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carnalcrows · 16 days ago

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WHITE COAT, RED HANDS

pairing: chishiya x top male reader

content warnings: 18+, chishiya is a sociopath, hearts game, major character death, blood, ftm chishiya, oral (reader receiving), p in v, general AIB warnings.

word count: 2.4k

You meet Chishiya in a game called “Karma.”

No one knows the full rules until they’re already inside — typical of the Borderlands. You only know three things when you walk into the rust-colored warehouse where it’s held: the game’s a Hearts suit, it’s for pairs, and you’re stuck with the blond guy who’s barely said a word since you got scanned in.

“Looks like we’re partners,” you say, offering a hand.

Chishiya glances at it, then at you. “Lucky me.”

His voice is flat, clinical. Doesn’t take the handshake.

You drop your hand. “You a doctor or something?”

“Used to be.” He keeps walking, hands in his pockets like this is an errand he’s annoyed to be running.

There’s something unreadable in his expression — or maybe that’s just his face. He’s got this quality like he’s always three steps ahead, but can’t be bothered to tell you what’s coming. The kind of guy who might let you drown just to see how long you could hold your breath.

You follow anyway.

Because there are only two kinds of people left in this world: the ones you can use, and the ones who’ll use you first. And you’ve learned the hard way it’s better to be close to the former — even if they look like the latter.

“Cool,” you mutter under your breath. “Stuck with the cryptic type.”

“Better than the loud type,” Chishiya replies dryly.

You glance at him. “You always this charming, Doc?”

He twitches an eyebrow. Just one. “Only when I like someone.”

That makes you laugh, unexpectedly. “So I’m fucked, then.”

He looks at you, slow and sideways. “Not yet.”

Then he keeps walking, as if he hadn’t just said that.

You hate the way that line stays with you.

The warehouse door slams shut behind you both with the kind of finality that makes your stomach tense. A countdown lights up on the far wall in blood red:- 00:59:59. One hour. No instructions.

You both scan the room — crates, high catwalks, and a flickering overhead light that casts shadows like they’re watching.

“I hate Hearts games,” you mutter.

Chishiya hums. “People usually do.”

You shoot him a look. “You sound like you’ve played more than a few.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just wanders toward the nearest crate and pops it open like this is a casual scavenger hunt.

Inside: two vests. Black, fitted. One for each of you. You pick one up and notice the red LED embedded in the chest and shaped like a heart.

“Not ominous at all,” you say.

Chishiya’s already sliding his on. It hugs him close, snug around the ribs. You try not to stare, but he catches you anyway.

“Like what you see, or just trying to figure out where to stab me later?” he asks, voice too casual.

“Can’t it be both?”

That earns a small smirk. Not quite a smile, but the kind of curve at the edge of his mouth that feels like a reward. You kind of hate that it makes your pulse jump.

Once you both suit up, the LED lights flicker to life. Yours flashes red. So does his. Then a metallic clunk echoes from above, and a screen buzzes on.

“Welcome to Karma.”

The voice is male, modulated, and void of any emotion.

“You and your partner share a life. Your hearts are linked. One dies, both die.”

A pause.

“But to win… only one may remain.”

You look at Chishiya. He’s unreadable again. As if he didn’t just hear a death sentence wrapped in a riddle.

“The game begins now.”

Then the lights go out.

You draw your knife on instinct.

Somewhere in the dark, Chishiya says softly, “This part’s always fun.”

Your voice drops. “You know how to win this, don’t you?”

A long pause. Then:

“I might.”

That makes your grip tighten. “Planning to share with the class, or are you just gonna play puppeteer until it’s convenient to let me die?”

There’s movement. A footstep behind you. You spin — knife raised — and feel a hand close around your wrist, steady but not aggressive.

“I’m not going to let you die,” he says in that same flat voice. “Yet.”

“Yet,” you echo.

The light flickers on for a heartbeat. Long enough to see his face close to yours, half-shadowed. Then dark again.

“You’re enjoying this,” you murmur.

His hand slips from your wrist. “You’d be surprised how few people are fun in the dark.”

You move in silence for a while. The kind that pricks your skin because it’s not truly silent — the warehouse breathes. Vents rattle. Metal ticks. A slow, mechanical hum pulses beneath your feet like a heartbeat that isn’t yours.

Chishiya doesn’t seem affected. He walks beside you like he’s on his morning commute. Calm. Controlled. The picture of someone who doesn’t flinch even when the building itself feels like it’s watching you.

You glance over. “How the hell are you this calm?”

“I’m used to being hunted.”

The way he says it — flat, without ego — should sound like bullshit. But you believe him.

“And you’re a doctor?” you ask.

“Was.” He pauses. “Still am, technically.”

“Right. Doctor of hearts, huh?”

That gets a proper smirk. Just a flicker. “Clever.”

You snort. “You know, most people don’t look smug after admitting to possible homicide.”

“I didn’t admit anything.”

You’re about to respond — some sarcastic quip already loaded — when the warehouse shifts. The floor jolts with a loud hiss, and metal walls snap up from the ground, boxing you into a corridor that didn’t exist two seconds ago.

“What the—?”

“Maze,” Chishiya mutters, already walking ahead. “Figures.”

“Wait—” You grab his shoulder instinctively. He stops. Looks down at your hand. Doesn’t pull away.

His gaze lifts slowly. “You don’t trust me.”

“No,” you say. “I don’t.”

He tilts his head. “But you want to.”

That shuts you up for a beat. The hum beneath the floor ticks louder. Red lights blink at the corners of the ceiling.

“You gonna tell me what you meant earlier?” you ask. “About not letting me die yet.”

“I mean exactly that,” Chishiya says, voice soft but cold. “I need you. For now.”

You laugh once, low and bitter. “You’ve got a real way with words, doc.”

His eyes flick to yours again. “You’re still here.”

You don’t have a response for that.

The next corridor is narrower. Walls dripping with condensation. Your shoulder brushes his once, twice, until neither of you bother stepping aside anymore. It’s stupid — the smallest contact — but it feeds something between you. A tension that feels almost like a test.

“You’re not afraid of dying, are you?” you say.

“No.” Chishiya’s gaze is forward, steady. “I’ve made peace with it.”

“And killing someone else?”

His eyes flick sideways. “That’s not the question you want to ask.”

“…What’s the question, then?”

“You want to know if I’d kill you.”

You swallow. “Would you?”

He stops. Turns to face you in the dim corridor. The blinking red lights give his face a flicker—soft, then sharp.

“If I said no,” he says, “you’d be stupid to believe me.”

Then he leans in just enough that you feel his breath, calm and infuriatingly even. “But if I said yes... I think you’d still follow me.”

Your heart thuds, traitorous and loud. You don’t know if it’s fear or want or both.

You mutter, “You always this cryptic with people you plan to backstab?”

“Only the ones I like.”

Your jaw clenches. “You’re insufferable.”

“I know.”

You lean a little closer — not thinking, just moving on instinct now — and mutter, “Do you always flirt in murder mazes?”

His gaze drops to your mouth. “Only with idiots who flirt back.”

Then his hand grabs the front of your vest and drags you forward, not gently. Your back slams against the wall, and his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not romantic. It’s rough and hot and too fucking much — all the tension, the danger, the push and pull of not knowing who’ll betray who — and it unravels in seconds. His tongue parts your lips without hesitation. You groan into it, hands gripping his hips because it’s the only part of him you can grab that doesn’t feel like a trap.

Chishiya’s kiss is strategic and brutal. Not gentle. He bites your bottom lip and pulls just enough to make your cock twitch in your pants. Your hips rock forward, involuntarily, and he smirks against your mouth like he expected it.

“You’re really hard,” he murmurs, low and flat in your ear. “Impressive.”

“You’re really fucking annoying,” you breathe.

“And yet, you want me to keep going.”

He drops to his knees.

He’s on his knees like he’s done it before. Like it’s second nature. No hesitation, no reverence — just a methodical slide of fingers to your waistband, popping the button open with practised ease.

You watch him through shallow breaths. One hand braced to the wall behind you, the other twitching with the urge to grab his hair. But he’s not looking up at you for permission.

He’s looking at your cock. And when he pulls it out, already hard and leaking at the tip, he hums — a quiet, pleased sound, like you’ve passed another one of his secret tests.

“No complaints,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your chest rises with something between pride and disbelief. “You always do this with people you might kill?”

Chishiya glances up then, eyes half-lidded. “No. You’re special.”

Then he licks a slow stripe from the base of your cock to the tip.

Your breath stutters. Your head tilts back and hits the wall with a dull thunk.

His tongue is warm, deliberate, not rushed. He wraps his lips around the head and takes you into his mouth in slow, steady inches. His hands are cold on your thighs, anchoring you as he sucks you in deeper — not messy or desperate. Just efficient. Intentional. Like he’s cataloguing every sound you make.

“F–fuck, doc…”

His lashes flutter at the nickname. His throat tightens around you as he swallows a little deeper, and your fingers tangle in his hair without thinking. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t fight the grip. If anything, he leans into it. Uses it to go deeper.

He sets a brutal pace after that — not fast, but intense. Hollowing his cheeks, flicking his tongue under the head, teasing and then swallowing you whole again. Your knees buckle once, and he presses harder into your thighs to steady you, like he knew it would happen.

“Shit—Chishiya, I’m—”

He hums again, sending vibrations through you just as you come, heat spilling down his throat. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break eye contact. Just swallows like it’s nothing and pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You sag against the wall, heart pounding, still trying to catch your breath.

You’re still panting when he stands, wiping the corner of his mouth like nothing happened. Like your orgasm was a minor detour.

But there’s a flush in his cheeks now. A flicker of something in his eyes.

Want.

You spot it the second he pushes you back against the wall again, fingers ghosting along your jaw. “Can you keep going?” he asks, low, almost clinical.

You snort, a breathless sound. “You kidding?”

Chishiya doesn’t smile, but there’s the barest twitch in his mouth. He steps in and kisses you, finally, open-mouthed and quiet, tasting faintly of you. It’s softer than you expect. Almost gentle. But it only lasts a beat before he turns, and without a word, walks toward one of the crates behind him.

You watch as he shrugs off his hoodie and shirt, tossing them over the metal edge. And when his pants go next, what’s left between his thighs leaves no questions. There’s a harness strapped tight to his hips, black and minimalist, but you can see it clearly when he turns and walks back to you, slick already glistening between his folds.

You blink.

He tilts his head. “Problem?”

You step forward without a word, grab his hips, and kiss him again.

He presses into you without hesitation, one hand finding your cock and guiding it between his legs. He’s wet—hot, and when you slide into him, he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to maintain control.

“Fuck—” you mutter, grounding a hand on his lower back. “You’re soaked.”

“Of course,” he says. “You’re the first person who’s made it this far.”

You want to ask what he means by that. But then he tightens around you, rolling his hips with expert precision, and your brain short-circuits.

The rhythm is fast, deliberate, but not frantic. You pin him to the wall now, bodies flushed, your cock buried inside him as he works you with movements that feel almost mechanical in how precise they are. Every grind pulls a sharp gasp from your lips. Every twist of his hips feels calculated — like he’s memorised exactly what it takes to keep you right on the edge.

He lets you manhandle him. He lets you bite at his neck, groan against his ear. But he doesn’t moan. He doesn’t beg. He just watches you, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable — like he’s processing your every reaction, filing it away for future use.

You grab his thighs and lift him. He wraps his legs around you easily, arms hooking behind your neck. You fuck up into him harder now, slamming into that wet heat over and over, the lewd sounds of skin and slick echoing off the walls.

He finally gasps — one sharp, ragged breath that punches from his lungs — and that’s what undoes you. You curse, burying your face into his shoulder as you come deep inside him, warmth flooding his cunt, your whole body twitching as you ride it out.

Your grip on him tightens.

You don’t even feel the knife slide in.

It’s only when your breath catches in your throat, sharp and wrong, that you realise what happened. Blood fills your mouth. Your legs falter. You both sink to the floor.

He stays straddled over you, cock still inside him, as your body collapses beneath his. His chest rises and falls evenly. His hands are warm against your jaw as your vision starts to fade.

“I wanted to wait until after,” he murmurs.

You gurgle something. His face softens.

“I wasn’t lying. It felt good.”

Your blood is everywhere now — on his hands, his stomach, pooling beneath your spine.

He leans down and kisses you again.

Soft. Warm. Almost apologetic.

“Only one survivor.”

And then he slips off your lap and rises to his feet, walking toward the blinking green light at the end of the hall. The blade, slick with your blood, swings loosely in one hand.

GAME CLEAR.

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mediocre-shark-tales · 7 months ago

Text

The Debut

Masterlist

The news hit the F1 world like a thunderclap—a 20 year old American driver, a complete unknown, was stepping into the Aston Martin seat mid-season. One of the few rookies to join halfway through the season, she was brought in to cover for Lance Stroll, sidelined potentially indefinitely by a severe injury. Speculation about his replacement had run wild, but no one expected it to be someone with almost no public history, let alone a driver no one had ever seen outside their helmet and racing suit. Yet Aston Martin was now ready to unveil her to the world—a driver who had only been known by her number, 66, and the nickname “Daredevil.”

In the week leading up to her debut, Aston Martin teased fans with cryptic photos and voice-modulated videos. Finally, they dropped a fifteen-minute video titled Welcome to AMRTC Driver 66, capturing her first day with the team. It opened with clips of the team speculating about her skill, personality, and confidence, overlaid with shots of her walking through the building without truly showing more than her shoes. Then, as a black screen lingered, the opening chords of “Real Gone” from Cars filled the silence. The video cut to the mystery driver getting suited up, each layer adding to her mystique, until she finally took to the track in the new car. A montage of high-speed laps displayed her undeniable skill and poise until the song slowly faded, revealing her standing still, helmet off, with curled hair framing her face as she turned toward the camera for the first time. This was quickly followed by a long ‘get to know me’ interview.

From the moment she arrived, the paddock buzzed with whispers. Her face was unfamiliar to the veteran drivers, but rumors hinted at her racing roots from leagues around the world. The fans, media, and even her new teammate waited with bated breath, eager to see if this newcomer could hold her own against the sport’s giants.

Y/n pov

I stepped into the Aston Martin garage with Marcus, my manager, beside me. My headphones were on, the bass of my favorite race weekend hype playlist thumping as I took in the scene. Mechanics and engineers glanced up from their tasks, eyes darting over to me before resuming their work on the cars and equipment, all in preparation for Practice Day 1. I’d skipped the usual media day—Aston Martin had somehow managed to get the FIA’s approval for me to skip it, which suited me just fine.

Marcus guided me through the bustling garage, giving me a quick rundown of everything before leading me to my driver’s room in the Aston Martin hospitality suite. As I took a seat, nerves bubbled up—I still hadn’t met Fernando Alonso. As confident as I felt in the car, the idea of meeting a living legend, someone who’d been racing since before I was even born, was something else entirely.

For as long as I could remember, Fernando Alonso had been my idol. I’d spent years studying his every move on the track, even adopting his aggressive, calculated driving style until I’d eventually developed my own. But knowing that I’d be racing alongside him—that I’d actually get to learn from him first hand—felt surreal, like stepping into a dream I’d chased my entire life.

That all changed the moment I actually met him. As I walked into the garage, fully suited up in my fireproofs with my helmet tucked under my arm, I could feel the weight of the moment settling in. After a quick weigh-in, Marcus led me over to Alonso. For a few awkward seconds, he barely glanced my way, his focus elsewhere until someone pointed me out to him. Around us, everyone was smiling and looking expectant—everyone except him. I swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in my throat. I hadn’t expected him to be thrilled about my arrival, but his distant, unreadable expression stung in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

As I approached, He looked me up and down with the slightest hint of a frown.

"So, they think you're ready to jump into this mid-season?" he asked, crossing his arms. "I wonder if you actually understand what that means."

I blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't," I shot back, trying to keep my tone even.

He raised an eyebrow. "A lot of drivers think they’re ready," he replied, his voice cool. "But being ready means more than just showing up with confidence. Winning is a mindset, an instinct. It’s not just something you decide you have one day."

I felt my hands tighten around my helmet. "Maybe it’s not something you decide—but it is something you prove. I’m here to race, not get your approval, and I’ll show you on track that my style is nothing like what you've seen before."

A spark flashed in his eyes, though his expression remained unchanged. "We’ll see if your style is worth anything," he said, a hint of challenge in his voice. "Just remember that here, being good isn’t enough."

Without another word, I turned on my heel and headed toward my car, trying to shake off the sting of his words. As I disappeared around the corner, Fernando watched me go, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Once my car was ready, I climbed in, settling into the seat as the engineers moved in to strap me down. Glancing up at the screen, I watched past race footage from this track with this very car. They wanted me to see what I’d be up against—what I needed to match and, ideally, surpass.

A moment later, Marcus crouched down into my line of sight, flanked by two guys—one older and serious, the other younger, with a bit of a wide-eyed look.

“Y/N, this is Ben,” Marcus began, gesturing to the older man. “He’ll be running your radio. But he’s also training Landon here,” he nodded toward the younger guy, “to be your personal radio engineer. Since there’s still a good part of the season left, you’ll need someone who gets you on and off the track. Landon’s been watching your last F2 season, studying up to learn your style. Today’s practice sessions will help you both adjust to your new roles together.”

I nodded and gave them a thumbs up—they wouldn’t hear me over the helmet or the noise of the garage anyway, but my excitement was clear.

It was finally time. My doorman stepped out, giving me the signal that I was clear to go. I eased the car forward, carefully navigating my way onto the main pit road. Aston Martin’s garage was positioned right at the front of the entrance, but it also meant the longest stretch before merging onto the track. As I rolled past each team’s garage, I felt eyes following my every move, curious and assessing. They’d all heard the buzz about the new “mystery driver,” and now here I was.

Once I hit the open track, becoming the first car out on the tarmac, my radio crackled to life with Landon’s voice. “Okay, Y/N, this session is all about finding your sweet spot with the car. If anything feels even slightly off, let me know immediately. For now, just get comfortable with the track. We’ll start gathering real data in the next session.”

I pressed the radio button and replied with a quick, “Yes, sir,” a grin hidden behind my helmet as I pushed down on the accelerator, ready to make my mark.

I took a deep breath, the roar of the engine and the blur of the pit wall filling my senses as I pushed down on the accelerator. The Italian GP track spread out before me in a symphony of curves and straightaways, each turn already embedded in my mind. I’d studied this circuit obsessively—every corner, every curb, every shift in gradient. But now, with the Aston Martin beneath me, I could finally feel it for myself, each bump and nuance translating through the car with perfect clarity.

As I took on the first few turns, my instincts kicked in—a mix of smooth control and split-second aggression. Where other drivers might ease off in preparation for a hairpin, I’d mastered the art of late braking, letting the car edge just to the point of losing grip before snapping it back with a calculated shift in weight. I slid through the Variante del Rettifilo, cutting a sharp angle through the chicane, my hands steady as I kept my foot down. Each move, each turn was a test, not just for me, but for the entire team watching my data back in the garage.

The name Franco Colapinto kept flashing in my mind. I knew he’d have an impressive debut mid-season, and I could feel a competitive drive swelling within me as I attacked the track, eager to match and even exceed his potential mark. Exiting the second Lesmo, I made a mental note of how much grip the car could hold, the feeling just right as I powered down the straight toward Ascari. I couldn’t afford a single misstep. If I was going to prove myself, this was my moment to do it—full control at breakneck speed.

“Looking good, Y/N,” Landon’s voice crackled through the radio, but I was already focused on the final corner. The Parabolica curved ahead, inviting me to test my limits, and I didn’t hesitate. I took it wide before tightening on the exit, feeling the car grip to the line as I pushed the throttle to the max, the car launching down the home straight.

“Love you, Landon, but please don’t speak before I’m accelerating out of the corner,” I said quickly over the radio, just as I straightened out and hit the next curve.

There was a pause before his voice crackled back, a bit sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies.”

I chuckled, the corners of my mouth lifting behind my helmet. “No worries, I’ll have you perfected in no time.”

With that, I settled back into my rhythm, feeling the weight of the car and every detail of the track imprinting itself in my mind. Soon enough, the first practice session came to an end, and I guided the car back to the pits. As I parked and the engineers moved in, I took a moment to pull off my helmet, still buzzing from the thrill of my first laps. This track, this team, and this car were quickly becoming home.

Time Skip -

Race day had arrived, bringing the tension and thrill of my F1 debut, but the sting of yesterday’s qualifying disaster still lingered. I’d ended up in P18, an unfortunate consequence of a poorly timed red flag that left the five of us at the back with no real shot at setting a solid lap time. I tried to brush it off as I prepared to join the rest of the grid for the drivers' parade.

Dressed in team gear, I wore one extra item that had become a part of my ritual. A few months ago, I lost my mother to cancer, and since then, I’d made sure to honor her at every race. Something on me, whether it was my gear or my helmet, would always bear a symbol of her favorite animal: the sea turtle. She had chosen it after learning the turtle’s symbolism of wisdom, endurance, and trusting one’s path, all qualities that described her so well. On each of my helmets, a small sea turtle was etched into the design. And when I wasn’t wearing the helmet, I kept a sea turtle necklace with me, its pendant filled with a touch of her ashes, as if she were here with me, watching over this pivotal moment.

I slipped on my headphones, tuning into my “reminiscing” playlist, letting myself reflect in the few quiet moments before the chaos. “How Do I Say Goodbye” by Dean Lewis filled my ears, a song that resonated now more than ever. My F2 team had given me the remainder of the season off after my mother’s passing, telling the media I was undergoing intense training for my reserve role. Nobody outside my close circle knew the truth, and it felt like a private thread of grief I carried alone, my mother’s memory grounding me as I faced the reality of my first F1 race without her.

I followed the line of drivers, hanging back, unnoticed by most. No one had approached me—not to chat, nor to dismiss me. They’d fallen naturally into their cliques, small pockets of friendships built over countless races together. The trailer pulled up, and I was the last to step aboard, taking a quiet corner near the back. My gaze drifted over the crowd as I toyed with the sea turtle pendant around my neck, a small comfort. If there was ever a moment I needed my mom, it was now. I imagined her smiling at my awkwardness, maybe even scolding the guys to show a bit of gentlemanly grace. Her humor and warmth were all I had left to keep close in this overwhelming moment.

Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts. I pulled off my headphones and turned to see a smiling Franco Colapinto standing there, his easy grin contagious. My smile mirrored his as I placed my headphones around my neck, grateful for the distraction.

“Hola! I’ve been waiting to get a chance to talk to you,” he said, his tone smooth and friendly.

“Hey! I didn’t think anyone would come over,” I replied, surprised but pleased. “It’s nice to finally meet you. How are you feeling about today?”

“Excited and a little nervous, to be honest. It’s not every day you get to race in Formula 1, right? I’m sure you feel the same way.”

I nodded, feeling a wave of camaraderie. “Definitely. It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m ready to show what I can do out there.”

Franco's eyes sparkled with encouragement. “You’ve got this! I saw your lap times from practice; you really have a gift. Just stay focused and trust your instincts. We’re in this together after all.”

“Thanks! That means a lot, especially coming from you. I know you’ve been making waves already too,” I said, my confidence growing.

“Just trying to keep up!” he laughed, his energy infectious. “How about we make a pact? Let’s push each other out there and see how far we can go. We might even surprise some people!”

“Deal!” I grinned, feeling the excitement of a budding friendship. “I’d love to have someone to share this experience with. After all, it’s always more fun with friends.”

Franco nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! Let’s catch up after the race too—maybe grab a bite? I think we could both use a little downtime after all this craziness.” He blushed slightly, the nerves from the question filling him.

“Sounds perfect,” I replied, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. As we exchanged a few more words, the nervous weight on my shoulders lifted, replaced by the warmth of a new friendship that made this moment feel just a little less daunting.

Time flew by, and before I knew it, we were dropped back at the paddock. With no distractions, I headed straight for my garage, ready to change and get my head in the game. As I pulled on each piece of my race gear, my heart thudded louder, like it was syncing up with the pulse of the race track. I pressed play on my go-to race day anthem, letting "Real Gone" by Sheryl Crow blast through my headphones on repeat. If this song didn’t put me in the zone, nothing would—it was basically my theme song at this point.

Finally dressed, I took out my helmet. Today, I’d be wearing something special. Up until now, I’d been using my usual helmet, but today was different. This one was for my mom. The design was everything she’d loved: a watercolor sea turtle on each side, painted in her honor. And the top? Like Max’s iconic lion, but this time, it was the face of a sea turtle, wise and serene, watching over me. I could almost hear her laugh as I ran my fingers over the shell details. This one’s for you, Mom.

Leaving the driver’s room, I headed towards the garage, spotting Fernando getting weighed, his usual intense focus evident even with all the last-minute prep happening around us. I gave him a nod, but he was too busy to notice. The team was buzzing, everyone moving with that pre-race electricity.

Before long, I was strapped into the car, staring down the rows of vehicles lined up before me. Silence filled my helmet as I mentally ran through my race strategy. My goal was clear: make it into the points. It wasn’t just about my debut anymore; it was about proving that I belonged here. I’d shut up the critics, the doubters, the ones who said I didn’t have what it took. One pass at a time, I’d show them exactly why I was here.

With just minutes left before the race began, the team pulled the last of the covers from my car and gave it one final check before stepping back off the track. A calm washed over me, the nerves melting into pure focus. It was time.

As the lights went out for the formation lap, I pressed the pedal, feeling the power beneath me roar to life. One by one, the cars in front began moving, and I eased into line, the vibrations of the track buzzing through my hands and up my arms. As I made my way around the circuit, I took in the crowds, fans pressed up against the barricades, flags waving, people cheering, everyone vying for a glimpse of the action before the real race even began. Some held banners and signs with drivers’ names, a few even with my number and the sea turtle logo—my symbol.

I could feel the weight of all those eyes, every fan, every camera trained on the car, and I let it sink in. This was it. For a split second, my mind flashed back to all the hard work, the sleepless nights, and every lap it took to reach this moment. I had something to prove to the fans, to the team, to everyone who’d doubted me. But right now, the only thing on my mind was to trust my path—just like the sea turtle my mom had loved so much.

As the formation lap came to an end, the tension in the air shifted into something electric. The cars lined up on the grid, engines rumbling in anticipation, and I felt a surge of adrenaline course through me. The lights began to sequence, and I focused on the start, visualizing my strategy for the race. This was my moment, and I was ready.

The lights went out, and with a roar, I launched off the line. The initial surge was exhilarating; I was quick on the throttle, feeling the car respond to my commands as I made my way into Turn 1. I immediately positioned myself on the inside line, expertly avoiding the chaos of the cars jostling for position. I could hear the crackle of the radio as Landon encouraged me, reminding me to stay calm and focused.

By the time I reached the first series of corners, I was already gaining ground. I overtook a struggling driver on the outside, timing my move perfectly as I accelerated past him, narrowly avoiding a collision. The thrill of passing my first competitor sent a rush of confidence through me. I could see Franco up ahead, holding steady in P15, and I set my sights on catching him.

As I maneuvered through the tighter sections of the track, I began to find my rhythm. I was in the zone, my mind clear, my instincts sharp. Every corner felt like an opportunity, and I seized each one with determination. The roar of the crowd grew louder with every pass I made, and I could feel the energy fueling my drive.

By the end of the first five laps, I had already climbed up to P15. The rush of adrenaline pushed me further as I entered the sixth lap, where I saw two cars ahead battling for position. I took advantage of their fight, threading my car between them at just the right moment. It felt like a dance, fluid and precise. I could hear Landon’s voice in my ear, excitement evident as I made my way to P12.

With each lap, I continued to push, my confidence growing as I settled into the flow of the race. I navigated through the midfield, expertly carving my way around each driver that stood in my path. Before I knew it, I was in P10, and the battle for the final point was heating up. I had Franco in my sights, and he was locked in a fierce duel with a driver ahead. I took a deep breath, my focus zeroing in on the track ahead.

As we approached the DRS zone, I positioned myself perfectly behind Franco, ready to capitalize on the situation. The moment the DRS activated, I unleashed the power of my car, speeding past him as I made my way into P9. A rush of exhilaration flooded over me—I was in the points! I could hardly believe it. The realization that I had come from P18 to P9 within 2/3s of the race filled me with a sense of accomplishment and the determination to keep pushing forward. With my mother’s spirit guiding me, I 2ould fight for better positions.

The final laps flew by in a blur, each corner, each straight a chance to cement my place in this race. I held P9 fiercely, defending against anyone who dared to challenge me, pushing the car to its limits while staying calm under pressure. As I crossed the finish line, a wave of relief and triumph washed over me, the weight of the entire race lifting in an instant. My radio crackled with life, and suddenly the cheers of the team filled my helmet, their voices a symphony of celebration.

“P9! Absolutely incredible, y/n!” Landon’s voice shouted, brimming with pride. “You did it, you’re in the points on your debut!”

I could hear Marcus chiming in, his excitement nearly drowning out the others, “You’ve made history today. Unbelievable drive—everyone here is beyond proud!”

A smile broke across my face as I took a moment to let it all sink in. The crowd’s cheers blended with the voices in my ear, my heart racing with pure exhilaration. I lifted a hand in a quiet tribute to my mom, feeling her presence there on the track. This was just the beginning—I’d proven I belonged here.

Pulling into parc fermé, I powered down the car, feeling the silence wrap around me as the engine’s roar faded. Just as I started climbing out, I heard someone shout my name over the buzz of the paddock. I turned and saw Franco charging toward me, a huge grin plastered on his face. Before I could react, he reached me, practically tackling me in a bear hug as he lifted me off my feet and spun me around.

“You raced beautifully, hermosa!” he yelled, his excitement infectious. I couldn’t help but laugh, caught up in his energy as he set me back down.

“And you! That defense was insane—I thought I’d never get around you!” I replied, still catching my breath. We grinned at each other, peeling off our helmets and balaclavas, both flushed and exhilarated.

“Seriously,” he said, eyes bright, “for a debut race? You were unstoppable. I knew you’d make waves, but that was something else.”

“Thanks, Franco,” I said, feeling the pride and relief mix with a new rush of excitement. “And I know that won’t be the last time I’m chasing you down.”

“Can’t wait for it,” he replied with a laugh. We shared a nod, silently acknowledging the start of something bigger between us.

As we pulled away, someone called out for us. I turned, and to my surprise, racing legend Lewis Hamilton was walking over, looking exhausted but with a warm, genuine smile. "That was spectacular from both of you," he said, nodding at Franco and me. "I can’t wait to watch the highlights later. You both defended and overtook with skill today—I’m excited to see how you both keep improving."

Franco and I exchanged a quick look of shared amazement and thanked him, both of us a bit starstruck. Just then, Alex appeared, pulling Franco aside, leaving me with Lewis.

“So, y/n,” he began, his tone more serious now, “I actually wanted to have a word with you. I didn’t want to overwhelm you earlier, so I thought now might be the best time—when your spirits are high and you’ve got a bit of space to breathe.” I nodded, curious, as he continued.

“I know it can be tough to find real allies here,” he said gently. “Especially as someone who stands out in a sport that doesn’t have many like you.” His words hit home; I’d felt the isolation creeping in, even with the excitement of today’s race. “I went through a similar thing when I started. I want you to know, if you ever need a friend or someone to talk to, I’m here. Whether it’s for advice, venting, or just someone who gets it—don’t hesitate to find me.”

A wave of gratitude washed over me, and I managed a smile, feeling the pressure I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying start to lift. “Thank you, Lewis. That really means a lot,” I said, trying to convey how much his words reassured me. He gave a small, understanding nod, like he knew exactly what I was feeling.

“Anytime,” he said with a kind smile. “You’ve got a bright future ahead. Just keep your head up.” With a reassuring nod, Lewis turned and walked back toward his team, leaving me standing there with a sense of both calm and determination. I took a deep breath, letting his words sink in, feeling a surge of confidence.

Gathering myself, I turned and headed back to my team’s garage, the noise of the paddock buzzing around me, but somehow, I felt more focused than ever. As I walked, a few crew members caught my eye, giving me nods and pats on the back, their own excitement mirroring my own.

I saw Marcus waiting with a grin, surrounded by engineers who all looked just as thrilled. I knew I’d made a mark today—not just on the track but on the people who believed in me. And as I joined them, I couldn’t help but smile.

#x reader #f1 angst #driver!reader #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #max verstappen #charles leclerc #oscar piastri #lando norris #franco colapinto #lewis hamilton #carlos sainz #george russell #grill the grid #f1 grid x reader

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malkon-dova · 3 months ago

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Final Performance / The End (outer wilds)

1st session playthrough liveblog | endgame spoilers ahead for outerwilds | no dlc spoilers please (haven't gotten to it yet)

So the title is self explanatory but. theres quite a bit of content to unpack before we get there so.

at the end of last liveblog i had two things to do: Ash Twin Project, and something I had neglected to mention: Probe Tracking Module!!

If I'm honest, I really didn't care about it much-- ATP was right there!! I wanted to finally figure out it's secrets!!! but i ended up finding the probe first because well. save the best for last yknow? AND MAN.

I'M GLAD I DID.

And oouhh!! the puzzle to get into the core of giants deep was so cool!!! i had to get a few nudges by my friend to get on the right track, but after looking at the rumor log and remembering the jellyfish insulation, I knew what i had to do!! (poor jellyfish though..)

but GOSH. THERE'S SO MUCH THERE. 9,318,054 PROBE LAUNCHES TO FIND THE EYE. THAT'S. INSANE. FUCKING INSANE. AND THE COORDINATES!! DUDE! THE MOMENT I SAW THAT. I KNEW I HAD TO PUNCH THAT INTO THE VESSEL

either way!!!! whether or not I had figured some preetty important lore- i had 1 thing left, Ash Twin Project (Squeee!!!!)

solving this puzzle was kind of funny! i figured that the 'broken' ash-twin warp was the solution, but i was stuck on the fact that the ash pillar would suck me up before i could warp (i knew this bc i tried to do this before out of curiosity). i was able to send my camera through though while i was wandering around- which helped confirm it led to ATP. but the 1st way i actually got there myself was through *waiting* for the the ash to stop pouring out onto Ember and wait for the twins to align, and well.

it sure worked haha (had NO time whatsoever to explore it though, the sun explode music was in full blast). but i did figure out the intentional route! seeing the warp activate in front my eyes by putting my camera on it a few sessions ago helped me realize (along with the nudges and hints my friend was giving me).

and well. the moment i had time to explore, that basically spelled the beginning of the end

finally getting the timeline was cool! the nomai being completely ganked by the ghost crystals was insane; its good but also completely disturbing to know that the comet rupturing was their ultimate downfall. jesus

but yeah. um i saw the advanced warp core and well. its the source of the loop, aint it? no core, no power to keep me from looping post sun-explosion

theres nothing else to do besides take it..

-and then fly directly into the sun, causing me to die permanently and to get. credits.

the end! what a lovely way to get an existential crisis (i was staring at the pause screen for a hot while after, i was a bit shaken up haha)!! The music doesn't help, the looping sun-is-gonna-explode music reprise is sososososo scary dude. its beautiful but I genuinely was gonna have a heart attack.

but nah, of course- just dying? that's not it. i knew that that warp core was destined for the moment i saw it's ass. and man.

plugging in the warp core, inputting the code here (AND IT WAS IN THE BOTTOM CORNER TOO?? THAT WAS COOL), and WARPING??? WAS INSANE. i was panicking the entire time but the MOMENT i activated it...

woah.

WOAH. WOAH. WOAH. WOAH. WOAH. THAT'S THE EYE. THAT'S THE EYE. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK. OH MY GOD. OHH MY GOD. OH MY GOD OH OH WOAH WOAH

OHHHHH MY GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD OH M YO GOD OH MY OGD GHDSGG?? OH GODDDDD WOW OKAY OKAY OKAY

OKAY COOL OK OK OK UM UM?? UMMMM??? UMMMMMMMMMMMM

WEEEEE

I wish i had a screenshot of when I was falling through the eye, but if i'm being honest, my jaw was on the floor and i was two seconds away from hyperventilating after seeing basically hell- so i think i miiiiight have an excuse to have not screenshot it. that place was scary.

yknow what else is scary? hard teleporting back to the museum. absolutely terrifying. jesus christ.

i suppose this is purgatory

wow.

i'm glad solanum could be part of this. i hadn't heard her piano accompaniment till this sequence, so it was a welcome surprise.

but. yeah. and there we collapsed the universe in on itself, allowing it to be born anew

i'm.

being completely honest here, as i'm typing this, i'm getting weepy all over again- I'm. genuinely so. so so touched by this game. the moment it ended and credits started, i broke down. completely. i hadn't sobbed like this over a game in a bit. like i cried playing isat, and it had it's own share of The Horrors, but Outer Wilds? that completely broke me.

this game is a masterpiece. and absolute masterpiece. it's a story about loss and helplessness, but its a story about acceptance.

i was so scared facing the end, but im sure that was intentional. after all, death- or the end is terrifying. who wouldn't have at least a smidge of fear before seeing their demise? the cycle of renewal has come to a close and it's time to move on.

fuck. fuck man. fucking fuckity fuck christ. im never recovering from this. i will never ever recover. i will not. i refuse. i will take his hurt and live with it forever. my heart will know it intimately

I'll see you guys next time during dlc,,,

additional thoughts: the eye- like everything related to the ending is terrifying. i've loved quantum stuff ever since i learned about it in this game, but MAN does it take it up a notch. a whole planet of quantum. terrifying. genuinely terrifying. the thunder and constantly altering lighting causing the plants and rocks to move is so scary (the oxygen refill is appreciated though) the campfire/final performance location at the end being the title screen location is crazy too!!!!! AND THE MUSIC. OH THE MUSIC THE MUSIC. ATC'S MUSIC IS SO SCARY BUT SO FITTING. ITS THE VERY LOCATION WHERE YOU MEET YOUR END. THE CORE OF YOUR LOOPS. YOU CAN PHYSICALLY HOLD YOUR OWN FATE IN YOUR HANDS AND EITHER PERISH OR DO SOMETHING. OHH... OHHH MY GODDDDDD ALSO I LOST MY CAMERA BUDDY TO THE EYE. which SUCKED. BAD. i was really sad i lost em :( i needed the companionship

but seeing them in the future was nice (didn't get a screenshot of them whizzing by unfortunately)

but yeah! again. amazing. amazing peak game. best 22 minutes of my life. 9,318,054/10

#the end (NOT INCLUDING DLC)#outer wilds #outer wilds spoilers #outer wilds malk liveblog

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techav · 11 months ago

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On Boot Failures

Headlines everywhere on Friday, the 19th of July, 2024 were about the massive computer outages caused by a faulty update to the CrowdStrike antivirus software. It seems some config file choked up a kernel module causing Windows machines to fail with the infamous Blue Screen of Death.

I recently started a new job and was perhaps a little smug in the fact that in my new job I am no longer responsible for hundreds of endpoints running CrowdStrike.

Karma's a bitch though.

I shut down my home PC Friday night to install a memory upgrade and after powering it back on I was met with the very same Blue Screen of Death.

"A critical process died" it told me, with no information about what said process actually was.

And no log files.

And no dump files.

System Restore failed. sfc /scannow failed. dism /cleanup-image failed. Everything I could find failed. I couldn't even just reinstall Windows over the existing installation because apparently that requires being already booted into the OS that currently isn't running.

The log files from dism led me to believe the problem might be related to registry corruption, but my attempts at replacing system registry files with clean ones from an install wim were not successful.

I was grasping at straws. Starting from scratch with a clean install is daunting and would have set me back weeks. I was contemplating pulling out an old SSD and just running with Linux Mint for a while.

Through desperation, I downloaded Hiren's BootCD PE so I could poke around a little more. None of the tools included there were able to resolve the issue either, but just having access to a standard Explorer shell and a web browser helped.

Finally I came across ShadowCopyView, a program that can explore the System Restore images that Windows (can) take regularly. In one last desperate effort, I moved out all of the system registry files from C:\Windows\System32\config and used ShadowCopyView to replace them with copies from an automatic restore point the previous Monday.

That actually did the trick. I was able to reboot into my primary Windows partition and sign in like normal.

I have no idea what may have been lost in a few days of registry updates, and I have no idea what may have caused the problem to begin with. But I am happy I was able to find something in the end that would get me back into my system without having to reinstall everything from scratch.

... Although maybe I should anyway.

And should anyone encounter something similar in the future, these were the kind of errors I was seeing that a Google search wasn't really coming up with anything useful:

dism.log: failed to open registry root

dism.log: failed to query for path to user profiles directory

dism.log: failed to load the default user profile registry hive

dism.log: failed to load offline store from boot directory

srttrail.txt: pending package install

strtrail.txt: boot manager generic failure

#modern computing #crowdstrike #microsoft #windows #troubleshooting #bsod #blue screen of death

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eagerled · 1 year ago

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An Insight into Flexible LED Module

LED displays are widely used in advertising. To make them more appealing and innovative, a flexible soft LED display module has been created. What makes this module special is its ability to bend and curve. This adds a fresh visual effect to displays and expands their range of uses.

Features of Flexible LED Display Module

FPC: The flexible soft LED display module is different from other LED modules as it's made of a special material called

FPC instead of a rigid PCB board. FPC stands for Flexible Printed Circuit and is made of thin, lightweight materials like polyimide or polyester film. This material allows the LED module to bend and extend, making it easier to install in tricky corners. Plus, bending LED modules can create attractive new visual effects.

Magnetic Pillar Suction: Flexible soft LED display modules are primarily installed using magnetic pillar suction. This installation method is fast, simple, and secure, saving you a significant amount of time during installation.

Ductility: Flexible soft LED display modules are very flexible, which means two things. First, you can shape them however you want. Second, even after shaping, they can still display pictures from all angles at the same time. With high-definition display, they create a stunning visual effect.

Repairing Individual Points: In simple terms, flexible soft LED display modules are top-quality. They're designed to resist oxidation and moisture, which extends their lifespan. Plus, they're easy to maintain with frontal service, allowing for quick point-to-point repairs without needing to dismantle the whole module.

Pros and Cons

Pros of using flexible soft LED screen module-

Looking at the features of the flexible soft LED module, we can easily see its advantages:

Good visual effects

Low installation cost

Low maintenance cost

Easy to Repair

Cons of using flexible soft LED screen module-

Is using a flexible soft LED display module always a good idea? Actually, it's not that simple.Lets look over some cons of using flexible LED screen module:

Outdoor Limited

A bit expensive

Whether you're a designer, architect, event planner, or a tech enthusiast, flexible LED modules offer endless possibilities to push the boundaries of lighting and design. EagerLED is one of the top most service providers of LEDs and modules. You can contact here to get best services at very competitive prices.

#Flexible LED module #LED Display Module #LED Screen Module #SMD LED Display Module #Outdoor Front Service LED Display #Outdoor LED Module Price #VDWALL LVP615S

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eagerledscreen · 1 year ago

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Outdoor Events and Front Service LED Screens: A Perfect Match for Engaging Audiences

Imagine a fun festival where there's music, yummy smells from food stalls, and a lively crowd. Now, think about a huge screen showing beautiful nature scenes and exciting concert moments. That's how outdoor events, with the help of front service LED screens, make the experience super exciting and memorable for everyone.

Reasons Why Are Front Service LED Screens the Perfect Match for Outdoor Events

Unbeatable Brightness: Don't worry about hard-to-see screens in bright sunlight. Front service LED screens are super bright, so they look awesome even in daylight. There's no need to narrow your eyes.

All-Weather Warriors: These screens are resistant to rain or sun. They provide continuous entertainment no matter what happens as they are made to bear even the worst weather.

Instant Captivation: Front service LED screens give you big, exciting experiences. Whether it's live streams, fun animations, or games you can play, they catch your eye, make you curious, and keep you really interested.

Easy Maintenance, Maximum Uptime: You don't have to climb dangerous scaffolding or interrupt the event. Front serviceLED screens let you easily reach them from the front, making things fast and convenient. This way, the show can keep going without any problems.

Versatility Unbound: These screens work for any event. Whether it's a music festival, a new product launch, or a sports game, they can be set up in different ways and show content that suits the occasion.

SignificantWays To Help Your Outdoor Event Fully Utilize Front Service LED Screens:

Live Social Media Feeds: By displaying user-generated content on the screen, you may promote audience involvement and establish a feeling of enthusiasm and community.

Interactive Games and Polls: Engage the audience with entertaining challenges, polls, and quizzes that are shown on the screen. Laughter and interaction are certain!

Behind-the-Scenes Glimpses: Make the audience feel like VIPs by providing unique behind-the-scenes actions at the event, performer interviews, or live camera feeds from various locations.

When you aregetting ready for an outdoor event, aim for something extraordinary. Use front service LED screens, and sees how your event becomes a super exciting show of lights, sounds, and people having a great time. You can buy these screens from EagerLED, one of the best service providers. With some creative thinking and the help of the right tech team, you can make an event that people won't forget.

#Front Service LED Screen #LED Display Panel #LED Screen Module #Commercial LED Screen #Transparent LED Screen #LED Display Supplier #LED Screen Manufacturer

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momojedi · 2 months ago

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Across the Stars the inquisitor | pt. 4 an ocxoc fanfic - star wars/clone wars/bad batch universe

A/N: finally introducing the antagonist of the story (˵ •̀��•́˵)و I'm a bit rusty with the lore of the Inquisitorius so bare with me. (I'm basing a lot of my knowledge on tales of the empire because I haven't seen Rebels in a while nor have I read any SW books/comics in a while) Yes, I know about Trilla - just keep reading, everything will fit together by the end of the fanfic (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵) Crosshair will get some more screen time next time, this is mainly focused on the Second Brother and a special clone wars guest.

Summary: An Inquisitor is on the hunt for a Jedi, accompanied by an elite squad led by a strange clone commander.

CW: mention of the jedi purge, implied (child) death

WC: 3,1k

spotify playlist | masterpost

The rhythmic thud of heavy boots echoed ominously through the sterile corridors of the Star Destroyer, dangerous and threatening as they got closer to their destination. But it wasn’t the sound that made the air feel heavier - instead, it was the presence of the one who walked them.

The Second Brother was neither towering nor particularly imposing in build. At a glance, he could have been mistaken for just another new elite soldier in the Empire’s ranks, all masked and clad in black armour. Yet, appearances were deceptive. The simple weight of the ring-shaped hilt at his hip was more than enough of a warning. Those who recognised it knew better than to stand in his way.

He moved with the steady confidence of a predator, his pace unhurried yet deliberate. Fear had a way of preceding him, lingering in the air like the distant hum of the ship’s engines. There was no need for him to announce his presence - his reputation did that for him.

The door at the end of the corridor hissed open, parting smoothly to grant him access to the Star Destroyer’s bridge. Inside, the low murmur of voices melted together with the steady beeping of control panels. Navy officers and soldiers of various ranks moved about, each engrossed in their duties, careful not to draw attention to themselves.

The Second Brother stepped inside, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. It took only a moment to find what he was looking for.

Two men stood near the central command console, deep in conversation. The left one the Second Brother recognised as the ruthless Admiral Tarkin while the younger official on the right remained unfamiliar. His crisp uniform and insignia marked him as high-ranking - vice admirals at the very least. Both of their expressions were tense, their discussion hushed, but whatever they were speaking of came to an abrupt halt the moment they noticed him. "Ah, Inquisitor. We were expecting you," Admiral Tarkin greeted him calmly while the other one remained somewhat uneasy at the sight of the operative. The Second Brother smirked beneath his helmet. Fear, even when masked behind stiff postures and forced composure, was always easy to recognise.

"I'd like to introduce you to Vice Admiral Edmon Rampart," Tarkin said, gesturing with a measured hand toward the sharply-dressed officer beside him. His tone was clipped, formal, his eyes flicking to Rampart only briefly before returning to the Inquisitor. "You’ll be working with him."

"I don’t work with anyone," the Second Brother replied, his voice disdainful beneath the low, modulated rasp of his helmet. Tarkin remained unfazed. "That’s not your decision to make," he said calmly, folding his hands behind his back. "The directive comes from Lord Vader himself."

At the mention of Vader, the Inquisitor’s posture stiffened - subtle, but unmistakable. The name alone carried enough weight to silence most defiance.

Rampart, silent until now, arched a brow in quiet amusement. "Well," he said smoothly, "then I suppose we’ll be getting very familiar." The Second Brother turned his head slowly toward him, the tension still lingering in the air like a coiled wire. "Don’t test my patience, Admiral." Rampart merely smiled. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Before any conflict could be provoked any further, Tarkin stepped in with a holodisc in hand, getting to business. "A Jedi has been reported in the Bright Jewel Sector," he said, his voice crisp and measured as his eyes followed the flickering details of the holomap before him. The pale blue projection cast sharp lines across his face, accentuating the tense facial features.

"We have reason to believe this particular Jedi was once a member of the Jedi Council," he continued, his tone tightening with significance. "That makes them exceptionally dangerous."

He turned slightly, addressing the Rampart and the Second Brother directly. "They must be eliminated without delay. The task falls to you."

The elite soldiers stood like statues, their expressions carved from stone - cold, focused, and unyielding. Eyes locked straight ahead, they didn’t waver, their gazes sharp enough to cut through durasteel, as if daring the very air to challenge them. The Inquisitor was almost impressed.

"Commander CT-9904 and his squad will be accompanying you to the Bright Jewel Sector," Rampart had stated right before rtheir departure half an hour ago. "I’ll remain here to oversee operations and maintain contact. Any developments - report to me directly."

Though a clone, the commander stood out immediately; taller than most of his brothers, with a lean, muscular build that moved with precision. He hadn’t spoken a word since their deployment, issuing commands solely through sharp, deliberate hand signals. And even through the visor of his helmet, there was a weight to his stare - a cold, silent intensity that felt like it could cut straight through to your core.

The Inquisitor could feel the weight of the clone commander’s gaze, even through the helmet, like a scalpel pressed to the back of his skull. He didn't move, didn't let it get to him, but the feeling remained as present as ever, forcing him to subconsciously crack his neck and roll his shoulders in order to shake it off.

The shuttle they were being transported in was cramped, the tight space forcing the squad to stand shoulder to shoulder, armour brushing against armour with every slight movement. The air was thick with tension and anticipation, the hum of the engines a low, constant growl beneath their boots. With a swift and direct descent, the shuttle cut through the atmosphere of Ord Mantell like a blade. The coordinates for the Jedi’s last known location had been locked in, set closely to the planet's homonymous capital city.

Whilst the troopers around him prepared for landing, shuffling with their blasters and helmets, the Inquisitor closed his eyes beneath the mask, shutting out the cramped shuttle and the subtle clink of armour around him. His brows furrowed in concentration as he drew inward, forcing his breath to slow, the noise to fade.

He reached for the Force - not with serenity, but with control, with precision. Every flicker of presence, every tremor in the current, he sought it. Hunting for a shadow. A signature. A Jedi. A flicker of golden light sparked in the void, distant, yet unmistakably alive. It pulsed with defiance, struggling to burn against the cold weight pressing in around it. The Inquisitor felt it immediately. He didn’t hesitate.

Like a predator striking from the shadows, he reached out through the Force and seized it. The light fought back bravely but it was no match for the suffocating darkness that closed around it. And then, with a final, silent gasp, the light vanished.

The Inquisitor opened his eyes. He had found his Jedi.

Ord Mantell was a bizarre city, to put it lightly. Swarmed by people from every corner of the galaxy, its streets pulsed with noise and movement; traders shouting over each other, speeders zipping through narrow alleys, and the ever-present buzz of conversation in a dozen different languages.

The architecture was a chaotic blend of rusting durasteel and crumbling stone, patched together after its destruction during the war with whatever materials had been available at the time, especially with the little resources they were granted. It smelled of oil, spice, and the kind of desperation that clung to worlds forgotten by the core. To a stranger, it was overwhelming. To someone with a mission, it was a maze, perfect for hiding… or for hunting. To someone like the Inquisitor, it was the perfect opportunity.

"The handler said to check the local spaceport, sir," CT-9904 reported as he stepped up beside the Second Brother, his tone flat, composed. Behind him, the Pantoran vendor scurried back to her stand, shaken but unharmed after the brief interrogation. "There have been rumors of a Force-sensitive lurking in the area," the clone continued, "Witnesses mentioned flashes of something that looked like a lightsaber."

The Inquisitor's head turned slightly, the red-tinted lenses of his helmet reflecting the dull glow of the city’s cheap neon lights. "Then we’re closer than I thought," he said, modulated voice low and certain. "That must be the one we’re searching for." His hand hovered over the curved hilt at his side. "Send the squad to surround the perimeter," he ordered without looking at the commander. "I want this rat cornered before they realise they’re being hunted."

With a sharp 'yes, sir,' CT-9904 snapped to attention, his voice cutting through the static-laced air. He turned on his heel and signaled his troopers, who moved quickly and without hesitation.

The Second Brother lingered a moment longer, his visor fixed on the jagged skyline of the unflattering city, neon signs flickering like dying stars. Then, with a flick of his cape, he moved. His boots thudded against the duracrete as he strode through the crowded streets, pushing past civilians without a word. People stumbled out of his path, some cursing in unfamiliar tongues under their breath, others daring to shoot him offended glances. One Twi’lek man muttered something particularly colorful. That was until he caught a glimpse of the lightsaber hilt swinging from the Inquisitor’s belt.

The crowd parted uneasily as the Second Brother approached the port. Something was close judging by how the Force stirred around him like smoke before a fire. The spaceport was small and worn down, nestled between the skeletal remains of old warehouses and rusting supply crates. The owner, a stocky, scowling Sullustan, met them with immediate hostility, arms crossed and black dotted eyes narrowed as they stepped through the gate.

“What do ya want?” he barked, voice gravelly with irritation. “Don’t you Imperial freaks think I already got enough trouble around here?”

The Inquisitor didn’t answer at first. He took in the surroundings with a slow, methodical sweep of his gaze. The place was barely holding together, panels falling from the walls, cables dangling in disarray, ships in varying stages of disrepair. But what caught his attention wasn’t the state of the port, no, it was the workers instead.

A Rodian girl hauled heavy equipment twice her size. Nearby, two young Twi’lek boys wiped sweat from their foreheads, grease smeared across their skin. A Zabrak girl knelt beside a repulsorlift, her face set in quiet focus as she repaired a panel. None of them looked older than sixteen. Slaves. Or something close enough.

The Inquisitor’s expression remained unreadable beneath his helmet, but something simmered beneath the surface. Not sympathy - never that - but awareness. People like this didn’t ask questions, they didn’t tell stories. But they did hear them.

"We’ve received reports of a Jedi in the area," the Second Brother said, the mechanical edge of the vocoder giving it a hollow, menacing tone. "Have you seen anything… unusual?" The Sullustan scoffed, clearly unimpressed. With a flick of his thumb, he lit a death stick, the end glowing an angry orange before he stuck it between his cracked lips. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke slither from his nostrils as if it were a form of defiance. "Maybe I have," he hummed lowly, his voice gravelly. "Maybe I haven’t. Who’s to say what counts as unusual these days?"

The smoke curled in the air, creeping toward the Inquisitor like a noose drawn tight around his neck. The scent was sharp, acrid. Still, he didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He merely stared the man down through the mirrored visor, unmoving.

“You’d be wise to reconsider,” the Second Brother murmured. But before the port owner could respond, a sharp cry rang out from beyond the docking bay, slicing through the tension like a shot fired. The Inquisitor’s head snapped toward the sound, his posture stiffening. CT-9904 was already in motion, blaster halfway drawn as he turned to investigate, but the Second Brother raised a gloved hand, halting him without so much as a word of explanation. "You," he ordered coolly, "keep an eye on him." Then, without waiting for a response, the Inquisitor turned, cloak flaring at his heels, and strode toward the disturbance. The clamour had come from deeper in the port, near a rusty shuttle that looked like it hadn’t seen a proper flight path in years. The Second Brother approached with cautious precision when he suddenly felt the tip of his boots hit metal. He glanced down and spotted a toolbox overturned on the ground, its contents strewn across the sandy floor in disarray.

"I'm sorry!" a soft, flustered voice cried out. "I didn't see the crates; I tripped, and - and I dropped everything." The Inquisitor’s gaze shifted, narrowing slightly. It was the Rodian girl he'd noticed earlier among the port workers. She looked even smaller up close, barely more than a child, with thin limbs, olive-green skin, and wide, starlit eyes filled with panic. The spines atop her head stuck out in all directions, mussed from the fall, and she scrambled upright, trying to brush the grime from her jumpsuit with trembling hands. She looked fragile, worn down. Exhausted.

The Second Brother crouched without a word. "Here, let me," he said, his voice cold and detached, yet his hands moved with a sense of tenderness as he reached for the scattered tools.

"N-no, it’s fine! Really, don’t-" the Rodian girl stammered, reaching out too late. His hand paused mid-motion, eyes fixed on something glinting beneath a wrench. Slowly, almost reverently, he pushed the tool aside.

Polished silver. Compact, elegant. Undeniably a lightsaber hilt.

The silence hit like a blaster bolt. The Rodian froze, lips parted, eyes locked on the object now resting in his gloved palm. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. The weight of the hilt was all the confirmation he required. He stood, towering over her now, the saber still cradled in his hand. "Well," he said softly, menace curling beneath his calm tone, "what do we have here?"

The Rodian girl didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her breath hitched audibly, shoulders drawn tight as if bracing for the inevitable. The fear in her eyes said it all. The Second Brother turned the hilt slowly in his hand, as if inspecting a nowadays rare artifact. "This is well put together," he mused, voice almost conversational. "Balanced… precise." He finally lifted his head, helmet angling down toward her like a predator regarding cornered prey. "Not the sort of thing you find lying around in a place like this."

She swallowed hard, visibly trembling now. "I-I found it," she lied, too quickly. "In the scrapyard. It’s broken. I didn’t know what it was." He stepped closer. One step. Two. She backed away instinctively, heel hitting the corner of a crate behind her. No room to run.

"If you didn’t know what it was," he said, tone sharpening, "why try to stop me from picking it up?" She opened her mouth to respond - but no sound came. The Inquisitor narrowed his eyes beneath the mask. "You're no ordinary worker, little one." From the corner of his eye, movement. CT-9904 and his squad were already closing in, blasters raised but not yet drawn. The clone commander gave him a curt nod, waiting for a signal.

The Rodian girl seemed to realise it too. Her breath came faster now, hands clenched at her sides. "Please," she whispered. "I’m not… I’m not a Jedi. I’m not."

The crimson blade ignited with a harsh hiss, bathing the cluttered hangar in red light. The glow reflected in the Rodian’s wide, tear-rimmed eyes as she froze, her breathing ragged. Her fragile frame trembled.

Abruptly, she reached out with an outstretched hand, sending the hilt flying out of his grasp and into her own grip. Then she turned and ran.

The Second Brother moved without hesitation, though something tightened in his chest. He shoved the sensation aside. "She’s running!" barked one of the troopers. "Do not fire," he ordered, his voice sharp, mechanical, more to himself than anyone else. "She’s mine."

She darted through the shadows of the hangar, weaving between rusted containers and half-stripped engines. Small and nimble, she slipped past the soldiers as if the very Force was guiding her. His grip on his saber tightened. He could feel her presence - shining like a golden flame, flickering, frightened, but still burning. It pulled at something deep in him. He gritted his teeth behind the vocoder.

A stack of crates exploded in a spray of sparks as he sent her flying with a shove of the Force. She landed hard, crying out as she rolled across the floor, limbs flailing. She lay still for a moment, coughing, but then tried to scramble up again, clutching at the ground for purchase. "Why do you run?" the Inquisitor snarled, striding toward her. "You know what you are."

The Rodian whimpered, forcing herself upright. Her hand slipped into her jumpsuit, and he saw it again. The glint. That hilt. The one he’d seen among the tools, and the one she'd taken from him before fleeing. She activated it.

A green blade hissed to life in her shaking hands. It wavered like a candle in a storm. The weapon was too insecure in her grip, the style clumsy - unfinished. But still, she stood her ground.

"I don’t want to fight you," she said, voice cracking. "You already are," he growled, raising his saber again.

They clashed once, brief, chaotic, sparks hissing as the blades collided. She moved instinctively, raw but not untrained. For a second, her blade nearly slipped past his guard, and something cold seized his spine. He parried hard, sending her spinning.

She collapsed near the wall, her lightsaber clattering from her hands, too far from her reach. The Second Brother loomed over her, the tip of his crimson blade now inches from her chest. She looked up at him, her expression broken and afraid.

His fingers twitched. He could end it. He should end it. But something made him pause.

She was just a child. Even younger than he had been. His mind rebelled against the memory, but it surfaced anyway. He snarled beneath the helmet and pressed the blade closer, driving the thoughts back into the dark. She flinched, eyes shut tight as tears slid down her cheeks. The red light trembled at her chest.

And the Second Brother stood still, gripped by a silence that screamed louder than any voice. “What’s your name, Jedi?” he asked, voice quiet beneath the hum of his saber. The Rodian girl met his gaze, her voice barely a whisper. “Ganodi.”

He hesitated. Just for a second. “I’m sorry, Ganodi.”

And with that, the blade buzzed - piercing through her. And though he'd never admit it, beneath the safety his helmet, his gaze faltered.

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