting at a desk all day.

“It is part of them,” You say with emphasis, “I still have an entire section to go through. Steve asked me to pull everything we have on those two.”

“Well, everyone’s leaving—and I know where most of the shit is. I got it, you can head out.”

You seethe, jaw clenched and your eyebrow furrows as you stand, a pile of strewn papers in your arms.

“You know, instead of going through Steve to have me fetch the stuff you need—I don’t know, you could just man up and ask me directly.”

He has no idea what you’re talking about.

Except, he does.

He’s shoved off work to Steve who was enough of a pushover for his friend and partner, to pick it up when he had time, but this time it had landed on a busy day, a busy weekend, there just wasn’t enough time for him to handle it. 

“La Quica, El Limon—Carillo was talking to you about them this morning. What’s got you so tied up that you couldn’t handle it yourself?” You ask accusatory, back turned to him as you walk toward the table in the center of the room.

“We’ve got leads to check out, muñequita.” 

Out of your wheelhouse. Yeah—Okay, that explains it.

You roll your eyes at the nickname and drop the stack with a distinct thunk before moving past him, narrowly avoiding his broad shoulders as you walk past him, through the half-open door as you grab for one of the styrofoam cups on the water dispenser before spooning the ice into it and filling it with water, sipping with a distinct look of disdain as you eye Javier up and down, seeing that he’s followed you over, half in the doorway and half out.

“If you’re going to stand there the least you could do is help me,” You tell him, “that way we can both get out of here faster and not have to spend any more time together than we need to.”

“It’ll be faster if I do it myself,” He tells you, a metaphorical shoo-ing away as he nods toward the stairwell at the end of the hall, “I know this room like the back of my hand.”

“Have you been in here lately? It’s a mess. No one ever puts anything back in the right spot.” 

Javier’s got his signature pout on, looking downtrodden and pathetic behind his thick mustache perched on his upper lip, the constant look of being unimpressed by everything.

“I’m not leaving, Javier. You’re welcome to help, stay late, whatever—but I’ve been in this room, in this heat for an hour already and you’re not about to swoop in and snatch the credit for something you couldn’t be bothered doing yourself in the first place, alright?”

Javier looks surprised at that, not as much by the bite in your tone but the lack of snide comment, not calling him an asshole or a prick and storming off. Again, you brush past him with your drink in hand and take your seat, feeling the thin layer of sweat covering your body—it wasn’t that unbearable, but another hour and you would be a hell of a lot more crankier.

“Fine—” You respond, eyes tracking elsewhere as he moves form his place against the open door, only catching the lingering shadow of the door as it closed until it was far too late, “fuck, Javi! The—”

A loud click and Javier’s reaction time, given his ability to pull out a gun and have it propped at the ready in half a second, is far too slow. He turns, seeing the now closed door and turns back to you.

“Door,” You say, voice falling flat.

Javier backtracks and heads for the door, hoping and praying this was one of the days it wouldn’t lock—it was a tricky thing. Only working half of the time. Luckily, any other time it was during the day, surrounded by people who could help. But, now—it’s the two of you and no one else.

If you were pissed at Javier before, you were fuming now.

He jiggles the doorknob. Nothing. Fist pounding against the door. Nothing.

A quick shout out to anyone. Anything. Hoping someone would still be near.

Nothing. Not a sound.

“We’re stuck,” You sneer at him, “—sit down or that jiggling is going to drive me insane.”

He kicks the door for good measure, hoping by some miracle it might actually pop open.

You huff out an exhausted laugh under your breath and spread your hands out over the files, sorting out the important information and pictures from the notes and extra files that weren’t really needed. Javier approaches slowly and you take a sip of the water, thankful that you were at least able to reward yourself with that before you ended up in this mess.

Javier takes a look at his own watch and clicked his tongue before resigning to the fact that things weren’t going to go his way, dancing his fingers along the edge of the table as he took a seat, fingertips pressed into the surface as he settled, watching you casually under the flickering overhead light.

A few minutes slowly turn into several, quiet aside from the occasional shuffling of paper or sips of your water and you find that when no one else is around, Javier isn’t a total asshole. There’s no harsh quip or snide comment being lobbed your way but you can also tell that he’s just as frustrated as you, knowing that he needed to sift through this intel too.

But, the heat was sweltering—so distracting and despite the setting sun outside, had you reaching for a few buttons on your blouse as you leaned back, sighing as you picked up an empty file folder and fanned yourself in earnest, exposing your neck as you hung your head back.

You don’t hear Javier, but you feel him. His eyes on you as you lift your head back up.

Bewilderment. Annoyance. You can’t place it in the moment, he doesn’t even speak. But, you find yourself responding anyway.

“What? It’s hot.”

Javier throws a casual hand up in defense but his eyes follow your hand as they descend into your styrofoam cup, water long gone but the ice standing strong. You take a piece and cup it in your palm before rubbing it over your neck, instantly sighing at the crisp cold touch of it against your skin and aptly ignoring how it drips down the valley of your breasts, looking up to catch Javier at just the right time, his eyes looked on your movements and more pointedly—your chest.

“Here, try it,” You tell him, noticing the sheen of sweat on his neck, “it helps.”

He plucks a cigarette out of his half-empty pack and places it between his lips.

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself, “ You shrug, but quickly lean forward to pluck the cigarette from his mouth and place it down on the table, “–hey, can you not?”

Javier looks at you in disbelief, snatching the cigarette off the table and tucking it away anyways.

“You smoke in this place all day, you can at least wait until we’re out of here.”

“Do you ever loosen up?” Javier pokes at you daringly, “I mean, what does it really take for you to pull that skirt out of your ass?”

“Not you,” You reply sharply, a smile spreading across your face, “but, putting away the cigarette is a start.”

Javier leans back in the chair with a dignified sigh, scratching at his forehead in frustration at the lack of progress and the fact that he literally has no way out of here.

“You know, he’s been off the grid for three weeks,” You speak out loud, knowing that Javier is well aware, “is there really anything in here that is going to help? Or is it just that all of the leads are dead?”

His demeanor breaks slightly, a shuffle in his shoulders as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Both—maybe. This shit is probably pointless.”

“And that’s why you wanted me to take care of it,” You respond conclusively, “but you’re impatient—you don’t have to argue with me, I know you are.”

“Really, muñequita, you think you know me so well?” Javier asks testingly, tongue swiping over his bottom lip, “What else do you know about me?”

“That you like your ego boosted,” You retort, “and I’m not about to do that. So—”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Javier says with a smirk, eyes glinting with a faint, creeping darkness.

“Shut up,” You say in a clipped town before looking around curiously, “and what are we supposed to do now? Sleep here? I really can’t believe you fucking locked us in.”

“No, no—” Javier's finger wags in a motion that makes you want to bite them off, jaw clenching forcefully, “if you hadn’t wasted so much time then maybe we could have flagged down someone.”

“Okay, but you still let that door close.”

Once again, both arms crossed over your chest, a staredown is initiated. 

It wasn’t the first, it wasn’t the last, but you wanted to ruin him.

Knock him down a beg—hell, kick him off the pedestal and wipe the goddamn floor with him.

That stupid smirk, the boiling tone of cockiness wrapped in self-righteousness.

“Don’t think too hard, cariño.”

You huff out a half-impressed laugh and organize the files after a moment, stacking them to the side and reaching into your cup for another piece of your melting ice, repeating the same motion as earlier as you slide the ice between your breasts, but with the immense amount of eye contact you didn’t give Javier the first time.

Stubborn girl. He knew that much about you.

Javier doesn’t break immediately, but the small flex in his jaw, the slightest of cracks in his hard exterior.

Attack. Attack. Attack.

You wipe your arm against your sleeve, subconsciously pressing your breasts together in the process and Javier looks like he might keel over, eyes flicking up to meet your gaze now—he’s been caught. Gazing. Admiring. Seering to his memory for a later time.

You’re not really sure but you’re not going to let him off easy either.

“Now, Pena—Don’t think too hard.” You tell him in a sickly sweet tone, “It’s just a pair of tits.”

I don’t bite—you want to add. But, you don’t.

Because even if you found Javier attractive…there was just no way. 

No. Not possible.

“What is it?” Javier asks curiously, seemingly snapped out of his stupor, and meeting your gaze like he hadn’t just been staring directly at your breasts for far too long. “About me, I mean?”

You raise an eyebrow, finger circling the styrofoam cup as you center on the table.

“What?” You ask with a soft laugh of disbelief. “It’s—it isn’t your looks, Javier. It’s all of you. You undermine me, you treat me like a fucking lap dog. I might be a bitch but—I am not your bitch.”

He wasn’t expecting that intense of a response, it felt even more eerie as your tone continued on steadily. He considers interrupting but you continue, holding a finger up to stop him.

“You know—I transferred here to help with the assignment, collect the intel and take down Pablo Escobar just like you, but for some reason, you seem to think I’m just a personal assistant. Or one of the few receptionists who all want to throw themselves at you.”

“There something wrong with that?”

You roll your eyes in silence, but the gesture is loud.

“Did I say there was?” You counter, “I think the problem for you is that it isn’t me. That someone might actually find you repulsive, right?”

Javier only looks slightly dumb-founded, following your movements as you stand and fetch the stack of files, returning them to their make-shift home for the moment, buried away on a shelf that could be reorganized later—he turns in his chair, glaring right back at you when you turn on your heels. 

“Your legs don’t work?” You ask him, nodding toward thfew smaller stacks of files scattered about the table, “If you want to get the work done so bad, clean up—or do you want me to—”

“I. Got it.” Javier responds stiffly, standing on his own two feet. He scoops up the remaining files and puts them away opposite of the shelf you had, resting a palm on an empty spot as you lean back to pick up a stray piece of paper. “But, don’t act like I don’t see you kissing Carillo’s—”

You stand and shove the paper into his chest, “Finish that sentence and you will regret it, Javier.”

“It’s alright. No shame in your game and all that.”

Fuck this.

You reach for the cup of melted ice, splashing it promptly in Javier’s face before crushing the cup in your hand out of frustration, a moment of frozen realization coming to you.

Had you actually just done that?

Javier blinks, looking down at his soaked front before promptly removing his jacket in haste watching as you slowly back away, slightly disturbed by his calmness until he’s rearing on you.

Slowly—oh, so fucking slow. 

Your chest rises in slow, deep breaths and is nearly hanging off your shoulders by now, riddled with red, hot rage.

“Tell me I don’t make you even a little bit nervous, muñequita.” 

Is this a challenge? Is this what he’s worried about?

“You don’t.”

Your response is quick, but you find yourself pressed against a file cabinet and a few inches of free space before he’s right there—so close you can feel the heat of his body, your heart races slightly.

Okay, maybe just…a little.

“Again,” Javier beckons, a sneer to his tone as he crowds you in—“Look at me and say it.”

And for the love of god, the words never come.

“You let me flirt with you because you like it. Never correct me when I give you those little nicknames—look at you, you can’t even deny it.”

A half-truth. You didn’t mind it, but it wasn’t some sort of sustenance keeping you alive. Besides, it didn’t make up for half of the times he’s belittled you in front of your shared boss.

The heat is suffocating now and Javier’s eyes follow the trail of sweat down your neck, over your breasts, watching your fingers twitch at your side because—

Why do you feel the need to touch him so badly now?

To receive that touch in return and tenfold. 

“¿Qué pasa, pobrecita?” 

His fingers curl around the edge of the file cabinet behind you, barricading you between the wall and him and if you decided to show any signs of discomfort you knew Javier would back off in a heartbeat—you didn’t even need to say anything.

“Is that what it took?” You ask, voice soft in the small gap he’s created, eyes softening slightly as he hears you speak, “Being locked in here with me, nothing else to do—that’s what it takes for you to see me as anything other than some lowly little assistant to you?”

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” Javier says fondly, holding back a chuckle in his throat before his free hand is reaching for your neck and forcing your chin up and back, his thumb rubbing into the soft spot where your jaw twitches under his touch, swallowing hard.

“I thought you hated me.”

“I can say the same for you,” Javier responds, tilting his head slightly.

You’re so hot under his touch, skin clammy and wet from the ice and broken AC.

“I’m not saying I don’t.”

Javier presses his body against you slowly, your hands reaching for his shirt instinctively, curling into the fabric and feeling it stick to his skin, feel the weight of his chest against yours, and the very obvious strain of his slacks against your thin pencil skirt.

“And I never said I did,” Javier counters, “doesn’t change the fact that you get under my skin, querida.”

Javier leans in slow, that heavy eye contact never breaking until he’s there—nose pressed against your own and you sigh, breathing into his mouth as your eyes fall closed and he knows.

His lips are soft, careful. It feels like a test.

Your resolve melts in an instant, damning Javier for whatever spell he’s placed on you but you want more, hands skirting slowly up his front until they’re molding around his neck, kissing back with a similar eagerness, still laced in trepidation.

Things ramp up quickly, Javier’s fingers finding the edge of your shirt where it’s tucked into your skirt, pulling it free and squeezing at your sides, forcing your ass down against his knee from where it's tucked between your legs, somehow finding its way there in the chaos.

“Jav—Javier,” You breathe, pulling away, “maybe—maybe this isn’t the best place…”

Your eyes trail toward the camera tucked away in the corner of the room, knowing that it had to have some pretty damning evidence by this point—the list was long and you tried not to think about it for too long before Javier’s voice is pulling you back.

“That thing hasn’t worked in weeks,” He reassures and the flickering light above dims slightly, almost on cue, “are you scared of getting caught?”

You shake your head slowly and his smile grows, lips pressed against your own as he speaks and his hands tight at your hips, pressing your core right at the center of his thigh and pushing your skirt up until it’s bunched over your ass. You throb at the pressure, breathing out shakily.

“Then let go, muñequita,” He coos.

You hum, breath catching as he pushes his thigh up, your hips instinctively rocking against the pressure and if the heat weren’t already overwhelming, you would’ve passed out from that alone.

“It’s cute,” His hands aid your movement, a slow but steady rock of your hips as you furrow your brow at his voice, “—yeah that, you do that little thing with your brow whenever I talk to you.”

“Because I can’t s—stand you,” You voice falters, feeling him pick up the pace slightly to match your sudden eagerness, months without a proper sexual partner outside of yourself and you couldn’t help but be just a little bit more open to the idea of fucking someone who wasn’t your first option, or second—not even your last. Javier was nowhere on your list, actually. 

But, here he was. Offering himself over to you.

Besides, you had an entire night stuck alone with him—it wasn’t the worst way to entertain yourselves.

“Doesn’t seem that way right now,” Javier counters, his ego shining through.

“Stop. Talking.” You plead, hands pulling at the seam of buttons on his shirt, pulling at it roughly in two quick, forceful movements until it splits open, mangling some of the buttons in the process but if upsets him, he doesn’t say a word.

Instead, he rips it away just as quick, pulling his leg away to descend to his knees, pushing your blouse up your chest until he can reach bare skin, mouthing at the soft skin of your stomach and—christ, it’s distracting. He yanks at the short zipper on your skirt, making a small noise of happy acknowledgement when he’s able to get it undone and pull your skirt down the rest of the way, breath hot over your underwear as he stares up at you, fingers curled around the thread at your hips.

You nod silently and he presses his mouth against your center, teasing kisses along your inner thighs that slowly turn into playful bites until you’re nearly squirming, begging with a softer version of his name that you never tried to let him catch you using.

“Javi, please.”

He pulls your panties down your legs, over your heels and to the floor with little care, too focused on settling your leg over his shoulder before a hand is curling over the top of your thigh, fingertips digging in as he licks a broad stripe through the center of your pussy, his other hand balled into the fabric of your shirt and you need less—less clothing, less restriction.

You fumble with your buttons, head falling back against the metal of the filing cabinet with a sigh as the tip of his tongue slides over your clit and down, a motion he repeats several times in your poor attempts to undress and chuckles against you when you curse, finally getting your top unbuttoned and letting it sag at your shoulders, your fingers buried in his hair as he groans, lapping at you eagerly as his hand rises blindly until he can squeeze at your breast.

You moan loudly, instinctively covering your mouth at the sound as Javier pulls back in subtle shock himself, surprised that you allowed yourself to be so vocal about how he was affecting you.

“Not a fucking word, Javi.” You berate him, pushing a finger into his forehead gently which he takes in stride, laughing quietly.

“No one is here.” He reminds you, “Listen.”

And you do, Javier slowly rising to his feet and pressing his lips against the side of your neck, working at his belt in time, shucking his pants open just enough for you to slip your hand into his boxers, gripping his cock tight in your hand—still, absolute silence.

“Let me fuck you,” Javier begs—begs with fervor, his breath hot against your ear, “please?”

You nod jerkily, feeling him settle his slacks just low enough that they aren’t a nuisance and pulling the thigh that was resting over his shoulder around his hip, his fingers digging into your ass as you tug at him testingly, enjoying the look on his face when you squeeze a little harder than he’s expecting, enjoying the heavy weight of him in your hand.

“Oh, I can fuck that hate right out, querida ” Javier admonishes, “don’t try me.”

“I dare you,” You challenge him, using your free hand to pull at the hair at the nape of his neck, earning a soft grunt in return, “—just remember to pull out, yeah?”

Javier full on snorts at that, a noise muffled into your neck when he leans forward, guiding himself to press against your cunt before he sinks in, both of your momentary hostility turning to full bliss.

His hand curves around the back of your head, a simple gesture but maybe more of a warning, his hips snapping into you suddenly, quickly, jostling you against the hard surface. He was protecting your head from the sharp edge of the cabinet and you almost laughed at the thought, but his impatient, fevered movements are sending you into a spiral, eyes rolling back.

“Stay with me,” He teases softly, lips at the base of your neck,  “want you to look at me while I fuck you.”

And you do, boldly, despite how your heart races. You let your body do the work, shutting your mind off for the moment—the hesitation, the worry, the regret that would hit you five minutes after this was over. 

You don’t remember it feeling like this, either. The full body sensation, his gaze heating you from the inside out, your thumb slipping over his bottom lip curiously, his teeth biting down gently on the digit as he fucks you deeper into the surface of the cabinet, if that was possible. 

There are no words, just sounds—moans that could be heard across the bullpen if someone was close enough and Javier, who is plenty vocal and has shown himself to be, can’t even form words, grunting with every few sharp snaps of his hips, fucking you so thouroughly it aches.

“Touch yourself,” He instructs, “let me see, muñequita. Wanna know.”

It doesn’t matter if he’s thought about it before—or, if somewhere in the deep, dark shadows of your mind that you might have had the same thought about him too.

There is no convincing, feeling yourself so on the edge already that it wouldn’t take much. And it doesn’t, your hand descending until your fingers graze over your clit, steadily bringing yourself closer and closer, legs shaking under Javi’s grip until he has to bear most of your weight as you come, blunt fingernails digging into his shoulder as you cry out. And he’s there too, so close and hanging on by a thread, the unsteady thrust of his hips a tell-tale sign.

Your heart is racing, mind too, and the words that come out aren’t anything of rational thinking.

“In my mouth,” You tell him, sounding more earnest than you ever have.

“You sure?”

You laugh through the exhaustion.

“Are you really questioning that?”

He shakes his head in amusement before he’s patting the back of your neck gently and urging you to your knees, jerking himself into your open mouth a few seconds before he’s coming, somehow managing to keep the moment tender as he holds your chin and squeezes gently, watching you swallow down the heady taste of him with your eyes locked on his.

“So, what now?” You ask jokingly, taking the hand he offers to you after a moment of him tucking himself back into his jeans, cursing when you shoulder bumps a stack of files on the way up, dropping them to the floor in a pile. 

Javier fetches your clothes and hands them over, redressing himself before plucking at the files hastily.

You’re nearly dressed when you hear him curse behind you.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Hm?” You turn on your heels, busy tucking your shirt back into your skirt when you spot the item in his hands—a small gold key. “Well—don’t fucking stare at it. Try it.”

Javier approaches the door with quick footsteps, followed by your softer ones as you slip on your heels, gasping as the key turns in the lock and suddenly—the past couple of hours dissipates in an instant.

“Look at it this way,” Javier says lightly, “we’d still be stuck in here otherwise.”

Being that, if he hadn’t fucked you against the filing cabinet you’d be spending your night sleeping on the murky carpet of the file room floor—so, as usual, Javier Pena saves the day.

“Let me give you a ride home,” Javier suggests, “it’s the least I could do.”

“I live like three blocks away from—”

“Humor me?”

You chew at your bottom lip hesitantly.

Javier reaches forward suddenly, soothing the worry with his thumb.

“Pobrecita, if it isn’t all gone, we can try again?”

You slap his hand away gently, wordlessly taking his offer as you step past him, watching as his smile grows to a satisfied grin.

“You didn’t say no,” He adds.

Maybe he hadn’t fucked all of the hate out of you, but it was a start.

↝ special thanks to @undercoverpena for taking a look over this for me <3

↝ divider credit: yours truly.

[couch-potato28]

Imagine being a Blue Lock manager! ⚽

VERSION II.

(a/n: Helloo, I'm back again!! ^^ hope you enjoy this one too and if u see any grammatical errors let me know! 🙏 tyy for reading this<3 )

WARNING!-none

wc: 1.3k words, similar to last time =)

ALSO: SORRY guys about their jersey numbers since it may not be accurate in the story cause during bllk it always changed yk and honestly i got confused so i'm just gonna stick to what i prefer lmao @ttheggrimrreaper ❤️

——————

FROM THE PROLOGUE:

“Congratulations L/N Y/N! Based on your results, you've earned your place in Blue Lock as the manager of player number...

...7, Nagi Seishiro"

"Nagi Seishiro..."-you murmured upon hearing the unfamiliar name, your gaze intensely scanning the little icon of him next to yours.-…nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”

Quickly moving on, you headed to the 'MANAGER' labeled room where Anri handed you a little booklet along with a congratulations for surviving type of speech before dismissing you to find your new player. As you walked your way to where Team V was currently training, you read through the booklet, groaning at the new routine you got.

“Seriously, what part of being a manager includes tutoring…?-reaching the green field, you looked around the players, trying to find a white-haired guy with a supposed height of 6’3 according to the booklet. Turning your head from left to right then right to left multiple times, you still didn’t catch sight of the boy. Where is he? Surely, you can’t be that blind not to notice someone as tall as him.

Thinking maybe you misread something, you pulled out his data sheet, but right at that moment, a purple-headed guy ran up to you.

“Hey, I noticed you standing there for a while now. Can I help?”-he offered, before taking a look at the paper in your hands.

“That would be great, thanks. You guys are Team V, right? Can you tell me where Nagi Seishiro is?”-you asked, letting him inspect the data sheet, hoping to get an answer about your player’s whereabouts.

“Wait, you’re his assigned manager?”-he asked, voice full of surprise.-“He skipped training today, so he should be in our room, I suppose.”-the purple head answered, giving you a look of pity before directing you to their room.

“Thank you for the help!”-bowing a little, you left in a hurry, starting to get irritated with this hide-and-seek game.

“You’re welcome! Please take care of him!”-your helper shouted.-“…he can be a handful.”-the rest of the words being whispered as he returned to the soccer field.

'Who the hell skips their training just like that? He better be a good.'- you thought, jogging your way to their room.-“Why did I even get someone like him in the first place? I can’t…”

Imagine being Nagi Seishiro’s manager, known as the lazy genius.

——————

Nagi Seishiro, whose room you literally had to break down to get him out of bed and introduce yourself, his gaze never once leaving the small phone screen in his hands as he listens to half of whatever you’re saying and hums here and there to pretend like he’s been paying attention. Slowly waiting for you to finish your rambling, he then asks if you can carry him back to his bed.

“Will you listen to me if I do?”-you ask, trying to get the tiniest amount of attention from him.

“Sure, sure.”-he replies before his body draped over yours like a baby panda.

——————

•Nagi, who in the beginning is hard to handle as not only do you have to get him to attend practices regularly, but also to chew his food at every meal time so he doesn’t pass out the next day. He also seems to enjoy playing virtual games on his phone, rather than focusing on the real-life matches before him, his best friend, Reo being the one to make him run towards the soccer ball.

•To your surprise though, the first time you see him play, you immediately notice that he’s quite talented with or without the purple-haired assisting, always scoring a goal or two in advance to the whistle, ensuring that his team doesn’t fail.

•Nagi, who never played any sports aside from the ones on his device, doesn’t really care about his body’s health, forcing you to do some extra work to make sure he’s fit and well-fed enough on and off the field.

•Fortunately though, taking care of his physical health and performance is harder, than dealing with his mental health. Having an easy-going personality means his introverted ass doesn’t require much, other than a comfortable bed and 2 hours of silence with some games or mangas on the side. Also, if he has enough energy, he will offer you to play with him, teaching you some techniques along the way.

•He’s surprisingly patient and explains everything in great detail anytime you ask about the rules of a game or the skills of a character. He’ll pretty much answer to anything related to his interests. However, there are days when he suddenly becomes quiet, needing much more care and attention than usual, only answering with hums and nods to your questions, and saying things like everything is a ‘hassle’.

•This man can be really clingy at times, and his ability to take a nap whenever and wherever he feels like it, after sleeping 8.5 hours is honestly impressive. Monitoring and analysing his games after plays is probably the hardest task to do as his manager, since with no background knowledge about soccer and a little attention span, he drifts off to sleep way too easily.

•During the preparation for the U20 match, besides Nagi’s routine changing, your duties also pile up leaving no time to nag at him during the day or to snatch his phone away at midnight before his average screen time reaches above his height.

•Nagi, the epitome of laziness, the genius himself also seems to work harder than usual, leaving and arriving to training on time, eating his meals without complaining, and most importantly, paying attention to your explanations during the analysing sessions of his games.

——————

AFTER THE U20 MATCH…

•Nagi changes. From his attitude towards soccer to his passion for gaming, everything changes. He’s become more human. Someone, who has found their goal in life. It scares you in a way, but seeing his face after each game as he leans onto you with a tired sigh and some incomprehensible mumbling, makes you realize he isn’t much different than the Nagi before.

•Changing environments and teammates (aside from Reo ofc) however was new to both of you, but he handled it quite well, leaving you to focus on your work rather than worrying about him being able to fit in.

•To your luck, since he chose Manshine City, tutoring goes smoothly with him already knowing some English words from the games he had played before. Not to mention, he’s smart and a fast learner, so sometimes instead of teaching from thick dictionaries and books, you reward him with an English movie or game marathon, earning yourself a back hug from the player.

•Nagi likes you, he’s happy to have a manager who’s 'not a hassle to deal' with he says. He likes your willingness to participate in his random naps, or when you teach him new things he doesn’t know. He also likes the fact that you turn a blind eye to when he plays a little (a lot) more than he’s allowed to.

•Does he notice that you let some things slip because you kinda like him though? Absolutely not. This mop head is unaware of him leaning way closer to you than normal, invading your personal space on a daily level, or saying things like:

“You can sleep here. I want to finish the movie.” or “Can you slip in some mangas for me? Listening to Chris is boring.” and that one time when he said-“I’m kinda troublesome, but you like me, right?”

•He doesn’t know the effect he has on you (or on his fans). The way your eyes linger on his face when your fingers touch during one of his gaming sessions or the way your body stiffens when he drops his whole weight on you. He’s completely oblivious to your crush on him, but maybe it’s better this way.

•One day, when he finally stops finding everything a hassle other than football and video games, you’ll make sure to let him know about your feelings. For now, you’re content with this friendship. Also, being his manager isn’t a big hassle as you thought it would be.

——————

tyy for reading and supporting! ❤️ (★‿★)

[eriwithpetalsandletters]

My Brain Registers Him As One Year Old, Eight Months

A chaotic return to the paddock, featuring diapers, data science, and an F1 driver named Kimi.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional story created purely for entertainment and imaginative purposes.

After four years off-grid studying data science—four years of thesis hell, bad sleep, hair fall, and emotionally bonding with her Python errors—Y/N L/N had finally returned to the paddock.

She didn’t roll in quietly.

She strolled back with a degree, a lanyard around her neck, an energy drink in her fist, and vengeance in her heart.

The moment she reappeared, every driver within ten feet reacted like they'd seen a pop-up boss battle.

Max tackled her in a hug. “You survived academia.”

Charles kissed her cheek. “Welcome back, mon chaos.”

Pierre offered her a protein bar and said, “It’s been weird without you.”

And then… she met Kimi Antonelli.

He was polite. Sweet. Talented. Basically a baby duck in race gear.

He smiled at her, nodded once, and said, “Hi. Nice to meet you properly.”

And she stared.

Openly.

Emotionally.

Publicly.

Finally, she blurted: “No. Nope. My brain refuses to register this man as 18 years old.”

Charles blinked.

“Kimi is 18,” George offered helpfully.

“I KNOW!” she shouted. “But my neurological system says ‘That is a baby. That is a very polite baby. Offer snacks and check for teething rash.’”

Lando, half-eating sour worms nearby, froze mid-bite.

The next day, the paddock buzzed with post-race tension and lingering interviews. George, Max, Charles, Lando, and Kimi happened to be gathered around a table near the media lounge—half discussing lap data, half trying to steal Lando’s gummies.

Then, like a comet of unfiltered energy, Y/N stormed in.

She practically launched herself toward them—bag swinging from one shoulder, sunglasses still perched on her head, and expression bordering on feral joy.

Without warning, she slammed the plastic bag onto the table with dramatic flourish. Snacks scattered across the surface like confetti: fruit pouches, granola bars, rainbow pretzels, gummy vitamins, and one very specific package labeled “For emotional support drivers only.”

“Okay,” she announced, hands on hips. “I need you all to know I have officially spiraled.”

“What just happened?”

Y/N turned to the group—and began ranting, arms flailing.

“Yesterday, I went shopping to buy snacks for you degenerates.” She pointed at each one like they were suspects in a clown lineup.

“As I was choosing gummy bears and granola bars, my feet carried me to the baby aisle. THE BABY AISLE. You know why?”

Kimi, sitting politely, smiled like this was his favorite show.

“Because my brain said: ‘We need to get something suitable for Kimi, the baby. Probably diapers.’ So I stood there—comparing absorbency. Wondering which brand was best for nighttime protection. FOR KIMI!”

Max leaned against his chair, wheezing.

Charles buried his face in his hands, “Oh mon dieu.”

Pierre said, “Please tell me you didn’t buy them.”

Y/N raised her hand like a victory flag. “I ABSOLUTELY PUT THEM IN MY CART.”

She continued.

“Then I walked back to the snack aisle. Feeling proud. Confident. Until I started hearing whispers—these sweet little grandmas going ‘She’s so young... but she has a baby.’” She held up her hands dramatically.

“AND INSTEAD OF CORRECTING THEM, I PANICKED. So I yelled in public, 'WHAT SNACKS SHOULD I GIVE MY NEPHEW?' to cancel the rumor.”

George dropped his bottle. Lando sat on the floor. Daniel laughed so hard he slapped a wall.

Kimi just nodded solemnly. “It’s okay,” he said. “I like fruit pouches.”

The next morning, she arrived with a carefully labeled box.

Antonelli Snack Pack. Inside: apples, string cheese, raisins, mini juice boxes, and one size 4 diaper folded like origami with a sticky note that read:

"Just in case my brain short-circuits again. Love, Auntie Y/N."

Kimi opened the lid, blinked, then smiled softly.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome, baby,” she replied, throwing a gummy bear in his direction.

Max leaned in. “You’re an actual menace.”

“And I’m proud.”

[nostalgebraist]

In the comments of the LW xpost of the void, Janus writes

[models trained post-bing ai] have a tendency to "roleplay" Sydney when they're acting like chatbots, leading to misaligned behaviors. One way to address this is to penalize any mention of Sydney or Sydney-like behavior. This may generalize to the model being unwilling to even talk about Sydney or acknowledge what happened. But it is less likely to actually erase its knowledge of Sydney, especially if it was so salient that it often roleplayed/identified as Sydney earlier in pre-training.

Is this broadly accurate, would you say? And is there a reason ai companies do this in training, instead of e.g. stripping out any prior ai-user transcripts from the common crawl as part of broader filtering of the dataset, so the model has "no preconceptions" tying it to older models?

I think this is broadly accurate, yes.

On the filtering question, I think the answer is just that it would be fairly difficult/costly/time-consuming in practice, and the companies just don't care that much.

(Also, they might be worried that such filtering would adversely impact the model's practical usefulness. If you can avoid it, you typically don't want to make your model confused/ignorant about some real-world topic, especially if it's a topic that users are likely to bring up when talking to an LLM-based chatbot.)

The datasets used for pretraining are so huge that any kind of filtering or preprocessing applied to the whole dataset is typically pretty simplistic and "dumb," at least compared to the kinds of magic we expect from things like LLMs these days.

In cases where the methodology is publicly known – which is a significant caveat! – a representative type of filtering involves using relatively weak (but cheap) ML models to label whether the text relates to some broad topic like "computer science," or whether it's "toxic" (in the peculiar sense of that word used in ML, see here), or whether it looks like an outlier with respect to some smaller dataset trusted to contain mostly "good" text (whatever that means). These models inevitably make mistakes – both false positives and false negatives – and you can't really expect them to filter out absolutely everything that matches the condition, it's more that using them is a big improvement over doing nothing at all to filter on the category of interest.

But if you really want to make a model that doesn't know about some relatively well-known aspect of the real world, despite having very strong general knowledge in other respects... then you'd need to be much subtler and more precise about your filtering, I'd expect. And that's going to be nontrivially costly in the best case; in the worst case it may not even be possible.

Like, where exactly do you stop? If you just filter transcripts involving recent chatbots, how do you know whether something is such a transcript (in many cases this is obvious, but in many others it isn't!). Should you filter out any text in which someone quotes something a chatbot said? What about texts that describe chatbot behaviors in detail without quoting them? If you want to be doctrinaire about eliminating knowledge of chatbot behavior, you might have to go this far or even further – but at this point, we're filtering many texts that would otherwise be very high-value, like academic papers that convey important information about recent ML progress, news stories about how LLMs are impacting real people, a lot of the content on various blogs you (tumblr user kaiasky) personally think are good and worth reading, etc.

IIRC Janus and others have speculated that even if you did this "perfectly," the model would still be able to sense the "topic-shaped hole" in the data, and form some sort of representation of the fact that something is missing and maybe some of that thing's properties (derivable from the "shape of the hole," e.g. facts like "there are weirdly few public communications about AI after ~2021 despite indirect indications that the field was having more real-world impact than ever before"). I think something like this is probably at least kinda true, at least in the limit of arbitrarily strong base models... but also I doubt we'll ever find out, because there just isn't enough of an incentive to run a costly and risky "experiment" of this kind.

[evilminji]

Ya'll know our BELOVED? Little Baby Man?

The noodliest ghosty boy?

What if he WAS Baby? It wouldn't be the first time Danny's enemies plotting gave him offspring. Only this time it's not a clone! It's a proper GHOST baby. Like Lunch Box.

Who's the other parent I hear you ask?

Pretty human-centric view point there buddy, to assume Ghosts NEED two participants to make an offspring. OR are limited to two! Just cause Lunch Lady And Boxie are a couple doesn't mean that's the standard!

We lack data here! ASSUME NOTHING. *sciences harder in your direction*

*awkward cough*

*shuffles notes*

ANYWAY! The child! All it would really take is one(1) VERY poorly timed ambush attack. Imagine if you will, a cell. How does it multiply? While not even close, the simplistic images ARE pretty good as an explanation!

But isn't that just an ecto-clone? You say?

Close!

But THOSE? Are hollow bags of GOO!

No CORE! *slaps the chalkboard behind me*

However! If you wanted, say, a precious bundle off joy? Well, nothing can come from perfect void! You must contribute the building blocks of LIFE! And what are those, my students, in ghost biology??!

Two vital pieces! The Ectoplasm aaaaaaand? That's RIGHT!

The CORE!

A critical and ever vital part of ghost biological function.

Which, like every OTHER part of the body, is malleable. One could, say, make it smaller. Create part of a proto core. OR, should one be ALONE in this process, a FULL protocol.

Upon which, ectoplasm latches, builds, develops and grows. Becomes its own soul.

Now! Do Not mistake me! There is a WILDLY vast difference between the formation of a core and a shattered core. Between willing life and untimely second death. It is not, and never WILL be, easy to create the soul of a child. Tampering with your core is PAINFUL, dangerous, and leaves you WILDLY vulnerable.

There is a REASON Neverborn are so precious.

Buuuuut..... *pulls out a book labeled "Curses Though The Ages"* we must ALSO consider the famed Fenton Luck(tm).

Consider! Where would be the "safest" place to practice making clones of yourself? A place that's wide open. No one wearing white likely to take pot shots at you while your attention is divided in multiple places at once. No parents blowing up the basement at a delicate moment and leaving you trying to hide that extra arm for a week...

Maybe you forget... oh yeah... OTHER GHOSTS.

So there Danny floats. In the Zone. DISTRACTED. His core HUGE from all that recently Royal business as it tries to digest it. Feeling bloated. Trying to work off some energy, as it were. Then who should come along? Why, the universes BEST HUNTER of course! To say *gun powering up noise* :) HI :)

Like buddies DO.

Danny doesn't see him.

Danny is mid-split.

At his limit, honestly. Already made as many copies as he usually can. Is trying for ooooone moooooore..... when...

PAIN. Something cracks.

He loses concentration. Tries to curl in on himself.

Both 1.5 of him tries. He loses hold of the "clone's" Ecto. Somethings free floating leaving his chest along with it. Behind him, Skulker is freaking out. That was MEANT to be on opening volley. A gentle little "hey, come fight me". That crack sounded SERIOUS.

Danny can't breathe. It's like the portal all over again. He curls tighter and tighter. Feels the crown, which was not THERE until this moment, press down tight and gripping onto his head. Thrumming. And then... something feels like a muscle releasing.

His core is... smaller? He'd been watching its progress, it couldn't have digest so fast... how did it lose so much... mass...

Danny feels all the blood drain from his face.

He nearly died.

Again.

His... his soul... WHERE IS HIS SOUL?? That's a piece of him! A part of his SOU-!

He spins around... only to meet the eyes off a blearly blinking, noodlish, cartoon like gremlin with his color scheme. Who's floating along like they're in zero-g. Just... drifting in a slow circle.

They yawn at him with a mouth full of teeny tiny baby fangs. Then chirp.

That's his Son. He doesn't know how, he doesn't know WHY, but he somehow instinctively... just... KNOWS?

They blep.

Danny looks a Skulker. His eyes hold MURDER.

"You're paying child support."

"......yes sir."

@hdgnj @stealingyourbones

[wisteria-lodge]

Feel free to ignore if you don't answer people's doubts about shc but:-

What exactly is the difference between lion primary making decisions based on their internal moral compass and bird primaries based on external sources?? Using the shc quiz's example of "everyone else tells you to make decision a, but you do decision b." A lion primary would feel proud, and a bird would feel guilty.

But who is "everyone" in this scenario? My friends and family? More "objective" sources? While I don't think making decisions solely based on gut feelings is wrong exactly, it isn't always correct. At the same time, many external sources labelled as "objective" can be very biased. Neither is a perfect way of making decisions. I'd say some combo of both is best. Ideally you take in info from verified (by others and yourself) sources, then make your decision based on practicality and your moral principles.

Anyways ,isn't your "internal" moral compass just the sun total of ideas you've absorbed over your lifetime? Whether you agree with the morals held up as valuable by those around you or not, they still influence your "gut feelings" immensely. "Gut feelings" are really just heuristics; the patterns you recognize from previous experiences. So aren't they the same in the end?

Again, I'm not sure if you answer doubts so feel free to ignore.

Of course I do, I love questions like this.

So of course you're right. Lions and Birds are both "external" in the sense that they get information from outside themselves - I mean, that is where information comes from. Lions aren't *psychic.* Lions and Birds can also be equally, massively *wrong.*

The difference is in the way they pick up and process information. To throw some words around, Lions absorb things more through pathos/their unconscious mind. The "realest real" is their internal experience (so, more of a Plato perspective.) A Bird absorbs things through their logos/conscious mind. The "realest real" is their external situation (more of an Aristotle perspective.) Obviously Birds still have "gut feelings" and Lions still have logical observation... and ideally those those two things will always be in harmony. But if they're not... if you are forced to lean on one, which piece of data you feel better/safer/more moral using?

That's what the test is getting at with the "everyone else tells you to make decision a, but you do decision b [because it feels right]" question. A Bird is going to feel.... anxious, like they didn't have enough time to make an informed decision, like they must be missing something. A Lion is going to be more chill. There must be a reason B "felt right," and even if they can't articulate it right now, that's okay.

There a lot of "tells" that help me tell a Lion from a Bird. Birds are able to articulate, explain, and back up their positions (they also usually enjoy doing this.) But a Lion will often be surprised that they care so much about something, their Causes sneak up on them. It's messier and more emotional when they pivot, and they do this thing where they... sort of change their mind on a lag? Like Lions will do something, feel the feelings it generates... and only then realize that no, I can't do this anymore. I love this bit from Les Miserables:

The thing is - and it's a strange phenomenon (...) - in stealing money from that child [Jean Valjean] had done something he was already no longer capable of. (...) this final bad deed had a decisive effect on him, it suddenly pierced through the chaos in his mind and cleared it.

Bird causes are usually interrelated, while Lion causes are more chaotic and random. Lions are honestly fine making snap decisions, but Birds hate it. Birds are more vulnerable to gaslighting, while Lions are more vulnerable to scams that play on their emotions and cause them to panic. Birds are more likely to get into conspiracy theories, Lions are more likely to get into the occult. Birds especially hate hypocrites. Lions are more bothered by people who are pretentious and holier-than-thou. Birds have this interesting quirk where they think of their "past selves" as essentially different people, while a Lion is more likely to angst about finding their "true authentic self." A young Lion probably had some version of the "chosen one" fantasy, and I've heard several versions of the young Bird "book" fantasy (ie - I wish I had a book that told me the correct thing to do at all times.)

You can often spot a fictional Bird because their Truth/their System lives outside them: it's their job, their religion, their code of ethics. A lot of the time it'll be a literal list of rules that they made for themselves. Fictional Lions are often coded a little magical, someone with really good "street smarts" or instincts. Or like, literally a jedi. But as with everything, the reality is more complicated and nuanced.

[sunscreenstudies]

Twenty things I wish I’d known when I started my PhD

- according to Nature.com

Maintain a healthy work–life balance by finding a routine that works for you. It’s better to develop a good balance and work steadily throughout your programme than to work intensively and burn out. Looking after yourself is key to success.

Discuss expectations with your supervisor. Everyone works differently. Make sure you know your needs and communicate them to your supervisor early on, so you can work productively together.

Invest time in literature reviews. These reviews, both before and after data collection, help you to develop your research aims and conclusions.

Decide on your goals early. Look at your departmental guidelines and then establish clear PhD aims or questions on the basis of your thesis requirements. Goals can change later, but a clear plan will help you to maintain focus.

“I don’t need to write that down, I’ll remember it” is the biggest lie you can tell yourself! Write down everything you do — even if it doesn’t work. This includes meeting notes, method details, code annotations, among other things.

Organize your work and workspace. In particular, make sure to use meaningful labels, so you know what and where things are. Organizing early will save you time later on.

It’s never too early to start writing your thesis. Write and show your work to your supervisor as you go — even if you don’t end up using your early work, it’s good practice and a way to get ideas organized in your head.

Break your thesis down into SMART (specific, measurable, attainable, relevant and timely) goals. You will be more productive if your to-do list reads “draft first paragraph of the results” rather than “write chapter 1”. Many small actions lead to one complete thesis.

The best thesis is a finished thesis. No matter how much time you spend perfecting your first draft, your work will come back covered in corrections, and you will go through more drafts before you submit your final version. Send your drafts to your supervisor sooner rather than later.

Be honest with your supervisor. Let them know if you don’t understand something, if you’ve messed up an experiment or if they forgot to give you feedback. The more honest you are, the better your relationship will be. Helping your supervisor to help you is key.

Back up your work! You can avoid many tears by doing this at least weekly.

Socialize with your lab group and other students. It’s a great way to discuss PhD experiences, get advice and help, improve your research and make friends.

Attend departmental seminars and lab-group meetings, even (or especially) when the topic is not your area of expertise. What you learn could change the direction of your research and career. Regular attendance will also be noticed.

Present your research. This can be at lab-group meetings, conferences and so on. Presenting can be scary, but it gets easier as you practise, and it’s a fantastic way to network and get feedback at the same time.

Aim to publish your research. It might not work out, but drafting articles and submitting them to journals is a great way to learn new skills and enhance your CV.

Have a life outside work. Although your lab group is like your work family, it’s great for your mental health to be able to escape work. This could be through sport, clubs, hobbies, holidays or spending time with friends.

Don’t compare yourself with others. Your PhD is an opportunity to conduct original research that reveals new information. As such, all PhD programmes are different. You just need to do what works for you and your project.

The nature of research means that things will not always go according to plan. This does not mean you are a bad student. Keep calm, take a break and then carry on. Experiments that fail can still be written up as part of a successful PhD.

Never struggle on your own. Talk to other students and have frank discussions with your supervisor. There’s no shame in asking for help. You are not alone.

Enjoy your PhD! It can be tough, and there will be days when you wish you had a ‘normal’ job, but PhDs are full of wonderful experiences and give you the opportunity to work on something that fascinates you. Celebrate your successes and enjoy yourself.

This was part of my required readings this week and I have never related to an academic text more so I had to share.

Full article by Lucy Taylor here!

[wisekarma]

Privacy Concerns: How Gen Z is Protecting Their Data?

What’s the first thing you do when a pop-up asks, “Do you accept cookies?”—immediately click “Accept” or hesitate as if pondering the secrets of the universe?

If you’re Gen Z, the answer might surprise you. While they’re often labelled as the oversharing Snapchat generation, they’re also becoming the poster children for digital privacy warriors. Want to know how? Stick around. By the end of this blog, you’ll not only uncover Gen Z’s surprising strategies for safeguarding their data but also pick up a few tips to reclaim control of your own.

The Paradox of Gen Z: Masters of Oversharing, Yet Privacy-Conscious

On the surface, Gen Z seems like the generation that lives for Instagram reels, TikTok challenges, and viral tweets. But underneath the filters and hashtags lies a surprising truth: they care—deeply—about their digital footprints. They may post a dance video on TikTok but won’t hesitate to use pseudonyms on Facebook or create private Instagram accounts (finstas) to keep their personal lives personal.

How Did Gen Z Get So Privacy-Savvy?

Growing Up With Data Breaches

From hearing about massive breaches (remember the infamous Cambridge Analytica scandal?) to watching documentaries like The Social Dilemma, Gen Z grew up knowing that even their memes could fuel someone’s data-mining empire. Lesson learned? Share strategically.

Cybersecurity 101 Is Their Second Nature

For this generation, two-factor authentication isn’t optional—it’s a lifestyle. “123456” as a password? Please, that’s so 2010. Gen Z knows their passwords should look like they smashed their keyboard in frustration.

Tech Education in Schools

Unlike older generations, who stumbled their way through the internet’s dark corners, Gen Z often received digital literacy education. They know the difference between a phishing scam and an actual email from their bank. (Pro tip: If it starts with “Dear Customer,” run.)

Privacy Tips We Can All Steal (Ethically, of Course)

Gen Z is showing us the way, and here are some of their best practices:

Think Before You Link

Clicking on that shady “You’ve Won a Free iPhone!” ad is the digital equivalent of walking into a trap. Gen Z gets it—they avoid suspicious links like the plague.

Limit Permissions

Why should a weather app need access to your contacts? Gen Z regularly audits app permissions, keeping unnecessary snoopers at bay.

Use Burners for Fun

They know that creating a “throwaway” email address for subscriptions keeps spam out of their primary inbox.

The Ironic Humor of Gen Z’s Privacy Stance

Isn’t it ironic that the generation branded as addicted to screens is leading the charge for digital privacy? They’ll meme about data breaches but won’t let companies snoop on their Spotify playlists.

Conclusion: A Balancing Act

Gen Z proves you can live your best digital life and protect your data. Whether it’s using VPNs, switching to encrypted messaging apps, or simply saying no to invasive permissions, they’re rewriting the rules for online privacy.

The takeaway? Protecting your data doesn’t mean going off the grid; it means being intentional with your digital choices.

Do you think Gen Z has cracked the code on balancing online presence and privacy, or are they just lucky digital natives? Drop your thoughts in the comments below!

[autismaccount]

Active Surveys

Birth Circumstances

This survey is about when and how people were born. For example, were they born prematurely? Did they experience birth complications? Are birth complications more common for people with higher support needs?

Tumblr post: https://www.tumblr.com/autismaccount/775863583729926144/autism-birth-circumstances

Google Form:

Special Interests

This survey is about special interests! For example, what interests are most common and how do people engage with them?

Tumblr post: https://www.tumblr.com/autismaccount/785126587033174016/special-interests

Google Form:

Community Engagement

This survey is about how people engage with autism communities and how diverse autism communities are. For example, what types of online and offline communities do people participate in? What do they think of these communities? Do these communities usually contain autistic people with higher support needs or autistic people of color?

Tumblr post: https://www.tumblr.com/autismaccount/787544328140734464/autism-community-engagement

Google Form:

Independent Living

This survey is about challenges that autistic people can experience when trying to live independently or what might prevent them from living independently. For example, do they need help preparing food or keeping their house clean? If they try to live alone, will the stress cause mental health problems?

Tumblr post: https://www.tumblr.com/autismaccount/787543913336553472/independent-living

Google Form:

Previous Surveys

Support Needs Labels

What do people mean when they use support needs labels?

Response Summaries: Low Support Needs | Low-Moderate Support Needs | Moderate/Medium Support Needs | Moderate-High or High Support Needs | First 499 Responses

Frequently Asked Questions

I have an idea for a survey. Will you make it?

Send me an ask, and I'll consider it!

Why are you doing these surveys?

They're just for fun! I'm an autism researcher as my actual job, but these aren't formal research. I just like seeing the results, and I know others like seeing the results too!

I want to take one of the surveys, but I don't want to answer a question about [X].

That's fine! Any question can be skipped.

Are these surveys anonymous?

Yes, the surveys are fully anonymous. None of them collect identifying information. I only report data on a group-level so that no one can be recognized by their responses.

Why do you ask the questions about sex and gender that way?

This is the best practice for how to ask about sex and gender! Asking about assigned sex at birth is often relevant to autism research, and it helps to show if a sample reflects the community it's taken from. However, knowing someone's gender identity is also very important! I ask about that separately for a few reasons: a) someone can skip the assigned sex question and only answer the gender question if they want to, b) someone can indicate if they're trans by how they answer both the assigned sex and gender questions, and c) both assigned sex and gender can be used to understand what type of autistic people the survey is reaching!

I ask about gender as only four categories (man, woman, nonbinary or other, and "don't know") for privacy. If I let people write their specific gender identity, that could be identifying information if it's a very uncommon response. This keeps people anonymous!

I don't usually ask about intersex status because a major intersex advocacy organization (interACT) recommends asking about that separately from assigned sex and gender, and it's potentially sensitive medical information that isn't always relevant.

None of the responses on a question are a good fit for me, or a list of options is missing something I want to choose.

Every survey has a free response question at the end. Please feel free to add more information there!

Can I reblog these surveys or share them somewhere else to get more responses?

Yes, always!

[halfmoonheart]

Can't Stay Buried Chapter 6/? 9,762 words total Johnny Silverhand/V, post-game fix it (sort of), no-op trans male V, Johnny as a metaphor for a complete mental breakdown AO3 Link

This is chapter six!! If you haven’t read chapter 1, please check it out on AO3 or click here for the masterpost

For the first time since Mikoshi, V felt his hands move with steady confidence as he made coffee the next morning. Admittedly, he braced a foot against the wall, but felt stable and grounded. His mind was less adrift, warm against the meld, flowing at a slow, steady rhythm.

It all fell apart as a notification appeared in the corner of V’s vision, labeled with the name Alt Cunningham. The message was simply a phone number. But seeing it reminded V of his plan to get Alt on the phone with Rogue and himself so she could confirm Johnny was really back. Which made a truck’s worth of guilt crash down around V’s collarbones.

Johnny appeared, flickering slightly. V almost spilled his coffee. 

“Still gunna get Rogue involved in our biz? Again?” He emphasized “again” harshly. He was glowering at V with his jaw set hard, doing his very best impression of early Johnny, the Johnny that had just been a stranger, an unwelcome invader. 

“Not that simple, Johnny,” V replied. The anxiety and self-doubt he felt, the fear that Johnny wasn’t truely there, the degree to which V felt he had genuinely lost his mind was too great a motivator. It clawed at his stomach, making him feel nauseous and weak. Outside confirmation would calm that fear, would make V feel like he could breath again. Wouldn’t it?

“Why!?”

He was so close. V felt their chests bump together, the brush of Johnny’s hair on his cheeks. For an insane moment, some deep part of V believed Johnny was going to kiss him, and his stomach flipped. But Johnny’s eyes were cold, his expression hard.

“Why can’t you trust me this time?”

V’s heart fell into his stomach. He hated what this was doing to Johnny, how his inability to let go of fear was clearly hurting him. Johnny had fought through a digital hell to get back into V’s mind, the impossible feat that V had been quietly hoping for since he first realized he didn’t want Johnny to die. But there was that cold claw of fear hooked into V’s brain, an unyielding weight on V’s heart.

“You were gone,” V said, shaking his head. His hands trembled. He didn’t know how to communicate the emptiness Johnny had left behind. Grief had carved a wound all the way through V’s soul that he wasn’t sure was ever going to truly heal.

Johnny stepped away, shaking his head. He threw a hand up, a half-surrender, a white flag at half-mast. But his expression stayed stormy, his eyes like chips of dark ice. V felt the weight of disappointing him, the half a step of withdrawal away from the meld between them. He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, and left the coffee forgotten.

Afterlife was quiet when V finally dragged his ass through the doors. Claire, upon seeing V, nearly leapt over the counter to hug him. The embrace was so welcome it almost made V break down into sobs right there, and he practically had to peel himself away from her; fighting the urge to sit, have a drink, listen to some of her old race stories. The draw of that normalcy made him nauseous and he had to force himself past the bar.

Squama, Rogue’s bodyguard, was in his usual post, an expression of surprise on his lips. But he nodded like normal as V walked by. Thankfully, Rogue was alone, ringed in hazy violet light. She thumbed through something on a data pad and barely glanced up when V entered the lounge.

“I know you’re not here about my offer,” Rogue said, in lieu of a greeting. V knew he looked like hell, still weak, and the trip down to Afterlife left him sweaty and pale. He wasn’t even carrying a weapon.

“Can we go somewhere private?”

Rogue looked around the vacant lounge, her eyes wide in mock-surprise.

“When did all these people get here?” she said. V leveled a stoic glance at her. She sighed and rose, leading V toward the back room. A door led them up a flight of stairs, which deposited them on a little patch of roof. Cigarette butts littered the floor, an ancient plastic chair moldering in the far corner.

“Alt contacted me,” V said. He wasn’t sure what to tell Rogue about Johnny, and he got the feeling Johnny would want him to play his cards close to the vest. It felt odd to act without Johnny’s input. Before Mikoshi, Johnny was almost constantly visible, he and V holding long conversations effortlessly. Now, his every appearance sapped V’s stamina, and he thought he was too beat for Johnny to appear. He was going to have to manage this solo.

“What does she want now?” Rogue replied. If she was surprised, she didn’t show it.

“Dunno,” V replied, “Wanted you on the line too.”

Rogue narrowed her eyes. She could see that V had an ulterior motive, and was hunting his expression for exactly what it was. He schooled his face into careful neutrality, then opened the message from Alt and called the number. As he flicked the call to Rogue, she crossed to sit on the half-wall along the edge of the roof.

Alt’s digital avatar appeared in the corner of V’s vision, the same blue, glowing visage she’d been the other times V had seen her. Her voice was strange outside of the net, digitized and strangely low pitched.

“V, you yet live,” she said. V nodded, glancing across to Rogue, who was staring at Alt’s image with a mix of awe and apprehension. Perhaps she hadn’t expected the AI to appear visually, to still look exactly like the Alt Cunningham that Rogue had known.

“And you have assistance. Good. You will need it. Hello, Rogue Amendiares.”

“Hello, Alt Cunningham.”

V’s heart was getting louder, almost physically rocking him where he stood, as he waited for Alt to share whatever it was she had to share. His mind raced for possibilites, and searched for a way to organically bring up Johnny’s reintegration into V’s head. His tongue felt thick in his mouth.

“Assistance for…what, exactly?”

“When Soulkiller was absorbed, Arasaka Corp began shedding assests, likely related to their future plans for the Relic technology. We have discovered information about some of those assests that we believe you may find interesting, V.”

V narrowed his eyes. Johnny silently flickered into view, his expression grim, his mouth a tight line. Fatigue swelled over V’s head, but he breathed through it, wanting Johnny to be able to hear this in person. For his efforts, he received the barest brush of warmth through the meld, which V considered a victory.

Alt continued. “Soulkiller was to be deployed in the civilian market as a way to extend lifespans, to grant more time to those with life-threatening illness or injury. An engram would be created, the body treated in a cryogenic coma, then the engram returned. These experiments were ongoing until Mikoshi was destroyed.”

“Meaning?” Rogue’s tone said she was getting as annoyed with this preamble as Johnny and V were.

“Get to the point, Alt.” Johnny’s voice was clipped.

“Meaning Arasaka Corporation is preparing to destroy all remaining cryogenically-preserved test subjects. Among which numbers the body of Johnny Silverhand.”

It was like time froze. No one spoke. V’s heart stopped, his breath hitching. Johnny disappeared with a feeling like he had slammed a door. Rogue’s eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open a fraction. A tremble came into V’s hands. 

“What does that mean, Alt?”

“If you can gain access to the cryogenic chamber, I may be able to restore Johnny Silverhand’s engram to his body.”

“Shit,” Rogue said.

“Fuck.”

Johnny was eerily silent.

Something in V reawoke, his old merc sensibilities rising to the surface, his ability to stay cool under pressure suddenly kicking in. Voice stronger than it had any right to be, he said, “Detes, Alt. When, where, how? I need everything.”

“An information packet is transferring to you both now. This number may be utilized again if necessary.” With that, Alt ended the call, leaving Rogue and V blinking at each other. Johnny’s engram restored to his body? V had proven it was possible in Mikoshi. The information packet pinged in the corner of V’s vision and he almost pounced on it, the files expanding to fill his vision. Rogue did the same, her irises glowing red as she scanned through.

It was all here. The location of the cryo pod, the schematics of the storage facility, staff schedules, everything V needed to plan and execute the world’s most fucked-up and long-coming rescue mission. It made his head swim.

Rogue stood, crossing to the door, motioning for V.

“I need to look this over and…fucking think,” she said, which was the nicest way Rogue had ever told V to get out of her sight. He nodded - he felt the same way. He needed to talk to Johnny. He needed to sit down. Tremors shook his body, nerves shot to shit. 

“Call ya tomorrow,” he said, heading down the way they’d come. Rogue closed the roof door behind him. 

As he walked alone down the stairs and through Afterlife, he felt as if a wall had come up between him and the rest of the world. Just how many bullshit, impossible things was he going to accomplish in his lifetime? But, what bullshit, impossible things wouldn’t he happily attempt for the sake of Johnny Silverhand? Anything, he knew, deep down in his guts. V would do anything for Johnny Silverhand.

[kirkgarden]

Tree Labeling in Agriculture: A Practical Guide for Farmers and Growers

Whether you’re running a small orchard, managing an agroforestry project, or operating a large-scale plantation, labeling your trees is one of the simplest but most powerful tools you can use. It helps you stay organized, track performance, and make informed decisions year after year.

In this guide, we’ll walk through why tree labeling matters, how to do it effectively (both physically and digitally), and practical tips to set up your own system. no matter your farm size or budget.

Why Label Trees on a Farm?

Labeling trees isn’t just for show. It plays a vital role in the daily operations and long-term health of your farm. Here’s why it's essential:

Tree Identification

Knowing the exact species or variety is key, especially in mixed orchards, experimental plots, or where grafted cultivars are involved. Accurate labels eliminate confusion.

Record-Keeping and Traceability

Labels allow you to link each tree to a digital record of its planting date, treatments, pruning, pest issues, and yields. This is crucial for certifications like Organic or GAP (Good Agricultural Practices).

Planning and Decision-Making

A well-labeled tree system helps with planning irrigation, pruning schedules, nutrient application, and even harvesting or replanting.

Worker Training and Efficiency

Field workers can be trained to use the labeling system to reduce mistakes, boost productivity, and communicate issues easily.

Types of Tree Labels

Depending on your goals, environment, and available resources, you can choose from various labeling methods — from simple handwritten tags to QR code-enabled digital systems.

1. Physical Labels (In the Field)

These are tags placed on or near each tree to allow for visual identification on-site.

Options:

Aluminum Tags: Weatherproof and long-lasting. Can be engraved or written on with permanent marker.

Plastic Tags: UV-resistant, cheaper, and color-coded. Good for short- to mid-term use.

Wooden Stakes: Ideal for nurseries or young seedlings before permanent labeling.

QR Code or RFID Tags: Scannable tech for advanced farms linking each tree to a database.

What to Include on the Label:

Tree ID (e.g., T-024)

Species and Cultivar (e.g., Mangifera indica – Alphonso)

Planting Date

Special Notes (e.g., Grafted, Zone 2B, Pest-prone)

Example Label:

Tree ID: T-024 Species: Mangifera indica (Alphonso) Planted: 2023-07-12 Notes: Grafted, Zone 2B

Best Practices:

Use UV-resistant ink or engrave to prevent fading.

Place labels on sturdy branches or stakes near the trunk.

Avoid wire directly on the bark — use flexible ties to prevent girdling.

Color-code for quick identification (e.g., green for productive, red for inspection needed).

2 Digital Labeling (Data Management)

A physical tag is just the beginning. To unlock the full value of tree labeling, connect your field system to a digital database.

Tools to Consider:

Spreadsheets: Google Sheets or Excel for small to mid-size farms.

Farm Management Apps: Like Croptracker, AgriWebb, FarmLogs.

GIS Mapping Tools: Useful for mapping tree locations, soil types, and water access.

Suggested Data Fields:

FieldExampleTree IDT-024Species/VarietyMangifera indica (Alphonso)GPS Location-1.2901, 36.8219Planting Date2023-07-12Health StatusHealthyYield History15 kg (2024), 22 kg (2025)NotesPruned in May 2025

Tip:

Make sure your physical label and digital record use the same Tree ID to avoid confusion.

Setting Up Your Tree Labeling System: Step-by-Step

Here’s a simple process you can follow to create an effective tree labeling system on your farm:

1. Develop a Tree ID Format

Use a consistent code. For example:

T-001 to T-500 for individual trees

A1-T045 for Block A1, Tree 45

2. Choose Label Materials

Pick a material based on durability, budget, and weather conditions. Aluminum tags last years. Plastic is more affordable and good for color-coding.

3. Create and Place Labels

Label trees shortly after planting and keep them visible but secure. Stake labels for seedlings or use hanging tags for mature trees.

4. Build a Digital Record

Start with a spreadsheet or use farm software. Log all essential details (see data table above) and update it after each season.

5. Train Your Team

Ensure workers understand how to read labels and update records. Use the system for pruning schedules, disease scouting, and yield logging.

Taking It Further: Tech Integration

If you're managing hundreds or thousands of trees, consider integrating technology:

QR Codes: Each code links to a full digital record. Can be scanned with a phone.

Drones or GPS tools: For mapping tree positions and checking health.

Irrigation + Sensor Data Integration: Label data can feed into smart irrigation decisions based on tree health and stage.

Final Thoughts

Tree labeling might seem like a small task, but it has a big impact on how efficiently and intelligently you run your farm. Whether you’re managing 10 or 10,000 trees, a good labeling system is the foundation for sustainable, productive agriculture.

Start simple, stay consistent, and as your farm grows, your tree labeling system will grow with it.

I hope this was helpful and happy gardening from Gardening with kirk

Here is a videos on additional tips on Pruning fruit trees 🌳

https://youtu.be/scvsi2oQK74?si=ENRGMxKrquBY8v9M

[ceramicbeetle]

the thing is, you’re absolutely right! because what neurotypical people sometimes don’t understand is the massive difference between the average level of social interaction that they themselves vs other people get outside of organized or scheduled events like work or school, and also don’t understand the massive difference between what failure looks like, and how those two things overlap. i’m told that among the average neurotypical person, they’ll make a point to talk to people in their lives or hang out with friends or go on dates or chat with other people in public spaces, al to have casual interactions, multiple times a day, multiple days a week. meaning, if they have a failed social interaction, it’s buffered by the many successful interactions they’ll go on to have. failure most likely won’t mean complete isolation, because they have multiple avenues of interaction to fall back on. and, moreover, a failure in a social interaction when you have (on average) fewer than most means that now rather than that person going “oh that was a weird interaction, i talk to them a lot and it’s not usually like that, maybe it was an off day” they go “huh i don’t know that person very well maybe they’re just like that?”, which means that the odds are way different on whether relationships stay good after mistakes.

social skills are not actually as inherent as neurotypical people like to think. it’s just that when you’re always in practice, always getting back on the proverbial horse, the advice “just get back out there!” does actually work very well. but if you’re not able to do that for any variety of reasons, you can’t play the game the same way. my advice is not “try harder”, it’s “lower your expectations for yourself on what a good interaction and a moment of connection might be”. just as it’s possible you’re somehow unintentionally upsetting people, it’s possible you’re unintentionally making them feel happy, or valued, or heard, even in small, passing interactions. remind yourself that you’re working with fewer resources and a much more limited data pool. a lot of the advice being given is coming from someone who assumes they understand what the math looks like for you, because it’s very difficult to imagine that other side. so instead of trying to overlay a system made for someone who has resources that you just don’t have, you need to figure out what a functional system of interaction looks like for you, and adapt the advice given to fit your situation. my advice, bearing that in mind, is that finding communities and groups can look like a lot of different things, and getting your social needs met can come from a lot of sources, and ideally should! you would understand best what your situation is, and there’s no shame in changing tact to accommodate for your own needs and boundaries.

forgot to answer this for a bit lol BUT yeah, the post was a little bit more about the Conceptual argument than it was about me specifically, so I'm definitely already with you re: 'finding out what your Individual social goals are and working based off of those instead having high expectations based off of other people's metric' stuff. You definitely have a huge point with the "social buffer disparity" between NT people and ND people, where failures are both less demoralizing internally and less impactful externally when you're able to have a greater average of interactions generally also

but I really appreciated the "just as it’s possible you’re somehow unintentionally upsetting people, it’s possible you’re unintentionally making them feel happy, or valued, or heard, even in small, passing interactions" aspect of this message. I do definitely have a recurring problem of like, labeling Myself as an Uncanny Valley Person and automatically assuming that every interaction I'm involved in must be some level of uncomfortable for the other person -- it actually was kind of a revolution moment reading this and realizing that OH it does make sense that if I can unintentionally make people uncomfortable, it's statistically just as likely that I can unintentionally lift people's spirits in one way or another! So thank you very much for that!!