#Interactive Radio Programming

[bookishscrolls]

Effective Community Engagement Strategies for CRS Success

Community Radio Stations (CRS) have a unique and powerful role: to be the voice of the community, by the community, and for the community. But how do you make sure your station isn’t just broadcasting to people but actively engaging with them? This guide dives into actionable strategies for community engagement that will turn your CRS into a dynamic hub of conversation, culture, and…

[keferon]

Swerve had thought just getting to interact with Blurr, even just once, would be a dream.  Now…maybe this is waking up.

(Set during Blurr chapter 1)

----------------------

Blurr's presence is infectious, Swerve realizes.  Inside mecha headquarters, the fact that he was joining the mech program had been all anyone could talk about the first few days after it was announced. 

Now though – now the man is only mentioned when absolutely necessary.  No one seems to have much positive to say about their actual interactions with Blurr and so no one is sure they should say anything at all. 

Autographs and pictures from those early meetings are slowly being filed away.  Disappearing from office desks or hidden discretely behind work files and supplies.  The primary sign left of Blurr's new status is in official company memos, announcements, and promotional posters that line the halls.

But the level of attention needed to avoid discussing Blurr in detail means that everything still comes back to revolving around him in the end.  His mere presence in the office has changed the dynamics of mecha irreversibly – influencing even the most casual conversations. 

Don't make everything about Blurr.  Don't talk too much about the impossibility of Blurr's mech.  Don't admit that Swerve is still a little in awe every time he interacts with the man himself.  And definitely don't admit that it hurts that Blurr doesn't seem to care, doesn't know any of their names – doesn't know Swerve's name. 

Swerve is constantly reminding himself of these points.  He wonders whether his colleagues have to do the same, or whether it's just him that can't help but think about the man's presence.  He doesn't know which would be better or worse.  

Swerve isn't sure either whether what's happening inside mecha is better or worse than what's happening in the world outside mecha.  Blurr had already been a global phenomenon – with his own branding and merchandise and crowds of fans (a crowd Swerve had once been proud to be a member of).  Swerve had thought Blurr's presence couldn't get any bigger.

Now, he realizes it can. Blurr is everywhere.  His face stares at Swerve from every street corner and shop window as Swerve drives away from the office.  That polished white smile, gleaming eyes, and perfectly windswept hair is plastered across every billboard Swerve passes.  Every advertisement Swerve hears on the radio seems to involve Blurr in some capacity or another, from Blurr's recommended driving tires to his favorite brand of shirts to…. Swerve shuts off the radio.

Even in the store just trying to do his regular shopping for the week, Swerve can't get away from the man.  He catches himself nearly breaking down laughing in the toothpaste aisle as three different brands with five different formulations each advertise that theirs is the secret behind achieving a smile as perfect as Blurr's.

The sheer ridiculousness of it hits him in full force and overwhelms him.  Because how can they all be Blurr's toothpaste?  How could anyone possibly believe that?

Swerve had believed it once.  The thought sickens him.  The commercialism of it all is sickening.  It leaves a bad taste in his mouth – like he's swallowed something so artificially sweet that it tastes bitter and wrong at the end.  Suddenly, his shopping no longer matters.  All that matters is getting out of here.  Getting away from Blurr's presence everywhere, overshadowing every aspect of his life.

But even when Swerve gets home, Blurr's face stares back at him from old racing posters on the wall.  From Swerve's favorite coffee mug sitting on the counter.  From the action figures carefully place on display shelves.  Swerve had thought just getting to interact with Blurr, even just once, would be a dream.  Now…maybe this is waking up.

Swerve tears the posters from the walls.  Takes the mug off the counter.  Holding it in his hands, part of him is tempted to drop it – see the image of Blurr shatter the same way Swerve's perception of him has.  He can't quite bring himself to do it.

Swerve places the mug in the cabinet, pushing it all the way to the back wall so that it's hidden behind his other dishes.  He gets a box out of the closet and throws the action figures in it.  Drops the torn posters on top.  Swerve spends the next hour scouring the apartment for anything Blurr related.  Shirts.  Running shoes.  The list of merchandise – once a proud collection – becomes an ever growing pile of shame.

When he's finally done, Swerve feels drained, exhausted.  He wipes sweat from his forehead and prepares to pack it all away.  Swerve hesitates for a moment, then turns away from the box and back to his kitchen.  He roots through the cabinet until he finds the mug, pulls it out, and adds it to the pile in the box.

Before he can have any second thoughts, Swerve folds the top down on the box and shoves it aside – hidden in the shadows of a corner, innocuous.  He stands in the middle of his place and takes in the bare walls and empty shelves – plain, boring, lifeless.  But all traces of Blurr and his personality are gone from the space.

Not that it matters.  Blurr's personality is infectious.  And it infected Swerve long before the physical evidence manifested.  Removing that evidence has left nothing but a Blurr shaped hole in Swerve's life. 

Blurr's presence in Swerve's thoughts remains – glaringly obvious as the void between them in real-life. 

The way Swerve feels about the man – the conflict between image and reality, between what Swerve wants to believe and what he knows to be true – remains.

THE WRITING STYLE IS SO TASTY I WANNA SPREAD IT ON MY BREAD HELP

ALSO "Not that it matters.  Blurr's personality is infectious.  And it infected Swerve long before the physical evidence manifested.  Removing that evidence has left nothing but a Blurr shaped hole in Swerve's life. " ThiS GODDAMN MOMENT

Anon you are driving me insane anon. I was already spending a lot of hours rotating these guys in my brain and now I gotta spin them faster because of you and I mean it in the most positive way possible

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter 11

Series Masterlist

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You don’t know if working with world champions is always like this, or if it’s just a Verstappen thing, or if he’s just a special breed of asshole- but God help the people who have to see Max Verstappen every day. You’d probably kill yourself.

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The morning had been strange. Not hostile. Not loud. Just... off. Max hadn’t spoken to you beyond that cold little dismissal when he decided he’d be taking the first run, hadn’t so much as looked at you since. But you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Some drivers were like that- singular, focused, not particularly social. Maybe he was jet-lagged. Maybe something at home was off. He wasn’t rude, not exactly. Just... unavailable. It was fine. He’s a world champion. He’s allowed to be tightly wound. You’re just here to do your job.

Still, something about the afternoon settled differently.

There was a current beneath the day, low and thin and sharp, the kind of unease that clung to the back of your neck like static. It wasn’t anything specific. Just a hum. A pressure. A presence. Something sharp tucked into the edges of every exchange that didn’t quite belong, like a stone in your boot- small enough to ignore until it wasn’t. You kept feeling it on your skin, just behind your ear, like breath. That inexplicable weight that made you check your posture, your volume, your notes twice before speaking.

The problem was you.

You told yourself that was ridiculous. Paranoid. Entirely self-centered to even think. There’s no evidence for it. He hasn’t even spoken to you directly- which is fine. Max wasn’t doing anything to you. Not really. You barely interacted. He was a world champion. You were a dev driver with a three-month contract and a pile of debt. You weren’t important enough to be hated. The idea of some kind of vendetta was absurd. Hilarious, even.

Was. Key word, that one.

Because it had started small.

When you got the call to prep for your run, you had expected to hear GP in your ear. He was the only true race engineer on the wall today, and this braking system was half-baked at best. Standard protocol said put your most experienced guy on the radio.

But it was Christian’s voice instead. “Hang tight,” he said, too casual. “Max wants GP to go over some things with him. We’ll find someone to run your comms.”

It caught you off guard, but you didn’t flinch. Not out loud. Of course Max wanted GP to go over that dogshit data, find some way- any way- to improve on it. It was his team. His program. No one was being slighted. You’d told yourself that twice before Christian even asked, “Any preference?”

“Put Gavin on,” you’d said. “He’s done some of the sim work with me.”

It wasn’t a problem. It worked. Gavin was bright and eager, and you two had already found a rhythm. Still, there was a tiny tug behind your ribs as you rolled toward the track. You’d told yourself it was nothing. Just a shift. A reshuffling. The kind of thing that naturally happened when someone more important stepped into the room.

Strike one. But you were still giving him the benefit of the doubt.

The laps had gone well. Not flashy, not dramatic- but clean. You didn’t drive to impress. You drove to inform. And it worked. You found the edge of the system’s instability, adjusted your style, made the system come to you. Lap after lap, you gave clean data. Gavin worked alongside you like a real engineer, asking sharp questions, tracking every delta. You brought the car in, rattled off notes, sometimes with your hand literally shoved into the brake casing right beside Alessandro’s. It was fast, dirty work. Real work.

Then back in.

Then out again.

Then back in.

It wasn’t perfect, but by the time you stepped out of the car, the system wasn’t dragging nearly as bad. It was rapidly approaching not-dogshit territory, even, if you were feeling generous. The team had done well. You’d done well. You knew it in your bones.

Max got in next. Grip from the jump. Smoother transitions. Consistent laps. Not fast, but stable- good data. When he came back in, his tone over the radio was easy, calm. “Good changes,” he said. “Front balance is better. Rear’s still loose, but predictable.” In the huddle, he gave a quick nod to Alessandro. “Appreciate the work. Gavin, good notes. GP, thanks for the prep. This is getting closer.”

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t thank you. Didn’t so much as acknowledge that you’d been in the car at all. You stood there- still zipped to your neck, still flushed, still holding the note sheet he’d used without knowing. You told yourself he probably didn’t realize. Maybe he thought Gavin had done the legwork. Maybe he just missed it. Maybe it wasn’t personal. Just tunnel vision. Just focus.

You told yourself these things.

And yet.

Strike two.

The debrief was where it truly started to slide. The folding table was the same mess it always was- printouts, water bottles, someone’s stray protein bar melting in the corner. You took your usual seat, corner spot, notes in hand, ready to walk through the flow of your runs.

Max went first. Flat, clean terminology. No fluff. Then GP. Then Gavin with a note about load transfer. Then a pause. You leaned in, hand brushing the page. “I think the lateral grip improvement post-tweak four is- ” 

“I think…” Max cut in like you hadn’t spoken. Talked right through you. Didn’t glance over. 

You blinked. Sat back. Told yourself maybe he hadn’t heard.

Then Alessandro asked a question about wear across the stints. You had clean data on that. You tried again. “I actually noted- ”

“But the feel it has on an approach…” He spoke over you again- an entirely different train of thought. Louder. Deliberate.

This time, you didn’t make excuses. You didn’t try again. You just folded your notes slowly, the page edge crisp under your fingers, and sat up straighter. “Well,” you said, tone bright, razor-clean, “since Max has limited time with the dev team today, I’m happy to let him take the floor. I can always catch up with y’all at the factory.”

Max just kept talking. Like you didn’t exist. And still- you told yourself it didn’t have to mean anything.

Maybe it was just ego. Or pressure. Or some outdated sense of hierarchy that let men pretend rudeness was efficiency. It didn’t feel good. But it wasn’t the worst you’d been through.

Not the first time you’d been interrupted. Not the first time a man in a meeting talked over you. Not the first time you swallowed it and smiled like it didn’t scrape going down.

Strike three. But you still hadn’t said the word targeted. Not out loud. Not even to yourself.

You could still pretending it was about something else.

But now? Now? Right now?

Your right hand is still curled around the door handle when you see them. Right there. Exactly where you left them. Exactly how you left them.

Your fireproofs.

Folded neatly on top of your bag. Sleeves crossed. Neck rolled down. Still holding the bend from where your fingers pressed into the fabric that morning. Your mouth goes dry. No. No, no. That’s not possible.

You had checked. You know you did. Stared into the open bag, flipped through your gear like a frantic traveler getting accosted by a TSA agent. You’d stood right here, right there, trying to remember if you’d somehow left them in the trailer or the laundry or the van you had hitched a ride over in with the dev team.

They were gone. You know they were gone. You feel something cold spread behind your ribs. Because this? This is not the same as losing something. This isn’t absentmindedness or a misstep or a rookie mistake. This is a message.

I can fuck with you just because I want to.

You don’t move. Not right away. You just stare at the folded bundle of fabric like it might blink back. The silence buzzes in your ears, heavy and loud and flat. You scan the room. Nothing’s out of place. Your civvies are where you left them. Your bag hasn’t been touched. But the fireproofs... they weren’t here. They weren’t.

And now they are.

You squeeze your eyes shut, just for a second. It would’ve almost been easier if they’d never come back. If they were just... gone. A missing item you could write off. Shit happens. Tracks are chaotic. Things get lost.

But this? This is a ghost. And the worst part is the questions start to stack in your head, one after the other, soft as bruises:

Who else has been in this room? Who knew your kit was missing? Who knew you’d still get in the car anyway? Who needed to see you squirm?

And who the hell else spent the entire day pretending not to see you, not to hear you, not to care if you were there at all?

The answer curls low in your gut. You don’t say his name. Not even to yourself. But you feel it. It hangs in the air like heat off tarmac.

He is arguably the most powerful driver in the world right now.

And you are the girl in the wrong locker room with the missing fireproofs, now neatly folded back into place, like someone’s idea of a sick hazing joke.

Like a warning.

And suddenly, for the first time all day, it doesn’t feel like you’re being paranoid.

It feels like you're in danger.

Not physically. But professionally. Personally. Quietly.

It feels like someone with everything has looked at you- your little crayon contract, your borrowed space, your narrow lane- and decided that even that was too much.

And for a moment, standing there in the stale air of the locker room, that realization doesn’t make you angry.

It just makes you tired.

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Max has been at the factory more in the last few weeks than he has since his rookie year. Not that anyone’s called him on it. Why would they? He’s winning. He’s dominant. He’s Max Verstappen.

They’d throw a parade if he showed up just to eat breakfast. And sure, maybe it started out circumstantial. First the braking test, then a quick check-in here or there, ‘for morale’, for press. For whatever. They don’t care. It’s RedBull’s castle, and he’s the fucking king. 

Max always shows up for development. Max always cares about next year’s car. Max is serious. Meticulous. It’s the story they’ve always told about him.

Never mind that for most of his career, he’s only showed up when it mattered. Rare visits. Focused feedback. Let the engineers engineer. That’s what they’re there for.

But now? Now he’s here. A lot.

And not because he’s got anything new to offer. Not really. He sits in on meetings he doesn’t need to be in. Nods through debriefs. Watches the same telemetry four times in a row and acts like he's seeing something new.

And absolutely none of this has anything to do with you.

Definitely not.

Not with the way you breeze through the aero department, sharp and direct, arms full of printouts. Not with the way the guys in CFD light up when you bring coffee to your morning meetings, pretending it’s nothing, pretending you’re not already working two hours longer than anyone else before the sun even comes up.

It has nothing to do with the fact that your data notes now arrive in the inbox labeled “priority review.” That Christian calls you by your first name without the usual clipped edge. That a new junior prospect asked you a question in the sim bay and you answered so confidently, like you belonged there, like this was your garage and everyone else was just borrowing space.

It’s not about you.

It’s just... quieter here. Cleaner.

There’s no Kelly, not anymore. No slammed doors. No constant questions that he doesn’t want to answer because he doesn’t know how to form the words. No apartment that feels like an abandoned tomb- silent and echoing, with one toothbrush left by the sink and no towels that smell like her hair.

And sure, maybe it’s easier to stay in another country than deal with the mess he left behind. Maybe it’s simpler to pretend this is about next year’s car, about being a leader, about taking responsibility.

But really?

It’s about control.

Because if Max can’t keep you from being here- if Max has to watch you glide through this place like you belong here, like you’ve always belonged here, then he’s going to be here to control the pace of it. To monitor. To watch every move. To pull every string he can reach. To press every pressure point until you break.

Or at least until you look like you might. You haven’t yet. And he hates you for that. God, he hates you for that.

Max knows he’s not like his father in the way Jos can look at a man and dismantle him in a conversation. Can see five moves ahead, speak in riddles, lay traps with a smile. Chess with real lives. Psychological warfare as fluently as breathing.

Max didn’t inherit that part.

He’s reactive. Blunt-force. He knows it. And as much as he hates to admit it, he’s not as good at the long game. Not like Jos. He doesn’t understand people the way Jos does. But he’s not stupid.

He knows he can’t do the fireproofs thing again. Not right away.

That had been reckless. Bold, maybe. Stupid, definitely. It had worked- rattled you, shook your confidence, even if you hadn’t said a word- but it was too obvious. Too risky. He can’t keep pulling stunts like that and expect no one to notice. Even he knows that.

He has to be smarter. So- he starts slow. Testing. Not you, exactly. Everyone else. The team. The factory. The threshold for what people will let him get away with.

He has a hunch it’s a lot.

So- it starts with your desk. Nothing major. Just petty. Just small.

A paper out of order. A USB cable unplugged. A sticky note taken and returned half an hour later, just crooked enough to bother you. Your pens turned the wrong direction. The plastic tab on your headphones flipped up instead of down. Nothing that matters. Just enough to make you pause.

Just enough to fuck with your rhythm.

Just enough to make him feel better.

Not better like good. Not like he’s resolved anything or found peace or grown up or moved on. No, not that kind of better. Just a split second of relief. A little satisfaction curled behind his ribs, like taking off tight shoes.

He doesn’t touch anything important. Yet. Not the data sets. Not the signed-off revisions. Not the feedback you leave overnight for the engineers to sort through in the morning.

Just…little things.

Things that make you stop and blink. Things that make you wonder if you’re tired. If you’re slipping. If maybe you are stretched too thin.

You notice.

You always notice. Max sees it- the pause, the half-second of uncertainty before your fingers move, before you reset whatever he’s tweaked and go on like nothing happened. Like it’s not worth making noise about. Like it’s beneath you.

He hates that.

Hates the way you recover.

Hates the way you don’t make a fuss.

Every time he gets a rise out of you- a twitch, a frown, a blink- he thinks, finally. But then you smooth it over and get back to work like he’s not even a factor, like none of this touches you, and the pressure behind his ribs starts building again.

So he keeps going. Your folders- swapped. Your chair- too low. The SIM rig- just a little off. Gremlins. Glitches. Ghosts in the machine.

Except you know they’re not. And somewhere inside, Max knows you know. But he also knows you’ll never say a word. Not about this. Not yet. And that’s what keeps him coming back.  Because this isn’t a strategy. It’s a compulsion. It’s a way to bleed some of the pressure before it breaks him in half.

He’s not his father. He can’t manipulate. Can’t scheme. Can’t trap you in a perfect web and pull the strings until you cry.

But he can erode you. One day at a time.

And no one’s even noticed him yet. Not really. People smile at him the same. They ask about the car. The standings. Laugh at his half-hearted jokes in the break room. He’s still Max Verstappen- unshakable, untouchable, the face of the empire. Nobody blinks when your name doesn’t come up. Nobody asks why you look a little tired. Why your folders are always in your arms instead of on your desk, like you don’t quite trust anything anymore.

Because what is there to stop? A crooked sticky note? A misplaced file? They’re too busy. Too trusting. Too comfortable with the idea that Max Verstappen- nearly two-time world champion, team golden boy- doesn’t have the time or the need to be petty. They don’t realize that pettiness is the point.

So Max stops holding back. If no one’s watching, why bother with caution?

Starts “accidentally” leaving you off email threads. Moves meetings to different rooms and doesn’t update the calendar. You show up late, or worse- don’t show up at all, because you never knew they were happening.

When someone notices, Max tilts his head. “Was she not on the list?”

Mild confusion. Plausible deniability. You’re left apologizing. Again. And not once do you lose your temper. You step into the new conference room like you’d meant to be there all along. Ask for the agenda in that same even, courteous tone. Pull up your notes like they’ve been rehearsed. Slide into your chair with a soft apology and a calm nod, as if this is just part of the job.

And maybe it is, now. You act like it’s fine. Like it happens all the time. (It does.)

He meant for it to sting. To knock you off your balance. To put you in your place- just a little late, a little wrong, a little off-rhythm. But somehow, it stings him. Because it means you were ready.

Not just aware- but prepared. Braced. Armored. As if you’ve built a fortress around your schedule, your reputation, your entire fucking personality- just to deal with him. Like his cruelty is no longer surprising. Like you’ve categorized it. Labeled it. Filed it away in the same drawer as your calendar invites and telemetry notes.

You meet every offense like it’s a weather report: expected. You don’t flinch. Don’t freeze. Don’t raise your voice or roll your eyes or even glance his way. You absorb it, adjust, and keep moving.

It’s starting to piss him off.

Because this isn’t nothing, anymore. He’s doing this. Putting in effort now. It takes time to manufacture the right gaps in communication. To reroute calendar invites, to casually mention a room change at just the right moment that you won’t hear it. To find out which meetings matter most and sabotage just enough to make you look slightly disorganized.

It’s not just pettiness anymore. It’s labor.

And if all that- every cold jab, every careful cut- isn’t doing something to you, then what the fuck is the point?

You’re not ignoring it. He knows you’re not. He sees it in the way you sit a little straighter now. The way you double-check your messages, the way you carry your folders pressed tighter to your chest like armor. He’s gotten under your skin.

But not in the way he wants. You still smile when you talk to people. Still nod politely at him, even. And that- that- drives him insane.

Max thinks the others are starting to see it too.

Not clearly. Not enough to say anything. But there’s a flicker sometimes- a glance passed between engineers, the slight tightening of Christian’s jaw when Max cuts you off mid-sentence. Even GP is quieter than usual, like he’s running the math in his head, trying to determine just how much of this is deliberate, how much is personal.

They’re noticing.

But they’re not stopping him.

And maybe that’s all Max needs to know.

Because noticing and acting are two different things. People see all kinds of shit they never do anything about. Especially when they’re chasing trophies. Especially when the golden goose is laying eggs on schedule.

It’s Japan next. Then Austin. Two races to lock down everything: the drivers’ title, the constructors’. Legacy stuff. Max Verstappen- undeniable. Unstoppable.

And when that kind of noise is in the air- when the entire factory is humming with the urgency of domination, of making history- who’s going to pause the celebration to ask why the junior dev driver always looks like she hasn’t slept? Why she’s always apologizing? Why her sim settings keep getting wiped, her notes misplaced, her name left off just enough invites to mean something?

No one.

Not when their job is to make Max faster. Better. Happier.

All that noise makes a lot of cover.

And Max- he’s nothing if not opportunistic.

He’d actually been annoyed about the overseas leg. Not for the travel, not for the schedule. But because he thought it would let you breathe. Thought you might get rest. Time off. Space away from him. He didn’t like that.

He’d built something back at the factory. A rhythm. A pattern. You, flinching in micro-reactions. You, tired. You, careful with your words. He could feel it tightening around you, like a string wound inch by inch. And now he was supposed to just… go to Japan? Let it all loosen?

It had made him sour. Restless.

Until Christian said it. Offhand, barely worth noting. Not even to him, just to GP, in the car on the way to the hotel. “- and if you need anything from the factory, same as usual. She’s got the emergency line covered.”

Max hadn’t even looked up at first. But then the words had processed. She’s got the emergency line. He blinked. Turned to the window. Felt the heat rise slow and electric in his chest.

The emergency line.

You.

Behind, while the whole circus traveled forward.

On call. Always on call. Of course. Of course you are. Max feels it hit in his chest like the perfect apex.

The phone rings, and you’ll answer. No matter the hour. No matter the timezone. No matter if you’re halfway through a four-hour SIM data stitch or if it’s 3:42 AM and you’re dead asleep. You’ll answer. You’ll have to.

And it’s almost better this way. Because now he can do it without anyone watching. No Christian. No Gavin. No GP narrowing his eyes across the table. Just Max, with a hotel phone, a thin voice of irritation, and a dozen fake reasons to need revised torque mapping or driver fit delta sheets.

Even from half a world away, he still has you. Even from Japan, even from Texas, even from thirty-thousand-fucking-feet-in-the-air- he still owns the lever. Still has access. Still has control.

He’s not going to stop. Not until you lose it. Not until you break. Not until you unravel in a spectacular, public, irreparable way.

Or until someone finally stops him.

But god, he really, really hopes it’s the first one.

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The jet slices through the sky like it knows it’s carrying royalty.

Max sits stretched out in his seat, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, champagne still drying behind his teeth. The cabin hums soft and steady around him- low lighting, expensive silence, the kind that costs more per hour than most people make in a month. There’s a plate of untouched fruit on the tray beside him. A pair of noise-canceling headphones he isn’t using.

And beneath his seat, he taps the side of a cheap plastic bag with the toe of his trainers. Just once. Light. The contents rattle softly, like a secret.

Anyone who looked at him right now would assume he’s glowing from the double-title sweep. His second drivers’ championship in the bag. The constructors finally secured in Texas. The season sewn shut with a bow made of pure dominance.

And yeah- sure. That’s part of it. Winning always burns clean. But there’s something else humming under his skin. Something sharper. Meaner.

Texas had been a fucking masterclass.

He could barely sit still on the podium, couldn’t focus during the post-race interviews, because all he wanted was a readout of your emergency call log. Every time you answered. Every time you picked up on the first ring. Every time your voice cracked, just a little, from being dragged out of sleep to deal with another one of his so-called crises.

God, it had been perfect.

The way you’d sounded on the phone in the hours before the race. Voice hoarse. Barely keeping up. Answering every call like it might be your last thread of usefulness, like you knew you’d be crucified for missing one.

He’d paced his hotel room with the phone tucked under his jaw, fake questions and useless requests spilling from his mouth while the Texas sun came up over the blinds. Could you reprocess the tire data? Could you double-check the sim overlays? Could you recompile that setup file you both knew was already fine?

You had done it all.

Every call, every time. No complaint. No hesitation.

He didn’t even have to say much- just enough to get you out of bed. Just enough to make your heart rate spike. Just enough to keep you from falling fully back asleep before he called again. Nine times. Between eleven and six, your time.

Borderline Geneva Convention shit.

And the best part?

You didn’t say a word about it. Not to him. Not to Christian. Not to anyone. But he knows it fucked with you. He knows it landed.

Max can practically taste it. That need to see. The slow-fuse thrill of imagining what he’s done to you. The bags under your eyes. The brittle smile. The tremble in your fingers. Maybe, if he was really lucky, the fray in your voice when you tried to pretend you were fine.

Beautiful. He’s practically buzzing in his seat now. Almost giddy.

Because he’s going to see you again soon- back at Milton Keynes. Just a small sponsor celebration, nothing wild. Most of the team’s still in transit, logistics buried in crates somewhere between Texas and Mexico. But you’ll be there. You always are.

And he’s bringing you a gift.

Well. Your gift.

Because beneath his seat, nestled in a plain plastic bag, is the next play.

Six cans of Diet Coke.

American Diet Coke.

He wouldn’t have even noticed it, if Gavin hadn’t made a whole thing of it at the end of the weekend. “She begged for it,” he’d laughed with one of the teardown guys, hauling the six-pack from his carry-on. “Said she can’t live without it. Euro Coke Light just doesn’t cut it.”

Max hadn’t even needed to ask who is ‘she.’ He’d just smiled.

And later, when Gavin left it sitting unattended in the chaos of re-packing, Max had calmly scooped it up so smooth it didn’t even register. Quiet. Painless. Now, he rolls one of the cans beneath his palm. Cold. Ribbed aluminum.

Everything you want. Everything he doesn’t need. God, he can’t wait to drink it in front of you. Slow. Casual.  He’s going to walk into that break room and sit down across from you like it’s nothing. Like you’re just coworkers. Like he didn’t spend all week carving the flesh out of your spine and waiting for you to break. 

He’ll pop the tab with one hand. Let it hiss like punctuation. Smile like he’s being friendly. Lift the can to his lips and take the slowest, laziest sip of his life while you watch- while you sit there and realize, right there in real time, exactly what the fuck is happening.

What’s he going to say if you call him out? It’s just soda. What, are you going to cry about a Diet Coke? 

He rolls the can in his hand now, still beneath the seat, still unopened. Cold and perfect. The condensation dampening the edge of the bag. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You’re so close.

He can feel it, humming like voltage beneath his ribs. The break is coming. It has to be. The unraveling. The part where the polished, press-trained, infuriatingly professional version of you finally cracks wide open and shows him what’s underneath.

You’ve held out longer than he thought you would. Weeks. Months. But the threads are fraying now.

And Max? Max is giddy. He wants to see it. Wants to taste it. Wants to feel the air shift when you finally snap- when the smile slips and the mask crumbles and the fire comes roaring out.

He deserves this.

After everything.

After Kelly.

After the silence in his apartment- the kind that doesn’t just sit still but echoes, bounces off the marble and glass like a scream he’s too tired to make. After her clothes disappeared in the over a race weekend and the toothbrush by the sink went dry. After the reporters started sniffing around. After he stopped answering the phone because he didn’t have the words- or worse, because he did, and they were all the wrong ones.

After the shame.

The rage.

The hollow fucking nothing of being exactly who he was supposed to be- world champion, golden boy, living proof of the ‘brutal, but it works’ Verstappen doctrine- and still being so deeply, gut-twistingly, viscerally, miserable.

And then there’s you.

You, with your press-polished voice and your humble little nods, your fucking notebooks and 80-hour weeks and the way the entire goddamn factory seems to orbit just a little toward you when you enter a room. You, who look at Christian when you talk like you belong in that seat, like your notes are gospel and your presence is earned. You, who Jos talks about like you were born from some higher stock, like you’re what he wants to see in a driver.

You, who didn’t fall apart.

Not when you got shuffled off the grid. Not when he turned the full weight of his pettiness and cruelty on you. Not when he spent weeks dragging you across the coals of your own job, picking at you like a scab, waiting- begging- for you to bleed.

And still. You smile. You hold it. You act like you’re better than him.

Maybe you are. But he can’t accept that. Because if you’re as perfect, composed, untouchable as they all seem to believe- then what does that make him? What’s the excuse for everything he is? For everything he’s not?

So no. No, you don’t get to be the exception.

He needs to see it. Needs proof. That you’re not who you pretend to be. That under all the polish and posture, you’re just as sick as he is. Worse, preferably. That you’re human. Ugly. Flawed. Wrong. That you don’t deserve the soft words and familiarity you think you’ve earned. That people should shut the fuck up about you already.

And if the only thing in this whole joyless, champagne-drenched, hollowed-out circus that still makes him feel anything at all is watching you crack- watching you lose your shit in front of the people who think you walk on water- then that’s what he’s going to take.

He deserves something. And if it’s not peace, not love, not pride- then let it be this.

Let it be your undoing.

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

It goes exactly to plan, and that's what pisses him off the most.

Max palms a single can, cold against his fingers, the aluminum slightly damp from the condensation. He slips it into his jacket pocket. Feels it press against his ribs like a loaded chamber.

He doesn’t even hesitate when he walks into the break room.

There you are.

Exactly where you always are when you can spare twenty uninterrupted minutes- tucked into the far corner, lunch balanced neatly in your lap, notes beside you, brows furrowed as you chew and read at the same time.

There’s no one important in the room. But there are just enough people to witness. Just enough to pass the story down the corridors and into the engineers’ lounge and onto the production floor like a cigarette passed hand to hand- did you hear? did you see?

Max doesn’t look at them.

He walks straight to the seat across from you, shrugs off his hoodie, and-  Crack.

The tab on the Diet Coke hisses, sharp and sudden in the quiet room. It echoes. You freeze for just a breath. Just a beat.  You look up. Your eyes flick from the can to his face, and then down again. You don’t say a word.

Max lifts the can, sips. It’s fucking awful. Like licking static. Syrupy and thin. But he swallows it with gusto- because it tastes like fuck you- lets the carbonation burn its way down, and watches.

Waits.

Come on.

Your hand tightens slightly around your fork. There it is.

Come on.

Your posture shifts- not tense, not yet, but alert. Like you’re registering what’s happening, like you know this is a game and you’re just deciding how to play it.

Come on.

But you don’t take the bait.

You just reach for your notes, the motion fluid and practiced. Your voice, when it comes, is measured to perfection. Not too loud. Not too soft. “We should probably get to the Mexico readout,” you say, snapping the lid back on your lunch with a neat little pop. “We’ll be late if we don’t go soon.”

That’s it.

That’s all.

No fury. No outburst. No public tantrum. Just a steady look, one that passes through him like a clean knife, and then back to your salmon or rice or whatever the fuck it is you’re eating like he didn’t just spit in your face.

The can sweats in his hand. His tongue curls in protest.

He takes another sip. It’s worse.

It’s not the taste, not really.

It’s the complete and total nothing he gets from it. He was sure. Positive. This was going to be the moment. The crack. The slip. The humiliation. He pictured it a dozen times- your voice raised, your hands shaking, Diet Coke flying across the table. Something. Anything.

But instead- this. Your back is straight. Your lashes still thick and curled, your lipstick perfect, your movements smooth and mechanical as you stand. A doll, wired too tight.

And maybe that’s why he misses it.

The tremble at the edge of your thumb as you flip a page. The way your jaw flexes when you exhale. The too-quick breath you swallow before you speak. If he had just looked a little harder, a little longer- he would’ve known. You're right there. Fraying. If he had just seen how close, if had just known-

But he doesn’t. He didn’t. He’s too busy trying to choke down the most bitter, unsatisfying drink of his life, stewing in the sting of a victory that doesn’t feel like one. Not even a little.

He trails behind you, the half-finished can of Diet Coke still cold in his hand, the aluminum buzzing against his palm like it might vibrate straight through his bones. Every step is a tick louder inside his skull. Every breath you take might as well be a challenge. He stares at the back of your head like it’s a target, vision narrowing until the only thing in the world is you- and the quiet, seething, insufferable grace with which you carry yourself.

He hates it. Hates you.

How dare you walk like that. How dare you smile. How dare you pretend like you won when he was the one who laid every trap.

And yet you hadn’t tripped.

That’s what’s driving him mad. That he gave you the perfect moment to crack, handed it to you gift-wrapped, and you didn’t take it. That should have been it. You should have screamed. Thrown something. Cried. Given him anything.

But you didn’t. You collected your lunch and asked if he wanted to go to a meeting.

That should’ve been checkmate. He designed it that way. Perfect set-up. Perfect delivery. Right place. Right people. Enough eyes to witness your unraveling, to whisper about it later in the halls. And what did he get?

A fucking smile.

A tight-lipped, pristine little let’s get to the readout smile while you flipped your lunch lid like you didn’t even see him sitting there with your fucking soda in his hand.

This isn’t control. This is defiance.

This is you thinking you’re better than him. Above him. Like you’ve risen above all this petty shit he’s been building, like you’ve already written him off. And he can’t stand it. He can’t stand the idea of you walking through this building, collecting praise and soft looks from Christian, from Alessandro, from everyone- while he’s losing sleep over how to hurt you next. That, more than anything, makes Max want to rip something out by the root.

You reach the door to the conference room first, pulling it open with one smooth, practiced motion. The air inside is cooler, quieter, full of the low hum of laptops and shuffling paper. Alessandro and his team are already seated, thumbing through a printed analysis. GP offers a half-smile from where he’s standing by the projector. Christian sits at the head of the table, scrolling through something on his phone, but he looks up when the two of you walk in.

“You made it,” Christian says mildly, to both of you.

You smile like nothing’s wrong. Like you’re not one whisper away from absolute combustion.

Max grunts something like a greeting, flings himself into the chair beside GP. He tosses the half-empty Diet Coke on the table, lets it roll to a stop just shy of your elbow. You glance at it. He watches for your reaction. Nothing. Just a neat little adjustment of your notes, shifting them away like it’s a piece of trash.

Like he’s a piece of trash. Like all his effort is pointless, and wasted, and it fucking boils Max alive. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking to Christian, then to Alessandro, waiting for them to speak. But something in the air has shifted, and it’s not just him.

You're quiet. Too quiet.

Your pen rests in your hand like a blade you haven’t chosen to use yet. And Max, for the first time, feels it in his gut: the wrongness. The coiled, humming wrongness of this room. Like the lights are too bright. Like the ceiling’s too low. Like two wild animals have been shoved into a cage and asked to behave.

Christian doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

“All right,” he says, opening the meeting. “Let’s go over the Mexico packages, then we’ll do a quick review on the RB19 concepts.”

Max keeps his eyes on you. He watches your hands. Watches the way you smooth your papers. The way you draw a small, even breath before speaking- measured, careful, every word of your project update lined with velvet.

Max watches you with a feverish hunger, that same sick glee curling in his gut. You smooth your notes with the back of your hand, scoot forward with quiet composure, and begin to speak- something about updated tyre wear patterns on high temp tracks, your voice so evenly modulated, Max wouldn’t have believed it if someone told him you’re seconds from snapping in half.

You look... perfect. Hair smooth, papers stacked, expression soft.

Until he ruins it.

He doesn’t even try to be subtle.

“I’m sorry,” Max says, loud and flat, slicing through your update like a blunt knife. “Didn’t we already cover this in Austin? With the real team?”

Your words collapse into silence. Not a stumble. Not a gasp. Just a clean severance mid-sentence. The whole room pauses, startled- GP’s eyes flick up, Alessandro stops tapping his pen. Even Christian looks mildly annoyed, but no one speaks. No one stops him.

You inhale. Not fast. Not loud. Just a small recalibration, like you’re accounting for turbulence. You pivot. Begin again.

And Max does it again.

“I just think maybe we should move on to something relevant,” he says, this time with a shrug, voice maddeningly casual. “We’ve already accounted for this. Unless you’re just repeating yourself for fun.” He knows what he’s doing. He knows it’s a fucking grenade. And still- you don’t raise your voice. You don’t snap. You don’t even look at him.

Not yet.

You go still. Chair tucked under you, spine stiff, eyes locked on the edge of the table. Your fingers close over the top sheet of your printouts. Smooth. Deliberate. One hand slips beneath the stack, pages aligned perfectly against the pad of your thumb. You gather them all like you might excuse yourself. Like you’ve decided to walk away.

Max holds his breath.

Then your head lifts. And you look at him. It’s not a glance. Not a passing irritation.

It’s a fucking furnace behind your eyes. Years of forced poise and practiced smiles and smothered rage lit in an instant. For a moment, Max thinks he sees something almost monstrous beneath your skin- some terrible, searing truth that’s been burning just under the surface this whole time. Your voice when it comes is low and sharp, the kind of quiet people listen to.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” you say, tone like glass about to crack. “If it’s because I’m a woman, because I’m new, or because you just fucking hate me. But- ”

“You’re being emotional,” Max says smoothly, leaning back in his chair.

And the silence that follows is different this time. It’s not discomfort. It’s a goddamn fuse. You drive your finger into the table, hard enough the plastic lip clicks.

“Oh, fuck you,” you breathe- and then your voice breaks wide open. “Emotional? You want emotional?” 

Your volume rises like a siren. You stand, every inch of you charged with lightning, raw and feral in a way no one at the table has ever seen. “I work EIGHTY FUCKING HOURS A WEEK.”

Your voice doesn’t crack. It detonates. Like a starting gun fired into the ceiling, like the first blast of a demolition. Sharp. Violent. Unmistakable. It’s not just the volume- it’s the force of it. It’s the sound of a woman that has had it up-to-fucking-here.

“I don’t leave this building. I don’t sleep. I answer your calls at 3am like I’m your fucking secretary. I redo data because your gut doesn’t like it- even when it’s right. Even when you’re wrong. And I do it without complaint. Because I believe in this team. I believe in this car.”

Your hands are fists, white-knuckled, your papers crushed in your grip like you could tear the numbers out with your bare teeth. Your chest rises in uneven, ragged swells. It looks like something inside you is breaking open- and all the sharpest pieces are aimed directly at Max.

“And I don’t ask for praise. I don’t even ask for fucking respect. All I’ve ever wanted is to do my job. That I am excellent at. And be left the fuck alone.”

You step forward. Not a stumble. Not a lunge. A step. Controlled. Dangerous. The kind that precedes war.

And suddenly, Max sees it. Really sees it. Everything that’s been gnawing at him for months. The thing he couldn’t name but couldn’t stop chasing.

The reason the factory fucking loves you. Why Christian bothers. Why even the most vicious engineers- the ones who chew interns alive and keep a hit list of PR liabilities, who eat steel for breakfast and sleep beneath whiteboards- seem to pause when you speak. Why you’ve made it this far. Why no one’s ever questioned whether you belong here.

Because you're not harmless.

You're not soft.

You’re not even nice.

No. That part- that easy smile, that gracious nod, that perfect press-ready tone- that’s a choice. A tactic. A precision-forged instrument of restraint. You’ve worn it like a fitted suit- polish, poise, pleasantries. That gentle professionalism. The way you listen, nod, follow up. Every smile. Every “no worries.” Every apology that you didn’t owe. It’s a leash you keep on yourself, every second of every day. It’s restraint. It’s a mask. It’s the tightrope walk you’ve mastered so cleanly that no one notices you’re balancing on a blade.

You’re a monster in makeup. Sharp teeth behind lipstick. Rage under silk.

You are exactly the feral, unhinged thing he’s always thought you were.

And now? Now the leash is off.

“But you- ”

Your hand slams the table, full palm, loud enough to rattle the pens and send GP’s rolling to the floor. A sound like gunfire. It echoes in Max’s bones.

“You have made it your goddamn mission to make this unbearable. You’ve fucked with my desk, my data, my hours, my sanity- for what? Because I’m new? Because I’m not from money? Because I’m a fucking woman? I don’t know. And honestly, I don’t fucking care.”

You point at him. Dead-center. Fire in your veins, lightning in your spine. Not trembling. Burning.

“You’re a spoiled, insufferable, nepotism baby who’s never had to fight for anything but a fucking podium in his entire fucking life. That seat? The one that makes you a god? Is built by people like me- engineers, analysts, dev drivers- who work themselves to the edge of collapse to build something that matters. And we don’t even get a fucking thank you.”

No one breathes.

You’re glowing with fury. Radiant. Terrifying.

And beautiful in a way that makes Max feel like he’s holding something raw and livewired in his hands. It’s not love. Not respect. It’s something more visceral. Something like awe.

“And that is fine,” you spit. “I don’t want your thank you. I don’t want your gratitude. I don’t want your fucking approval. I want you to leave me the fuck alone. I want to come in, run my numbers, build my cars, drive my tests, and I want to do the thing I love without you poking at me like a goddamn child lighting ants on fire for fun.” There’s a ringing in the air, the radioactive particles of a nuclear fallout settling around the table.

Max watches you, completely still. Every hair on the back of his neck is standing up. And then- God- his mouth curls. Slow. Savoring. He leans back, that slow smile pulling higher like smoke rising from a lit match.

“Thank you,” he says. Quiet. Measured. Real. 

Because goddamn, he means it. This is what he’s been waiting for.  This- this moment- is everything. The first real thing he’s felt in weeks. You, wild and unmoored and screaming like your throat was made for fury. He’s dizzy with it. Drunk. Absolutely electric with the joy of seeing you finally, finally, fall apart.

You blink.

Then you howl.

��UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!”

It tears out of you like a wolf breaking from a trap- feral, instinctive, lethal.

Your arm swings, and your entire stack of papers becomes shrapnel- exploding against the wall behind Max’s head. One page sticks to the whiteboard. Another flutters down and lands directly on Christian’s lap. You don’t wait. You slam the door. It shakes the frame. The sound echoes through the hallway like the aftermath of an explosion.

Silence. Total. Absolute. 

No one looks at Max. No one dares to. But he’s smiling. Smiling like a man who just got exactly what he wanted.

Oh, yes, he thinks.

That felt good.

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

Series Masterlist HOLY hell, what a chapter. Please please please let me know what you thought!! Also, officially starting a taglist for Reset (I had to look up how to make one), so if you would like to be added, please shoot me an ask and I will get you added. Asking again, too- do you think I need a signature pic for the story or is it fine to upload without media? Teaser for next chapter: Jos, cowboy hat, lots of bs boardroom politics. All your favs. 

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Parasocial Relationship

Parasocial Interaction (PSI) - semblance of interpersonal exchange whereby members of an audience come to feel that they personally know a performer they have encountered in mass media.

Parasocial Relationship (PSR) - generally defined as a relationship in which one member of the relationship isn’t aware of the other—e.g., a fan loves a celebrity, but the celebrity doesn’t know they exist. Not restricted to celebrities, PSRs also exist between people and fictional characters, whether portrayed by an actor or not.

PSRs tend to occur because of our natural tendency to link to others.

PSIs are thought to have a psychological effect similar to that of face-to-face communication.

Over time, PSIs with a performer may lead audience members to develop a parasocial relationship—a one-sided sense of connection with the performer.

The first examinations of parasocial relationships came in the 1950s, when psychologists tried to understand how television viewers reacted to the hosts, MCs, and TV personalities speaking to them directly out of the screen—a novel concept at the time.

It caused concern that viewers at home wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the relationships they had with a television personality and ones they had with “real” people— “victim[s] of the 'magic mirror'” as Richard Horton and Donald Wohl described in the 1956 paper.

The term parasocial interaction first appeared in the writings of American sociologists Donald Horton and R. Richard Wohl in the 1956 article “Mass Communication and Para-Social Interaction: Observations on Intimacy at a Distance.” The article describes how PSIs may gradually lead to the formation of a parasocial relationship.

Most theoretical work attempting to define and differentiate PSIs and parasocial relationships was published in the latter half of the 20th century.

Generally, modern sociologists and media theorists agree that the concepts are distinct but deeply related.

The Parasocial Interaction Scale, devised in the 1980s in order to better quantify PSIs and parasocial relationships, asks subjects to answer questions about both phenomena.

PSIs occur when audience members feel that they are actively interacting with a mass media personality.

Human brains appear to process PSIs in much the same way as real-life interpersonal interactions because of the novelty of technologically mediated encounters.

While people do recognize the artificiality of the media apparatus, their perception of PSIs causes a real psychological reaction.

PSIs are strongest when a media personality cultivates the illusion of interpersonal intimacy.

Certain genres, programs, and celebrities have purposely fostered such a sense of intimacy in their tone and setting.

For example, TV talk shows have their hosts directly address the camera as if in conversation with each viewer, creating the illusion of face-to-face closeness.

Situation comedies manufacture familial settings that viewers grow more and more accustomed to.

Certain podcasts and radio shows—especially those crafted around one or more hosts—adopt an informal tone resembling that of a gathering of friends.

As PSIs become increasingly frequent, many audience members enter into a parasocial relationship built on comfort, satisfaction, and commitment.

In contrast, Horton and Wohl posited, people whose encounters with mass media figures are infrequent may feel detached and even cynical when they do encounter those figures.

Indeed, the researchers suggested, audience members must tune in regularly and of their own volition for the relationship to become parasocial.

Such relationships bridge genre and style. In one key study, researchers found that commitment levels (measured on a scale used for interpersonal relationships) for viewers of both fictional and nonfictional television programs were predicted by how invested the viewers were.

Consequently, when a program went off the air, committed viewers experienced higher levels of distress, dubbed a “parasocial breakup,” than uncommitted viewers.

Audience members often have a parasocial relationship with the same celebrity without feeling jealous of one another; in fact, in many cases, sharing their dedication to a mass media persona brings people closer together.

While parasocial relationships can enrich your life, these one-sided affairs can also hurt you.

They won't love you back. "They're like fake food. They taste good, but they have no nutritional content and won't meet your needs. You need to love and be loved in return to thrive," social scientist and professor Arthur C. Brooks says.

They might contribute to loneliness and isolation if you rely on them too much. Loneliness and isolation are linked to increased risks of many chronic health problems such as depression, anxiety, dementia, and heart disease, and even premature death.

They might have a negative influence on you. Are you picking up unhealthy ideas from the people you follow? Brooks says this should be a special concern for parents whose kids have parasocial relationships: The messages kids glean might be at odds with your values — perhaps because they are controversial political or adult themes.

Two red alerts:

Ask yourself if you're too attached. For example, are you skipping dinner with friends because you prefer watching a TV show with a character you care about and want to connect with?

Be wary. "If someone is trying to brainwash you, saying, 'I'm your friend, you can trust me,' that person is using a personal social bond to get you to do something — like vote a certain way," Brooks says. He points out that social media stars try to establish parasocial relationships with followers to get more clicks and make money. "That's what the new economy is all about — monetizing parasocial relationships on a mass scale," Brooks says.

A PSR that starts with healthy boundaries, can turn sour when a mob mentality forms, resulting in harassment.

PSRs are natural and not inherently unhealthy.

But, as Stever says, “Anything that can be true about a regular social relationship can be true about a parasocial relationship. Are they positive? Can they be good for us? Absolutely. Can they be negative? Can they be toxic for us? We all know examples of that.”

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[cheeseanonioncrisps]

One of the more interesting aspects of Stayed Gone is the implication that, prior to his disappearance, Alastor must have been producing some quality programming.

Despite it's obvious importance in the modern world, TV apparently only started outcompeting radio in Hell after Alastor vanished. Seven whole years ago. And when Al returns, Vox's first response is to freak the fuck out about whether he's gonna keep his audience.

That's fucking crazy.

And we can be pretty sure that people weren't just listening in out of fear, either. Or because Alastor was making any major effort to crush all other forms of media.

If this was purely about which Overlord was the most powerful, then Vox's verses would surely have focused on emphasising his own strength. Instead, they're all about calling radio outdated. Vox is genuinely worried— apparently based on experience— that Alastor is going to outdo him in terms of sheer entertainment value.

Which raises the obvious question: what were Al's shows actually like? (Aside from those early broadcasts guest-starting the screams of the damned, obviously.)

We get kind of a taster in the song:

“Salutations! Good to be back on the air. Yes, I know it's been a while, since someone with style treated Hell to a broadcast— Sinners, rejoice!— instead of a clout-chasing mediocre video podcast. Is Vox insecure, pursuing allure? Fitting between this fad and that, is nothing working? Every day, he's got a new format! Is Vox as strong as he purports? Or is it based on his support? He'd be powerless without the other Vees! And here's the sugar on the cream: he asked me to join his team! I said no, and now he's pissy, that's the tea!”

Obviously he's doing it to music, so there's going to be some difference in the cadence of his voice from that, but still, he's talking noticeably quicker than he does in person. And he gets right to the point.

Compare it to his commercial in episode 1. There's a big difference in terms of both how much respect he's showing his audience (“well hello there, you wayward sinner!” vs “good to be back on the air”), and how much relevant information he delivers.

Alastor is a great character to watch, but most people who interact with him directly seem to find the experience either annoying, awkward, terrifying or all three.

Mainly because Al seems to go out of his way to put people off even when he's actively trying to get them to trust him, by making condescending asides or constantly dropping references to his own power. On air, however, he greets everyone politely and even drops what is almost an apology for being gone so long (“I know it's been a while”), then immediately gets to the information that he knows they're really listening for.

Alastor may not respect Charlie, Adam or Lucifer, but he does respect his audience.

And the content he's producing makes it clear why people are still tuning in. Al has the gossip. Katie Killjoy and Tom Trench may not be unbiased exactly, but they're clearly trying to provide sources for their claims and maintain some veneer of professional news reporting.

Al, meanwhile, is quite happy to provide strong opinions and baseless speculation about public figures, content that is less fitting with the professional image that Vox seems so desperate to keep up, but that is likely to attract a bigger audience.

What gets me curious now, however, is wondering what else he used to provide.

Again, radio was apparently the medium for news and entertainment in Hell until Alastor left. Implying that a) radio was at the time fulfilling many of the function that TV now provides, and b) Alastor was involved enough in this that it collapsed/got overthrown the moment he left town.

Did Alastor have an empire similar to the Vees? Did he run a bunch of channels? Did he have DJs and sports commentators and presenters on his payroll?

Given that radio seems to have collapsed completely after he left— did they all go running to Vox when he was presumed dead? Was the Vees new empire in part built on the ruins of Alastor's old one?

Or did he do the whole thing solo and just run like, a bunch of different shows. (In which case, since radio's bread and butter has always been music, Helluva Boss fans can now have fun imagining him interviewing Verosika Mayday about ‘Vacay to Bonetown’.)

[exdraghunt]

Jazz/Prowl dream from last night

Dream I had last night. No, I do not know what my brain is cooking when I am in an REM state, but boy is it cooking.

Dream opens with Autobots/Cybertronians landing on Earth. They seem to be looking for a new place to call home. Bots are sent out around the Earth in local alt-modes and human holoforms to test the waters and see what the local population is like.

Surprisingly, quiet, unsociable Prowl manages to hit it off quite well with a loud, sociable young woman. This Jazz drives a neat Porsche, and enjoys human culture and music. Prowl spends more and more time with her, telling himself that this is for research. They drive around pretty countrysides, go people-watching in parks, and explore the local city.

There are strange things about Jazz, but Prowl (being an alien) does not notice these things. The fact that she always drives her own car, never seems to eat or drink, and does not interact with other people don’t ping to Prowl because he also does the same thing.

But others, who have been interacting with humanity, do start to point out oddities. Prowl, an investigator to his core, brings them up to Jazz.

Jazz seems confused, insisting that she totally does eat (even if she doesn’t remember when or what.) She is a radio DJ (but can’t quite recall when she actually goes into the studio. She must work from home)

It comes to a head when Prowl and Jazz are out walking and a young boy runs into them. Passing clean through Jazz as though she isn’t even there. Because Jazz is a hologram. And not the solid type that the Autobots have. Jazz can only physically interact with Prowl’s holoform or real body, or her car. To anything else, she is completely intangible.

As Jazz begins to have a panic attack at this revelation, it is revealed that she is actually an advanced AI interacting with the world via hologram. Programmed to believe she is actually human.

Her creator is an old, sick woman dying of an illness (cancer? Idk), who has been monitoring Jazz remotely and quietly.

Unfortunately, now that Jazz knows that she is actually an AI, her programming destabilizes and she glitches and crashes catastrophically. Prowl panics. He survives his own crashes because his spark can repair his programming when it destabilizes. Without a spark, can Jazz survive this?

Jazz’s creator manages to back up Jazz’s programming onto an external storage drive and hands it over with a plea to save her creation before dying (so dramatic)

The Autobot scientists promise to figure out how to stabilize Jazz and revive her in a Cybertronian frame. But it’s going to take awhile.

As the Autobots reveal themselves to the world and start to integrate, Prowl is clearly severely depressed and becoming more and more unstable. Until he has to be put into stasis for the safety of himself and others. He’ll be brought back online when (if) Jazz is revived.

Dream cuts to some time later, as the Cybertronians are building their own, appropriately scaled neighborhood on the outskirts of a human city. Sitting in a parking spot outside a housing space is Prowl’s alt mode, dark and silent.

Unsure where the story would go from there (aside from Jazz getting revived as a Cybertronian, obviously). Does she get a spark? How? (the Matrix?) Did her creator have some kind of damaged or unstable spark she found somewhere, and thus Jazz is a product of both Cybertron and Earth? If Ratchet and others can repair the spark, Jazz can be stabilized and properly brought online? Not sure yet, we’ll see if I can figure out a sweet ending to whatever the hell was going on in my brain last night.

also yes, Prowl only later realized that he was absolutely going on dates with Jazz, not conducting "research"

[little-fandom-gal]

Listen, disregarding your favorite bachelor/bachelorette, disregarding you as a person or the persona you’ve imposed on the player character: Harvey x Farmer is objectively the funniest, most “mid-2000s rom-com” pairing possible in the game.

Picture this: a nervous Dr. just trying to make ends meet in a small town. His dreams of being a pilot were shattered by poor eye sight, and pretty much the only person who interacts with him outside of patient visits is the nurse who’s 100% coding an ai program at the desk since no one ever shows up.

Then boom: one day there’s this raggedy farmer hauled in by the local homeless man. Maybe the farmer’s said hello in passing, most likely they’ve given him some random weed dug up in someone’s backyard, or maybe this is the first time they meet up. Anyways, Harvey greets them and sends them off and then NOT TWO DAYS LATER THEYRE BACK! If it isn’t monster attacks, it’s working themself to death on the farm or chopping trees or fishing until 2:00am because “well what if there’s a special fish past 1:00am!”

And, as time goes on and they meet up either in clinic or in the library (where the farmer is shoving ancient bones into the hands of the man at the counter) Harvey realizes he’s growing fond of this new goblin. Harvey’s birthday is one of the last, yet this chaos beast might just find him and shove a cup of coffee in his hand (the farmer has been running at Mach 5 because they downed ten before getting to this point). And darn, he’s fallen in love with the dirt-crusted farmer.

Then in marriage, the scenanigans never end! He still charges for the many, MANY, ER visits because they’ve been fighting flying anacondas in the mines, and he’s been home with his model planes and radio knowing that, screw it, they always come back like some feral cat.

I think the only storyline that comes close in rom-comability due to the character growth from the chaos the farmer brings is Hailey, but I think it’s funnier with Harvey because no one expected him to get roped into a rom-com, least of all himself

[littlethingwithfeathers]

Small Ways to Make a Difference

So... we all are stressing about Trump (and let's face it... Musk really) slashing through budgets left and right for public services and such. And... it feels like there's not really anything you can do about it besides protest (which not everyone can do or is comfortable doing). But... you can! Because here's the thing... while a lot of stuff is losing national funding, much of that stuff is actually staffed, scheduled, and budgeted at the local level. And usage by the public is usually the metric tracked in order to determine exactly how much of the local budget gets allocated. More use? More people through the door? More money. And the opposite is true. Think of a local budget like pie... and the size of slices is allocated by how many people are going to eat that slice pie. So... wanna help fight this nonsense and ensure public services don't go away? USE YOUR PUBLIC SERVICES. But what does that mean? What's a public service? Anything your tax dollars pay for. Libraries. Parks. Public Health Departments. Public schools. Many museums and such as well. So here's some suggestions (most of which do not cost anything but time): Use your public library. Check out books. (Even if you don't read them. Have a favorite book? Make sure it stays in circulation by giving it traffic!) Go log into a computer and use the internet for a bit. Reserve and request books/movies/music (did you know that you can get DVD sets at a library? For free? No streaming service needed!) Attend a meeting/presentation. Hell, SCHEDULE a meeting for something... maybe a game night or a book club. Go to public parks and green spaces. Especially if there's a logbook or other way to be counted. Your presence is ammunition for the people fighting to keep green spaces from getting paved. Also take pictures of yourself here and tag those spaces on social media. This gives them free images of real people to use when they're making their budget presentations and writing grant requests. Look up your local health department and see what services you can access at your income level. Often they offer free or discounted vaccines, health checkups, and cancer screenings. And if you're hemming and hawing about whether or not you need it, your traffic will ensure someone who very much does need their services has access. Call and find out when they're slow (my uneducated guess is that traffic picks up around the start of school and during cold/flu season) so you aren't competing with people trying to get sports physicals and vaccines for their kids. Listen to and interact with your local public radio and TV station. This one is pretty self explanatory. Log onto their website and stream their programming. Make music requests. Look up stuff on their community calendar. Even if you aren't into their programming, they're valuable community resources for communicating local events and such, especially during an emergency. Oh... and donate money if you can. They really depend on that stuff... especially now. Use public transit. This one is pretty self explanatory too, but might cost a little money. This includes public rent-a-bikes if they're around. Even if you don't need it, use it sometimes. It will keep it there for others who might depend on it. I'm sure there's a bunch that I'm missing, but in my area, this is a pretty good starting place. Feel free to add on!

[cloversnstrawberries]

OC question prompts ! ! (platonic yan edition)

masterlist !

hello!! i crave interaction methinks... but am currently fighting possible burnout with both hands, so i came up with all these silly questions you could ask!!! just send in the emoji & the character(s) you'd like :] feel free to send multiple emojis/for multiple characters in one!! in fact, i encourage it!! please be curious about my little goobers!!!

[🍓] what's their favorite fruit(s) ?

[🍪] do they prefer sweet, sour, savory, or spicy ?

[🗝️] what's a secret they'll never tell ?

[🧸] do they have a comfort item/what do they find comfort in?

[🍴] when do they usually eat dinner? are they regular with it, or eat it whenever they get hungry?

[🎬] what is their favorite movie(s) / genre(s) ?

[🎧] what kind of music listener are they? (do they actually listen to lyrics, put it on as background noise, only listen to lyricless music, etc etc)

[🎤] do they have a favorite singer/band? who is it, if so?

[🎸] do they play any instruments? if not, have they wanted to play one?

[💿] how do they listen to music? (record player, car radio, CD player, streaming service, etc etc) ?

[📼] does this sucker even know what a VHS tape is ? if not, why (is it past their time, before it, do they just live under a rock, etc etc) ?

[📺] do they watch a lot of TV, if so, what is their favorite series ?

[🎞️] would they ever be in a movie, short film, tv series, have a documentary/docuseries made about them, etc etc ?

[📻] do they listen to the radio? how often, and what kind of programs (just music, talk shows, news/weather, radio plays, etc etc) ?

[📞] do they pick up the phone within one singular second no matter who it is, wait until it goes to voicemail ("if they really wanna talk they'll leave a voicemail" type of attitude), or something else entirely ?

[☎️] what kind of phone do they have (smart phone, flip/slide phone, BRICK, rotary phone, landline, portable homephone, etc etc) ?

[📷] are they photogenic, do they like having their picture taken or do they hate it and cover their face at any given chance ?

[📹] are they videogenic, do they like having videos taken of them, or do they hate it and smack the camera out of peoples hands ?

[🕰️] are they afraid of change, or do they welcome it ?

[🕯️] how would they react if there was a blackout? do they have candles ready to go, or do they scream their head off about it ?

[⌛️] do they have good time management skills ?

[🔨] can they do handywork, and to what extent (patching walls, laying tiles, fixing tables, plumbing, fixing cars, etc etc) ?

[🍳] can they cook, and if so, how well ?

[🩹] are they more likely to hurt and need reader to patch them up, or more likely to be doing the patching up to reader ?

[🪓] when/what/who was their first kill ? how did it happen ?

[💊] do/have they take/took any medication, or do they need to but don't ?>

[🧹] how often do they do chores, do they hate doing them, indifferent, or enjoy them ?

[🛍️] do they like giving or receiving gifts ?

[🎁] what is their favorite gift they've ever gotten ?

[✉️] do they like writing letters, or prefer talking in person ?

[🗑️] how do they treat those around them (excluding/compared to reader) ?

[📓] how were they in school (were they popular, outcasted, bullied, a bully, etc etc) ?

[📚] do they like reading? if so, who are their favorite author(s) / favorite genre(s) ?

[📋] how many jobs have they had / what kind of jobs have they had ?

[✂️] can they be trusted with sharp objects, or will they absolutely run with scissors (blades facing up) without a doubt ?

[🖍️] what would they do if they were randomly handed a pack of crayons and some paper / coloring sheets ?

[✏️] do they draw, if so, what kind/why ?

[🖋️] do they write, if so, what kind/why ?

[🧷] how hard are they on their items / clothes? can they keep delicate shoes in tact for years, or do they break heavy duty boots within two months of wearing them ?

[���] what was/is their favorite school subject ?

[🧵 ] do they know how to sew, if so, why ?

[💉] are they afraid of needles / medical stuff ?

[🥩] what is their diet like ? what are some of their favorite meals?

[mwolf0epsilon]

Fun Mimic Fact of the Day: Mimics are a lot more intelligent than most people give them credit. Especially the zoologists who are adamant on defending the specialised animal vs folklore beast theory.

Sure, there is an argument to be had that some species of primates, octopi, dolphins and parrots are good examples of animals displaying higher problem solving capabilities, as well as an awareness of language and cooperation within an established "society/social group". Giving some credence to the hypothesis.

But these examples still lack the refinement and sense of awareness that a mimic displays when comfortable among humans.

This is what convinces those who work with mimics more personally that they are, in fact, fae and not mere animals. Especially when working in railways that are in favour of conservation efforts (the NWR being a prime example), or within households that have had one vehicle mimic for generations.

People who have a lot of contact with mimics (especially older/elderly ones), will notice mannerisms and actions that surpass basic animal intellect or even acts of mimicry.

Here are a few examples:

Charlie Sand and Sidney Hever participate in a children's reading program at the library. They have both witnessed Edward (who they loan to the library in his smaller form so that children with learning disabilities and speech impediments have the opportunity to read to him) not only speaking in clear English, but also read paragraphs when the child that is meant to be reading to him can't seem to pronounce the words.

Sir Topham Hatt has watched Glynn work the kettle and prepare himself tea, as well as help himself to the radio when he's had to work from home.

The station-masters have noticed that, whenever they forget to feed the various cats that linger around the various stations around the island, someone comes in and does it for them (leaving behind a trail of opened cat food bags and cans). They can't be sure, but they have their suspicions that Gordon might be the one picking up their slack, because the cats all come to greet him when he comes by as if he were one of them.

The Duke and Duchess of Boxford once gave Spencer some old newspapers for him to entertain himself (thinking he'd just rip them up and roll around on the shredded paper) only to find someone had filled in all the crosswords and cut out sections of the funnies or interesting articles.

Hiro appears to know sign language. At the very least, he seems to use his paws to make very defined gestures when interacting with his crew. Whether or not this is a form of mimic dialect or Japanese sign language is currently unknown, since very few people on Sodor knows how to speak Japanese much less know JSL.

Mimics who participated in the war efforts both recognize and understand military slang and morse code. Flying Scotsman appears to be in the habit of using morse code to grumble about British Rail's incompetence, something which seems to amuse the occasional veteran that take his train to Vicarstown.

[bookishscrolls]

Innovative Content Ideas for Engaging Community Radio Programs

Creating captivating and engaging content is the lifeblood of any Community Radio Station (CRS). It’s the magic that transforms your station from a simple broadcast into a beloved community staple. But what keeps listeners tuning in and, more importantly, feeling connected to your station? The answer lies in continuous innovation and deep community involvement. From educational programs to…

[queen-of-andor]

Duos of voice actors I want to see on the One Piece radio program ( aka the program that also releases cute art of the characters that are featured):

1. Luffy and Sabo's voice actors: I want to listen the dynamics between the brothers now that Sabo has a new voice actor. Plus, I want the cute art of the brothers.

2. Nami and Vivi's voice actresses: it's been ages we haven't listened Nami and Vivi's interacting, I want to listen their voices together. Plus, I want beautiful official art of those two being besties- girlfriends.

And I don't think it would be far fetched to have Sabo and/or Vivi appearing on one of these shows alongside a straw hat bc both recently were on focus on the anime.

So, please OP team make the Sabo-Luffy and Nami- Vivi duos happen!!

[khaire-traveler]

My third day of work was, in fact, so wild that I left with a migraine and threw up four times when I got home. My back hurt so much that I could barely bend over by the time I left. 💀 Someone's stalker came in so we had to call the police, someone stole something, a manager yelled at someone through the radio that we all have while I was working with a customer on that guy's last day, a lady kept asking me whether or not she should buy a brand new red jeep Cherokee then proceeded to advertise her old black Lexus to me (I was just her cashier, like, why), some guy told me about how he can't give anyone his email because he's part of the FBI senior program (?), I saw two dogs, I didn't get to take either of my 15 minute breaks so just my 30 minute lunch break, my trainer was talking so much in my ear that I straight up disassociated during the middle of a customer interaction, I helped a super angry customer fax something and he told me that his partner had died and how he needed to get stuff to the state or else, and many, many, MANY other things. This job is low-key awful for me, personally. TvT

[oh-no-its-bird]

Ok so trying to find my old alien stage x starwars crossover post bc someone asked to see it, but tumblr is acting up again and wont fucking let me find it, BUT I have it saved in my notesapp where I originally wrote it (get fucked tumblr) so were just gonna repost it here!

So yeah, no real context needed Alien Stage x Starwars crossover ft. Till bc he is my favorite.

(this was all written around round 5's release, if I remember correctly)

All I'm saying is that if Palpatine tried that "yes, strike me down, embrace the darkness, let it consume you . . ." shit on Till, Till would go *fuck you old man I'll take that bet* and beat him to death w no regrets then probably write a song about it later

Is your crush since childhood (presumed) dead?? Your childhood friend / rival of sorts confessed his love for you with a desperate, (unwanted) kiss then died at your feet to make sure you survived????

New therapy idea just dropped: beating an old man to death !! Reviews are in and they say it's HIGHLY effective !!!

Who would be funniest for Till to bludgeon to death w a guitar actually? Maul or Ventress are the most likley for him to not only just find out in the wild but in a situation where he can both actually interact w him without getting shot instantly by like, guards nearby and also be, yk, motivated to take that shot by them committing obvious crimes he may take issue with

Palpatine is the most obviously funny one and would solve a lot of problems.

I feel like Dooku would be the out of pocket one actually, a lot of fics leave him either alive or vuagley off screen when it comes to fucking shit up in clone wars era.

I want people to recognize Till actually. I want alien stage to be a morbid fascination for a good portion of the galaxy, maybe the usual do gooders like jedi can't interfere bc its technically legal in the specific corner of the galaxy its hosted in. Something something politics something something the senate doesn't want them to interfere idk. Its in the outer rim I don't think they touch things there all too much anyways

Anyways: Till beats Count Dooku to death with a guitar on live holo and the very first immediate reaction for a chunk of the galaxy is just. Is that. The pop star? I. Is that that one alien stage death game pop star???

Like imagine if you were just some guy living ur life and a pretty ugly looking war is looming overhead but you're doing your best to keep your head down, stay safe, all that. And then you go on twitter and everyone is posting videos of Hannah Montana beating Vladamir Putin to death live on stage with her microphone

And you're like "what the actual fuck" and your friend is like "does this mean the war is off now" and you don't KNOW but damn if all these new Hannah Montana edits everyone is dropping don't go hard as fuck

Till and Anakin would either get along concerningly well or fucking despise eachither. Like it's on sight.

Pick your poison! Is this fics obligatory "small silly reason why Anakin is too busy to be tempted into child murder by Palpatine";

A) he's an alien stage enthusiast and cant miss out on its live streams to meet w the old man sorry Palpatine

Or B) he's too busy programming little droids to start screaming every time Till opens his mouth to speak

"I don't know if Till would actually kill someone " / "Ok but Till is like just a dude. Not even a particularly strong or skilled one. He wouldn't last 2 seconds against a sith or literally anyone with actual training to fight."

Ok counter argument: it'd be funny. Now get back in the basement. I'm trying to cheer on my favorite space pop king as he beats an old man to death

fun scene where he sits in a cantina somewhere, clutching a drink as his own voice and Ivan's play over the radio as they sing Cure. His heart beating faster and faster in his ears till it hits the part where Ivan died and he just hunches in on himself, like if he curls tight enough he can shield the voices from reaching his ears.

He's so fucking depressed and visibly out of it in all the recent videos, I feel like he needs to find something to respark that rage. (Obligator *fuck I can't wait for Luka to try and get a rise out of him in the next round) maybe in this fic that spark is committing violence against the evil elderly who knows

Mmmmm Till sleep walking through the refugee camp, his eyes downcast and shoulders slumped and defeated as he blends in with the crowds of people who've escaped their own situations. Nothing special to see here, nothing special at all. His force presence is quiet and weighed down, hardly even visible if you aren't looking.

He's dissosiating like 80% of the time and that's what let's him get the jump on Dooku, who's probably there to poke at Obi-Wan and was NOT expecting the guitar to the back of his head.

Instant kill !!!! The clones are all pointing making pog faces everyone cheers the galaxy is saved etc. Etc.

[immortalysasims]

HIGHSCHOOL NPC's: THE CHESS TEAM.

Hello my dear simmers! Aren't you tired of your highschool having the same weird npc's and characters? Well, if you are I have the solution for you. In this little project I have recreated the Copperdale Highschool teams from scratch, this is part 3 of 4. They are all assigned to their specific after-school activities and each have their own likes, dislikes and skills.

+ INFORMATIONS, INSTRUCTIONS AND DOWNLOAD BELOW THE CUT:

These sims were made mainly with base game + high school years and NO CC whatsoever, any other packs are optional for the pre-chosen milestones, lifestyles, reputation, etc. If any pack other than base game and highschool years show up in the gallery it's a bug.

If you don't want them to move into houses as they're not (in theory) a family, place them into an empty lot, evict them and move them into the "other households" while in the manage households pannel, also if you want them to keep their specific roles/jobs don't forget to turn neighborhood stories off (can be done individually if you don't want it to affect other households). - I use THIS mod to assign all my highschool NPC's. -

Cynthia Delgado

Aspiration: Goal Oriented. (Complete).

CAS Traits: Genius, perfeccionist.

Reward Traits: Chess master, highflier, top notch infant, top-notch toddler, mentally gifted, idea person, speed reader, socially gifted.

Likes: Cerebral sims, orange, gray, pop music, deep thoughts, discussing hobbies.

Dislikes: Rascals, metal music, pranks.

Skills: Charisma (5), Handiness (3), Piano (6), Research & Debate (6), Rocket Science (6), Violin (6), Cooking (3), Logic (8).

Lifestyles: Coffee fanatic, close-knit.

Current Stats: Grade A Student. Chess Team Captain. Pristine Reputation.

Jeff Powell

Aspiration: Goal Oriented. (Complete).

CAS Traits: Genius, high maintenance.

Reward Traits: Highflier, relatable, mentally gifted, idea person, top notch infant, top-notch toddler, speed reader, happy infant.

Likes: Gray, green, jazz music, funny sims, hard-working sims, jokes, stories.

Dislikes: Pink, pop music, ambitionless sims, pranks, malicious interactions.

Skills: Charisma (1), Logic (8), Piano (5), Programming (6), Research & Debate (5), Rocket Science (6).

Lifestyles: Indoorsy.

Current Stats: Grade A Student. Chess Teammate. Good Reputation.

Colleen Stevenson

Aspiration: Goal Oriented. (Complete).

CAS Traits: Genius, bookworm.

Reward Traits: Highflier, relatable, happy toddler, top notch infant, top-notch toddler, mentally gifted, idea person, speed reader.

Likes: Blue, white, red, blues music, cerebral sims, optimistic sims, spirited sims, discussing interests, small talk.

Dislikes: Complaints, pessimistic sims.

Skills: Charisma (4), Logic (8), Research & Debate (8), Rocket Science (6), Violin (6), Writing (6), Video Gaming (3).

Lifestyles: Close-knit.

Current Stats: Grade A Student. Chess Teammate. Great Reputation.

Alberto Cornwell

Aspiration: Goal Oriented. (Complete).

CAS Traits: Genius, romantic.

Reward Traits: Highflier, relatable, top notch infant, top-notch toddler, mentally gifted, scouting aptitude, idea person, observant, socially gifted, happy infant.

Likes: Gray, yellow, romance music, romance enthusiasts, egotistical sims, flirtation, compliments.

Dislikes: Kids radio music, ambitionless sims, silly behaviour, deception.

Skills: Charisma (5), Logic (8), Video Gaming (4), Comedy (4), Gardening (4), Cooking (4), Violin (6).

Lifestyles: Indoorsy.

Current Stats: Grade A Student. Chess Teammate. Great Reputation.

Aubrie Read

Aspiration: Goal Oriented. (Complete).

CAS Traits: Genius, neat.

Reward Traits: Highflier, relatable, top notch infant, top-notch toddler, mentally gifted, scouting aptitude, speed cleaner, idea person.

Likes: Black, white, brown, pop music, funny sims, optimistic sims, discussing interests, affection, jokes.

Dislikes: Egotistical sims, arguments, yellow.

Skills: Programming (5), Video Gaming (4), Rocket Science (5), Research & Debate (6), Photography (3), Charisma (4), Logic (8), Cooking (4), Handiness (4), Violin (8).

Lifestyles: Indoorsy.

Current Stats: Grade A Student. Chess Teammate. Great Reputation.

DOWNLOAD: SFS / PATREON (ALWAYS FREE)

ATTENTION: I do not own the original game due to the absurd price it is in my country, so everything will show up in the gallery with the name “Knysims” which is the site I always download my packs from!

[unkat]

More drabbles on the Chilaios ems au. (please see Psiroller's beautiful Stop Smoking, We Love You!)

Takes place after Chilchuck's bad call and talk with Laios.

Rating: M for content, nothing spicy yet

contains non-graphic discussions of pregnancy complications, death of children, cancer; backstory things

----------

When Chilchuck returns to the station after his long weekend and hike with Laios, the sense of dread he had about losing his job has abated, but his guilt over the meeting and anxiety of how his coworkers might react still lingers. He puts his uniform next to his bunk and hovers in the room as he builds up energy to go back into the main areas.

As he steps back into the living room, the whole crew is piled in front of the TV watching some show; no chairs available for him to join in quietly. His palms sweat as all eyes turn on him, leaving him at the mercy of the jury of his peers. Trapped by his employment contract to interact with the men he hasn't spoken to in days after rolling his eyes and scoffing at them for debriefing a call.

Plenty of reason to cause a scene in a lull between the action.

Laios gives a smile from the far seat on the sofa, looking up from his work phone. Someone else speaks to Chilchuck before Laios can open his mouth.

"I saved you the best seat in the house." Isaiah remarks and pats his lap, making no move to shift. Chilchuck can see Laios tense as he tries to decide if he needs to intervene. But this is something he can handle himself.

He saunters over and drops into his lap, shifting a little until he is comfortable. "Thanks, sweetheart." He winks and the other guys jeer at the two of them. He stretches out, and drops his feet onto Dan and head onto Laios. "You really know how to make a guy feel at home, please don't let me interrupt your show."

Dan snickers and grabs his legs to make sure Chilchuck doesn't fall off. He can see Laios covering his mouth with his hand as his chest shakes and he looks away from the rest of the room. Isaiah plays along, "Anything for you, gorgeous." And he pats his stomach before settling back into his seat. The tension that was in the room before has dissipated and the lull returns as they continue to watch King of the Hill. Chilchuck turns his head to see and his hair flops into his face. Laios tucks it away before he can do anything about it.

They make eye contact before Laios has to look away, grin still trying to get onto his face, not that Chilchuck is any better at this point.

Almost at the end of the program, the radio goes off. "Dispatch to Station 9, house fire at address 589 South Pierre Creek Road. Sounds like a backyard barbeque getting out of hand, and the neighbors want it checked out. No injuries reported."

Dan sighs and keys up his radio, "Station 9 to Dispatch, we copy your call for address 589 South Pierre Creek, we will notify you when we are en route."

Chilchuck lifts his legs vertically to let him get up, and Isaiah uses them as a handle to tip him further back and stand up himself. "Sorry gorgeous, but I need to drive the engine."

Chilchuck flops back onto the couch. "Listen, I do more medical only calls than you, I'm doing my job here!"

It gets a few chortles as they leave to gear up. A few minutes later, Isaiah get on the radio as the sirens start and fade into the distance.

It's only him, Senshi, and Laios still in the room after they are gone. Chilchuck looks up at Laios, still not moving from his position laying in his lap. "Hey. Can I talk to you about something?"

Laios looks down at him. "Sure. Do you want to go to the office?"

Chilchuck shakes his head. "Nah, it's not related to this job. It's something someone told me might be good for me to talk about." He shuts his eyes.

"Back when I first started, I was thinkin' about being an EMT for a couple of years before going to paramedic school."

"But then…is this about you not driving?"

"Shut up. Yeah." Chilchuck chuckles. "My work partner and I had a deal, she wanted to keep going with the EMT driving stuff and I had already crashed the truck twice-- never with a patient in the back, stupid shit like backing into a pylon and getting stuck over the curb. I got banished to the passenger's seat, but it worked for us. Gave me practice doing patient care, writing reports, all that shit."

His brows furrow. "I had only just started working when my wife told me she was pregnant, and we got married. We found out we were having twins and I saved all my PTO, all my sick time, talked about taking a leave of absence with my chief, all that stuff. We had a c-section scheduled for 37 weeks, which is pretty good for twins. Pregnancy was rough for her, and it was tough-- it was a high-risk pregnancy, and they were keeping an eye on their size the whole time."

He waves his hand. "There was something called twin-to-twin transfusion that we kept worrying about. Their placentas were too close, and they started getting connected." He meshes his hands together as an example. "The doc hadn't ever seen it like that before, it's only supposed to happen with identical twins who share the same one. Mei was getting bigger than Fler and the docs kept saying it was just something we had to keep an eye on, something we had to watch, come back in two weeks, my schedule isn't available then, Chil can you take a couple hours off to come with me?"

He sighs.

"I was doin' all sorts of overtime with my partner, offering to stay late a couple extra hours to make up for it. And I had other guys who I went through orientation with who were willing to let me ride along without having to do too much driving. We did nights as first on scene emergency BLS, transported if it was BLS appropriate, waited for the paramedic otherwise."

"We were at 29 weeks with the girls, a month and a half out from being a new dad, when we got a call for active labor in our zone. Dispatch asked me if I wanted off the call, because of my wife, and I said are you fuckin' crazy? This is practice for the real deal, send me in."

The room is quiet. Chilchuck speaks again. "We got on scene, and baby was already on his way out. They had been going for a water birth with a midwife, who called us. We had backup coming, but I radioed that in--if the midwife is calling, that means something went wrong."

Laios brushes his fingers through his hair. "They hadn't cut the cord yet, but he was going blue and wasn't crying. I am the medical guy, so I was the one who suctioned his nose and mouth, turned him upside down and slapped him on the back trying to get him to breathe. Then we bagged him, on oxygen, notified dispatch and the medical director. She said to transport. We were less than ten minutes from the nearest women's hospital and waiting for the paramedic wasn't going to make a difference."

He can't speak and Laios says nothing, continuing to pet his hair. Chilchuck opens his eyes. "I was doin' everything they taught us in school, the stuff we always joked would never happen, two finger CPR and pediatric AED and everything. I didn't know if I did something wrong or not. But I lost pulses quick, and the hospital couldn't get them back."

Laios lets him go quiet. "I'm so sorry."

Chilchuck shakes his head. "Don't be. You didn't even know me."

"No, I mean I wish you didn't have to go through that. I'm feel sad for you."

Chilchuck huffs a laugh. "Thanks."

He exhales, relaxing into Laios. "They had another call while we had a smoke outside the hospital, and asked me if I could take it. My crew chief called after it went out and asked me if I needed to come back to the station instead. I said duty calls, we're on it."

He laughs. "Nobody asked if I needed to talk to anyone, I just want home and went to sleep. Afterwards, I didn't know what to say to my wife about it-- I watched someone else's baby die and now I thought our babies were gonna die? So I sat on it, but I was gonna tell her. Then she went into labor two days later, and I had to leave work."

Laios pauses. "How old were they?"

"Twenty-nine weeks and three days. They were so small, less than half the size of the one from my call. It left my heart in my mouth, holding them in my hands, I thought they were going to stop breathing the whole time. Their lungs weren't fully developed either, they had to be tube fed, and they had vision problems."

He squeezes his eyes shut. "All my planning, my saving of my PTO, it was was for nothing, you know? I took a few days off to stay with my wife, we'd go to the NICU in the morning, stay there until it was time to do home, sleep, and do it again. Then I couldn't handle it anymore."

"I went back to work. We brought women to the hospital all the time, but I never told my wife we were there. I felt like I was gonna contaminate them, and bringing money in made sense when she suddenly wasn't working for an extra month. Mei came home after seven weeks, and Fler after nine. Those two weeks was the worst time, cause she had to go back and forth to the NICU to bring milk to Fler while taking care of Mei."

Laios hums his understanding and encouragement. "Did you get some days off then?"

He opens his eyes again. "I didn't offer to take days off, and she didn't ask. We weren't really talking then."

Laios swallows. "That sounds awful."

Chilchuck laughs. "I don't think she ever forgave me for leaving them like that."

Chilchuck goes quiet, throat bobbing as he swallows, opens his mouth, shuts it again, and shrugs, face flushing in embarrassment. Laios keeps his hand in his hair. "You know, I didn't get into EMS right out of high school. I worked at a mechanic's shop where this side of the county brought their trucks for a couple of years. I'd learned a bit from my dad, fixing our car and tractor, but there was a lot of learning I ended up doing on the job."

He smiles softly. "Nothing like Falin. She was good in school, but really good at biology. You know, she was trying to go to med school and cried when she saw an open heart surgery, not because it was scary but because she thought it was so beautiful?"

He looks down at Chilchuck who nods back, listening. "She came out here to go to school, giving up a position at John Hopkins because she wanted to be closer to me, and make connections at Regional. I'd moved out here as soon as I graduated, bought and slept in my car for a couple of months before I could get a job and afford an apartment. I don't regret it, but it was pretty stupid."

He laughs looking to the side, almost wistful. "When she was getting bloodwork done, as a part of her yearly school physical, they found that she had really high, like really high white blood cell counts along with abnormal weight loss. She called me at work and said she had just started an oncology seminar and these were cancer symptoms, that she might have some kind of blood cancer."

"She was so proud of herself for the self-diagnosis, and I was the one freaking out on company time. So, I told my boss it was a family emergency and left. While I was there, I saw the same trucks we would get in the shop at the hospital. It planted the idea in me, you know, that I could do a job I liked rather than one that just put a roof over my head. And maybe I could get some kind of insurance for Falin and I."

He smiles. "So I enrolled in community college EMT classes, got a student loan, and struggled my way through all the classroom bullshit, until I could get on the road. Everything got a lot easier after that for me, but Falin had to take a medical leave halfway through the semester because she was too sick to do her studies. She stayed with me at first, and I would drive her to her appointments and take care of things around the house. Until we went to one of her chemotherapy appointments, and they said she should stay for a couple of nights, to monitor bloodwork. She didn't stay at home much after that."

Chilchuck carefully grabs Laios' hand from its spot tangled in his hair and squeezes it. Laios squeezes back. "That's when I got my job, pretty much. I got my national license and kept pushing ahead, claimed Falin as a dependent on my insurance plan, and worked. I was doing the same thing you were. Bringing people to Regional, thinking I would go see my sister, and realizing I just didn't get the time, and after a point, I wasn't allowed in the same room as her, especially during a shift. Her immune system was too weak, and I was exposed to too many sick people."

Laios rubs his thumb against Chilchuck’s, more of a nervous tick than intentional contact. Chilchuck lets him, opening his mouth to speak.

"She's doin’ better now. What changed?" Laios squeezes his hand.

"She needed a stem cell transplant."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm. Uh. It's a part of what brought Marcille out here. I saw her on Falin's facebook and saw she worked at a cancer research lab, and I emailed her. We talked."

"And you helped her?"

"Sorta. I was the donor for Falin. Marcille kept talking about our HLAs, protein testing, immunity, medications, experimental therapies. It started going over my head, and she had these medical journals as sources that were. Just. I didn't get it, even when she tried to make it easier. All I cared about was if she could help, what they needed from me. She's amazing, Marcille-- she got Falin and I into clinical trials and took over talking to the oncology team. I don't know what we would have done without her."

Laios gaze wanders off to one of the corners of the room and he goes quiet, the smile having drifted away, replaced by a furrow between his brows. Chilchuck lifts and drops his head back into his thigh. "It all worked out?"

Laios looks back at him and the corners of his mouth perk back up. "Yeah, she's doing better now. And with Marcille here, I don't even hear if there are any problems because she is right there with Falin, and they take care of it. Falin moved in with her after she recovered. Marcille lived closer to the medical school and they were always really close."

"That's good."

"Mhm." Laios lets a moment pass. "I still was worried for a while afterwards. I ended up using the EAP too after Senshi said it might be a good idea to talk to someone about it. I was having dreams and waking up freaking out that she wasn't there, calling her and Marcille way too much. Things are a lot better now."

Chilchuck is the one to squeeze his hand. Laios' smile grows and he squeezes back. "Things work out. They have to."

Chilchuck gives an affirmative hum in response. They should probably move and work on other things, but there is an ease in tension that Chilchuck never realized he had carried into the station, had been carrying for many years alone and coiled in his chest.

He closes his eyes, and Laios does not ask him to move, does not try to slide away, does not untangle their hands. Chilchuck can feel his breath, a silent fond laugh, against his face and can't help it when the corners of his own mouth twitch upwards.

Glossary *BLS=Basic Life Support. Referring to training that is for Emergency Medical Technicians only. BLS trucks have x2 EMTs and no paramedics. *CPR and AED= cardiopulmonary resuscitation and automated external defibrillator. Used when someone's heart has stopped. *NICU= Neonatal Intensive Care Unit *EAP= Employee Assistance Program. usually provides some sort of counseling/mental health coverage.