#zero-party data

[truongthinhmedia]

Zero-party Data là gì? Tại sao doanh nghiệp nên sử dụng Zero-party Data

Zero-party data, được khách hàng chủ động cung cấp như sở thích hoặc thông tin qua khảo sát, đã trở nên phổ biến từ năm 2020. Loại dữ liệu này được đánh giá cao vì giúp doanh nghiệp tạo ra chiến dịch marketing cá nhân hóa, tương tác hiệu quả hơn và mang lại trải nghiệm phù hợp, từ đó tăng cường kết nối và lòng trung thành của khách hàng. Trong bài viết này, hãy cùng Truong Thinh Media tìm hiểu về Zero-party data và những giá trị mà loại dữ liệu này mang lại.

Zero-party data là gì?

Zero-party data là loại dữ liệu mà khách hàng chủ động cung cấp cho doanh nghiệp. Dữ liệu này bao gồm các thông tin như sở thích, hành vi, mong muốn, và ý định mua hàng. Nhờ vào Zero-party data, doanh nghiệp có thể hiểu rõ nhu cầu của khách hàng và cung cấp những nội dung, sản phẩm phù hợp với họ. Điều này không chỉ giúp tăng cường cá nhân hóa mà còn tạo ra mối quan hệ gắn kết hơn giữa doanh nghiệp và khách hàng.

Doanh nghiệp có thể thu thập Zero-party data qua nhiều cách khác nhau, bao gồm:

Khảo sát nhanh: Đặt ra những câu hỏi ngắn dựa trên nhu cầu thực tế của khách hàng để hiểu rõ hơn về họ.

Tương tác trên nền tảng CRM: Thu thập thông tin cá nhân hóa trong quá trình trò chuyện, tương tác giữa nhân viên chăm sóc khách hàng và khách hàng trên hệ thống CRM.

Khảo sát chuyên biệt: Tổ chức các chiến dịch khảo sát đặc biệt dành riêng cho nhóm khách hàng mục tiêu, thường được gọi là focus group.

Những lợi ích của Zero-party data đối với Marketer

Zero-party data được ví như nguồn tài nguyên quý giá, mang lại nhiều lợi ích thiết thực cho các chiến lược marketing. Dưới đây là một số lợi ích nổi bật:

Tạo ra trải nghiệm cá nhân hóa cho khách hàng Khi doanh nghiệp nắm trong tay những dữ liệu cơ bản mà khách hàng chủ động cung cấp, họ có thể dễ dàng xây dựng các chiến dịch marketing phù hợp với từng nhóm khách hàng. Điều này giúp tạo ra những trải nghiệm mang tính cá nhân hóa, giúp khách hàng cảm thấy được quan tâm và thấu hiểu hơn.

Tăng cường sự trung thành của khách hàng Những trải nghiệm được cá nhân hóa không chỉ làm hài lòng khách hàng mà còn tạo nên niềm tin vào thương hiệu. Khi khách hàng cảm thấy doanh nghiệp đáp ứng được nhu cầu của họ, họ sẽ trở thành những khách hàng trung thành, gắn bó lâu dài với thương hiệu.

Nâng cao tỷ lệ chuyển đổi Zero-party data không chỉ giúp tối ưu hóa nội dung và trải nghiệm trên website mà còn giúp các marketer hiện đại tăng tỷ lệ chuyển đổi. Dữ liệu này hỗ trợ hiệu quả các chiến dịch marketing như remarketing, email marketing, và các hoạt động chăm sóc khách hàng qua trung tâm liên lạc đa kênh hợp nhất (omni-channel contact center), giúp tiếp cận khách hàng một cách toàn diện và hiệu quả hơn.

Xây dựng chiến lược Zero-party Data

Để doanh nghiệp và các nhà tiếp thị triển khai chiến lược Zero-party Data hiệu quả, có nhiều cách tiếp cận nhằm tận dụng dữ liệu này trong việc tăng cường trải nghiệm khách hàng và duy trì lòng trung thành của họ.

Đồng bộ hóa với chiến lược dữ liệu khách hàng và marketing tổng thể: Zero-party Data cần được tích hợp chặt chẽ vào các hoạt động marketing, nội dung, và chiến lược dữ liệu khách hàng. Đảm bảo rằng tất cả các kênh, chiến dịch, và phân tích đều hoạt động đồng bộ, từ đó tạo ra trải nghiệm nhất quán và cá nhân hóa cho khách hàng.

Kết hợp với dữ liệu First-party và tích hợp các hệ thống hiện có: Việc lưu trữ dữ liệu phân tán có thể gây trở ngại cho chiến lược marketing. Do đó, doanh nghiệp cần ưu tiên thống nhất dữ liệu, đặc biệt là kết hợp Zero-party Data với First-party Data, để có cái nhìn tổng quan và chính xác hơn về hành vi và sở thích của khách hàng.

Minh bạch về giá trị trao đổi: Khách hàng cần hiểu rõ về cách doanh nghiệp sẽ sử dụng dữ liệu của họ. Hãy cung cấp thông tin rõ ràng về cách thương hiệu thu thập, bảo vệ và sử dụng dữ liệu, đồng thời nêu rõ những lợi ích mà khách hàng nhận được, nhằm tăng sự tin tưởng và thúc đẩy họ chia sẻ thông tin.

Biến Zero-party Data thành một phần của trải nghiệm Omnichannel: Zero-party Data được thu thập thông qua các tương tác đa kênh với khách hàng, từ email, SMS, đến trải nghiệm trực tiếp tại cửa hàng hay các mini-app như Zalo. Việc tạo ra trải nghiệm đa kênh liền mạch giúp doanh nghiệp tối ưu hóa sự tương tác với khách hàng, từ đó mang lại các kết nối giá trị và tăng cường sự gắn bó của họ với thương hiệu.

Xem chi tiết về Zero-party Data tại: https://truongthinh.media/zero-party-data-la-gi/

TRUONG THINH MEDIA

- Địa chỉ: 30A đường số 14, P. Linh Đông, TP. Thủ Đức, TP. Hồ Chí Minh - Phone: 0394.853.724 - Email: Info@truongthinh.media - Website: Truongthinh.media

[snugglyporos]

// hi, the only question I have is who or what are the greens and why do they deserve to be on this chart

because I have been told there is apparently a welsh party that has at least 6 more seats than them

also who is going to be the first person to write the headline that this party had a 100% increase in seats

[floatinggarden24]

https://www.folkd.com/entry/133095-sewage-treatment-with-floating-gardens-sustainable-technology/

[cubera2024]

Best AdTech Ecosystem Company in Bangalore | Zero Party Data - CUBERA

Cubera leads the AdTech industry by empowering brands with access to zero and first-party data, enabling transformative advertising strategies. Our data-driven approach enhances campaign efficiency, transparency, and performance, making Cubera the go-to platform for innovative advertising solutions. Cubera’s services ensure seamless, effective campaigns. With Omni-Channel Targeting, AI-powered Cohort Analysis, and comprehensive Ad Services, brands can reach their audience across platforms with precision and transparency, maximizing engagement and ROI. Cubera’s powerful suite of tools—Cube, Cubera Identity Graph, Vertex, and Edge—delivers advanced data integration and targeting capabilities. These tools empower brands to execute highly efficient and transparent ad campaigns, leveraging the latest in AdTech innovation.

[madhukumarc]

Where can businesses find reliable data for audience segmentation?

Sources Businesses Find Reliable Data for Audience Segmentation:

Businesses can find reliable data for audience segmentation from various sources, ensuring accuracy and relevance for targeted marketing efforts.

Some key sources include:

1. Zero-Party Data: 

Data that is intentionally and proactively shared by customers with businesses, enables them to personalize their marketing strategies more effectively. Also, refer to email marketing data.

2. First-Party Data: 

Data obtained directly from customer interactions on websites and sales channels. Provides authentic insights into customer behavior and preferences.

Refer also to Google Analytics, Google Search Console, and other marketing analytics platforms.

3. Surveys and Interviews: 

Gather accurate, basic information about audience interests and behaviors. Offers insights directly from the audience, helping to understand their needs and motivations.

4. Behavioral Data: 

This presents the behavior of the audience, including their actions on websites. Provides valuable insights into audience engagement and preferences. Heat maps can come to the rescue.

5. Social Media Platforms: 

This delivers information about audience interactions, such as likes, shares, saves, and comments.

Offers insights into the social engagement patterns of the audience and the type of content that is most engaging.

6. Salespeople Interactions: 

This provides firsthand insights into customer preferences, objections, behaviors, and needs, which can be valuable for refining audience segmentation strategies.

7. Customer Service Calls and Feedback: 

This offers direct feedback and firsthand information about customer preferences, needs, concerns, and behaviors.

This helps in understanding customer segments and tailoring marketing strategies to better meet their needs.

Image Content Source - LinkedIn Ads Privacy Playbook

In summary, by leveraging these diverse sources, businesses can gather comprehensive and reliable data for audience segmentation, enabling them to tailor their marketing strategies effectively.

Here's related information that you may also find helpful – Marketing Automation Statistics [Accelerate Efficiency and Sales].

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Seventeen

Series Masterlist

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You didn’t get flown out for the final race. Didn’t get a dress code email for the prize giving ceremony. Didn’t get a hotel keycard left in an envelope at the front desk. You watched the last race of the season from your dorm, curled up on your twin bed with a plate of freezer dumplings and a laptop that buffered at least twice before the stream caught up.

Red Bull won everything, obviously. Verstappen took the final checkered flag like it was inevitable. The team celebrated in a blaze of champagne and perfectly lit content loops. You closed the window before the podium interviews even started.

No one called. No one needed anything.

And honestly, that made sense.

You’re still under contract through December 31st- still, technically, Red Bull property- but AlphaTauri’s already been announced. You’re not just development anymore. You’re not just RedBull Racing anymore. You’re forward-facing. Pipeline material. And while no one has said it aloud, the shift’s been happening for weeks.

They’re phasing you out.

Quietly. Gently. Efficiently.

Your data access had been the first thing to go- little changes, gradual redactions. You still had log-ins, but fewer dashboards showed up when you used them. Then the assignments started thinning out. Weekly reports became biweekly summaries. Dev meeting invites stopped appearing unless someone had a specific question for you. A sim anomaly. A question about a comment you had left on the braking data a few weeks ago. 

It’s not personal. It’s not even cruel. It’s just… logistics. And you got it. You get it. You do.

You’re not their girl anymore. Or, won’t be. Not in the gears-and-axles sense. You got exactly what you wanted. You’ve stopped being a cog. Now you’re something shinier. Something public. A face. A product. A name.

You’d had more access than you probably should’ve from the beginning. More control. More input. They’re only pulling back what they’d loaned in the first place.

Still.

You’d built your entire life around this place since they dumped you on the factory steps in August-  broke, jagged, desperate, hungry for anything more than the Indy career you had torched to the ground. This badge. These halls. The windowless sim rooms and bitter instant coffee and shared dorm showers. It’s become your whole ecosystem.

And now?

Now you’re bored.

Not in the casual, oh-I-have-nothing-to-do sense. Not in the Instagram scroll, maybe-I’ll-go-for-a-run way. You’re untethered. No real tasks. A measly four calendar holds before the end of the year. No Gavin- he’s traveling with the team.  No Alessandro- burning PTO like a matchbook before the winter build surge. No Danny- off wrapping up his last days with McClaren. Stuck, just like you. Stuck, right here in purgatory.

Lying on your back in a sterile little dorm room with your legs curled up like a child and your phone battery at nine percent. Watching the forced-air heating ruffle a stray paper on your desk, trying not to fall asleep before the year-end party even starts.

It’s not loneliness, exactly. You’ve survived worse. Objectively, you have zero complaints.

But it’s quiet in a way that makes your skin itch.

There are big things coming. Huge things. A race seat. Brand deals and sponsors. Points, even, if you play your cards right. But right now? Right now you’re still technically Red Bull. Still on their payroll. Still sleeping under their roof.

You’re not part of the machine you live in anymore. And the weight of that contradiction is making you feel… something. Not numb. Not sad. Not exactly.

Just unmoored. 

The day’s gotten away from you in your spiral- cold gray light stretching thin across the dorm ceiling, your phone buzzing occasionally from across the room and left unread. You should be doing something. Hair. Makeup. Picking out an outfit for this evening’s staff year end party. Anything.

Instead, you’ve just been… still.

You can’t quite name it. The feeling in your chest like a tether’s been cut. The quiet hum of weightless boredom, pressed under the skin like a bruise that never quite blooms.

You’re still training. Still working. You show up to the gym like it’s your job- because it kind of is. Because it’s the only thing that hasn’t shifted beneath your feet lately. The rhythm, the discipline, the ache. It reminds you of the summer. The purgatory of Jos’s house. The hours you carved open just to fill them with movement. With sweat. With anything that kept you from unraveling entirely.

But this has been different.

Since you got here- since the AlphaTauri shook the marrow out of your bones and left you wrung out and trembling for your life in an ice bath- you’ve been training with intention. Not just survival. Not just control. Not just maintenance. You’ve been trying to build.

For the first time in your life, the goal isn’t to disappear.

It’s to expand.

IndyCar never cared if you were strong. They cared if you were light. No driver weight minimums. Junior series, whatever flavor you drove in any given year, same thing. Lighter was faster. Coaches, engineers, principals- always asking the same questions.

How light can you get and still drive? How many days can you go without carbs before your body starts eating your reflexes?

Smaller was better. A decade of conditioning that turned your own hunger into an enemy. Every pound scrutinized. Every calorie accounted for. Racing in those worlds meant being barely there- meant learning to cut yourself down until you fit inside the mold.

The only real advantage to being a woman in that system? You were already small. Naturally lighter. It made the weight targets a little easier- sometimes. While your male teammates were scraping muscle off themselves to make weight, skipping meals and running hot just to cut grams, you were coasting in under the line. Not because it was healthy. Not because it was fair. But because being born smaller meant you starved less.

But now?

Now you’re in F1.

Now there's a minimum. A fixed number. Now it doesn’t matter if you’re naturally small- because every pound you don’t carry is another pound your competitors get to fill with power. With strength. With muscle that helps them outdrive, outmuscle, outlast you.

You’re no longer rewarded for taking up less space. You’re punished for it. So you’ve changed.

You’ve been eating like it matters. Training like it’s math- input and output, time and tension. Your body, for the first time since before you got your first period, isn’t a compromise. It’s becoming a weapon.

You sit up slowly. Peel off your clothes. One layer at a time. Hoodie, socks, leggings, tank. Until you’re just in your underwear and bra. Cotton. Soft. Familiar.

Then you reach for the full-length mirror leaning against the wall and drag it onto the bed with you. Set it up agasint your pillows so you can see yourself. All of you. Up close.

And then you look. Really look. Take stock.

Your thighs are thicker now. Solid. Corded with new muscle, the kind that moves when you shift and flexes without trying. They press together, heavy and warm and proud. They flow into hips that have grown wider, fuller, more anchored somehow. Your waist is still there- narrow, defined- but the curve from rib to hip to thigh is smooth and deep and fucking stunning.

You twist slightly, propping yourself on one arm, and turn your attention lower.

Your ass is outrageous.

You blink. Then smile. Every inch of it earned from loading squats three times a week until you might have cried with exhaustion. It lifts high and round, fuller than it’s ever been. It’s the reason most of your jeans have become… hazardous, lately. You only have a handful of pairs left that fit at all, much less well. The shape is almost surreal- like someone photoshopped you and forgot to undo it. But it’s not fake. It’s earned. It balances the line of your back, the curve of your hips, the strength in your thighs.

You shift your hips again, slowly. Watching the way everything follows. The drag of your skin, the flex and pull of muscle. And it’s not just power. It’s not just the function of it.

It’s beautiful.

There’s a sensuality to it that catches you off guard.

Not sexual. Not quite. Not the kind of thing you’d show off for someone else. This isn’t about being wanted. You haven’t been touched in months. Haven’t been kissed. Haven’t felt the pressure of someone else’s palm against your skin or the heat of a gaze that wanted this body.

And that’s okay.

Because right now, this moment isn’t for them.

It’s for you.

You look at your stomach- still lean, but no longer hollow. Muscle built up through dedication, not revealed by deprivation. Your shoulders roll back as you shift upright, and your back pulls taut, muscles threading together like ropes under skin.

And then your eyes land on your chest.

Your bra- nothing fancy, just plain cotton- stretches over you in a way it never used to. Full. Rounded. Heavy in a way that’s new. Like your body finally got the message that it’s safe to have things now. That you’re allowed to take up space.

You trail your fingers from your sternum outward. Over the shape of yourself. The dip of your waist. The rise of your hips. The flare and the fullness and the heat pooling under your skin, not from desire- but from recognition.

This is not the body you left America with.

Not the one built for hunger. Not the one that fought, that starved, that was sold in sponsorship dollars and calories just to survive. Not the same one that felt powerless and drowned and vulnerable in pits full of men with egos that outpaced their cars.

This one is yours.

All of it. The strength. The softness. The sex appeal.

And yeah, it’s probably a little vain, the way you pose. The way you tilt your chin and arch your back and stare at your own reflection with a smirk you didn’t know you still had in you. But you don’t care.

You love her.

This new shape. This new presence. This walking, breathing proof that you are here. You deserve this space. You are every inch of who you make yourself to be. 

You pull your knees up to your chest, still sitting on the bed, mirror between them, and rest your cheek on your own shoulder, watching the way your arms curve around yourself. 

It’s not lost on you how much trauma lived in the old body. In the bones that didn’t bend. In the skin that always felt too tight. In the way people looked at you like a novelty or a threat or a product.

This body isn’t for them.

It’s for you. For who you’re going to be. 

And it’s perfect.

Eventually… you move. Not quickly. Not decisively. Just… gradually. Like heat returning to numb limbs. You get up, still in your underwear, and pad barefoot across the cold dorm floor to the narrow wardrobe tucked beside your desk. It’s small, just to hold the things you can’t afford to let wrinkle. You’ve only opened it a handful of times since you got back from Brazil.

The contents aren’t much. A few basics. A pressed pair of jeans with a sharp, precise crease ironed down the front. Slacks. A simple blazer. At the right end, your suit hangs crisp in its plastic wrap, the one you wore to push your contract at Helmut, back when the words “development driver” still felt like something borrowed. 

You touch the fabric out of habit. The pants look… impossible. Maybe, if you hold your breath and pray to Sara Blakely and her Spanx gods- oh, and don’t eat all night- but honestly, you’re looking forward to the catering spread. Besides, it’s just the staff party- it’s really not that serious.

You let them hang.

Instead, you let your fingers walk a few hangers to the left. Fingers brush something soft. Velvet. Rich, forgiving, quietly festive. Not ugly sweater festive, but more like ‘yes, we are acknowledging it’s December.’ You pull it forward.

The dress is red. Not race-car red, not attention-demanding. Just… warm. A little saturated. The kind of color that makes your skin look golden and your hair a little darker in contrast. Sleeveless. High-necked. Hits just above the knee. Enough stretch to move with you. To let the body you’ve built exist without apology.

You hold it up to your chest, glance toward the mirror still propped on your bed, and nod once. Quietly. Like you’re letting yourself agree with the version of you that smiled at her own reflection twenty minutes ago. It’s not a statement dress. It’s not supposed to be. 

You pull on a pair of black nylons- semi-sheer, a soft little balance between flirtation and formality. The kind you used to wear for media days in junior formula, when you wanted to look polished but not severe. They slide up with the faintest whisper, snug but not constricting. They feel like intention.

Shoes next- your simple black pumps. Not casual, not party heels. Just clean, classic. You slip them on and they still fit the way only leather can- with loyalty. Like no matter how much the rest of you changes, these shoes will still love your feet. That feels like something. A single, stable detail in a body and world that’s otherwise brand new.

You perch on the edge of your desk to do your makeup rather than move the half-clean laundry that lives on your chair. Try not to sit in your compact while you plan your face.

Nothing heavy. Nothing loud. Just light coverage. A little shimmer. A soft sweep of blush across the apples of your cheeks that makes you look sunlit, even under factory-grade fluorescents. You gloss your lips with something pink and sheer, add a touch of mascara. Pretty. Festive. The kind of face that looks like someone you’d want to talk to at a work party without checking a credential first.

Your hair’s a little unruly from lying around until it air-dried, but it still curls easily under your hands. You twist it up in loose, polished sections, pin it in place, and finish it with a narrow ribbon tucked just above the nape of your neck. The bow is barely anything- thin, dainty. Just a little touch.

And when you finally step back from the mirror and take it all in- dress, tights, pumps, makeup, the slight shimmer on your collarbone- you don’t feel like a driver or a ghost or a PR obligation. Not really.

You feel like a girl going to a party at the end of the strangest, most transformative semester of her life. A little out of place. A little nostalgic for something that hasn’t even fully ended. Quietly proud. Quietly melancholy.

You smooth your hands down your dress once, just to feel the fabric hug your ribs. Time to say goodbye- quietly, professionally, beautifully- to the place that made you feel like someone valuable again. Even if they’re already learning how to do without you.

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The party’s better than expected.

Not flashy, not loud- just the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low warmth of staff laughter echoing against the high factory walls. Someone’s strung lights across the ceiling beams, giving everything a soft golden tint. There’s music playing low from the overheads, just enough to keep the room moving. Food’s decent. Little platters of fussy fingerfoods that strike a balance between upscale and approachable. Drinks are free. Everyone’s at that perfect midpoint between polite and tipsy.

You’re leaned against a high table near the edge of the floor, nursing something red and fizzy in a plastic flute. The dress is holding up. The shoes haven’t betrayed you. And you’re laughing- real laughter, open and soft- because Ollie from dev is holding court like his life depends on it.

“I swear to God,” he’s saying, wide-eyed, one hand gesturing wildly, “the second I mentioned it, he looked at me like I’d confessed to a murder.”

Nicole’s giggling politely beside him- dark hair curling over her shoulders, dress tastefully low-cut, clearly groomed and pressed to the nine- and Ollie is doing absolutely nothing to hide the way he’s looking at her.

It’s not subtle.

He is making full, direct, devotional heart eyes every time she opens her mouth. You’re only half listening to the story at this point. Mostly you’re laughing at the sheer audacity of his infatuation. Like he doesn’t even care that you’re standing right here, clocking every stolen glance like it’s your actual job.

Ollie says something else- something about a lost data package and a RedBull fueled all nighter that left him hallucinating on his drive home- and Nicole tilts her head, clearly humoring him.

“That’s… so wild,” she says, all doe-eyed and glittery.

Ollie looks like he’s going to combust. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing again. You sip your drink instead, cheeks warm. For the first time all day, you feel… present. A little girlish. A little like you belong. And yet, despite the comfort of that- you feel it. 

You can feel Jos moving through the room.

It’s not oppressive. Not threatening. He’s not circling like a shark, and you’re not prey. It’s just… something you’re aware of. Like tracking a storm in the distance. You always know where he is.

And honestly?

You’ve resigned yourself to it.

You know he’ll find you eventually. That’s the nature of Jos. He always does. Always appears at the edge of a moment you thought was yours, all gravel-voiced analysis and heavy handshakes and that particular brand of European proximity that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.

And you’re not exactly afraid. You never have been.

If anything- God, you almost missed him.

Jos is a lot. An exhausting amount. But he’s also sharp. Dangerous in the way only brilliant men can be. Talking to him is like fencing with live wire- strategic, quick, crackling. But you’ve never felt like the target. Not really.

You’re not sure what that makes you.

An ally, maybe.

A co-conspirator.

Because Jos doesn’t talk to you like you’re lucky to be here. He talks to you like you’re a weapon. Like you’re leverage he trusts to understand what you’re worth. Like you’re playing a game with him- and unlike with most men in this sport, with Jos, the game doesn’t end with you losing. You think. Probably. So far, at least.

Still, there’s a sliver of something colder beneath it all. A flicker of discomfort you haven’t fully looked at yet. You don’t let yourself think about that too hard. Not here. Not now.

Instead, you set your drink down and laugh again- high and bright, because Ollie has just managed to turn a telemetry error into a flirtation, and Nicole is playing along like she might just let him win. You play with the ribbon in your hair, glance sideways across the room-  And, sure enough, Jos is watching. Not close. Not obvious. Just… waiting.

You adjust the strap of your dress, smooth your hands down the velvet one more time. Your glass is nearly empty. Nicole’s laughing again, Ollie’s blushing so hard it’s a health concern, and somewhere across the room, Jos Verstappen is waiting for you.

So you decide- fuck it.

If he’s going to find you anyway- if he’s already watching- you might as well meet him on your terms. Even if those terms are flimsy. Even if they exist mostly as a way to keep your spine straight and your voice level and your heart from pounding through your ribs.

You slip away from the table, leaving Ollie mid-laugh and Nicole mid-smile. Neither of them notices you go.

You push off the table and cross the floor without fanfare. Slow, steady, unbothered. Your heels click softly against the concrete. The lights above throw gold over your shoulders, and you hold your posture just right. Not stiff. Not girlish. Just composed. Whole.

You don’t know what compels you, exactly. It’s not submission. It’s not allegiance. It’s something quieter. Resignation, maybe. Or- God, maybe curiosity. You’ve danced around this enough times to know it’s coming. He’ll find you eventually. Might as well see what happens when you make the first move.

Jos tracks you the whole way. He’ss standing near the back, half-shadowed by a pillar and positioned with surgical precision- close enough to be in the mix, far enough that no one casually wanders into his orbit. He’s talking to someone from powertrains, nodding along like he’s interested, but his eyes flick toward you the moment you cross the floor.

Not obviously. Not openly. Just with the kind of stillness predators have right before they strike. Arms folded. Drink untouched. He shifts his weight once, almost imperceptibly, like he can’t believe his luck but is already plotting how to use it.

You keep your shoulders relaxed. You walk like you have nowhere in particular to be.

Jos smiles when you reach him. It doesn’t quite touch his eyes.His gaze flicks over you once- just once- but it’s loaded. Evaluating. Not lecherous, but not empty either. Like he’s cataloging the value of your appearance for some unseen ledger.

“There she is,” he says, low and pleased. “I was wondering when you’d come say hello.”

You smile. Easy. Controlled. “Thought I’d save the best for last.”

He laughs once, a short sound, dry and amused. “I like the dress.”

You resist the urge to fidget. “Thanks. Needed something that fit.”

Jos’s eyes flash at that- just a brief glint of approval, the kind that makes your skin feel seen in a way that’s not quite comfortable. Not inappropriate. Just intentional.

You sip your drink- what’s left of it- and let a small silence settle between you. The music hums along in the background. Conversation rolls across the room like static. You glance over your shoulder once, scan the space like you’re keeping track of exits. Then turn back.

And with practiced casualness, you say, “You hear about anything running this winter?”

Jos’s attention sharpens, just slightly. Barely a twitch in his jaw. But he clocks it. You keep your eyes on the middle distance and take a sip of your drink- mostly for the pause it offers- and then, casually, like you’re mentioning the weather: “I’ve been a little bored.”

Jos tilts his head. Interested. “Is that so?”

“Just... stir-crazy.” You keep your tone light. Bright. “Haven’t been in a real car since they flew Max in for brake testing.”

He gives nothing away. Just waits.

You glance out over the room like it doesn’t matter, like you’re not carefully placing each word. “I was thinking- if anything came up. A testing slot. A rally drive. Anything like that.” There. Gentle. Palatable. No pressure. Not desperation. Not even an ask, really. Just a statement. A floating suggestion.

Your voice doesn’t shift. Your shoulders stay easy. But your stomach coils tight. Because even now- even with this new body, this new deal, this new version of you- there’s still something about asking that feels like folding. Like peeling open your ribs.

Jos’s mouth twitches. Just the corner. “Hm.” That’s it. Just that. But you know him well enough to catch it. That sound- small, smug, delighted. It’s the sound of a trap closing.

Because you came to him. Because you asked.

No matter how subtle. No matter how casual. You asked. And it thrills him. Because Jos Verstappen lives for this.

He hides it well- he always does- but it’s there. The faint shift of weight toward you. The satisfied tilt of his head. The way his eyes sharpen just slightly, like the game he’s been playing has finally started to swing in his favor.

“You want me to make a call?” he asks, smooth and quiet, like it costs him nothing.

You lift a shoulder. “Only if it’s not a headache.”

He hums, looking away for a moment, already flipping through names, contacts, favors- building the scaffolding in his mind. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to prove he holds the reins. Only then does he speak.

“It wouldn’t be a single-seater,” he says finally. “Rally, most likely. Scandinavia. Snow. Cold. Not much exposure. Barely any pay.”

You don’t hesitate. “Send my paycheck straight back to the team,” you say. “Call it a sponsorship. I don’t care what it is.”

That gets his attention.

Jos studies you, eyes narrowing just slightly. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. Like he’s just thrown a line out, expecting it to hang in the water for a while- and you bit down before it even landed.

It was a test. A measure of your grit. Of your desperation. Of your understanding.

And you passed.

He leans back ever so slightly, nodding once, like he’s filing something away. “That sounds like a good time, does it?” he asks, tone dry but edged with something almost amused.

You hold his gaze. Steady. “Yes. It does.”

Another beat. He looks at you for a moment longer- really looks. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re naive or ruthless, and whether or not it matters.

Then, almost fondly: “You’re smart to ask.”

There’s no threat in it. But there is a temperature. A charge beneath the compliment. He wants you to know you’ve made the right choice. That you’re wise to seek him out. That there’s more where that came from, if you stay close.

Jos smiles again, all teeth and calculation disguised as generosity. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your gear bag packed.”

And just like that, you’ve traded yourself for a favor. You feel it settle in your ribs. Weightless. But not free. The kind of thing that won’t show up in contracts or inboxes, but that you’ll carry all the same. Jos slips away only a moment later.

One minute he’s promising to make a few calls, and the next he’s clapping someone on the back and gliding into another conversation- like he hadn’t just offered you a taste of something sharp and sweet with a leash hidden inside.

You’re left standing near the perimeter of the room, drink still in hand, blood still humming from the conversation. It's not adrenaline exactly. Not fear. Just the slow, uneasy swell of something that feels like a contract being signed without ink.

You can feel him before you hear him. The shift in temperature. The static at your back. Max. Predictable, honestly. That Jos would drop you off right in his periphery. Fitting, truly. Inevitable.

You don’t see him approach- he moves like a shadow under a locked door. Silent. Sure. Unwanted.

But this time? You’re not caught off guard. You’re not off balance. You’re not scrambling to please, or prove, or endure. You’re tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that scrapes everything polite out of your chest and leaves nothing behind but sharp teeth and sharper instincts.

And you’re not afraid of him anymore.

Max takes position just behind your left shoulder, close enough that the heat of him skims your skin without touching it. Like a dare. Like he wants you to turn.

You don’t flinch.

You just wait. He wouldn’t have stepped forward if he didn’t have something to say. Fucking say it, Max.

“You really going for the full set, huh?” he says at last, voice low and dry. Venom tucked under every syllable like it’s something elegant. “Sponsorship. Seat. Verstappen family holiday invite.”

You blink once. Slow. Unbothered. “Jesus.”

You turn your head over your shoulder- just enough to catch the line of his mouth, the cut of his eyes. The disdain’s still there, as always, but there’s something else now. Something darker coiled just behind it. “Is this your idea of a Christmas card?” you ask.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t have to. The accusation’s already in the air between you. He’s not here to be clever. He’s here to see what you’ll do.

You inhale, sharp and silent. Then pivot on your toe, full-body now, facing him square for the first time. He’s close. Closer than you expected. Closer than anyone should be in a room full of champagne and fairy lights and factory staff pretending they aren’t watching.

You meet him at eye level. No posture. No smile. No spin.

Just you.

“I’m sorry I’m not subtle enough for you,” you say, voice steady. “But some of us don’t have the luxury of pretending we don’t need favors.”

You take a half-step forward. Not aggressive. Not passive. Just enough to reclaim the space he thought he’d filled.

“Look,” you go on, tired and clear and done with it, “I’ve got nothing to sell but my drives and my time. That’s it. So yeah, if Jos wants to hand me a favor, or a drive, or a fucking photo op, I’m going to take it. I’m going to smile, say thank you, and take everything he gives me. Because I’m not in a position to be picky.”

His jaw tightens. Barely. Just enough.

And maybe you should stop there. But you’re so fucking done. With him. With this. With the way he’s hovered all season like a storm cloud and acted like you were the one blocking the sun.

So you don’t stop.

“Seriously,” you add, biting now, “why are you standing here? Why don’t you go find another junior employee to intimidate? Do some scouting for next season. You love that shit.”

Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge.

But his silence isn’t power anymore. Not to you.

In two weeks, you’re out of his factory. Out of his immediate orbit. You’re done tiptoeing through his moods like they’re weather patterns. So you lean in. A breath closer. Just to twist the knife. Just because you can.

“Or maybe,” you murmur, “you want me to yell at you again.” His expression doesn’t change. But his pupils sharpen. You see it. The flash of it. That dark, sick little thing he doesn’t want to name.

You remember it. That day in the boardroom. The way he stood there, watching you unravel like it was art. Practically licking his fucking chops in the blood of a kill. Like he’d finally pulled the right string and the whole thing came tumbling down and God, wasn’t that just so satisfying.

You raise your brows now, almost playful. “Seemed like you loved it.” The air between you tightens.

Not with fear. With something else.

Something heavier. Twisted. Threaded through with adrenaline and ego and the fact that you don’t technically need to be any nicer to him than he deserves anymore- but fuck, you’ll still take the last word.

Your drink sweats in your hand. Somewhere, someone across the room laughs too loud. A champagne cork pops. Max breathes in. Sharp. Controlled. You can see the words on his tongue. You can see the war inside him- the want to snap back. To grab. To tear. But he doesn’t.

He flicks his gaze down your body instead.

Not long. Not crude. Just one slow, scalding drag of assessment. Like he’s not even sure if he’s sizing you up or taking you in. Then he tilts his head. Just a little. Voice flat. “Careful.”

You smile. Not sweet. Not kind. Just knowing. “Or what?” you say, cool and easy. “You’ll call HR? Kick me off the team?” You let the smile grow sharp. “Oh, wait. You can’t. I’m already leaving.”

His eyes narrow- barely. He’s trying so fucking hard not to react. To be cool. Detached. Unbothered. And he almost pulls it off. Almost. Because this? This isn’t a fight.

Not yet. This is play. The sick kind.

Two wild animals circling the same patch of dirt. Teeth bared, tails twitching. Neither of you quite sure if this is about dominance or the last laugh or mutual destruction- but God, don’t you both want to find out.

You take a sip of your drink. Cool and steady.

And Max- quiet, scalding Max- just stands there. Watching.

Your phone vibrates in your clutch.

You wouldn’t normally check it in the middle of a cold war reenactment with Max Verstappen, but almost everyone on your short, carefully curated no-Do-Not-Disturb list is in this room, except your parents and-

You pull it out.

Danny Ricciardo [8:42 PM] bailing on mclaren. headed your way. party still good or should we find a pub? 20 mins out

You blink. And then you smile. It hits like a burst of light- like someone cracked open a window in a room you didn’t know was suffocating you. Danny.

Your maybe-friend. Your only safe person in the entire Red Bull ecosystem. Someone who isn’t looking at you like he’s devastated you’re leaving, or like he’ll forget your name the second the paperwork clears, or like he’s waiting for God to strike you down mid-sentence.

(Max, that last one. That look is all Max.)

You type fast.

You [8:43 PM]still rolling but up to you. everyone here keeps looking at me like a kicked puppy. wouldn’t mind a drink that doesn’t have ‘compote’ or ‘infusion’ in it.

There’s no reply for a minute.

Two.

Five.

Max, then, checks his phone beside you, his thumb hovering just a little too long. You glance at him- because you can’t not- and for the first time, he looks mildly annoyed. That makes you feel excellent. The night does have hope after all. You sip your drink just to keep from smiling.

Your phone buzzes again.

Danny Ricciardo [8:51 PM]let’s go out. I’ll text when I’m close.

You straighten, pulse skipping just once. You’re not going out in this. Not with Danny. Not to a pub. Velvet dress? Ribbon hair? Absolutely not. 

You glance at Max, who’s still scrolling, now with an expression like he’s trying to burn holes through his phone. Good. He can stay here with his bad mood and his weird dad. You’ve got plans. “Bye,” you murmur, not bothering to wait for him to look up.

You disappear through the side doors, heels clicking across tile. Up the stairs. Down the dim dorm hallway that’s somehow still home even when it’s already starting to forget you.

Inside your room, you move fast. Dress peeled off in one motion. You keep the nylons- they add a little warmth, and they make you feel like your legs have a little secret armor- and pull on a pair of shredded black jeans. High-rise, frayed knees, familiar as a favorite memory. A memory that is a little tight over the ass, but it’ll do.

A sleeveless top. Tighter. Cropped just enough to make your waist look like something sculpted- enough that it just barely kisses the waistband of your jeans. Black, because of course it is, but with a slight sheen that catches the dorm light.

You let your hair down. Shake it out. Pin the bow back in, low at the base of your skull.

Quick check in the mirror- yeah. That’ll do. Cute. Sharp. A little youthful. A little fuck-you. A little fuck-me. 

Exactly right.

You grab your jacket. Lip gloss. Your phone. And when you leave this time, it’s not with a sense of something ending. It’s with a thrill in your chest like maybe- finally- something is about to begin. The all black is fitting- like Danny’s come to save you from your own funeral. 

You’re practically skipping by the time you spot the rental SUV idling just past the front doors.

Factory lights still gleam overhead, pooling muted white against the cold pavement. You’re flushed from the party, from the hallway sprint, from the stupid quiet thrill of knowing someone actually wants to see you.

You wave once, already grinning.

Danny rolls the window down, half laughing already. “There she is! Backseat, Hollywood.”

You stop short. “What?”

He grins wider, too casual. “You’ve got the back.”

You blink. There’s a half-second- maybe less- where your brain tries to find a joke there, or context, or anything to make that sentence mean what you want it to mean.

But then you round the side and open the door- 

Oh.

Okay.

That’s fine.

This is fine.

Max is in the passenger seat, half-turned toward the window, jacket collar flipped up like he’s shielding himself from the entire world. He doesn’t even look at you. Your brain tries to recalibrate.

Because you’d assumed. Of course you did. Danny texted you. Danny said let’s go out. Danny is your friend. And for a few fragile minutes, you let yourself believe that meant just you and him. That it would be easy. Familiar. Comforting.

And now- 

Now you’re crawling into the backseat behind the same man you had a little verbal sparring match with not seven minutes ago. Perfect. 

You clamber awkwardly across the console, half-kneeling on the leather, and stretch your arms around Danny in the world’s least ergonomic side hug.

He laughs, warm and immediate. “That’s one way to say hi.”

“You’re lucky I’m flexible,” you mutter, chin nearly in his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you smell good,” he shoots back, arms slipping around your waist just long enough to squeeze.

You pull back, cheeks pink from wind and exertion, and slide fully into the backseat.

Danny eyes you through the rearview mirror. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your seatbelt. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“No, I’m saying it like you’re trouble.”

From the front, Max shifts. Says nothing.

You glance at the back of his head. His silence is louder than the engine.

Great.

This is going to be fun.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════���═══════

You’re practically folded over the center console, laughing about something stupid- Danny said a phrase wrong, or you did, and now the two of you are tangled in some inside joke Max doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. You’re taking up space like you live there- laughing, leaning in too close to Danny, warm in a way Max hasn’t seen from you in weeks. Maybe ever.

And it’s not just the posture. It’s the presentation.

Your hair spills over your shoulder, catching the light from the streetlamps overhead. Loose. Shiny. Feminine in a way that makes his throat tighten.

Your shirt rides up slightly at the back, just enough to reveal the soft curve of waist where the jeans cling a little too perfectly- black denim, snug in all the places that would make anyone stare, especially now, with your new body- louder, prouder, stronger than the one Max last saw at a weigh-in this summer. Sheer black nylons that aren’t entirely see-through, but just enough to make his eyes linger before he can snap them away. 

He doesn’t look. He shouldn’t be looking. He isn’t looking.

But he can’t stop seeing.

He tries not to. Shifts in his seat like that’ll stop his peripheral vision from functioning. Like the heat creeping under his collar isn’t his problem to deal with.

He hates this.

Because it’s not just the way you look- it’s the way Danny’s looking at you. The way you’re looking at Danny. All warm and open and lit up from the inside. Like Danny’s safe. Like he’s yours. Like he’s seen something Max hasn’t.

There’s a ribbon in your hair.

A fucking ribbon.

Tied low, trailing down the back of your neck where your curls fall loose and messy, like you meant for them to look that soft. That touchable.  But Max can’t stop looking at it. He hates that bow. He hates what it implies- what it softens. Like you’re approachable. Sweet. Like there’s anything gentle about you. 

And he hates that it works.

Danny said it first- you smell good- and Max hasn’t been able to un-smell you since. Now Max can’t stop noticing. Something soft and expensive and a little sweet, something that clings to the heater vents. Wraps around his throat. It’s subtle. Effortless. Exactly the kind of scent that doesn’t try to draw attention but does anyway. Warm. Light. Clean. A little vanilla, maybe. A little powder. Something soft and domestic and utterly disarming, soaking into the the edge of his patience with every breath. 

He wants to roll down the fucking window.

You look good. And that should be annoying. Just another fucking thing about you that takes up too much space. But it’s worse than annoying.

He hates all of it. He hates how cute it is. Not loud. Not styled to seduce. Just naturally, infuriatingly attractive. He wants to make Danny turn the car around. Wants to shout something just to ruin the mood you and Danny are building without even trying.

Because it undermines everything. The bow, the perfume, the gloss on your lips- none of it belongs on someone like you. Someone who’s clawed her way into every room, swinging elbows, spitting fire, refusing to take a single inch without drawing blood.

But now you’re in Danny’s car looking like this?

Like a girl?

Because for the first time- the first time- Max doesn’t see you as a rival, or a nuisance, or a pressure point to push until you scream.

For the first time, he sees you as a woman.

And he hates it. Hates that it’s you. That it’s now. That it's happening at all. Because you’re not supposed to be this. You’re supposed to be sharp edges and smug retorts. A storm in a Red Bull polo. Someone to fight with. Someone to prove wrong.

You’re not supposed to be cute.

You’re not supposed to be beautiful.

But you are.

And now you’re glowing in the backseat like some perfect fucking contradiction, all honeyed edges and storm-wrought eyes, and Max- 

Max can’t breathe.

Because the same power that makes him want to throw something through a wall every time you talk is the same thing that’s pulling at his nerves right now. That’s twisting under his skin like a wire.

You are so goddamn alive.

Every room you walk into, you change the temperature.

Every time you speak, you rearrange the gravity.

Max clenches his jaw. Because the worst part- the part he can’t admit, even to himself- is that this isn’t new. Not really. That presence you carry, that fire, that thing that pisses him off every time you open your mouth- that’s what this is. You’re a problem. You’ve always been a problem. 

And now he’s seeing what that problem looks like in black jeans and soft perfume and a bow tied at the back of your head like a dare. You’re not just a problem. You’re alluring. You’re dangerous. And Max is hating every single fucking second of realizing it.

When the car pulls up in front of the pub, you unclip your seatbelt with a soft click and glance between the two of them.

“I can check it out first,” you say, hand already on the door. “Make sure it’s halfway subtle. Not filled with factory staff or a Max fan club.”

Danny huffs a laugh, but you’re already slipping out- shoulders squared, leather sneakers hitting pavement with that easy, practiced rhythm that says you’ve never once considered asking permission to take up space.

You cross in front of the SUV, slicing clean through the headlights. And for a second- just a second- Max forgets to breathe.The way your hips move. The way the sheen of your tights catches the light through the ripped in the denim at the back of your thigh. The bow bouncing softly behind your hair as you go.

Danny’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s watching, too. Staring, really. Full tilt. Blatant.

And not in the way Max is- bitter and defensive, trying to smother it before it spreads. Danny’s looking like someone genuinely pleased to see you. Someone who likes watching you walk. Someone who wouldn’t mind seeing you keep going and not come back, just so he has an excuse to follow.

And Max- 

Max hates that, too.

You disappear into the pub, shoulders back, posture casual. And the moment the door swings shut behind you, Danny exhales.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “She looks good.”

Max doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look. Tries not to. But he can feel you out there, just like he’s always been able to feel it- occupying more than your share of the air.

Danny exhales through his teeth, a little laugh catching at the end. “She always like that?”

Max flicks his eyes toward him, annoyed already. “Like what?”

Danny shrugs, eyes still tracking the door you just disappeared behind. “You know. All... that.”

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know what that even means. The ribbon? The legs? The presence?

Danny glances at him. A little softer now. Still watching the door, but quieter. More careful. “You knew her first, man. What’s her deal?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Max could say a dozen things.

Her deal?

Where would he even start?

He could say you are stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Obsessive. You don’t bend unless something breaks you. You’re exhausting and impressive and sometimes so fucking loud in his head it drowns out everything else.

But the truth is simpler. The truth is worse.

All Max really knows is how much it takes to break you.

That’s it.

How long you can hold your breath in the fire. How much pressure you absorb before something cracks. What your voice sounds like when you’ve been holding back a scream for hours, for weeks. What it’s like to push you into a corner until the only thing left is fight.

It’s not knowledge. It’s pathology.

And it makes him feel a little sick.

He looks away, jaw tight. “I don’t know her.” And it’s the truth, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. Not when Danny’s looking at him like he wants a reason to justify feeling something warm- like he’s hoping Max can explain the thing Danny’s become infatuated with. But Danny doesn’t push. Cuts himself off as your figure comes darting back across the parking lot.

You push open the car door and duck back in, breath puffing in the cold. “It’s decent,” you report, tugging your jacket tighter. “Not a lot of quiet corners, but if we can get y’all to a table fast, there’s a good chance we can get a drink or two in before the whole town realizes Verstappen’s here for pint night.”

Danny snorts and grabs the handle. “Copy that. Deploying cover fire.”

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The three of you head inside. It’s warm, a little cramped, but charming in that British-pub-on-a-Friday kind of way. Low ceilings, scuffed wood, red walls. A few tables of locals already deep into their second round, but no one looks up long enough to register who just walked in.

You claim a booth near the back- narrow, loud, good enough- and offer to grab the drinks. Danny rattles off his usual, Max mutters his without looking up, and you head to the bar, sharp-heeled and half-smirking as you go.

You come back balancing three pints in your hands, pushing one toward each of them and settling into the seat across from both. Max takes his without thanks. Danny gives you a soft, sideways look that you pretend not to see.

Small talk kicks up, carried mostly by Danny. Easy stuff. You all pretend for ten minutes that the last few months haven’t been a professional and emotional meat grinder. You have problems. Danny has problems. Max has problems. You talk about none of them. Instead, racing gossip. Car updates. A truly unhinged story from Danny about a team principal with food poisoning in Singapore. You didn’t need to know that much about Zak Brown, honestly, but you’re laughing anyways.

And then, half a beer in, Danny leans back. One arm stretched across the booth. His gaze lands on you.

“So.” He takes a slow sip. “Hollywood. You talked to anyone since moving?”

You blink. Oh. “Like… romantically?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Or whatever you call it when it’s mutual.”

You nearly choke on your beer. You cough once, cover your mouth, and wave a hand like it’ll clear the air. “Oh my God.”

Danny laughs immediately. “That bad?”

“That’s hilarious,” you sputter, wiping your mouth. “Genuinely. Peak comedy.”

Max shifts slightly, glass still in his hand but eyes cut sharp across the table. Maybe you shouldn’t talk about your life in front of him, but honestly, there’s nothing to tell. Not really. 

You shake your head. “Danny. I live in a dorm room above the factory. Everyone I interact with is either married, under the age of twenty, or- ” you gesture lazily, without even looking- “him.”

Danny turns to glance at Max and immediately huffs a laugh. “Right. Right.”

Max doesn’t blink. Just lifts his beer and takes a long, steady sip.

You lean back in your seat, finally grinning. “Where do you think I’m meeting people? The break room? Am I supposed to flirt with the espresso machine?”

Danny’s shoulders are shaking now, head tilted back in open laughter. “Listen, I don’t know your life.”

“No. But you should. Because it’s deeply, profoundly celibate. Probably for the best. I don’t really plan on doing the whole distance thing.”

Danny’s still grinning when he gestures with the rim of his pint toward you. “Okay. No distance. Fair enough. So, theoretically- if someone not married, not a minor, and not mean,” he says, throwing a glance at Max that’s almost too quick to track, “were to, say… express interest. Someone from F1. That’d be off the table?”

You raise an eyebrow. “From F1?” The suspicion in your voice is thick enough to chew on. Profound. Amused, because this is a joke, clearly.

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “What? We’re not all emotionally stunted.”

You snort. “Okay. Let’s break that down.”

Danny lifts his hands. “I’m just asking questions.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s fuck one of my new coworkers,” you say dryly, “whose dating pool is a puddle. Like, I have seen more water on the floor of my shower.” Danny nearly spits his beer, but you keep going. You’re on one, now. 

“Yeah, fantastic idea. Let me join the glorious tradition of passing around the same three girlfriends like a paddock carnival prize. I’ll get murdered in my sleep by a group of jealous ex-WAGs and my tombstone will just say ‘should’ve known better.’”

Danny’s howling now, and even he looks slightly ashamed about how funny he finds it. Max hasn’t said a word, but you can feel it- the bristle, the shift in his posture. That thing he does when he’s trying to stay above it and failing completely. Like he does not want to appear to be enjoying this conversation in any manner, yet can’t quite help it.

And then he speaks. Mistake. “They’re not all like that,” he says, quiet but pointed.

You both turn to look at him. Just one of those slow, synchronized movements that would be funny if it weren’t so precise. Danny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” You just sip your beer, staring at him over the rim.

Because if Max Verstappen- the reigning king of WAG turnover- is about to defend the honor of the grid, you’re going to need another drink.

And you both wait.

And Max?

He says nothing. Because he can’t. Because his most recent ex was literally the mother of his former teammate’s child. Kelly. Kelly fucking Piquet.

She was with Daniil. Had a baby with him. Then moved on to Max like it was a change in season. And Max, to his credit- or to his utter lack of shame- never said a word. Just took what he wanted, like he always does.

The silence stretches.

Danny takes a sip of his beer. You take another.

And the look you both give him- matching, amused, pointed- is louder than anything either of you could’ve said. Max doesn’t flinch. But the muscle in his jaw ticks.

Yeah. That’s what you thought. Down, boy. 

The conversation drifts. Eventually, even Max and Danny start talking- about tire strategy, about something ridiculous Christian said in a meeting last month, about a simulator bug that made the steering rack twitch even under a full shutdown like a haunted marionette. You know the one. You had to unplug the wheel entirely each night just to keep it from scaring the shit out of you after 9 pm. 

You half-listen, sipping your beer, watching the crowd thicken near the bar. Observe the slow turn of a face or two across the room- but everyone goes back to their own beers, their own conversations.

You’re part of the table, but not the conversation. Just a warm body holding one corner down. And honestly, it feels kind of nice. To not be the one driving the story. To let your posture soften, to let your brain go quiet for a minute.

Max is talking to Danny now- something about the setup in Brazil and how god-awful the outside line was that weekend. You’re half-listening, enough to track the rise and fall of his voice, the occasional gesture of his hand, but your mind drifts.

Danny is still nodding along. Still laughing in the right places. But you notice it- once, twice, then again.

His eyes keep darting over to you.

The first glance is quick. Curious, even. The second lingers longer. Long enough that you glance up and catch it. He doesn’t look away. By the third time, he’s full-on watching you.

Like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen in weeks. Like maybe he’s not just being polite anymore.

You glance down at your drink, the rim of your glass smudged with a faint print of gloss, and try not to fidget. It’s not romantic. Not exactly. But it’s focused. Intentional. He’s looking at you like he forgot what Max was even saying.

And Max notices.

You feel it in the fractional pause in his cadence. The way his voice flattens slightly at the edges. His story loses shape. His next sentence tapers off like he’s forgotten the punchline or just doesn’t feel like delivering it anymore.

There’s a lull- brief but open- and Danny jumps on it like he’s been waiting all night for the gap. Turns to you fully.

“You really are fun, you know that?” he says, leaning a little closer, the kind of grin on his face that usually means trouble- but not in a mean way. Somewhere between beer two and beer three, and all of him just buzzing with charm and distraction.

You blink, startled out of your haze, but smile anyway. “I hope so. Would hate to be boring on top of everything else.”

Danny’s smile softens. His voice drops half a register. “No. Not just fun. Like- bright. You glow when you’re around people you like.” That makes you pause. It’s sweet. Really sweet. And unexpected. You’re not exactly sure what to do with it.

Not in a romantic way. Not really. It’s just Danny being Danny- charming, loose around the edges, ADHD running the conversation like a DJ with a broken crossfader. You’ve gathered that he’s always this side of a flirt, especially after a couple drinks. But still, something about the way he says it lands. The way his attention keeps snapping back to you like a rubber band.

You smile, wide and sheepish. “You’re just saying that because I got the drinks,” you tease, nudging his foot under the table.

Danny laughs. “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

Max, across from both of you, exhales like he’s trying not to audibly gag. And then- because he cannot help himself- he drops the hammer. “Right,” Max says, voice flat. “Just wait ‘til you see her lose it in a meeting. Then you’ll really see her glow.”

You blink.

Danny turns.

Max sips his beer, casual. Lethal. “Full meltdown. Everyone stopped talking. I think someone apologized to her, which was insane, because she was the one yelling.”

You can feel the flush rise up your chest like a fuse.

Because how dare he. You stare at him. Stunned. Furious. You can’t even speak yet.

Because he left out everything.

He left out the weeks of poking and prodding. The whispered digs. The anonymous feedback dropped into your reports. The pointed questions in front of senior staff. The deliberate redactions in your sim notes that made you look wrong even when you weren’t.

The mother-fucking-Diet-Coke.

He left out how he made you snap. Just this. This version. You, unhinged. Overreacting. Embarrassing. And now he’s feeding it to Danny like you’re some unhinged liability who just couldn’t keep her pretty little mouth shut in a meeting.

Max takes a slow sip of his beer. God, he looks so fucking pleased with himself.

But then- Danny laughs. Hard.

You blink again, confused.

Danny’s eyebrows go up. “No way. Her? C’mon.”

He looks at you, grinning. “You? You’re the meltdown type?”

Your mouth opens, words fighting their way up your throat, then closes again. Because what are you supposed to say? That it’s true? That you did raise your voice, that you did storm out, that you did send a stack of paperwork flying over the top of Max’s head and let it rain down like confetti? 

That Max got what he wanted?

Danny leans back. “Nah. Don’t believe it. Not Hollywood. Not our girl.” He says our girl, like Max might share a claim to any part of you but your absolute contempt. 

You glance at Max. He’s still staring into his glass. But his jaw is tight now. Just slightly. Like the moment didn’t go the way he planned. Danny bumps your foot under the table again, teasing. “You’d have to be a menace to get her to snap.”

You lean forward slightly, eyes still locked on Max, voice just loud enough to cut through the hum of the pub.

“Yeah,” you say. “A real fucking menace.”

Max doesn’t flinch. But his next sip of beer is sharp, and silent. But you can’t gloat on it for long, because there’s something about the room, the bar, the energy that’s… changing. You sneak a glance over the boys.

A couple glances from across the pub. Someone nudging someone else. A phone tilted in your direction, not discreetly enough. The laughter from your table a little too loud, your faces a little too familiar.

You’re not famous-famous. Not like them. But you’ve got enough edge now that your name rings a bell. And when you’re sitting across from two men who look very much like Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo on a Friday night, wearing a shirt that fits a little too well and a bow in your hair that people seem to notice more than they should- it adds up.

You clock it before either of them. So you slide your empty glass across the table and say, “Time to go.” No one argues.

Outside, the air is colder than you expect. Your breath fogs. Max shrugs into his coat without a word. Danny smiles, easy and relaxed, spinning his keys once before offering them to you.

“You good to drive? We can get a cab if we need to.”

You nod. “One beer. You guys had, what, two? Three?”

Max grunts. Danny grins, a little shrug, boyish. “I was thirsty.”

You slide into the driver’s seat. Max takes the passenger side without asking, which- yuck. Bad manners. Danny climbs in back. The plan’s simple: drop them off at the hotel. You’ll take Danny’s rental car back to the factory, bring it back to him tomorrow.

Easy.

But when you pull up to the curb, the quiet lingers just a little too long. You put the car in park. Danny leans forward between the seats, voice low and warm.

“You want to come in? Just for a drink. Hotel bar or my room- whatever’s less weird.” You blink. Not thrown off, not uncomfortable- just surprised. Max stiffens beside you. Danny’s smile doesn’t waver. “Just to hang out. You’ve been in factory jail for weeks.”

You glance at him. Then Max. Then back again. “I mean- sure,” you say, casual. “I’ll come in for a little.”

And that’s when Max says it. “I’ll come too.”

You turn.

Danny blinks.

Max’s expression doesn’t change. Still casual. Still detached. “If we’re doing a nightcap. Why not.”

Danny hesitates. Just a beat. “You literally said you were going straight to bed.”

Max shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

You stare at him. “You really don’t have to- ”

Max cuts you off. “I want to.”

And that’s it. Decision made.

You press your lips together, amused despite yourself. Danny sighs, a little dramatic. “Alright. Boys’ night plus you, then.”

You shake your head and kill the engine. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Max’s jaw ticks as he gets out. He’s already regretting all of it. But the idea of Danny and you alone- in a hotel bar with mood lighting, or on a couch, or anywhere near a bed- is worse.

If Danny falls for you, Max won’t survive it. He is not losing custody of his best friend to you.

So tonight?

He’s not letting either of you out of his sight.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

One drink turns into four.

You’re not even sure how. One minute you’re perched on the edge of the couch in Danny’s hotel suite, shoes still on, sipping something floral and deceptively strong. The next, you’re flat on your back on the carpet, legs splayed out under the coffee table, laugh-crying into your forearm.

You can’t breathe. You cannot breathe.

Because Max- Max- is pacing the room, red-faced and animated, shouting over Danny while they argue about whose fault it was that the side of Max’s caravan sheared off halfway through their marketing stunt at the RedBull Ring five years back.

“No, no, no- you hit me!,” Max says, pointing aggressively with his gin and tonic like it's a laser pointer of truth. “You always do this- !”

“I was being cinematic!” Danny yells, already wheezing. “It was for the shot!”

“For the shot?! It was a caravan, not a drone sequence! You tipped my caravan over!”

You’re howling.

There are tears streaming down your face. Your stomach hurts. You’re half convinced you might actually piss yourself on the floor of a Milton Keynes hotel if they keep going. And you don’t know if Max is actually funny or if you’re just drunk enough to believe he is- but either way, this is the funniest thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Maybe ever.

You manage to lift your head just enough to wheeze, “Please stop talking- I can’t breathe- ”

Danny falls off the arm of the couch, landing next to you in a heap. ““I was winning!!” he gasps again, absolutely beside himself.

Max throws his hands in the air, grinning like a lunatic. “You were going to kill us!”,

You’re laughing so hard now that it’s silent- just your mouth open, body shaking, face buried in the hotel carpet.

You should not be this happy. Not here. Not now. Not with them. But God, for the first time in months, the ache behind your ribs isn’t heavy. It’s light. Not this isn’t terrible, not this is actually kind of enjoyable, but genuine, rib cracking fun. 

You can’t help but think it again, horrifyingly, as he gears up for another round of arguing with Danny. Max Verstappen- stone-faced, growling, rage-fueled Max Verstappen- might actually be funny. The world is upside-down. And you’re just drunk enough to love it.

At some point following drink four, Danny tries to scoot closer to you on the couch.

It’s not dramatic- just a lean-in, knee bumping yours, shoulder dipping slightly in your direction as he cracks open another story. You don’t really clock it. You’re still laughing, still breathless from whatever Max just said about how fucking terrible the sausages they cooked at the end were.

But Max sees it.

Max clocks it immediately.

And before Danny can even shift his weight again, Max moves- fast and thoughtless, dropping down right between you like he’s claiming a spot that was always his. “I mean, you could taste the propane,” he cuts in, reaching across you both for a half-empty can of tonic. “I think that’s when I realized I am an awful cook.”

Danny blinks. His arm is still outstretched where it was trying to find the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

Now it’s hovering awkwardly in midair behind Max’s neck.

You blink too, a little disoriented, because now Max is suddenly close- like really close- one leg pressed against yours, his shoulder brushing yours every time he gestures. He’s not even looking at you, just ranting about how Danny “none of it was the same after he left,” but the space between you has evaporated.

Danny tries again a few minutes later- after he stands to make another round of drinks, another bout of story-laugh-shouting that has you giggling into your wrist, head thrown back against the couch cushion. 

Danny drops on the arm of the couch as he hands you your drink, shifts toward you. Barely. Just trying to close the distance. Maybe bump your shoulder. Maybe nudge his knee next to yours again.

Max leans back.

Elbows wide. Legs spread. Like he’s stretching- only somehow, his stretch ends with his knee fully pressed against yours and his arm slung behind you on the couch. Not quite touching you. But close enough that the heat of him is a presence. Enough to make you stand too, vacate the space Max clearly needed to manspread into, and drop down on the far side of the couch. Max between you and Danny. Again. It’s fine. It’s better even, because you can kick your feet up.

Danny narrows his eyes. Clears his throat. Mate, you are fucking this up for me. 

Max doesn’t even glance at him. Doesn’t notice. Or rather, he pretends not to.  Just keeps sitting there.

Because as far as he’s concerned, he’s just protecting his friend. That’s all. Keeping things in check. Hogging Danny, maybe, but only because he doesn’t want him tangled up with someone who ruins everything she touches.

That’s the reason.

And it keeps happening. You’ve noticed, even through the gin haze.

Every time Danny leans in- just slightly- Max inserts himself like it’s a sport. When Danny shifts toward you on the couch, Max shifts further. When Danny makes a joke, Max cuts in before you can answer. When Danny starts a story, Max finishes it.

You’ve moved to the armrest. Then the cushion beside it. Then leaned onto the floor with your back to the couch.

Each time, Max finds you.

It’s gotten to the point where you’re halfway through a laugh and suddenly there’s a knee pressed into yours and Max is talking again, louder, sharper- about you, at you, through you.

Like just by existing, you’ve ruined something that was his.

You try to ignore it.

Try to keep drinking. Keep smiling. Talk less, if only it means trying to hang onto the little bit of joy left in the night.

But the last straw comes when Danny tosses an arm across the back of the couch, joking about some fucked up F1-themed wedding he saw on Instagram- complete with matching helmets- and Max just has to cut in.

“Hey, maybe you can sell your wedding to SkySports,” he says, all casual menace. “Or maybe not. Wouldn’t want a public meltdown broadcasted when you go full-bridezilla.”

Your entire body stills, because what normal fucking person would ever say that? 

Danny freezes, stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares like his favorite dog just shit on the floor of the White House. And for a long moment, the room is just… quiet.

Then, you turn your head. Slowly. You speak. Too sweet. “Max?”

He glances over, cocky as hell.

You smile. Bright. Lethal. “I would rather lick the inside of a fucking racing boot than sit next to you for one more minute.”

Danny chokes on his drink. You stand, grab your phone, and type out a rideshare request in record time.

Max shrugs, already halfway smug. “I’m just-.”

You cut whatever bullshit he had loaded up off at the knees. “-you were just shutting the fuck up, thanks.”

You don’t even wait for a reply. Just turn to Danny- softening your expression, letting the warmth return. “Thanks for tonight,” you say, and mean it. “I had fun. I’ll see you around.”

And then you’re gone. Door swinging gently shut behind you.

Danny stares at it. Still holding his lowball glass of ice. Still seated on the couch, still half stuck in the dream where he was supposed to be the one walking you out. Getting a real date set. Maybe a kiss, if he’s being wishful. At the very least, not ending the night like this.

Max exhales. “You’re welcome.”

Danny turns slowly. “Sorry?”

Max shrugs. “You were about to make a mistake. I saved you.”

Danny just stares. “You think she’s a mistake?”

“I know she is.”

“Right.” Danny nods, lets it hang for a moment. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

Silence.

Max sits back like it’s a game he just won. Like he didn’t just gut the night with a single, well-placed knife between her ribs.

“I liked her,” Danny says, finally. Quiet. Not for sympathy. Just the truth.

Max doesn’t say anything. Because he could see Danny liked you, at least a little. And he did fuck it up. On purpose. He watched Danny lean in- watched him light up like you were something precious- and he couldn’t let it happen.

Not because he wanted you. But because Danny did. And something about that felt too threatening. Too unstable. Too real. So he ruined it.

And he’s still not sorry.

Because in Max’s mind, he didn’t sabotage Danny’s shot with a good thing- he saved him from a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet. He just doesn’t know how to explain that in a way that doesn’t make him sound like the jealous asshole he refuses to believe he is.

So instead, he leans back. Folds his arms. And lets the disappointment settle between them, thin and quiet and heavy as sleep.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

A/N: Back from the dead with a 31 pager! Definitely struggling a little bit recently, and I hate that feeling of being 'in debt' to you guys with chapters, so I am going to try to make a push for a few releases this week, don't hate me if it doesn't go accordingly.

On my hands and knees begging for feedback and your commentary on the story as it quite literally is my only mental reward for the hours I am putting in. It makes my little ADHD brain go brrrr

[ms-demeanor]

Hi! You’re in the LA area, right? I hope you and your family are okay.

Unrelatedly, I ran across a thread on Mastodon about Proton Mail, which I think you’ve talked about before, and was curious what you make of it / how credible it is: https://code4lib.social/@inthehands@hachyderm.io/113838748729664639

I'm fine thanks! Worried about some friends but I'm good.

I think that thread is not incorrect, but is also bullshit.

Email protocols do not allow for 100% anonymous communication and never will, when Proton was subpoenaed for user data that ended up with some French climate activists getting prosecuted they were transparent about what was requested and updated their logging rules to store less data. *Starting* from the assumption that protonmail is supposed to be totally secure OR sells itself as totally secure is disingenuous.

The great thing about open source software is that you never have to trust a shithead CEO when they talk about what the software does. I get why people are angry at the CEO (I think the CEO is at least half wrong in that he is claiming that Republicans will challenge monopolies, but he's not wrong about the destructive corporatism of the Democratic party even if he is *in essence* wrong about which party is more likely to gesture in the direction of breaking up tech monopolies) but A) the thread says that proton's software is "opaque" and it just. Literally is not. and B) that thread links to another thread talking about how what proton is selling is trust and nope. They don't have to sell trust; you can see what their software does if you choose to investigate it, there's no need for trust when you can verify. What they're selling is transparency and from where i'm standing they are indeed quite transparent.

God. Imagine thinking that a zero trust service is selling trust.

So I think the argument that "protonmail actually isn't as secure as it claims" is bullshit that people bring up whenever they're mad at the company (whether they have legitimate reasons to be mad at the company or not).

For the record: you should never, ever, EVER treat email as a secret. Nothing you do over email is really secret because *the rules that allow email to function as a service* require at least some very sensitive information to be an open part of the protocol.

The Proton page on end to end encryption is *very* clear that it is the contents of your email messages that are encrypted, not your email as a whole, and in the image they use to illustrate this the parts of your email that *cannot* be made private (sender, recipient, subject line, time sent) are shown unencrypted:

They're not subtle about letting people know this. Nor are they quiet about the fact that replies to encrypted emails are not encrypted by default.

So the thread is *technically* correct in that all the security "holes" described reflect reality, but it's correct like saying "McDonald's says that you can eat their food for every meal and you'll put on ten pounds of muscle but ACTUALLY putting on ten pounds of muscle requires a huge amount of dedication and a very careful diet and a lot of resistance exercise" - like, I guess yeah that's what you have to do to put on ten pounds of muscle but where exactly was McDonald's making that claim? Did they actually make that claim or are general statements like "I'm Lovin' It" being misinterpreted in bad faith by people on the internet who are mad at something a CEO did?

So. Like. Yeah the CEO is being a shithead, the social media team made a pretty bad fuckup by doubling down on his shitheadery, the product still works as described, AND the thread discussing all of that is deeply annoying.

So.

I think this thread actually does a great job of explaining why I've never seen a "hackers for social justice" group that has lasted. This reminds me a LOT of when someone tried to say that you shouldn't use firefox because the former CEO was a homophobe. There are a lot of deeply shitty people who have made important contributions to our tech ecosystem and if we threw the baby out with the bathwater every time Notch from Minecraft ended up being Notch from minecraft you'd lock yourself out of a lot of really important tools. And this isn't the same as "buying harry potter merch funds transphobia" because it literally doesn't; especially with open source tools you can continue using the software and cheerfully hate the CEO because A) fuck that guy and B) what the fuck are you going to do about it, guy, this shit's encrypted.

I don't want to get too deeply into a discussion about what is or is not cancel culture, but what I'm seeing in that thread (and what I see coming up every time someone brings up the "But the French Climate Activists!" thing) is an attempt to prioritize political alignment over real-world utility. It's attempting to cancel a *genuinely useful tool* because someone involved in the development is an asshole.

By all means, don't give protonmail money if the CEO's trump-positive comments make you feel unsafe.

However: What service are you going to use that is as accessible and as secure to ensure that you actually *are* safe? There are alternatives out there. Do they actually do more than proton? Are they easier to use? Are they open source? One of the responses to that thread was "yeah, that dude seems shitty; i'd switch to another service if there was another one that I felt was as secure" and that's pretty much what I think the correct attitude is. (If you really, really still want to switch, Tuta has been the broadly recommended alternative to protonmail for years but at this point Proton has a suite of services that some users would need to replace, not just email)

IDK i think shit like this contributes to a lot of the bad kind of security nihilism where people are like "oh no, things will never be secure and even my scrappy little open source product is headed by an asshole, i may as well use google because everything sucks" when they should have the good kind of nihilism which is like "man, there are a lot of assholes out there and they're never going to stop being assholes; i'd better take proactive steps to act like the people who make tech stuff are assholes and operate from a better base of security at the start"

so the takeaways are:

Proton never claimed that anything but the message contents of your e2e encrypted messages are encrypted; as far as these things go, they do a pretty good job of being both secure and easy to use compared to other offerings.

Yeah the CEO is being kind of a shithead and I'm not a huge fan of that.

If you think the CEO is being a shithead and don't want to give the company your money, don't pay for their services, but the CEO being a shithead doesn't actually mean you can't trust their services; their services are literally built on zero trust, if the CEO literally wanted to hunt you down personally he wouldn't be any more able to decrypt your emails than he was before and he wouldn't be any more likely to respond to a subpoena than he was before (proton does respond to subpoenas when required but not otherwise; they've been compelled to produce more data in the last decade than before because law enforcement finally realized who they needed to yell at - one of the bigger issues here is the Swiss courts being more willing to grant subpoenas to international complainants than they were before)

The reason we don't go see hogwarts movies is because doing so gives JK money and that does actual real world harm; using firefox does not have an impact on Brendan Eich's ability to materially change the world. It is very weird that we're in a place where we're treating *open source encryption software that is simple enough for your grandma to use it* as though it is Orson Scott Card.

Sorry i'm still stuck on people thinking that proton, famously open source, is opaque, and that an encryption service with zero trust architecture is selling trust.

Anyway if you've ever got questions about security/privacy/whatever services privacyguides.org is a very reliable source.

OH I FIGURED OUT WHAT WAS BUGGING ME

There are a bunch of people discussing this talking about how the CEO's social media is what has made them feel unsafe and I'm going to be a dick here and say that facts don't care about your feelings.

The CEO saying stupid shit doesn't actually make you unsafe in a situation like this; if the CEO was a violent transphobe or aggressive racist or horribly misogynist that wouldn't actually make any of the users of the product less safe. That's why the SJ hacker stuff I've seen hasn't had much staying power; I think that groups that focus on making people feel included and welcome and safe to be themself within the group run into really big problems when there's a conflict between people in the group FEELING unsafe because of (genuinely important in many ways) cultural signifiers like political alignment and so in order to accommodate that feeling they end up doing things (like some kinds of collaboration/accountability practices, abandoning useful tools, WAY too much personal transparency and radical vulnerability for people who are doing crime shit) that ACTUALLY make them less safe.

The CEO being a shithead may make you feel bad, but moving to a less secure platform may actually be dangerous. One of these things can have a big impact on your life, and it is not the one that is happening on twitter.

Anyway. Email is inherently insecure and if you want a secure messaging tool use Signal.

If you are doing crime shit don't talk about it on the internet and DEFINITELY don't talk about it in any kind of unencrypted platform.

If you are a French climate activist who would like to not get arrested if Tuta gets a subpoena for data, use the email service in concert with tor and be cautious about senders/receivers and subject lines.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Forcing Google to spin off Chrome (and Android?)

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/11/19/breaking-up-is-hard-to-do/#shiny-and-chrome

Last August, a federal judge convicted Google of being "a monopolist" and acting "as one to maintain its monopoly." The judge concluded that key to Google's monopoly was the vast troves of data it collects and analyzes and asked the parties to come up with remedies to address this.

Many trustbusters and Google competitors read this and concluded that Google should be forced to share its click and quer y data. The technical term for this is "apocalyptically stupid." Releasing Google's click and query data into the wild is a privacy Chernobyl in the waiting. The secrets that we whisper to search engines have the power to destroy us a thousand times over.

Largely theoretical answers like "differential privacy" are promising, but remain theoretical at scale. The first large-scale live-fire exercise for these should not be something as high-stakes as Google's click and query data. If anything, we should delete that data:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/07/revealed-preferences/#extinguish-v-improve

The last thing we want to do is use antitrust to democratize surveillance so that everyone can spy as efficiently as Google does. In theory, we could sanitize the click and query data by limiting sharing to queries that were made by multiple, independent users (say, only sharing queries that at least 30 users have made), but it's unlikely that this will do much to improve the performance of rival firms' search engines.

Google only retains 18 months' worth of click and query data, thus once we cut off its capacity to collect more data, whatever advantage it has from surveillance will begin to decay immediately and fall to zero in 18 months.

(However: the 18 months figure is deceptive, and deliberately so. Google may only retain your queries for 18 months, but it is silent on how long it retains the inferences from those queries. It may discard your "how do I get an abortion in my red state" query after a year and a half, but indefinitely retain the "sought an illegal abortion" label it added to your profile. The US desperately needs a federal consumer privacy law!)

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy

And just to be clear, there's other Google data that would be very useful to rival search engines, like Google's search index – the trove of pages from the internet. Google already licenses this out, and search engines like Kagi use it to produce substantially superior search results:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/04/teach-me-how-to-shruggie/#kagi

The DOJ has just filed its proposal for a remedy, and it's a doozy: forcing Google to sell off Chrome, on the basis that both of these are the source of much of Google's data, and no rival search engine is likely to also have a widely used browser:

https://9to5google.com/2024/11/18/us-doj-google-sell-chrome/

This represents something of a compromise position: the DOJ had initially signalled that it would also demand a selloff of Android, and that's been dropped. I think there's a good case for forcing the sale of Android as a source of data, too.

In competition theory, these selloffs are referred to as "structural separation" – when a company that provides infrastructure to other firms is prohibited from competing with those firms:

https://locusmag.com/2022/03/cory-doctorow-vertically-challenged/

For example, it used to be that banks were prohibited from competing with the companies they loaned money to. After all, if you borrow money from Chase to open a pizzeria, and then Chase opens a pizzeria of its own across the street, you can see how your business would be doomed. You have to make interest payments to Chase, and your rival doesn't, and if Chase wants to, it can subsidize that rival so it can sell pizzas below cost until you're out of business.

Likewise, rail companies were banned from owning freight companies, because otherwise they would destroy the businesses of every freight company that shipped on the railroad.

In theory, you could create fair play rules that required the bank or the railroad to play nice with the business customers that used their platforms, but in practice, there are so many ways of cheating that this would be unenforceable.

This principle is well established in all other areas of business, and we recoil in horror when it is violated. You wouldn't hire a lawyer who was also representing the person who's suing you. Judges (with the abominable exception of Supreme Court justices!) are required to recuse themselves when they have a personal connection with either of the parties in a case they preside over.

One of the weirdest sights of the new Gilded Age is when lawyers for monopoly companies argue that they can play fair with their customers despite their conflicts of interest. Think of Google or Meta, with their ad-tech duopoly. These are companies that purport to represent sellers of ads and buyers of ads in marketplaces they own and control, and where they compete with sellers and/or buyers. These companies suck up 51% of the revenue generated by advertising, while historically, the share taken by ad intermediaries was more like 15%!

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/25/structural-separation/#america-act

Imagine if you and your partner discovered that the same lawyer was representing both of you in the divorce, while also serving as the judge, and trying to match with both of you on Tinder. Now imagine that when the divorce terms were finalized, lawyer got your family home.

No Google lawyer would agree to argue on the company's behalf in a case where the judge was employed by the party that's suing them, but they will blithely argue that the reason they're getting 51% of the ad-rake is that they're providing 51% of the value.

Structural separation – like judicial recusal – comprehensively and unarguably resolves all the perceptions and realities of conflict between parties. The fact that platform owners compete with platform users is the source of bottomless corruption, from Google to Amazon:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

In other words, I think the DOJ is onto something here. That said, the devil is – as always – in the details. If Google is forced to sell off Chrome, rather than standing it up as its own competing business, things could go very wrong indeed.

Any company that buys Chrome will know that it only has a certain number of years before Google will be permitted to spin up a new browser, and will be incentivized to extract as much value from Chrome over that short period. So a selloff could make Chrome exponentially worse than Google, which, whatever other failings it has, is oriented towards long-term dominance, not a quick buck.

But if Google is forced to spin Chrome out as a standalone business, the incentives change. Anyone who buys Chrome will have to run it as a functional business that is designed to survive a future Google competitor – they won't have another business they can fall back on if Google bounces back in five years.

There's a good history of this in antitrust breakups: both Standard Oil and AT&T were forced to spin out, rather than sell off, parts of their empire, and those businesses stood alone and provided competitive pressure. That is, until we stopped enforcing antitrust law and allowed them to start merging again – womp womp.

This raises another question: does any of this matter, given this month's election results? Will Trump's DoJ follow through on whatever priorities the current DoJ sets? That's an open question, but – unlike so many other questions about the coming Trump regime – the answer here isn't necessarily a nightmare.

After all, the Google antitrust case started under Trump, and Trump's pick for Attorney General, the credibly accused sexual predator Matt Gaetz, is a "Khanservative" who breaks with his fellow Trumpians in professing great admiration for Biden's FTC chief Lina Khan, and her project of breaking up corporate monopolies:

https://www.thebignewsletter.com/p/trump-nominates-khanservative-matt

What's more, Trump is a landing strip for a stroke or coronary, which would make JD Vance president – and Vance has also expressed his approval of Khan's work.

Google bosses seem to be betting on Trump's "transactional" (that is, corrupt) style of governance, and his willingness to overrule his own appointees to protect the interests of anyone who flatters or bribes him sufficiently, or convinces the hosts of Fox and Friends to speak on their behalf:

https://www.mediamatters.org/donald-trump/comprehensive-review-revolving-door-between-fox-and-second-trump-administration

That would explain why Google capo Sundar Pichai ordered his employees not to speak out against Trump:

https://www.businessinsider.com/google-employees-memes-poke-fun-company-rules-political-discussion-2024-11

And why he followed up by publicly osculating Trump's sphincter:

https://twitter.com/sundarpichai/status/1854207788290850888

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[guardianofnightmares]

“Think you can handle what I had in mind for a today’s session, Bumbler?” The Decepticon rumbled while caressing the helm of a companion with a single digit in a calming, if slightly playful, manner. “I am the one choosing location and activity after all.”

Quiet question seemed to pull Bumblebee out of his inner musings. He blinked and looked down at a broad, grey colored chest. There’s no Decepticon symbol to be found there, just as there was no Autobot symbol engraved on his own chest plate either. 

Both of them were not part of their respectful factions in that place - simulation did not allow it to happen, thus highlighting the reached neutrality between two parties. Nothing there was real, even if it seemed or felt like one, and never was portrayed accurately to real state of things. Just like Cybertronian armor of theirs, something so personal which felt almost alien by that point.

Bumblebee was not the same unsophisticated person he was prior that grueling journey. 

Megatron was not the same mech who’s been haunting minibot in his sleep on a duration of a 50 stellar cycles long stasis.

… a more forgiving part of Bumblebee wished to trust his partner, the one patiently waiting for his response. Because belief in their truce was giving a chance of reaching something more meaningful.

It was the reason why that notion in combination with a promise of a challenge in a Decepticon’s gaze made Bumblebee feel relieved and more confident of choices he made.

“Have more faith in me, Meg! After you’ve agreed to participate in that gliding session upon Lake Erie, I am ready for anything you’ll throw my way.”

----------

Mix of depression with health issues and mad schedule at work is not a fun thing to experience. Hence a prolonged hiatus. But I am glad to see this picture being finished after all these weeks of a slow progress).

To be honest, I have never predicted MegaBee ship evolving into such an important thing to me, coming to my rescue second time in a row (in terms of motivation to create). The narrative around this duo has grown from a mere joke to a full on serious plot. In a way it's given me a rare opportunity to look into some philosophical concepts and to study them through Bumblebee's and Megatron's unique perspectives. And I can only hope that you'll enjoy what I am planning to share with you in a near future).

P.S. Full "oneshot" can be found below alongside two close-ups of a painting, as well as a photo of a traditionally drawn base. Yes, pens-only miniart strikes back again with canvas measuring 9x9 cm)).

Megatron stretched his back cables and limbs, the biolights feebly glowing along the edges of reconstructed Cybertronian armor. The HoloRing around his helm has disappeared, signaling the end of an upload of a memory unit into a simulation module. As if to prove it, the Zero SubMental level began to change, the array of data scattering around in peculiar patterns alongside twisting geometric lines, the latter rearranging the place around to suit the input information. 

Mesmerizing as it was, Bumblebee found himself unable to tear a wary gaze away from his companion. A bizarre thought struck him then, one which, he knew, was birthed out of sheer isolation, both mechs’ve found themselves stuck in. 

A thought that the Earth based variant of a grey Decepticon’s armor was more preferable to a minibot than his native one. Gone was the familiar simplicity of cubic shapes, being replaced with flowing lines which ended in sharp angles and spikes. Everything in that armor seemed to glint in something akin to predatory agitation under ever changing light source of a subreality. 

That was a stark reminder of who exactly Bumblebee was dealing with, and it made an anxiety in his Spark feast upon his qualms. 

After what was, most certainly, mere several nanoclicks, those ruby optics got locked straight on an Autobot, making him instinctively hold his breath. It was uncalled for, really, but he could not help himself. 

The last time Megatron was looking at him that way was during their very first confrontation on Omega Supreme. 

Said distress in a smaller mech has not gone unnoticed to the Decepticon. Part of him relished in realization he was still capable of putting minibot in place if needed, but that was not his intent. Not that time. 

Intensity of Megatron’s gaze dropped a certain amount, despite a glow of optics staying at the same level. An all enveloping EM field was tucked close to a frame, its owner squatting down in order to appear less intimidating (even if he’s still slightly towering over a standing minibot). 

It was the first time in their interactions when an Autobot had enough courage to look straight into enemy’s face with barely any space left between them. 

Bumblebee suddenly realized that at a such close proximity he could finally make out the outlines of pupils in Megatron’s optics. 

… those optics which once spoke of a murder. 

… he’s almost died back then from the same servo which was now resting upon his shoulder. 

The clash of behavioral differences between two versions of a Decepticon kneeling in front of him made a minibot think that he’s loosing his mind. For he’s not certain of who out of those two was in charge of actions anymore. 

“Think you can handle what I had in mind for a today’s session, Bumbler?” The Decepticon rumbled while caressing the helm of a companion with a single digit in a calming, if slightly playful, manner. “I am the one choosing location and activity after all.”

Quiet question seemed to pull Bumblebee out of his inner musings. He blinked and looked down at a broad, grey colored chest. There’s no Decepticon symbol to be found there, just as there was no Autobot symbol engraved on his own chest plate either. 

Both of them were not part of their respectful factions in that place - simulation did not allow it to happen, thus highlighting the reached neutrality between two parties. Nothing there was real, even if it seemed or felt like one, and never was portrayed accurately to real state of things. Just like Cybertronian armor of theirs, something so personal which felt almost alien by that point.

Bumblebee was not the same unsophisticated person he was prior that grueling journey. 

Megatron was not the same mech who’s been haunting minibot in his sleep on a duration of a 50 stellar cycles long stasis.

... a more forgiving part of Bumblebee wished to trust his partner, the one patiently waiting for his response. Because belief in their truce was giving a chance of reaching something more meaningful.

It was the reason why that notion in combination with a promise of a challenge in a Decepticon’s gaze made Bumblebee feel relieved and more confident of choices he made. 

“Have more faith in me, Meg! After you’ve agreed to participate in that gliding session upon Lake Erie, I am ready for anything you’ll throw my way.”

“Is that so?” Megatron asked, a sudden boost of confidence of a companion of his making him smirk in amusement.

He looked an Autobot over, taking note of how biolights were dancing across the broad shoulder pads. It was the first time he witnessed Bumblebee in his native armor, never before paying any attention to its details. In a way, he almost thought of it being an oversight on his behalf, finding the pridefully puffed up plates and a more sleek design suitable of a splinter in his side a minibot used to be prior their team-up.

... but only almost. For the Earth based variant was the one to properly describe of who his companion truly turned out to be.

“Well then, shall we begin?”

Despite a fact that the loading of subreality was already in process, Bumblebee, giddy with anticipation, decided to nod anyways.

Upon the end of calculations, the blinding light enveloped both mechs, and they finally started on a new trip down a shared memory lane.

[3liza]

some other interesting things I saw today on my four mile march along Lake Union:

1. a "sorry I missed you" card left on a mailbox cluster for houseboats, from the Nielsen ratings corporation. immediate reactions: can't believe Nielsen ratings are still a thing, it sort of makes sense to target houseboats since they must be 99% owned by boomers, but wouldn't they not usually have cable? maybe they have satellite. i thought about stealing the card because I've always wanted to be a Nielsen household specifically for the purposes of data spoilage

2. very stereotypical German Shepherd Guy laboriously walking his clearly purebred and already basically crippled shepherd yearling on, of course, a prong collar, doing absolutely zero food or praise reinforcement. dog was visibly nervous. I smiled at him because I wanted to pet a puppy, no response

3. millennial woman walking a pug past me while on her phone, just long enough to overhear the four words "kennel cough last year" as she passed. i bet it did ma'am

4. about twenty yacht dealerships. seriously why aren't we vandalizing these places

5. the fascinating and ancient China Harbor restaurant which has been a rotting, monolithic black tiled cube down at the waterfront for decades. apparently it shared a building with a swimming pool, that cannot smell good to either party. I've always wanted to go to China Harbour but it's apparently one of those nightmarish buffets that have mostly disappeared and not one of the good ones. like surviving from the 1950s type of buffet.

photographs don't do the looming effect of this architecture enough credit. also apparently they finally closed last month with a 3.1 rating on yelp

[sgiandubh]

A propos of nothing

After another long-ish serene spell, lo and behold, the Fitness Harem seems to be back in business. Well, sort of, since the person *urv & the Other Troll already tried very hard to connect to S is not exactly a new apparition in our murky landscape.

*urv has been sitting on the narrative possibility embodied by the Czech young woman since OL's Season 7 wrapping party, when she was spotted nearby S (February 2023). Ever since, she's been on the OG Troll's radar, allegedly munro bagging with S & entourage in early August 2024. Or like now, vacaying in Jalisco (as per people who do follow her now private IG account, which I am not), while he was spotted in Sayulita, a resort town near Puerto Vallarta (same state of Jalisco, but hours of drive away).

The same old, same old question is asked frantically and answered either provocatively, by *urv who (as per the usual) hears voices, or teasingly, by the Other Troll, who keeps quiet but digs ahead.

This time, the Mexican fever was prompted by this recent IG follow one of my most trusted friends dropped in my DMs yesterday evening (sorry, querida, I couldn't care less at the time):

Who is Peri Fernandez? Well, he is the General Manager of a posh surfer hotel in Sayulita and Co-Founder of RAYCYA, a raicilla (agave spirit similar to tequila, typical for the Mexican state of Jalisco) start-up distillery, presented as a 'family project':

[Source: https://raycya.com/story]

Before that, Mr. Fernandez del Valle had some experience in the hospitality business. Please note, however, that in my very humble opinion and based on the very scarce data available, sometimes coincidences may be just that - coincidental. After all, Sayulita is not exactly Monte Carlo, is it?

[Source: https://www.linkedin.com/in/pedrofernandezdelvalle/details/experience/]

I know a connection to the Four Seasons Resort Punta Mita has already been speculated upon, but not all Hualalais are created equal. There is zero evidence connecting Mr del Valle and possible prior SC vacations to Mexico, and we can only speculate. Something I personally strive to do as little as possible. In this case, I really believe they just met upon S's arrival at the hotel: it's not unheard of the management to step forward and greet a guest, especially in tropical destinations. Happened to me, by no means a VIP, at The Strand in Rangoon, as a routine check-in perk procedure, along with those perfumed towels and cocktail.

Let me just add that I will not discuss here any specifics related to the very young Czech young woman, as I truly believe there is nothing to it than another of those Joan of Arc moments *urv seems to love creating (hearing voices and all the tralala). I did my research and decided last minute against it. Not everything that was presented (or should I say, 'carefully calibrated'?) on a now private Instagram page is relevant for the traffic of our stage.

What I can say, however, without divulging more than Tasteless *urv did, is that her connection to OL is tenuous and opportunistic at best, since OL (unlike another Scottish TV series) is not even listed on her Imdb page, as it logically should. She is not included in the painstakingly detailed OL credits page on the same Imdb website, while I do know and can prove she was /still is friendly connected, including on social media, to a guy who was part of the Props technical crew for OL's Series Art Department (and who yes, is credited as such by Imdb), from 2016 to 2022. At face value, the woman is not even a professional, just a wannabe - she holds a MSc, for Christ's sake!

So perhaps she was that guy's +1 at the OL party? Or was she one of those extras who signed NDAs, just like everyone on or around the OL set and are not allowed to strike a conversation with the cast, as per this French extra proud recollections?

Let's have a look - translation follows:

[Source: https://outlanderfrance.wordpress.com/2022/04/18/sur-le-tournage-de-la-saison-6-figurante-a-wilmington/]

'One of our admins has been living in Scotland for more than five years and was lucky to be an extra for Outlander Season 6. Her episode was aired and she is now able to talk a bit about it.'

Confirmation of prior rumors & speculation that everyone on OL's set, from cast to crew to extras, had to sign an NDA. Also confirmation that above NDAs are most probably enforced at least until the episode airs (for a simple extra) or the end of the series (for ahem, the main cast) .

But there's more:

'The extras must not speak to the actors, unless one of them starts the conversation. In fact, to them, we are part of the set. They are very cool when the situation allows, but they are in their own bubble. If you go and look on Outlander's Instagram page, you'll find the photos taken by David Berry the day the printing office scene was shot. You'll see Sam behaving like a clown during one of our takes.'

All of the above will not calm down the kerfuffle in any of the warring factions of this fandom. Voices near waterfalls (WTF is this supposed to be, a poor remake of that Blue Lagoon movie?) are carefully included in Instagram stories and then posted successively by the two worst trolls, just to blow a bit of life on the embers of speculation.

Dinna fash, Sassenachs. I think the Czech Theory has the wrong end of the stick, in this case. And yes, this time I will post, because this, ladies, is Playbook 101.

And please, don't come to me begging for more details on the Czech young woman. It is not going to happen. We are shippers and we are better than cheap gossip. Thank you for your understanding. That's all. To be continued, however....

[time-traveling-fetus]

Yesterday at work we were having an all staff day, which is basically a day in which instead of working the administration decides to waste everybody's time with a "fun" party in a very cold room and uncomfortable chairs and speakers that are too loud. But the main events were several people who were invited to give presentations about... I'm not actually sure what it was about. It was several hours of vague statements about diversity and community empowerment and how libraries are the most important institutions in the world that imparted zero information unto me. Not that my job has any relevance to what they were talking about anyway; I dont interact with the public.

Anyway a partner organization was collecting data by having everybody text an automated number with their answers. One question they asked was "What programs would you like our organization to support at the library?" And every answer updated a word cloud in real time. Unfortunately most people didn't understand that if you were submitting a multiword phrase you needed to use dashes instead of spaces to prevent the words from being separated. So the screen immediately displayed in big huge letters the four most common words: PRISON SEX DANCE PARTNERSHIP

[cubera2024]

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