#Real World Imaging Data

[segmed]

Bytes of Innovation: AI in Healthcare with Kristin Yakimow​

Tune into Episode 22 of Segmed's Bytes of Innovation to hear Kristin Yakimow's insights on AI integration in healthcare. Explore strategies for effective AI adoption, overcoming implementation challenges, and fostering innovation to improve patient outcomes.

[sheliesshattered]

pausing the niche-interest podcast-style interview to process the bizarre connection my brain had just made was not enough

going back and re-listening to the section that had made my brain go "oh? oh." was not enough

the flurry of google and wikipedia and reddit searches to track down bits of corroborating evidence about that one innocuous background-information section of the interview was not enough

pacing around my house while I tried to grapple with this strange, possibly true, frightening-if-true bit of information was not enough

no, I needed a solid 30 minutes of mindlessly scrolling my Tumblr dash to just let that information sit, and now I might, maybe be ready to listen to the rest of the interview

[pukefactory]

Dream BBQ ENA X a reader who is really trying to keep that they're crushing on her HARD under wraps because this isn't their world and ENA's a polygon. ENA catches on IMMEDIATELY and does everything she can to make it so the reader falls even harder

•☽────✧˖°˖ BATTLE AGAINST A WEIRD OPPONENT ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson Ena Trying To Make You Fall Head Over Heels For Her

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (Ena: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You were doing so well. Keeping your head down, avoiding eye contact, not reacting to her dual-voice tangents. And then she asked, “Do you dream in polygons now?” You choked on your own breath. Ena stared, curious. “Oh dear,” she said sweetly. “Did I corrupt your sleep schedule already?”

☆ Your resolve: ironclad. Your poker face: flawless. Your downfall: Ena leaning too close and whispering, “You’re looking at me like I’m a business deal you’re scared to make.” You dropped the clipboard. She caught it effortlessly. “That was romantic, wasn’t it?” she asked, pleased with herself. “Let me try again later.”

☆ She notices you flinch every time she switches tones, so she starts doing it more. Salesperson voice: “You’re glowing, like someone about to make an investment in destiny.” Meanie voice: “Gross. Get your feelings off the floor before someone slips.” You develop an entirely new kind of anxiety.

☆ You tried to pull away when she touched your hand. “Oh, my apologies,” she said. “Do humans have protocols for heart palpitations caused by interdimensional coworkers?” You sputtered. She took it as a yes and continued holding your hand anyway. “Good. I am now your official stress test.”

☆ She starts narrating your reactions in real time. “Subject’s cheeks are red. Pulse elevated. Avoiding eye contact. Diagnosis: terminal crush,” she says. Then pauses. “How delightful.” You flee the room. She follows. “Is this a chase scene? Should I tackle you with affection?”

☆ You confessed to Froggy in a whisper that you might maybe have a tiny thing for Ena. The she popped out from behind a pillar. “Hello,” she said. “I have overheard and over-processed everything. Let’s start your treatment plan.” It involved exactly zero distance and too much eye contact.

☆ She starts collecting phrases that make you freeze. “Sweetheart.” “Colleague of my soul.” “Irregular heart rhythm.” Each one is weaponized. “Today’s word is… darling,” she hums, and then watches you combust like a cheap firework. “Excellent. I love data.”

☆ You once said “I don’t have feelings for you” and she replied, flatly, “That’s infaccurate.” No elaboration. Just a long, knowing stare and the sound of your denial unraveling like yarn from a cat’s claws. Later, she handed you a sticky note that said “Try again. I’ll wait.”

☆ You can’t even escape her in your dreams. One night, she showed up floating above a candy-colored skyline and whispered, “You can’t hide from the inevitable.” You woke up screaming. She was waiting by your bed with tea. “I monitor the sleep cycle of all my favorites.”

☆ Eventually, you break. You shout at her, spilling out your true feelings. Ena blinks. Then smiles. “Wonderful,” she says, taking your face in her hands. “I like you too. Your agony was delightful. Now we can move into the next phase of emotional entanglement.” You whimper. She beams. “Progress.”

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 29: August 2024

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The room was dim and quiet, the hum of the ultrasound machine filling the space like background music to something sacred. The lights were low, the monitor flickering in cool blue and white. Belle laid back on the padded exam table, her hand already clasped tightly in Max’s, their fingers woven together like they had been every step of the way.

It wasn’t their first scan, but something about this one felt different. More real. More final.

 Because this one held a question neither of them had spoken aloud in the car ride over — not out of fear, but reverence.

“Alright,” the doctor said with a warm smile, moving the probe gently across the slight swell of Belle’s stomach. “Baby’s looking strong. Great heartbeat. Plenty of movement.”

Belle exhaled slowly. Max hadn’t stopped watching the screen since it turned on, his eyes wide and unblinking. She knew that look — the same one he wore when studying telemetry before a race. But this wasn’t data. This was theirs.

“Would you like to know the gender?” the doctor asked, her tone gentle. “It’s very clear now, if you’re ready.”

Belle glanced sideways. Max was already looking at her.

“You decide,” he said softly. “I’m good either way.”

Belle hesitated — but only for a heartbeat.

“Yes,” she whispered. “We want to know.”

The doctor smiled, angled the wand slightly, and froze the image.

“Well,” she said, “looks like your little one isn’t shy.”

Belle held her breath.

“It’s a boy.”

The words didn’t quite register at first.

But then Belle felt it — like a small bloom of warmth behind her ribs, like laughter waiting to escape. Her free hand flew to her mouth as her eyes flooded without warning.

A boy.

She turned her head, eyes meeting Max’s — and he looked absolutely stunned.

Not shocked. Just wrecked in the softest, most beautiful way.

“A boy?” Max whispered, like if he said it too loud it might disappear.

Belle nodded, tears slipping freely now, her chest tight with wonder. “A boy.”

Max leaned down, pressed his forehead against hers, his voice unsteady with emotion. “We’re having a son.”

And then he laughed — just a little, just enough — before kissing her tear-streaked cheek and murmuring, “He’s going to look just like you, you know.”

Belle let out a watery laugh. “God help him.”

Max shook his head, his thumb brushing her temple. “He’s going to be loved like crazy. That’s what matters.”

She reached up, cupped his cheek with a hand that still trembled, and whispered, “He already is.”

Max didn’t let go of Belle’s hand. He didn’t stop staring at the screen where their son’s tiny silhouette still floated in grayscale. He looked like he was trying to memorize every pixel, like this was the most important moment of his life.

And maybe it was.

Belle turned toward the screen too, her other hand resting protectively over her belly. It was still surreal. Still breathtaking.

Their son. Not just the baby. A boy. A future. A beginning.

She pressed her forehead to Max’s again, her voice quiet but sure.

“I can’t wait to meet him.”

Max’s reply was a whisper in return, fierce and full of love.

“Me either, schatje.”

***

The house was quiet that night.

Max sat on the edge of their bed, one hand in his hair, the other resting absently on his thigh. His shirt was rumpled — he’d changed hours ago, but hadn’t moved much since. The only light came from Belle’s bedside lamp, casting everything in gold.

She was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. Humming softly. Completely unaware of the way his chest felt like it was caving in.

They were having a boy.

A son.

Max Verstappen was going to be father to a boy.

And that should’ve made him feel ten feet tall.

Instead, it made him feel cracked down the middle.

Belle came out of the bathroom with her hair pulled back and her nightshirt slipping off one shoulder — one of his old Red Bull shirts, worn soft from years of washes. She looked at him once, and stilled.

He hadn’t said much since they got home.

She crossed the room quietly and slipped onto the bed beside him, her hand finding his thigh.

“Talk to me,” she said gently.

Max didn’t look at her.  “I don’t know how to do this,” he said, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Belle sat up a little, not pulling away, just making it easier to see him. “Do what?”

He looked down at his hands. They’d always felt steady in a car. On a wheel. In the cockpit.

They didn’t feel steady now.

“Be a father,” he said. “A good one.”

Belle’s face softened. “Max…”

“I don’t mean I won’t love him,” he rushed to say. “God, I already love him. I feel like I’ve loved him forever. I just—” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

Belle’s hand found his, warm and grounding. “Why would you?”

Max blinked down at their hands. “Because I only know one version of it,” he said, voice roughening. “Because when I think of being a dad, the first image that comes to mind is someone yelling. Demanding. Pushing me until I broke, then pushing more.”

He paused. “And I love him. I do. I love Jos. I know he thought he was doing the right thing. But Belle… he was hard. He was relentless. He wanted me to be great. And I was. But not because I was happy.”

Belle didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

Max’s voice was rough now. “I remember waking up some mornings and feeling sick because I knew he was going to be disappointed in me by nightfall. I remember the weight of that. I remember trying so hard not to feel anything because it just made everything worse.”

Belle shifted closer, her hand covering his. “You’re not him, Max.”

“But what if I become him?”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.I don’t want our son to be afraid of me,” he choked out. 

Belle’s thumb brushed over his knuckles. “He won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you,” she said. “I know how you talk to Jimmy like he’s fluent in Dutch and sarcasm. I know how you carry Luka on your shoulders until your back hurts and you never complain. I know how you hold me when you think I’m too quiet for too long. I know how you put your hand on my stomach every night now, even when you’re half-asleep.”

Max blinked hard. Once. Twice.

“You are not your father,” Belle said gently. “You are not the echo of his worst days. You are better. Kinder. Softer. Still learning, maybe, but willing. And that makes you more than enough.”

Max exhaled, slow and shaking.

“I just…” He looked at her, his voice breaking a little. “I want him to feel safe. Always. I want him to look at me and know he’s loved, not just when he wins. Not just when he’s perfect.”

“He will,” Belle whispered, leaning in to press her forehead to his. “Because you’ll show him. Every single day.”

Max closed his eyes, her words sinking in slowly, steadying him.

“I don’t care if he never drives a kart,” he said quietly. “I don’t care if he hates racing, if he wants to be a violinist or a vet or a mechanic or—hell, a cat therapist. I just want him to be happy. To know he matters because he exists. Not because he proves it.”

Belle smiled against his skin. “Then you’re already doing better than you think.”

They sat like that for a while — forehead to forehead, hearts pressed together, building something soft between the cracks of what they’d both survived.

Eventually, Belle murmured, “Do you want to say goodnight to him?”

Max let out a breath that felt more like a prayer.

He rested his cheek against the gentle swell of her belly, his hand smoothing over it like a vow.

“Weltrusten, kleine man,” he whispered. Goodnight, little man.  “Papa loves you. Always.”

Max looked down at her belly again.

A boy.

His son.

And tomorrow, he’d tell his son — just loud enough that the bump might hear it — that love was never something he had to earn.

Not in this house.

Not ever.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: We had the scan this morning.

GP: Everything good?

Max: Yeah. He’s healthy. Strong. Kicked Belle hard enough the tech laughed. It’s a boy.

GP: A boy. Little Verstappen 2.0. God help us all.

Max: He’ll be calmer. Belle’s influence.

GP: I doubt that. Let me guess—he tried to overtake the probe mid-scan?

Max: More or less. Got his foot in position like he was practicing pit stop timing.

GP: Knew it. When’s his debut?

Max: December. Right before the holidays.

GP: So I should start working on a telemetry-themed baby gift?

Max: If it doesn’t come with data sheets, is it even from you?

GP: Fair point. Congrats, Max. Really. You’re going to be a great dad.

Max:Thank you. I’m trying to be the kind of dad he won’t have to recover from.

GP: You already are.

***

Belle had been up early — not from nerves, just from the kind of contented restlessness that came with good news too big to keep inside her chest. 

The sun poured in through the windows, casting golden rectangles across the floor as she moved barefoot between the counter and the stove. The kettle was steaming. The pancakes were stacked. And sitting on a little porcelain dish beside the fruit bowl was one perfect cupcake, its frosting an unmistakable shade of blue.

The front door opened with a familiar knock-knock-push, and Emilie’s voice rang through the quiet.

“Please tell me you made the good tea. I will cry. I will cry right here.”

“In the pot,” Belle called.

Emilie padded into the kitchen, wearing sunglasses, a loose sundress, and an expression of dramatic exhaustion. “I walked behind a tourist group for three whole blocks and I think I now have an intimate understanding of someone named Karen’s divorce settlement.”

Belle grinned and handed her a mug. “To emotional trauma and herbal tea.”

They moved into the dining nook — Belle sliding into her usual seat, Emilie curling up cross-legged on the built-in bench like she lived there. A few cats padded in and out, indifferent to the emotional weight in the air.

“So,” Emilie said, biting into a slice of peach. “You said you had something to tell me that wasn’t about paint samples or prenatal vitamins. Which is suspicious. Spill.”

Belle didn’t answer immediately. She reached across the table, pulled the little plate with the cupcake closer, and placed it gently in front of Emilie.

Emilie blinked. “Is that for me?”

Belle smiled, soft and bright. “Just look at the frosting.”

It took two seconds.

Emilie froze. Looked at the swirl of blue buttercream. Then looked at Belle. Then back at the cupcake.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “No.”

Belle nodded.

“NO.”

Belle laughed, eyes already misting. “Yes.”

Emilie let out an unhinged squeal that made one of the cats bolt from the room. “It’s a boy?! You’re having a little Max!? Like, an actual Verstappen 2.0?!”

Belle was laughing now, wiping at her cheeks. “He kicked during the scan like he was already late for FP1.”

Emilie launched herself around the table and wrapped Belle in a hug that knocked the breath out of her. “Oh my God, Belle. A boy. A baby boy. I’m going to spoil him so much.”

“He’s already dramatic,” Belle whispered. “He deserves an equally dramatic aunt.”

Emilie pulled back just enough to look at her, still holding both her arms. “You’re going to be the most amazing boy mom.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.”

Belle looked down at her bump, then back at her best friend. “I’ve been thinking about names.”

“Please don’t name him after a racetrack,” Emilie said, only half-joking.

Belle grinned. “I’d never. Though Max did pitch Zandvoort as a middle name.”

Emilie made a sound of horror.

They both burst out laughing again.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: We found out yesterday. It’s a boy.

Jos: Congratulations. That’s great news. How’s Belle feeling?

Max: Good. Healthy. He kicked during the scan. Like he already wants to race.

Jos: Runs in the blood.

Max: Maybe. But I’m not pushing him. He gets to choose.

Jos: Understood.

Max: He’ll grow up knowing he’s loved. Win or lose. No stopwatch needed.

Jos:. You’ll be a good father, Max.

***

Group Chat: Leclerc Summer Chaos

Members: Lorenzo, Charles, Arthur, Pascale, Charlotte and Alexandra

Pascale: We need to decide on a destination.

Charles: Beach?

Arthur: Mountains?

Lorenzo: Not that hotel in Antibes again. I still have nightmares about the breakfast buffet.

Charlotte: I’m fine with the beach. But not that beach. The one where you all complained about the sand for three days.

Alexandra: Seconded. And I am not spending a week somewhere with no air-conditioning. That would be medieval.

Pascale: Well someone needs to book something soon.

Arthur: Can we do a road trip?

Charles: No. That’s so much driving. I want to relax.

Lorenzo: You don’t drive. You just sleep in the passenger seat.

Charles: Exactly. That’s relaxing.

Charlotte: You know what’s not relaxing? Planning a vacation with five people who all want completely different things and none of whom will make a decision.

Arthur: We could do Tuscany?

Charles: Too many tourists.

Alexandra: Oh my god.

Lorenzo: Just pick something, Charles. You’re the one with the stupidly specific villa standards.

Charles: SORRY I LIKE FUNCTIONING WIFI.

Pascale: Isabelle always found the best villas. She even had spreadsheets…

Lorenzo: I’m going to pretend I’m busy for the next hour and see if that magically resolves anything.

Alexandra: Lorenzo. We see you typing. Stay here.

Charles: I’ll do the driving if we road trip. I promise. Just no hiking.

Arthur: What do you mean no hiking?? The whole point of the mountains is the hiking.

Charlotte: I hate hiking.

Alexandra: I like hiking if there’s a spa and wine afterward.

Charlotte: Someone pick a destination by tomorrow morning or I swear I will book all of us into a nudist yoga retreat in the Pyrenees.

Arthur: That’s a threat?

Charlotte: It’s a promise.

Lorenzo: You know what? Pyrenees might be peaceful after all.

Charles: Guys. What about Sardinia?

Arthur: Only if I don’t have to share a room with you again.

Charles: YOU SNORED THROUGH A THUNDERSTORM.

Pascale: Isabelle made this look easy.

***

Group Chat: Summer Sanity Squad

Members: Belle, Alexandra and Charlotte 

Charlotte: HOW. THE. HELL. Did you survive this every year.

Alexandra: No seriously. How did you not murder all of us?!

I’m five minutes away from dropkicking Charles into the nearest ocean and letting Poseidon sort it out.

Charlotte: Arthur just suggested a road trip with no itinerary. Like this is a vibe and not a logistical death sentence.

Alexandra: Charles vetoed Greece because “the lighting was bad last time”????

Charlotte: And Pascale just said you used to do spreadsheets.

Girl. GIRL. Why did you not set something on fire.

Belle: I considered it. Then I realized fire wouldn’t fix stupid.

Charlotte: Help us. They are incapable of decision-making.

We are two inches away from a nudist yoga retreat.

Alexandra: We are serious. That was not a bluff.

Belle: Okay. Breathe. Here’s what you do:

Give them exactly three options. No more. Let them vote. Majority wins. End of discussion.

Assign one person to book. If you say “we’ll book it together,” they will vanish like raccoons when the lights turn on.

Do not let them make you the default planner. They will act helpless once, and then forever. Learn from my pain.

Charlotte: This is like talking to a vacation war veteran.

Alexandra: She has seen things.

Belle: I have.

I’ve organized numerous Leclerc holidays, one trip that turned into an accidental mountain survival situation, and a Monaco Christmas where Charles forgot to buy the duck to roast, which was the main dish. 

Charlotte: No wonder you married Max.

Alexandra: Was it the man or the functional holiday planning?

Belle: Both. He books villas in advance and brings snacks.

Charlotte: God-tier husband behavior.

Alexandra: I’m starting a support group for people forced to plan a vacation with Leclerc men.

Belle: You can call it “Itinerary? I hardly know her.”

Charlotte: I hate how good that is.

Belle: You’re welcome. Be ruthless.

***

Belle had never understood what people meant when they said they could feel their shoulders unclench.

Not until now.

The villa was quiet in the soft, golden way of late afternoon. The kind of quiet filled with clinking glasses and distant giggles from the pool, the hum of cicadas, the scent of sunscreen and fresh basil and baked stone. It had taken Belle three days to believe it was real. To believe she didn’t have to earn it. That she was allowed to just be.

She lay stretched on a sun lounger in the shade, a linen cover-up slipping off one shoulder, one hand lazily resting on the curve of her bump. Max sat beside her on the deck, legs stretched out, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair and one hand absently tracing slow circles along her calf.

Lio was giggling somewhere behind them — something about “beach crab dance” and “Uncle Max said no rules today.” Victoria had abandoned her book to go sort it out, muttering something about “chaos on stilts.” 

Luka had declared war on the inflatable swan and was currently trying to stand on its head while Sophie laughed so hard she cried.

It should’ve been overwhelming.

But it wasn’t.

Because nobody expected Belle to fix it. Nobody was asking her to hold the day together. Nobody was waiting for her to smooth things over or play mediator or pretend she wasn’t tired when she was.

The villa was perfect. Secluded. Gated. Peaceful. The air smelled like sunscreen and rosemary, and the only sounds were water, laughter, and the faint hum of a playlist Max had made the night before — a mix of Dutch indie, lazy French jazz, and Belle’s favorite soft piano tracks.

They took turns prepping meals and doing dishes. Nobody raised their voice unless it was because Luka cannonballed too close to the cheese board. 

She belonged here.

Not because she was useful.

Not because she planned everything.

Just because she was.

She could just… exist.

“Baby’s kicking again,” she murmured, watching Max’s hand shift instinctively to rest over her stomach.

He didn’t say anything — just grinned, wide and boyish, and leaned forward like he could hear through skin and sun and breath. Belle reached out, tucked a hand into his hair, thumb brushing gently over his temple.

“I think he likes the sound of your voice,” she said softly.

“He’s got good taste.”

She smiled. “He also tried to kick the sunscreen bottle off my belly this morning, so.”

Max shrugged. “Already has priorities.”

The sun filtered through the trees in hazy gold stripes. Belle tilted her head back and let it warm her face.

Victoria padded over a moment later with a bowl of watermelon and a “did someone say hydration,” plopped it between them and flopped into the lounger beside Belle with a sigh.

“Tom says we’re doing a family dinner tonight,” she said. “Outside. Grilled everything.”

“I’ll help,” Belle said instinctively, sitting up.

“Nope,” Victoria said immediately. “You’re pregnant. Your job is to float in the pool and let everyone bring you things.”

Belle hesitated.

Victoria narrowed her eyes. “Do I need to call Mom? Because she’ll bring out the mom voice and you will be told to sit down.”

Belle held up her hands. “Okay, okay. I surrender.”

Max smirked. “That’s a first.”

Belle kicked him lightly in the ankle. “Don’t make me weaponize the baby.”

Victoria cackled. “Show him, Belle.”

***

The afternoon sun had started to dip, casting everything in that rich, golden glow that made even the garden hose look romantic. The cicadas were loud, the air was soft, and Belle had escaped the chaos of the pool by claiming a lounger on the far end of the terrace with a bowl of grapes and a sunhat that was slightly too large for her head.

She didn’t even flinch when someone dropped onto the lounger beside her.

“I come bearing sunscreen and gossip,” Victoria said, holding up the bottle like a peace offering. “Mostly because Luka told Lio that the baby is probably going to come out wearing a racing suit and now Max is pacing around the kitchen saying, ‘He’s not wrong.’”

Belle laughed, soft and low. “He’s not wrong.”

Victoria began reapplying sunscreen to her shoulders with one hand, the other holding her phone to send somebody yet another photo of her sons face-planting into a bucket of sand.

“You’re glowing,” Victoria said after a moment, without teasing. “Like actually. It’s disgusting.”

“It’s the watermelon,” Belle said, tilting her head. “And the fact that no one here expects me to plan their travel logistics or moderate an argument about hiking versus beach chairs.”

Victoria chuckled. “Ah, yes. A vacation where you’re not everyone’s emotional support sibling. Revolutionary.”

Belle paused. Looked down at her bump.

Then: “It’s a boy.”

The words came out softer than she expected. Not secretive, just sacred.

Victoria’s head whipped toward her. “What?”

Belle smiled. “We found out before we came. He was being very cooperative on the ultrasound. Max almost cried.”

“Almost?” Victoria said, scandalized.

Belle grinned. “His eyes were suspiciously red when we left.”

Victoria blinked hard, then reached out — no hesitation, just instinct — and rested a hand over Belle’s bump.

“A boy,” she whispered. “Oh, Belle.”

Belle’s throat tightened. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.

Victoria looked at her then, full of emotion, her voice warm and unwavering. “He is going to be so loved. He has the best parents. And I’m already preparing a list of ridiculous Dutch baby nicknames.”

Belle’s eyes welled up before she could stop them. “I think I was scared to say it out loud. Like it would make it too real. Too fragile.”

Victoria squeezed her hand. “It’s not fragile. It’s yours. That makes it strong.”

Belle wiped under her eyes and laughed. “Hormones. Don’t mind me.”

“I’m crying too, so you’re not special,” Victoria said, dabbing at her own cheek. “I just can’t believe… my brother. A dad. And you—you’re going to be someone’s mom.”

Belle looked out toward the pool, where Max was now being used as a human surfboard by both Luka and Lio. “I know,” she whispered. “It feels like the start of something good.”

Victoria smiled. “It is good.”

She pulled Belle into a side hug, sunhat and all.

“A little Verstappen boy,” Victoria said. “We’re going to spoil him so much.”

Belle laughed into her shoulder. “I’m counting on it.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridsightings: OKAY I WASN’T GOING TO POST THIS

but I just saw Max Verstappen and Belle Leclerc—I mean Belle Verstappen (still not over that) at a baby boutique in the South of France and I’m actually not okay???

A THREAD 🧵

@/gridsightings:  So I’m in this tiny boutique near the coast — like, one of those aesthetic French shops with linen everything and hand-stitched baby blankets.  — and I’m flipping through said baby blankets because my cousin just had a kid, right?

@/gridsightings: AND THEN I HEAR THE VOICE.

Like that voice.

The grumpy Dutch one from the paddock radios.

I look up and Max Verstappen is just… standing there. In a linen shirt. Holding a swaddle.

@/gridsightings: Belle was glowing. Like, not influencer-glowing. Real glowing. Hair braided, long dress, bump visible.

She laughed when Max tried to fold a swaddle and failed spectacularly.

He said, “It’s like tire warmers but worse.”

I almost blacked out.

@/gridsightings: At one point Max is carrying four things at once because “you liked them all, Belle, we’re getting them all.”

And she just laughs like this is normal behavior.

@/gridsightings:  Max just… rested his hand on her belly and went completely still.

Didn’t say anything. Just stood there.

Then Belle kissed his cheek and whispered something I couldn’t hear but he smiled so big my heart grew three sizes.

@/gridsightings: They were talking about colors for the nursery.

Max: “We can do navy and white.”

Belle: “Because you’re emotionally bonded to the Red Bull color palette?”

Max: “No, because you look really pretty in navy.”

ME. ON. THE. FLOOR.

@/gridsightings:  A little old woman complimented Belle’s dress and asked when the baby was due.

Belle said, “December.”

The woman said, “A winter baby — strong and stubborn.”

Max said, “So… just like their mother then.”

BELLE LAUGHED AND SMACKED HIS ARM.

@/gridsightings: I was trying to be normal and leave them alone but Belle caught me STARING and smiled and said “Hi!” like she wasn’t the most radiant person to ever exist.

And Max??? Max gave me a little nod and a “have a good day.”

@/gridsightings:  Max carried all the bags. Belle held his free hand.

They walked out of the shop smiling like they already knew they were the luckiest people on Earth.

And honestly?

They might be.

@/formulafemmes: “it’s like tire warmers but worse” MAX PLEASE I AM BEGGING YOU STOP BEING ADORABLE I CAN’T HANDLE IT 😭😭😭

@/1babyverstappenfan: they’re so married married. like old-married-couple-but-make-it-sexy married. i’m spiraling

@/chaoscar_piastri: her: “navy and white??”  him: “no, because you look pretty in navy” ME: SOBBING INTO A BIB I DON’T EVEN NEED

@/mclareninlaws: no but imagine being casually complimented by an old lady and max verstappen immediately goes “just like their mother” like sir please keep that mushy soft husband energy AWAY FROM ME i’m WEAK

@/gridghost: max holding her belly and going completely still like he’s listening for the future i am going to EAT WALLS

@/charleslefreaked: friendly reminder this woman’s family forgot her birthday this year and now she’s married to a man who buys her every swaddle she glances at. karma is REAL and she rides in a Verstappen-branded stroller.

@/babyverstappenupdates: ok but DECEMBER BABY CONFIRMED 🍼 let the countdown begin. i’m making a onesie that says “i survived the Verstappen family Christmas”

@/emotionalslipstream: i want whatever max and belle have. except i want it immediately. and i want it delivered to my door like prime shipping.

@/emotionaldnf: max verstappen in a linen shirt holding a swaddle is not something i was emotionally prepared for today

@/catdadchampion: he carried the bags she held his hand they smiled at each other like idiots i’m gonna eat drywall

@/gridbabywatch: i don’t even CARE that it’s only august baby verstappen is already winning rookie of the year 💙💙💙

@/tifosiferal:  also can we talk about how BELLE caught the fan staring and just went “hi!” like she’s not the most ethereal pregnant goddess on Earth? she is sunshine incarnate and I love her.

@/wifeyverstappen “you liked them all, we’re getting them all.” i’m sorry. max verstappen is peak husband material. nobody speak to me ever again.

@/tracksideoracle: honestly? max is 100% going to cry in the delivery room and belle will be like “you’re doing amazing, sweetie” while in active labor.

***

Belle was lying on a sun-dappled lounger near the edge of the villa’s garden, her legs stretched out, a straw hat tilted to shield her eyes. The air was warm, still, soft with the sound of waves crashing in the distance and Max trying to convince Lio that pool floaties worked better when you didn’t bite them.

Belle's phone buzzed on the little table beside her.

Daniel Moreau She blinked at the name for a second before answering. “Daniel! Hi—how are you? Is the kitchen island still intact?”

“Still the star of the house,” Daniel said, his voice warm and amused. “Jules won’t stop hosting dinner parties just so he can show it off. I told him if he breaks the lighting fixture I’m calling you to scold him personally.”

Belle laughed. “Please do. I’ll fly in with a stern face and a clipboard.”

“Listen,” Daniel said, his tone shifting slightly. “I didn’t just call to gush. Well, I did. But not only.”

Belle sat up a little straighter. “Oh?”

“So, Jules’ friend Laurent—He’s an editor for Architectural Digest. And he came by last week for dinner, took one look at the house and lost his mind. He said it was one of the most thoughtful spaces he’s seen in years.”

Belle blinked. “Wait. Really?”

“Belle,” Daniel said, “he wants to feature the house. Full spread. Name in print. Photos. Interview. The whole deal.”

There was a pause. The kind that filled every space inside her chest and made it hard to breathe.

“He said,” Daniel continued, quieter now, “that your work feels like it was designed by someone who understands how people live. Not just how they want to look. That it’s intelligent and emotional.”

Belle pressed a hand to her stomach, heart racing. The baby shifted slightly, as if sensing the moment.

“I—Daniel,” she said, stunned. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say yes,” he said simply. “You deserve this. Let the world see what we already know.”

Another pause.

This time, Belle let herself feel it.

Not just surprise. Not just pride. But validation.

Her name. Her work. Hers.

“Okay,” she said. “Yes. Let’s do it.”

Daniel whooped on the other end. “Jules just screamed. We’re already picking out your best angles for the photos.”

Belle laughed, breathless, and wiped at her eyes with the corner of her towel. “You’re insane.”

“No,” Daniel said. “I just know talent when I see it.”

They said their goodbyes, promised to loop in her Studio_B email, and hung up.

Belle sat there for a long moment, the phone still warm in her hand.

She had a baby on the way. A partner who loved her. A family who saw her. And now?

Her work — her name — was about to be in Architectural Digest.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t chasing worth.

She was living in it.

***

“Is that the ‘I just got good news’ face?” Sophie’s voice came from the side doorway, gentle and amused.

Belle looked up, startled, then smiled. “Was I that obvious?”

Sophie crossed the patio with a slow grace that Belle always admired — the kind of elegance that came from being certain of your place in a room, but never needing to announce it. She leaned against the counter and raised an eyebrow. “Come on then. What is it?”

Belle hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to tell her — but because somewhere, deep in the layers she hadn’t yet fully shed, there was a part of her still afraid to shine too brightly in front of a mother figure.

She swallowed that part down.

“I got a call from a client,” Belle said slowly. “One of my favorites — Daniel Moreau.”

Sophie nodded encouragingly.

“His house. The one I designed this year — it’s going to be featured in Architectural Digest.”

Sophie blinked.

Belle rushed to fill the silence, nerves creeping in despite herself. “His husband’s friend is an editor there. He saw it and said it felt like someone designed it for the way people actually live, not just… for show. And he wants to do a full spread. Photos. Interview. Name in print.”

Sophie said nothing at first.

Then she reached out and took Belle’s hands, slowly, gently, like holding something precious. Her fingers were warm.

“Oh, darling,” Sophie breathed.

And then Belle saw it — that spark in her eyes. Real pride. Real joy. Unfiltered.

“I always knew,” Sophie said, voice thickening. “From the first time I saw how you talked about your work. The way you light up when you describe materials. The way you feel spaces before you even sketch them.”

Belle’s throat ached. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Sophie said. “For not shrinking. For continuing to build beauty even when no one gave you the space for it. You’ve created things people live their lives in, Belle. That matters. You matter.”

Belle blinked fast.

“I’m proud of you,” Sophie whispered. “I hope you know that. Not because you married Max. Not because of the baby. Because of you. What you’ve done. Who you’ve become.”

And that?

That undid her.

Not in a falling apart kind of way — but in a finally letting go kind of way.

Belle leaned forward and hugged her. Properly. Fully. The way she’d wanted to be held after every university critique, every silent family dinner where her designs went unmentioned, every “what exactly is it that you do again?” masked as curiosity.

Sophie held her like she knew.

Because she did.

***

Max hadn’t expected the patio to go quiet when he rounded the corner.

He was still a little sandy from the beach, his shirt stuck damply to his back, a sunburnt rubber duck in one hand and a pair of tiny, abandoned flip-flops in the other. Lio had declared himself “retired from walking,” and Luka had started building a moat around Max’s ankles with plastic shovels. Chaos, as usual.

But here—on the terrace—it was still.

Belle stood in the golden light, barefoot, her linen dress catching the breeze, arms wrapped around Sophie in a way that made Max’s heart lurch. They weren’t just hugging. They were holding. Like something had been stitched together midair between them.

Sophie’s hand was in her hair, gentle. Belle’s shoulders trembled — not with grief, but with something Max had only ever seen in private. Release. Relief. Real softness.

He didn’t move for a moment. Just took it in.

Then: “Should I come back later or…?”

Sophie looked up at him with a faint smile, hand still at Belle’s back. “Only if you’re going to cry, too.”

Max raised a brow. “I don’t cry. I just get something in my eye when people I love do emotional things in nice lighting.”

Belle turned toward him, her voice already laughing. “Well, prepare to blink a lot.”

He walked closer, stepping carefully over the stray flip-flops, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. She smelled like sunscreen and mint tea. “What’d I miss?”

Sophie stepped back, just a little, giving Belle space. “You tell him,” she said.

Belle looked up at him, eyes still glossy. “Remember Daniel’s house? It’s going to be in Architectural Digest.”

He blinked. Thought he misheard. “Wait… seriously?”

Belle nodded. “Full feature. Interview. Photos. My name in print.”

For a second, he couldn’t speak.

And then the duck and flip-flops were forgotten — he dropped them both on the table and pulled her in, arms around her, forehead pressed to hers like she’d just won the world title.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered. “You deserve this. All of it.”

Belle’s smile wobbled. “I think I believe that now.”

Sophie wiped discreetly at her eyes behind them, and Max turned to catch her just as she said, “And if you didn’t before, you will by the time that magazine hits shelves. I’m framing it for every hallway I have access to.”

Still holding Belle, Max said, “Can we send copies to every single person who ever asked if she ‘still does decorating’?”

Belle laughed — full and loud and radiant — the kind of laugh that knocked him out every time. “I like you both when you’re dramatic.”

Max looked down at the swell of her belly, already cradling his palm over it. “You hear that, little one? Your mum’s about to be famous.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Internationally respected. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, then her bump. “Same thing.”

And he meant it.

Because it wasn’t just a magazine.

It was Belle being seen — truly seen — for who she was and what she built, long before anyone else thought to look. And Max?

Max had known all along.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: EM EMILIE EM ARE YOU NEAR YOUR PHONE I NEED YOU TO BE NEAR YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW

Emilie: I AM I’M LITERALLY IN LINE FOR GELATO DO I NEED TO ABANDON GELATO DID MAX DO SOMETHING IS THE BABY OKAY DO I NEED TO FLY IN

Belle: DANIEL MOREAU CALLED THE HOUSE I DESIGNED FOR HIM IS GETTING FEATURED IN ARCHITECTURAL FUCKING DIGEST

Emilie: SCREAMING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET A CHILD JUST LOOKED AT ME LIKE I’M POSSESSED I DON’T EVEN CARE

Belle:THEY WANT TO DO A FULL SPREAD PHOTOS INTERVIEW NAME IN PRINT

Emilie: I AM GOING TO FAINT I’M GOING TO VOMIT IN JOY I NEED TO SIT DOWN I NEED TO LIE DOWN I’M SO PROUD I’M ACTUALLY SHORT-CIRCUITING

Belle: Sophie cried Max carried me around the terrace like I won a Grand Prix Lio offered me a soggy pool noodle as tribute It was perfect

Emilie: I’M CRYING YOU’RE AN ICON YOU’RE A VISIONARY YOU’RE A STYLISH, PREGNANT, ARCHITECTURAL GODDESS AND IF THE LECLERCS DON’T FRAME THIS MAGAZINE COVER I WILL FIGHT THEM

Belle: You’ll have to get in line Victoria already claimed five copies

Emilie: My queen My muse My favorite internationally recognized interior architect Do you need me to write your AD profile??? Because I WILL.

Belle: Only if you put “was never appreciated enough by her own family but is now thriving and glowing under the South of France sun while married to a barbecue-loving Dutchman” in the first paragraph

Emilie: Done. Signed. Submitted. Pulitzer incoming.

Belle: I love you.

Emilie: I love you more. I’m buying this gelato in your honor. (And also screaming about you to the very confused Italian man behind the counter.)

***

Instagram Post: @/belleverstappen

Comments: 

@/victoriaverstappen: THIS is what peak romance looks like. Also, Lio is FUMING 😂

@/emilie_abadie: I am SOBBING. Why is he like this. Why are you like this. Why is this the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my LIFE.

@/studio_b: Form. Balance. Texture. 10/10 artistic vision. (Even if it was technically theft.)

@/maxverstappen1:  The client was kicking for artistic direction. Creative differences were resolved. 🐚✅

@/redbullracing: Max Verstappen, World Champion, Seashell Stylist, Full-Time Soft Dad.

@/f1softlaunches: Forget soft launch. This is a full cinematic debut. Best picture. Best soundtrack. Best supporting actor: the bump.

@/paddockpoetry: he’s not just building a heart. he’s building a home 😭

@/gridgirlfriendz: max. verstappen. crafting. a seashell. heart. on. his. pregnant. wife. I did not have this on my 2024 bingo card but it’s the only thing I care about now

@/sunsetandsectors: there are romcoms with less plot and less chemistry than this photo

@/belletheblueprint: belle’s bump being a canvas for max’s seashell love letters is the kind of content i never knew i needed and now cannot live without

@/charlesleclercfanaccidentally: i don’t even LIKE max like that but i’m gonna need someone to look at me the way he looks at her bump while placing decorative ocean fragments

@/formulafeels: from "I don’t care about Instagram" to “I built a seashell heart on my wife’s stomach at golden hour” character development. emotional development. dad arc unlocked.

@/lando.jpg: bro are you good??? you’re gonna make the whole grid cry into their sim rigs 😭

@/emotionaldnf: me: i’m emotionally stable belle: posts max turning her bump into a love letter me: okay cool cool cool i’m going to cry into a bucket now

@/wagsupreme: this is not just love. this is “you were always meant to be mine and now i build seashell altars to our unborn child” kind of love.

@/cursedf1: i thought he only did tire strategy and intense podium glares but no. he’s also capable of seashell poetry.

@/carlossainzsmileclub: “we’re awaiting trial” belle posting baby bump thirst traps AND committing tiny beach crimes??? ICONIC.

***

Instagram Post: @/maxverstappen1

Comments: @/victoriaverstappen: ❤️❤️❤️

@/danielricciardo: You’ve gone soft and I LOVE IT.

@/redbullracing: Do we send tiny fireproof race suits now or later?

@/jessicaracing: This isn’t just soft. This is core memory, I-believe-in-love-again levels of soft.

@/f1gossipgirl: Baby Verstappen hasn’t even arrived yet and is already more photogenic than me.

@/catdadchamp1: Belle: glowing Max: in love Sunset: blushing Me: dehydrated from crying

@/flamedonfridays: Raise your hand if this post made you reevaluate every man you’ve ever known 🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️

@/twogirlsonepodium: I clicked on this post expecting soft domestic vibes and instead got hit with an emotional freight train.

@/leclercupdates: Imagine being the guy who made fun of Max for being grumpy in 2019 and now seeing him post this like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.

@/danielricciardo: Slow claps in emotional support uncle.

@/georgerussell63: Okay but seriously — congrats, you two. This is beautiful. Genuinely.

@mclarenf1intern: One day that child is going to see this photo and realize he was loved from the very first sunset.

@/belleandmax_updates: They went from secret wedding to building a future in ten business days and I STILL HAVEN’T RECOVERED.

@/maxiel_shippers_unhinged: Imagine being the baby inside that belly and hearing your dad say “this is my future.” I’m sobbing in fetal position on the floor.

@/thef1oracle: Bookmarking this post for every time someone says Max doesn’t have emotions. LOOK AT IT.

@/emilie_abadie: Excuse us while we collectively melt into the floor.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridtears: max verstappen putting seashells on his pregnant wife’s bump in a heart shape i’m sorry i thought this man was built from carbon fiber and spite

@/drivertohusbandpipeline: everyone shut up. max verstappen is making art on belle’s stomach like it’s a goddamn canvas. he’s in his dad era. he’s in his devotion era.

@/formulafairytales: they’re literally on vacation and he’s still building shrines to her with seashells with seashells if that isn’t love i don’t know what is

@/gridwivesclub: if your man doesn’t kneel at your feet and make beach art on your baby bump, leave him. max verstappen has raised the bar to the stratosphere

@/tracksideemotions: you know what? i forgive max for everything he’s ever done yells at an engineer? fine tells lando to shut up in a press conference someday? whatever because THIS. this post has healed me.

@/maxverstappenswifeinmydreams: do you think he collected the shells himself do you think he was like “i need the perfect ones. only the soft round ones. she deserves the best.” do you think i’m unwell?

@/gridsideemotions: not to be dramatic but i would let max and belle run me over with a stroller and then thank them

@/danielricchaotic: max: quiet, serious, brooding also max: arranges seashells on his pregnant wife’s belly like he’s building an altar to love me: is this growth??? is this peace???

@/burntclutchsmoke: belle’s caption being “he said the little one deserved a masterpiece” is so insane like WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S A WORLD CHAMPION AND A ROMANTIC POET NOW

@/verstappenf1daily: max: building red bull strategy also max: building a seashell heart multifaceted king

@/drsandreverence: belle fell in love with a man who saw her, built a future with her, and now hand-places seashells on the curve of their shared life. i want what they have.

@/paddockwivesanon: MAX POSTING THE BUMP. MAX. POSTED. THE. BUMP. I’m on the floor. I’m in the sea. I’m gone.

@/formula1babygossip: we went from “no one knows he’s married” to “here is the mother of my child, bathed in golden light, embodying eternity” in ONE summer

@/notbellamy: me, crying in traffic: I want to be softly adored by Max Verstappen too

@/verstappenteamupdates: Max: casually ends everyone on a Wednesday night with a bump carousel The rest of us: ☠️☠️☠️

@/larriedbutverstappened: sunsets hit different??? you know what hits different?? THIS EMOTIONAL DAMAGE.

@/rb_family_fangirl: I knew Max was a family man. I knew he had softness in him. But THIS?? This is poetry in pixels.

@/babyverstappenupdates: The way Belle is glowing. The way he LOOKS at her through the lens. This isn’t content. This is art.

@/alonsohive: just to be clear… max verstappen went from “no public info on his relationship” to “here’s my wife, my unborn baby, and my emotional vulnerability lit by golden hour” in less than a year???

@/gridromance: MAX VERSTAPPEN POSTED A BELLE BUMP PHOTO I’M ON THE FLOOR I’M ON THE FLOOR I’M ON THE FLOOR

@/paddockpoetry: “Building a future” Sir. Sir, I am feral. That is your WIFE and your BABY and your EMOTIONAL GROWTH.

@/tearsontrack:  Belle really went from forgotten middle child to being soft-launched into emotionally intelligent domestic bliss. A win for the quiet girls.

@/teamverstappen94: "Sunsets hit different when you're building a future." WHO GAVE HIM PERMISSION TO BE THIS SOFT 😭😭😭😭

@/charlesleclercfan13: me: i don’t even like max verstappen like that also me: prints out his post and frames it above my bed

@/emotionaltyres: max verstappen once said “my dream is to have a family one day” and now he’s out here whispering poetry in the captions of his wife's pregnancy photos yes i’m sobbing. mind your business.

@/bellesblueprint: “building a future” oh he meant that. he really meant that.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll and Valtteri Bottas)

Lando: HELLO??? HAVE YOU SEEN MAX’S POST IS EVERYONE OKAY I AM NOT OKAY

Oscar: He was supposed to be our emotionally unavailable champion And now he’s posting poetic bump pics in golden hour??

Carlos: Sunsets hit different when you’re building a future Who gave him permission to be a POET

George: I literally thought he was going to post a barbecue grill or a tire. Not a declaration of love and legacy. What is this development arc?

Pierre: I need someone to hold me like Max holds Belle’s pregnancy. Seriously. I’m spiraling.

Yuki: You think the baby can feel the soft energy through the skin?? Like “ah yes, my father is emotionally stable now. Nice.”

Checo: Honestly proud of him. Did I cry? Maybe. Is that my business? No.

Lewis: Okay but on a scale of 1 to “Max in a linen shirt arranging seashells on Belle’s belly,” how high are our expectations now for announcing anything in the future?

Carlos: He’s setting the bar in the clouds. I can’t even post a vacation selfie without feeling inadequate now.

George: Does this mean he’s soft-launching Dad Verstappen™ era?? Because I’m ready. I’m emotionally prepared. I have snacks.

Lando: I'm starting a petition to get the baby an Instagram account. @BabyVerstappen. Someone secure the handle.

Nico R.: I’m just going to say it. I love Soft Max.

Yuki: 😭👶🧡

Zhou: who taught him to be like this

Lando: this man used to fight journalists for breathing wrong now he’s out here writing haikus on the bump 😭

Oscar: Anyway. When’s the baby shower. Do we wear white.

***

Lorenzo had always considered himself a patient man.

Oldest sibling. Mediator. Calm in a crisis. He had survived karting weekends, Charles’ existential meltdowns, and Arthur’s teenage skateboarding phase. He’d balanced career and family, built a life, stayed out of drama.

But this?

This vacation?

Was going to break him.

He sat on the edge of a crooked plastic deck chair in the backyard of a house Charlotte had booked last-minute out of desperation. A goat bleated in the distance. Charles and Arthur were arguing in what could generously be called a pool. Pascale was trying to figure out how the coffee machine worked with the kind of intensity usually reserved for international diplomacy.

And Charlotte…

 Charlotte had gone very still.

 The kind of still that meant she was seconds from throwing someone into the aforementioned pool.

 Fully clothed.

“Arthur,” she said, voice deceptively pleasant, “if you say the words ‘group hike’ one more time, I will stab you with this baguette.”

Arthur blinked. “Is it fresh?”

Alexandra sighed from where she sat beside Lorenzo, tapping away on her phone. “Belle warned us.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

She had.

Every year, Belle used to quietly coordinate everything. Bookings, confirmations, backup plans, spreadsheets. And they’d all just… let her. Without ever asking how exhausting it must’ve been.

And now?

Now they were on day four of “improvised family bonding” and Lorenzo was starting to see God.

Charles stomped out of the pool, dripping, holding his phone upside down. “The Wi-Fi’s down again.”

“It’s rural France, Charles,” Alexandra said, unfazed. “What did you expect?”

“Functioning infrastructure.”

Pascale appeared with a tangled extension cord and what looked like a rice cooker. “I think I’ve figured out how to make espresso.”

“God,” Lorenzo muttered, pressing his fingertips to his temples. “We don’t deserve her.”

“Pascale?” Charlotte said dryly.

“Isabelle,” Lorenzo said. “We don’t deserve Isabelle.”

Everyone fell quiet.

Because it was true.

“Do you remember the summer in Florence?” Arthur said. “We all thought it went perfectly.”

“Because Belle stayed up until 3AM for four nights in a row dealing with the owner about plumbing issues,” Charlotte replied. “She told me a year later.”

“And the amalfi trip?” Charles added, slowly. “She canceled the boat tour and rebooked everything because someone forgot sunscreen and got heatstroke.”

Arthur looked at him. “That was you.”

“I’m aware.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly, looking out over the lawn, which was mostly weeds and chaos and half a volleyball net.

“How the fuck,” he said, “did she not kill us all years ago?”

There was no answer.

***

The room was warm. Not hot, not uncomfortable. Just… warm.

Like it remembered things.

Camille’s office always felt a little like that — soft chairs, gentle lighting, a pitcher of lemon water on the table. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and patience.

Belle sat quietly in her usual place on the couch, one hand resting over the curve of her belly, the other loosely intertwined with Max’s. He was calm beside her, but there was a tension in his jaw — the kind that came when he was waiting for someone to say something too late.

Across from her, Pascale sat with a tissue already crushed in one hand. Arthur and Lorenzo looked vaguely shellshocked. And Charles — Charles looked like he’d aged five years in the last ten days.

Camille folded her hands in her lap. “It’s good to see you all again,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I heard your family vacation was… eventful.”

That might’ve been the kindest possible way to describe it.

Lorenzo let out a long breath. “We fell apart.”

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Belle. How did you not kill us every year?”

The room fell quiet.

Belle blinked once. Twice. “Because I didn’t think I was allowed to fall apart.”

Charles flinched.

“I thought,” Belle continued, voice calm and terrifyingly clear, “that if I just stayed quiet and useful, maybe I’d matter. Maybe I’d earn a seat at the table.”

“You did,” Pascale whispered, eyes shining. “You always mattered.”

Belle met her mother’s gaze. “Then why did I have to prove it every year?”

Silence again. Heavier, sharper.

“Vacation planning was never just vacation planning,” she said, softer now. “It was peacekeeping. It was translation. It was remembering who hated what and who wouldn’t speak to whom. It was the only way I could feel needed.”

Arthur looked down at his hands. “We didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t,” Belle said. “That’s the point.”

Max shifted beside her, eyes still on her face. Then he looked at the rest of the room, his voice low and steady.

“What about birthdays?”

The question landed like a pin dropped in a cathedral.

He didn’t stop.

“Or Christmas?” he added. “Or restaurant reservations? Or coordinating travel so you wouldn’t sit near someone you were annoyed with? Or making sure Pascale got flowers even when you all forgot?”

Charles blinked fast.

Max leaned forward slightly, not angry — just precise. “Belle planned all of it. All the time. And no one thought to ask how much it cost her. Because it was easier to just… let her do it.”

“She was so good at it,” Lorenzo said quietly.

Max gave a humorless smile. “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t drowning.”

Belle looked down at her hands. “You all thought I was quiet because I was peaceful. I was quiet because I didn’t think I was allowed to need anything.”

Arthur looked up. “And now?”

Belle took a breath. “Now I’m trying to learn that I don’t have to prove I belong.”

Camille nodded slowly. “And the rest of you — what’s your part in that?”

Pascale wiped at her eyes. “To stop letting her disappear behind us.”

Lorenzo cleared his throat. “To start remembering birthdays ourselves.”

Charles swallowed hard. “To stop thinking silence means someone’s okay.”

Arthur’s voice was rough. “To say thank you. Out loud. Even if it’s years too late.”

Max reached over and pressed a kiss to Belle’s temple.

Camille smiled gently. “Then maybe we’re finally getting somewhere.”

And for the first time in a long time, Belle didn’t brace herself for disappointment.

She just breathed.

***

[bi-writes]

whats wrong with ai?? genuinely curious <3

okay let's break it down. i'm an engineer, so i'm going to come at you from a perspective that may be different than someone else's.

i don't hate ai in every aspect. in theory, there are a lot of instances where, in fact, ai can help us do things a lot better without. here's a few examples:

ai detecting cancer

ai sorting recycling

some practical housekeeping that gemini (google ai) can do

all of the above examples are ways in which ai works with humans to do things in parallel with us. it's not overstepping--it's sorting, using pixels at a micro-level to detect abnormalities that we as humans can not, fixing a list. these are all really small, helpful ways that ai can work with us.

everything else about ai works against us. in general, ai is a huge consumer of natural resources. every prompt that you put into character.ai, chatgpt? this wastes water + energy. it's not free. a machine somewhere in the world has to swallow your prompt, call on a model to feed data into it and process more data, and then has to generate an answer for you all in a relatively short amount of time.

that is crazy expensive. someone is paying for that, and if it isn't you with your own money, it's the strain on the power grid, the water that cools the computers, the A/C that cools the data centers. and you aren't the only person using ai. chatgpt alone gets millions of users every single day, with probably thousands of prompts per second, so multiply your personal consumption by millions, and you can start to see how the picture is becoming overwhelming.

that is energy consumption alone. we haven't even talked about how problematic ai is ethically. there is currently no regulation in the united states about how ai should be developed, deployed, or used.

what does this mean for you?

it means that anything you post online is subject to data mining by an ai model (because why would they need to ask if there's no laws to stop them? wtf does it matter what it means to you to some idiot software engineer in the back room of an office making 3x your salary?). oh, that little fic you posted to wattpad that got a lot of attention? well now it's being used to teach ai how to write. oh, that sketch you made using adobe that you want to sell? adobe didn't tell you that anything you save to the cloud is now subject to being used for their ai models, so now your art is being replicated to generate ai images in photoshop, without crediting you (they have since said they don't do this...but privacy policies were never made to be human-readable, and i can't imagine they are the only company to sneakily try this). oh, your apartment just installed a new system that will use facial recognition to let their residents inside? oh, they didn't train their model with anyone but white people, so now all the black people living in that apartment building can't get into their homes. oh, you want to apply for a new job? the ai model that scans resumes learned from historical data that more men work that role than women (so the model basically thinks men are better than women), so now your resume is getting thrown out because you're a woman.

ai learns from data. and data is flawed. data is human. and as humans, we are racist, homophobic, misogynistic, transphobic, divided. so the ai models we train will learn from this. ai learns from people's creative works--their personal and artistic property. and now it's scrambling them all up to spit out generated images and written works that no one would ever want to read (because it's no longer a labor of love), and they're using that to make money. they're profiting off of people, and there's no one to stop them. they're also using generated images as marketing tools, to trick idiots on facebook, to make it so hard to be media literate that we have to question every single thing we see because now we don't know what's real and what's not.

the problem with ai is that it's doing more harm than good. and we as a society aren't doing our due diligence to understand the unintended consequences of it all. we aren't angry enough. we're too scared of stifling innovation that we're letting it regulate itself (aka letting companies decide), which has never been a good idea. we see it do one cool thing, and somehow that makes up for all the rest of the bullshit?

[mostlysignssomeportents]

What kind of bubble is AI?

My latest column for Locus Magazine is "What Kind of Bubble is AI?" All economic bubbles are hugely destructive, but some of them leave behind wreckage that can be salvaged for useful purposes, while others leave nothing behind but ashes:

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

Think about some 21st century bubbles. The dotcom bubble was a terrible tragedy, one that drained the coffers of pension funds and other institutional investors and wiped out retail investors who were gulled by Superbowl Ads. But there was a lot left behind after the dotcoms were wiped out: cheap servers, office furniture and space, but far more importantly, a generation of young people who'd been trained as web makers, leaving nontechnical degree programs to learn HTML, perl and python. This created a whole cohort of technologists from non-technical backgrounds, a first in technological history. Many of these people became the vanguard of a more inclusive and humane tech development movement, and they were able to make interesting and useful services and products in an environment where raw materials – compute, bandwidth, space and talent – were available at firesale prices.

Contrast this with the crypto bubble. It, too, destroyed the fortunes of institutional and individual investors through fraud and Superbowl Ads. It, too, lured in nontechnical people to learn esoteric disciplines at investor expense. But apart from a smattering of Rust programmers, the main residue of crypto is bad digital art and worse Austrian economics.

Or think of Worldcom vs Enron. Both bubbles were built on pure fraud, but Enron's fraud left nothing behind but a string of suspicious deaths. By contrast, Worldcom's fraud was a Big Store con that required laying a ton of fiber that is still in the ground to this day, and is being bought and used at pennies on the dollar.

AI is definitely a bubble. As I write in the column, if you fly into SFO and rent a car and drive north to San Francisco or south to Silicon Valley, every single billboard is advertising an "AI" startup, many of which are not even using anything that can be remotely characterized as AI. That's amazing, considering what a meaningless buzzword AI already is.

So which kind of bubble is AI? When it pops, will something useful be left behind, or will it go away altogether? To be sure, there's a legion of technologists who are learning Tensorflow and Pytorch. These nominally open source tools are bound, respectively, to Google and Facebook's AI environments:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/18/openwashing/#you-keep-using-that-word-i-do-not-think-it-means-what-you-think-it-means

But if those environments go away, those programming skills become a lot less useful. Live, large-scale Big Tech AI projects are shockingly expensive to run. Some of their costs are fixed – collecting, labeling and processing training data – but the running costs for each query are prodigious. There's a massive primary energy bill for the servers, a nearly as large energy bill for the chillers, and a titanic wage bill for the specialized technical staff involved.

Once investor subsidies dry up, will the real-world, non-hyperbolic applications for AI be enough to cover these running costs? AI applications can be plotted on a 2X2 grid whose axes are "value" (how much customers will pay for them) and "risk tolerance" (how perfect the product needs to be).

Charging teenaged D&D players $10 month for an image generator that creates epic illustrations of their characters fighting monsters is low value and very risk tolerant (teenagers aren't overly worried about six-fingered swordspeople with three pupils in each eye). Charging scammy spamfarms $500/month for a text generator that spits out dull, search-algorithm-pleasing narratives to appear over recipes is likewise low-value and highly risk tolerant (your customer doesn't care if the text is nonsense). Charging visually impaired people $100 month for an app that plays a text-to-speech description of anything they point their cameras at is low-value and moderately risk tolerant ("that's your blue shirt" when it's green is not a big deal, while "the street is safe to cross" when it's not is a much bigger one).

Morganstanley doesn't talk about the trillions the AI industry will be worth some day because of these applications. These are just spinoffs from the main event, a collection of extremely high-value applications. Think of self-driving cars or radiology bots that analyze chest x-rays and characterize masses as cancerous or noncancerous.

These are high value – but only if they are also risk-tolerant. The pitch for self-driving cars is "fire most drivers and replace them with 'humans in the loop' who intervene at critical junctures." That's the risk-tolerant version of self-driving cars, and it's a failure. More than $100b has been incinerated chasing self-driving cars, and cars are nowhere near driving themselves:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

Quite the reverse, in fact. Cruise was just forced to quit the field after one of their cars maimed a woman – a pedestrian who had not opted into being part of a high-risk AI experiment – and dragged her body 20 feet through the streets of San Francisco. Afterwards, it emerged that Cruise had replaced the single low-waged driver who would normally be paid to operate a taxi with 1.5 high-waged skilled technicians who remotely oversaw each of its vehicles:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/11/03/technology/cruise-general-motors-self-driving-cars.html

The self-driving pitch isn't that your car will correct your own human errors (like an alarm that sounds when you activate your turn signal while someone is in your blind-spot). Self-driving isn't about using automation to augment human skill – it's about replacing humans. There's no business case for spending hundreds of billions on better safety systems for cars (there's a human case for it, though!). The only way the price-tag justifies itself is if paid drivers can be fired and replaced with software that costs less than their wages.

What about radiologists? Radiologists certainly make mistakes from time to time, and if there's a computer vision system that makes different mistakes than the sort that humans make, they could be a cheap way of generating second opinions that trigger re-examination by a human radiologist. But no AI investor thinks their return will come from selling hospitals that reduce the number of X-rays each radiologist processes every day, as a second-opinion-generating system would. Rather, the value of AI radiologists comes from firing most of your human radiologists and replacing them with software whose judgments are cursorily double-checked by a human whose "automation blindness" will turn them into an OK-button-mashing automaton:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/23/automation-blindness/#humans-in-the-loop

The profit-generating pitch for high-value AI applications lies in creating "reverse centaurs": humans who serve as appendages for automation that operates at a speed and scale that is unrelated to the capacity or needs of the worker:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/17/revenge-of-the-chickenized-reverse-centaurs/

But unless these high-value applications are intrinsically risk-tolerant, they are poor candidates for automation. Cruise was able to nonconsensually enlist the population of San Francisco in an experimental murderbot development program thanks to the vast sums of money sloshing around the industry. Some of this money funds the inevitabilist narrative that self-driving cars are coming, it's only a matter of when, not if, and so SF had better get in the autonomous vehicle or get run over by the forces of history.

Once the bubble pops (all bubbles pop), AI applications will have to rise or fall on their actual merits, not their promise. The odds are stacked against the long-term survival of high-value, risk-intolerant AI applications.

The problem for AI is that while there are a lot of risk-tolerant applications, they're almost all low-value; while nearly all the high-value applications are risk-intolerant. Once AI has to be profitable – once investors withdraw their subsidies from money-losing ventures – the risk-tolerant applications need to be sufficient to run those tremendously expensive servers in those brutally expensive data-centers tended by exceptionally expensive technical workers.

If they aren't, then the business case for running those servers goes away, and so do the servers – and so do all those risk-tolerant, low-value applications. It doesn't matter if helping blind people make sense of their surroundings is socially beneficial. It doesn't matter if teenaged gamers love their epic character art. It doesn't even matter how horny scammers are for generating AI nonsense SEO websites:

https://twitter.com/jakezward/status/1728032634037567509

These applications are all riding on the coattails of the big AI models that are being built and operated at a loss in order to be profitable. If they remain unprofitable long enough, the private sector will no longer pay to operate them.

Now, there are smaller models, models that stand alone and run on commodity hardware. These would persist even after the AI bubble bursts, because most of their costs are setup costs that have already been borne by the well-funded companies who created them. These models are limited, of course, though the communities that have formed around them have pushed those limits in surprising ways, far beyond their original manufacturers' beliefs about their capacity. These communities will continue to push those limits for as long as they find the models useful.

These standalone, "toy" models are derived from the big models, though. When the AI bubble bursts and the private sector no longer subsidizes mass-scale model creation, it will cease to spin out more sophisticated models that run on commodity hardware (it's possible that Federated learning and other techniques for spreading out the work of making large-scale models will fill the gap).

So what kind of bubble is the AI bubble? What will we salvage from its wreckage? Perhaps the communities who've invested in becoming experts in Pytorch and Tensorflow will wrestle them away from their corporate masters and make them generally useful. Certainly, a lot of people will have gained skills in applying statistical techniques.

But there will also be a lot of unsalvageable wreckage. As big AI models get integrated into the processes of the productive economy, AI becomes a source of systemic risk. The only thing worse than having an automated process that is rendered dangerous or erratic based on AI integration is to have that process fail entirely because the AI suddenly disappeared, a collapse that is too precipitous for former AI customers to engineer a soft landing for their systems.

This is a blind spot in our policymakers debates about AI. The smart policymakers are asking questions about fairness, algorithmic bias, and fraud. The foolish policymakers are ensnared in fantasies about "AI safety," AKA "Will the chatbot become a superintelligence that turns the whole human race into paperclips?"

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/27/10-types-of-people/#taking-up-a-lot-of-space

But no one is asking, "What will we do if" – when – "the AI bubble pops and most of this stuff disappears overnight?"

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/19/bubblenomics/#pop

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

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

--

tom_bullock (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/tombullock/25173469495/

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[reasonsforhope]

"In short: Thailand's Senate has approved a bill legalising same sex marriage in the South-East Asian country.

It will afford same-sex couples practical benefits such as being able to have children through IVF and make emergency medical decisions for their spouse.

What's next? The first weddings may take place later this year, 120 days after the law is announced in the Royal Gazette.

Thailand has become the first nation in South-East Asia to legalise same sex marriage, with the country's Senate approving the landmark bill this afternoon.

The legislation was expected to pass after it cleared the country's House of Representatives in a near-unanimous vote in March.

Despite Thailand's bustling gay bars and prominent transgender community making it a mecca for LGBTQ+ tourists, until now local same-sex couples there have been unable to marry.

The law will take effect 120 days after its announcement in the Royal Gazette, so the first same sex weddings may take place later this year.

Couples who have been waiting years have hailed the move as a historic moment that will afford them rights only reserved for spouses.

A Lifechanging Law

Photos of Anticha and Worawan [including the article picture], dressed in floor-length white gowns and trailed by rainbow flags, getting married at Bangkok's first Pride Festival two years ago went viral, but they are still not legally married.

Now they will be able to change that, and Anticha Sangchai is elated.

"This will change my life and change many Thai people's lives, especially in the LGBT community," she said.

"It is a historical moment and I really want to join with my community to celebrate this moment.

"I want to send a message to the world that Thailand has changed. Even though there are still many issues, this is a big step for us." ...

There were an estimated 3.7 million LGBT people in Thailand in 2022, according to LGBT Capital, a private company which models economic data pertaining to the community around the world.

For the young couple from Bangkok, being able to marry also has very real practical implications.

If they want to have children through IVF, Ms Sangchai says they will need a marriage certificate first.

"I am quite concerned about the time because we are getting older every day, and the older you get the more difficult it is to have a healthy pregnancy," she said.

"So we've been really wanting this law to pass as soon as possible."

Cabaret performer Jena is excited Thailand's laws are finally catching up with the nation's image...

She too had worried about the practical implications of being unable to marry.

"For example, if myself or my partner had to go to hospital or there was an accident that needs consent for an emergency operation, without a marriage certificate we couldn't sign it," she said.

She now wants the government to move forward with a law to allow transgender people to amend their gender on official documents." ...

An Economic Boost?

Thailand has long been famous for LGBTQ tourism and there are now hopes this new law could allow the country to cash in on the aging members of the community.

Chaiwat Songsiriphan, who runs a health clinic for people in the LGBTQ community, said laws preventing same sex marriage were the last barrier holding the country back from becoming a gay retirement hub.

[Note: They do not just mean for rich westerners; Thailand as a gay retirement hub would probably appeal most to and definitely benefit LGBTQ people from throughout Asia.]

"Thailand has an LGBTQ-friendly environment since Thai culture is quite flexible," he said.

"One of my foreigner friends, a gay friend, told me that when he's in his country he has to pretend to be straight … but when he comes to Bangkok he said you can be as gay as you want.

"When we talk about retirement or a long-term stay for the rest of their lives, what people need is … food, good healthcare services, transportation, homes.

"I think Thailand has it all at a very affordable price."

He said it could help give the country a desperately needed economic boost.

"This will have a lot of benefits for Thailand's economy because when we talk about retirement it's people literally bringing all the money they have earned for the rest of their working lives to spend and invest here," he said.

He said he, like the rest of the community, was thrilled by the news.

"It's not about a privilege, it's just equality," he said.

"We are we also humans, so we should be able to marry the one we love.""

-via ABC Australia, June 18, 2024

[astrologydray]

Scorpio Mc in the each of the degrees

If you have a Scorpio Midheaven (MC), your career and public image are influenced by Scorpio’s themes of transformation, power, intensity, investigation, and depth. You are likely drawn to roles where you can work behind the scenes, deal with powerful emotions, or engage in deep, transformative processes. Scorpio MC individuals often thrive in careers such as psychology, research, investigation, finance, healing, or crisis management.

• 0° Scorpio (Aries Point) – A powerful public image, likely to achieve prominence through transformational or investigative work, such as psychology, research, or crises management.

• 1° Scorpio – Intense, focused, and determined; may thrive in investigation, forensic science, or any field requiring deep analysis.

• 2° Scorpio – Likely to excel in research, science, or strategic roles that require uncovering hidden truths.

• 3° Scorpio – A natural in psychology, counseling, or crisis management, using your ability to deal with profound emotional situations.

• 4° Scorpio – Strong sense of privacy and control. Could excel in corporate leadership, finance, or law enforcement, where power dynamics are key.

• 5° Scorpio – Creative yet intense; could thrive in fields such as writing, investigative journalism, or roles where uncovering secrets is crucial.

• 6° Scorpio – Strong emotional intelligence; could work in healing professions, psychotherapy, or holistic health.

• 7° Scorpio – Focused on personal transformation through relationships. Likely to work in partnerships, counseling, or mediation, helping others navigate difficult transformations.

• 8° Scorpio – Attracted to careers involving transformation, healing, or working with life/death situations. Could excel in medicine, surgery, or toxicology.

• 9° Scorpio – Deep and insightful, likely to work in research, science, or roles that deal with the hidden or taboo.

• 10° Scorpio – Powerful presence in the workplace. Likely to succeed in leadership, government, or transformational roles.

• 11° Scorpio – Drawn to intense and transformative careers in fields like crisis management, psychological research, or financial analysis.

• 12° Scorpio – Naturally private but magnetic; could excel in research, data analysis, or confidential consulting.

• 13° Scorpio – Strong sense of duty to uncover the truth. Could work in investigation, legal fields, or security.

• 14° Scorpio – Intense and passionate. Likely to succeed in law enforcement, surgery, or any career that involves high stakes or deep emotional work.

• 15° Scorpio – Skilled at understanding power dynamics and human psychology. Likely to thrive in finance, real estate, or therapy.

• 16° Scorpio – Willing to tackle dark or difficult topics. Could excel in criminology, research, or working with addiction or trauma.

• 17° Scorpio – Drawn to healing, counseling, or any career that involves personal growth, particularly in the face of adversity.

• 18° Scorpio – Powerful communicator in hidden or taboo subjects. Likely to succeed in journalism, investigative reporting, or political activism.

• 19° Scorpio – Focused on deep, emotional transformation. Could excel in fields like psychotherapy, life coaching, or end-of-life care.

• 20° Scorpio – A natural in roles requiring emotional depth, such as crisis management, mediation, or psychiatry.

• 21° Scorpio – A transformative figure. Likely to be drawn to careers that change society, such as activism, research, or government roles.

• 22° Scorpio – Interested in dealing with the shadow side of life. Could thrive in criminology, investigative work, or financial sectors dealing with risks.

• 23° Scorpio – Fascinated by mysteries, forensics, or the unseen world. Likely to find success in research, astrology, or spiritual counseling.

• 24° Scorpio – A true transformer. Likely to be drawn to careers that involve depth, healing, or powerful change such as management, finance, or spiritual guidance.

• 25° Scorpio – Powerful and intense; likely to work in corporate leadership, strategy, or financial markets.

• 26° Scorpio – Magnetic and persuasive; could excel in negotiations, law, or roles requiring the ability to persuade and influence.

• 27° Scorpio – Strong focus on transformation; could work in psychology, the occult, or recovery-based careers.

• 28° Scorpio – Intense and strategic; may work in intelligence, politics, or investment management.

• 29° Scorpio (Anaretic Degree) – A fated degree of transformation. Likely to experience profound career changes, or public recognition in roles that involve power, control, or deep psychological insight. This degree may bring sudden or intense changes to your professional life but can ultimately lead to mastery in investigation, crisis management, or healing.

[inkolnito]

Paddock Confidential - Prologue: Monza murmurs

Pairing:

Oliver "Ollie" Bearman x ??? (Original Female Character )

Minor background pairings reflecting the real-life F1 grid (e.g., Charles Leclerc/Alexandra Saint Mleux)

Summary:

Rising F1 star Ollie Bearman navigates the intense pressure of his rookie season with Haas, juggling demanding team expectations and his close ties to Ferrari under the watchful eye of Fred Vasseur. His biggest challenge lies off-track: guarding his relationship with the enigmatic and fiercely private girlfriend, whose surprising motorsport knowledge and aversion to the spotlight hint at a complex past connected to one of the sport's icons. As Ollie fights for his future, their secret world threatens to unravel amidst paddock gossip, rivalries, and the ever-present Drive to Survive cameras. When exposure becomes inevitable, they must confront the consequences and find a way to navigate the relentless glare of the F1 world together.

Warnings and Notes:

Warnings: Depictions of anxiety, stress related to high-pressure environments (F1), mentions of past trauma (related to privacy/media intrusion), media scrutiny/harassment, potential minor F1-typical language.

Notes:

This is a work of fiction using real people (F1 drivers, personnel) as characters; their portrayals, actions, and relationships are fictionalized for the story.

The air in Monza vibrated, a deep, resonant thrumming that wasn't just heard but felt, travelling up from the historic asphalt, through the soles of Ollie Bearman’s racing boots, settling deep within his bones – the lingering ghost-sound of F1 engines. The paddock pulsed with a frantic, almost visible kinetic energy, the unique, high-strung caffeine-and-adrenaline frequency of the Italian Grand Prix weekend, amplified tenfold by the passionate Tifosi already chanting beyond the gates. Sharp September sun, unforgiving under a piercingly blue Lombardian sky, glinted off multi-million-dollar transporters and surgically clean hospitality units. The air itself was a thick cocktail: the acrid bite of sun-baked asphalt, the sharp tang of tortured rubber, the sweet perfume of high-octane fuel, all cut through with expensive cologne and the distant, comforting aroma of espresso. Beneath the undeniable chaos lay the meticulous, clockwork routine of the global racing circus, a world built on staggering speed and even more staggering pressure.

Right now, Oliver Bearman felt the full weight of that pressure, a tangible burden beneath the bright red fabric of his Prema Racing polo. He gave an unconscious tug at the collar, the high-tech material suddenly feeling inadequate against the simmering heat. Free Practice 1 for the crucial F2 feature race yielded P3. Strong, solid, respectable – but maddeningly, crucially, not P1. Not the dominant, statement-making pace needed to keep his championship aspirations blazing against the relentless onslaught of Pourchaire and Martins, rivals who seemed to conjure tenths from thin air with infuriating ease. His focus narrowed, replaying the session, the frustration tightening his chest. Hadn't there been something else during that blur of laps? A flicker at the edge of his vision while pushing through the Parabolica, like a heat haze mirage near the pit wall taking the shape of someone sketching intently near the timing screens? A figure impossibly still amidst the frantic activity, snagging his attention for less than a heartbeat before dissolving back into the shimmering air as he wrestled the car through the corner. A trick of the light, he’d told himself then, dismissing the fleeting image. Focus fatigue.

His mind snapped back, relentlessly looping the data Marco had shown him minutes ago. That micro-hesitation turning into Ascari, a subconscious lift costing vital momentum. That fraction too much wheelspin exiting the Parabolica, tyres scrabbling where they should have hooked up. Milliseconds squandered through tiny imperfections, bleeding inexorably into tenths, tenths that translated directly into grid slots, tenths that could mean the difference between glory and also-ran status come Sunday. Marco, ever the calm Italian voice of reason, had methodically pointed out tweaks – a click less rear wing, a damper adjustment. Ollie had nodded, absorbed it, offered his own feedback on the car’s balance, but the corrosive knot of frustration tightened its coils. He knew the time was lurking in the car, in his inputs. He just had to find it, wring it out. Execute. Flawlessly.

“Ollie! Good pace, keep pushing!” Massimo, a cheerful Prema coordinator, offered a thumbs-up. Ollie summoned his default grin, the cheerful, slightly toothy one for sponsors and fans, though it felt stretched thin. “Thanks, Massimo! Yeah, we’ll get there.” He needed the sanctuary of his driver room: hydrate, stare at more data overlays, search for those elusive fractions, maybe force down some pasta before the intense pre-qualifying briefing. Tunnel vision. That was the Monza mantra. Block out the noise – the complex championship math, the swirling paddock gossip about 2024 seats, the intoxicating, terrifying whispers linking his own name to F1 outings. Whispers that felt frighteningly concrete this season, the pressure ratcheting up with every mention of potential 2025 opportunities, especially that rumoured Haas seat… a future hanging precariously on delivering results like today. Focus only on the car, the track, the next apex.

He wove through the throng – mechanics carrying tyres like offerings, journalists angling for quotes, sponsors’ guests looking privileged and slightly lost, focused drivers from other series. The paddock ecosystem, a hierarchy laid bare in colour-coded lanyards and team logos. As a Prema F2 title contender, Ollie commanded nods, respectful greetings. He kept his head slightly bowed, eyes tracking the paving stones, mind deep in calculations, trying again to dismiss the fleeting image of a dark-haired figure glimpsed earlier near the F1 garages – someone still, observant, utterly unlike the usual paddock fauna, who had melted away before he could register more than an impression of quiet intensity.

Rounding the imposing, reflective facade of the Red Bull hospitality unit, the pathway narrowed into an unavoidable bottleneck. He deftly sidestepped a clattering catering trolley, murmured an unheard “Sorry,” mentally clearing distractions, visualising the perfect pole lap, hitting every apex…

And walked straight into someone. Solidly. Unyieldingly.

The impact was firm, jarring his forward momentum. A soft gasp – definitely not his own – then the distinct thwack and clatter of dropped items scattering across the hot tarmac.

“Oh, sorry! My fault, completely wasn’t looking.” The words tumbled out on autopilot as his head snapped up.

His apology died on his lips. Standing less than a foot away, regaining her balance with surprising lack of fluster, was the girl from those fleeting glimpses, no longer a phantom but strikingly real, and strikingly different. No team kit, no logo-free chic. Just a faded black t-shirt for some obscure band, ripped-knee black jeans, and heavy, scuffed Doc Martens that looked like they’d seen more miles than half the transporters here. Her raven hair, absorbing the fierce sunlight, was knotted loosely at her nape. Her eyes, wide for just an instant before narrowing with unnerving, assessing speed, were a startlingly clear, cool grey – the precise colour of a winter sky before snow. An ink smudge, dark against her pale skin, marked her high cheekbone like an accidental tribal marking. She looked utterly unfazed by the surrounding chaos, almost… detached from it, as if the multi-million dollar spectacle was merely background noise.

Scattered around their boots lay the source of the clatter: a thick, spiral-bound sketchbook, its plain black cover worn smooth at the corners, now lying open. Loose sheets of quality drawing paper fluttered precariously, alongside well-used sketching pencils and a grubby kneaded eraser.

For a suspended heartbeat, the frantic world seemed to contract into a pocket of unexpected silence around them. The paddock buzz faded to an indistinct murmur. There was only the stillness of this accidental encounter, the arresting sight of this girl who seemed both utterly out of place and fiercely self-contained, and the vulnerable evidence of her creativity exposed on the ground. The air between them felt suddenly charged, humming with a different kind of static than the usual paddock electricity.

Ollie, pressures momentarily vaporised, reacted purely on instinct. “Oh, heck, your stuff. So sorry. That was clumsy. Let me help.” He dropped into a crouch, reaching for the sketchbook.

She knelt simultaneously, her movements fluid, economical, surprisingly quick, yet undeniably protective of her work. “No, it’s fine. My fault too.” Her quiet voice, perfectly audible, held that subtle, intriguing cadence – Finnish flatness smoothed by Swiss precision? It nagged at him again.

Their hands brushed reaching for a rolling pencil. Not just a brush – his fingers grazed the back of hers, skin against skin. An unexpected warmth, a live-wire jolt completely unrelated to the ambient heat, shot up Ollie’s arm, tingling sharply all the way to his shoulder blade. He snatched his hand back as if burned, the flush creeping up his neck feeling suddenly incandescent under her cool gaze. Her expression gave nothing away as her slender, surprisingly strong fingers closed around the pencil.

He focused on gathering the loose sheets, his movements feeling clumsy compared to her neat efficiency. He handled them carefully. The drawings were really good – sharp, dynamic, analytical. A McLaren's aggressive aero lines captured with confident strokes. The coiled energy in a mechanic’s shoulders. Distorted reflections on a visor. Then he saw it: one detailed a complex rear suspension assembly with startling accuracy. Another captured the precise angle of attack of a front wing – unmistakably the bright red Prema car, his car, navigating the Rettifilo chicane just moments ago during practice. The detail was uncanny, capturing the exact load on the tyres, the slight flex in the wing. How did she know that specific detail, observe that exact moment with such understanding? It wasn't casual observation or fan art. This was the kind of innate understanding someone gained growing up immersed in it, absorbing technical details like osmosis, perhaps sitting beside an engineer father pouring over data late into the night. Could she be the daughter of someone senior? Someone like Allison, maybe, known for his sharp technical mind? Or one of those notoriously private Ferrari engine gurus from the V10 era, names whispered with reverence but rarely seen? The Finnish hint in her voice sparked a wilder thought – Räikkönen? Ollie almost scoffed aloud at the sheer absurdity. More likely someone technical, someone who passed on not just a name, but a way of seeing, an intimate knowledge of the machine. The leap felt strangely, disturbingly logical, even if the exact connection remained elusive.

Who is she? The question hammered, sharper now, focused. Not F2/F3 personnel, not media, not a guest. An enigma, sketching suspension parts and his specific car with an insider’s eye, like she’d inherited the right, yet utterly invisible to the paddock's intricate social radar.

He gathered the last sheet and held the pile out with the sketchbook. “Here you go. Hope nothing’s… uh… too damaged or smudged.” He mentally kicked himself for stumbling.

She took them, her cool grey eyes meeting his directly again, steady, analytical. They lingered for a beat longer than strictly necessary, holding his gaze. For a fleeting instant, he thought he saw something else flicker deep within their cool depths – amusement? Curiosity mirroring his own? – before it was shuttered again behind that unnervingly appraising look. It felt far more personal, more penetrating, than any camera lens. He noticed her small, intricate silver Ouroboros ring glinting on her right index finger – a symbol of eternity, cycles, fitting for someone who felt so separate from the paddock's frantic, linear rush towards the next session.

“Thanks,” she repeated, her voice still quiet but firm, resonant. She tucked an errant strand of dark hair behind her ear with ink-stained fingers, revealing tiny silver hoops climbing her cartilage. The gesture smudged the dark mark further across her pale skin, less accident now, more deliberate abstract marking.

“No problem. Again, really sorry. Paddock’s mad today…” He trailed off again, feeling like an idiot under her unwavering gaze. He desperately wanted to fill the silence she seemed so comfortable inhabiting, to ask her name, ask about the drawings, about her, but an invisible boundary, a palpable sense of reserve, held him back even as it paradoxically drew him in.

She offered a minuscule nod, barely a dip of her chin, expression compellingly unreadable, clutching the sketchbook defensively to her chest, knuckles white. They stood caught in that peculiar bubble of quiet intensity, an island while the paddock river flowed around them. Curious glances registered the scene – the bright red Prema driver opposite the striking, dark-clad girl – but slid off, unable to penetrate the stillness.

Ollie fought the ridiculous, boyish urge to say anything to extend the moment. Logic screamed briefing, qualifying, focus. But another part, newly awakened, was utterly captivated. He opened his mouth – discard politeness, just ask, Who are you? – but the moment evaporated. She was already turning, breaking the spell with effortless finality.

A final, fleeting glance back over her shoulder – utterly impossible to decipher, dismissal mixed with maybe faint curiosity, or just neutral acknowledgment – and she straightened. Then, with surprising speed and fluidity for someone in such heavy boots, she stepped back into the main flow of traffic heading towards the F1 end, merging seamlessly, almost unnaturally quickly, into the crowd, vanishing as if she’d simply decided to cease being visible. Her destination wasn't the glittering F1 hospitality units, despite the pass clipped discreetly to her belt suggesting easy access. The raw engineering here, the F2 machines stripped bare, perhaps his machine specifically, held her focus. That's what filled the pages clutched against her chest. Only a faint scent lingered where she’d stood – charcoal and something else clean, cold, faintly metallic, like the air after a blizzard or distant rain on frozen ground, utterly foreign to Monza’s heat.

Ollie remained crouching for another second, staring blankly, stupidly, at the empty spot. The patterned asphalt looked suddenly ordinary. The noise, the heat, the relentless energy of the paddock rushed back into the vacuum, louder, more oppressive. A strange wave of disorientation washed over him, like surfacing too quickly from a deep dive.

Who on earth was that?

The question lingered, sharp, insistent. He’d met thousands in paddocks, but no one, no one, had registered like this. Her quiet intensity, jarringly different appearance, startling skill, unnerving direct gaze, that hint of Finnish coldness, her phantom-like appearances and sudden, complete disappearance… Deeply, profoundly, distractingly intriguing.

“Track’s rubbering in nicely, eh?” Arthur Leclerc’s amused voice cut through his thoughts, closer than expected. Ollie looked up, startled out of his reverie again. Arthur stood grinning down at him, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched in patent amusement. Arthur always looked effortlessly cool, even in the sweltering Monza heat. “Or are you planning to propose to the tarmac, mate? Lose your car keys down a drain, perhaps?”

Ollie scrambled awkwardly to his feet, the heat rushing back to his cheeks with renewed force, embarrassment warring with the lingering image of cool grey eyes. “No! Just… uh… nearly knocked someone over. My fault.” He gestured vaguely towards where the girl had disappeared. “Did you see her? Dark hair, black t-shirt, carrying a sketchbook?”

Arthur’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes scanned the area Ollie indicated, a flicker of genuine confusion in his expression. He looked back at Ollie, amusement returning full force. “Sketchbook? Mate, I didn’t see anyone like that. Saw you nearly trip over your own feet, yes, but no mysterious artist.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe the heat’s getting to you already? Or the pressure? Seeing things?”

Ollie frowned, glancing back again. The crowd flowed on, oblivious. Had Arthur really not seen her? She’d been right there. Had she vanished that quickly? Or was Arthur just teasing him? The uncertainty prickled. Was she real, or just a figment of his stressed imagination? He brushed imaginary dust off his knees with unnecessary vigour, forcing his mind, wrenching it almost physically, back to the immediate, pressing priorities. Qualifying. Points. Championship. Focus. Get your head in the game, Bearman. Stop thinking about mysterious girls who might or might not exist.

“Right,” Arthur said slowly, clearly not believing Ollie for a second and enjoying his flustered state. “Well, try not to collide with any more phantoms before quali.” He clapped Ollie firmly on the shoulder, the camaraderie genuine despite the teasing. “See you at the briefing. Don’t be late.” A final, conspiratorial wink, and he headed off with characteristic smooth confidence towards the cluster of F2 hospitality units further down the paddock lane.

Ollie took a deep, steadying breath, inhaling the familiar mix of fuel and rubber, consciously trying to push the vivid image – and now the unsettling doubt – out of his mental workspace. Focus. He gave his head a firm shake, trying to physically dislodge the lingering image and the questions it provoked. He set off again towards the red sanctuary of Prema hospitality, stride determinedly purposeful once more.

But the tight knot of performance pressure in his gut felt… altered. Not gone, but overlaid with a persistent, buzzing hum of curiosity, a distraction he couldn’t afford but couldn’t immediately shake. An unexpected variable, a fascinating question mark – now possibly even a hallucination? – abruptly inserted into the complex equation of his make-or-break weekend. He felt an unsettling certainty that this wasn’t their last encounter, that this brief, clumsy meeting held more significance than any qualifying lap. The girl with the winter-sky eyes and the impossible knowledge… she wasn't random. She felt connected to this world in a way he couldn't grasp, yet utterly apart from it. Why was she here, sketching F2 suspension parts, why sketch his car with such intense, analytical focus? The question hooked itself deep into his mind, refusing to be ignored, a puzzle piece that didn’t fit, demanding attention even as the clock ticked down to qualifying.

The intensity of the Monza weekend faded into the relentless rhythm of the F2 calendar. Races came and went – the flyaways, the final push towards the end of the season, each bringing its own unique pressures, triumphs, and frustrations in the tightening championship battle. Ollie found himself scanning the crowds more often than he cared to admit, searching unconsciously through faces in Melbourne, Baku, Monaco, Silverstone, for a flash of dark hair, a distinctive band t-shirt, or those unsettlingly cool grey eyes. But the 'Monza phantom,' as Ollie had started calling her in his head, remained elusive—a ghost seemingly confined to the sun-baked tarmac of that one encounter. The memory lingered, a persistent question mark at the back of his mind, even as the focus shifted to the next challenge: the demanding, high-altitude slopes of Spielberg.

Masterlist | Next chapter

[coochiequeens]

Women aren't dating the men who hate women. Why the fuck is this a problem? Oh right because men still feel entitled to sex and will take their hatred out on random women.

By Rebekah Scanlan April 20, 2025

There are over 330,000 more women than men in Australia – but despite the dating pool inequity, there’s a growing number of single guys women will never pursue.

These undatable men are those who subscribe to the “red pill” notion, an alarming subculture that perpetuates a societal hatred against women by opposing feminist narratives and emphasising traditional gender roles.

The term originates from the 1999 film ‘The Matrix’, where the lead character is offered a choice between a red pill and a blue pill. The red pill symbolizes awakening to harsh realities, while the blue pill represents remaining happy, but ignorant.

The “red pill” notion that women want to avoid when dating originates from the 1999 film ‘The Matrix’, where the red pill symbolizes awakening to harsh realities, and the blue pill represents ignorance.Getty Images

Men’s rights activism have taken the “red pill” concept to represent a similar awakening to what they perceive as the true nature of society and gender relations.

These modern misogynists often come together online in a virtual space dubbed the “manosphere”, a collective of various digital communities promoting warped views on masculinity.

People found within the manosphere include men’s rights activists and incels, a group of heterosexual men who blame women and society for their lack of romantic success and who openly admit to “loathing” women for not sleeping with them.

While its easy to brush off the rise of mainstream misogyny as internet fodder, or a sensationalized storyline from a TV show, data shows it’s seeping into every corner of culture, from social media feeds to Aussie classrooms.

The disturbing rise in troubled men is something “Australians should be worried about”, warns Tarang Chawla, a vocal advocate for gender equality and an anti-violence campaigner.

“The rise of red pill culture and manosphere thinking isn’t just edgy internet banter – it’s leading to real-world harm,” he told news.com.au.

“At its core, it frames gender equality as this kind of threat and paints women as either being manipulative or lesser.

Instagram / @tarangchawla

“The rise of red pill culture and manosphere thinking isn’t just edgy internet banter – it’s leading to real-world harm,” Tarang Chawla, a vocal advocate for gender equality following the death of his sister, said “This normalizes misogyny and creates this culture where violence against women is excused, minimized, or even justified. Australians should be concerned.”

Chawla, whose sister Nikita was just 23 years old when her husband murdered her in a jealous rage in 2015, added that these “distorted” beliefs create a “dangerous” space for women to exist in.

“The idea that men are universally oppressed or that women only pursue wealthier men or a certain kind of man reinforces this toxic, adversarial view of gender that is pitting people against each other,” he said.

“When some men feel entitled to women’s attention but believe they’re being denied it due to a ‘rigged system,’ resentment builds.

And resentment, when mixed with entitlement and dehumanization, becomes a risk factor for violence.”

But while these groups grow and spread vitriol, women are using the internet to warn each other: “Beware of the red pill guy.”

One feminist social media user who dedicates her page to calling out male content creators spewing red pill ideology recently captioned one of her clips, “Don’t date or take relationship advice from these males”.

Others are sharing the moment they realized their other half had “swallowed the red pill”, with many revealing it caused the relationship to come to an end.

“These red pill guys have gotten out of hand,” one shared in an emotional video.

But who are these men and how can women spot them?

Melbourne psychologist Carly Dober said research shows some men are more “vulnerable” to the harmful ideology than others.

“Systemically, some young men feel they are being culturally left behind academically and professionally, with wages and jobs not as easy to access and the typical markers of adulthood (home ownership and procreation) more difficult or impossible to access compared to previous generations,” she told news.com.au.

"The idea that men are universally oppressed or that women only pursue wealthier men or a certain kind of man reinforces this toxic, adversarial view of gender that is pitting people against each other,” Chawla said.Getty Images/iStockphoto

“Women also have far more agency than previous generations and are educated, employed, and have more choice with how they spend their lives.

"The messaging from these red pilled communities often ignores systemic drivers of inequality and seduces men with simple but incorrect answers to these complex issues.

“Some men also already endorse antifeminism and anti-equality messaging and behavior, so this community can be a logical next move for them.”

Chawla, who recently became the safety advocate for popular dating app Bumble, said that even though the number of men subscribing to extreme misogyny ideology is on the rise – singles overwhelmingly want to date with consideration.

“96 percent of Gen Z want a respectful dating experience, and 95 percent believe dating apps should be taking action against bad behavior before it even starts,” he explained.

“That should tell us everything we need to know, people are actively seeking safer, more values-aligned spaces to connect.”

However, he said we can’t ignore that there is a “disconnect that is eroding trust”.

“Ask women, and they’ll tell you – they’ve met these men. They’ve dated them. They’ve blocked them.

“By pretending this is rare, we dismiss women’s experiences and ignore how widespread these beliefs have become, especially online. It’s leading to a breakdown in trust, where many women feel like they have to be on guard, even in romantic contexts.”

Ms Dober, who owns Melbourne’s Enriching Lives Psychology clinic, added: “This ideology is harmful to all of us, including men. Violating traditional masculinity norms can lead men to experience more depression and suicide, and this ideology needs to be seen as extreme and stamped out.”

[segmed]

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Dreams

Dreams - images, emotions, or sensations the brain produces during sleep.

While dreaming can occur during any stage of the sleep cycle, rapid eye movement sleep (also known as REM sleep) produces the most memorable and vivid dreams.

There are many types of dreams, including healing, prophetic, recurring, lucid, and nightmares.

You can have multiple dreams per sleep session, which can be as short as 10 seconds and as long as 45 minutes.

Types of Dreams

People can have several types of dreams. While the possibilities are limitless, some common categories include:

Flying dreams: Many people dream they can fly. These dreams are often pleasant and even euphoric. Dreamers might associate these dreams with sensations of freedom, fearlessness, and empowerment.

Lucid dreams: The sleeper becomes aware they are dreaming while in a lucid dreaming state and can retain some control of their body and thoughts within the dream.

Nightmares: These are fear-inducing dreams. In this case, the dream state might be the brain’s way of processing daily stressors. Common causes of nightmares or bad dreams include poor eating habits, traumatic events, illness, sleep deprivation, sleep disorders, or medication.

Prophetic dreams: In prophetic dreams, people see future events occur before they happen in real life. Some believe these dreams mean a person has predicted the future, while others believe prophetic dreams are the subconscious preparing you for a likely outcome.

Recurring dreams: These are dreams a person repeatedly experiences over a sleep session or multiple sleep sessions. Recurring dreams contain the same or similar imagery and sensations in prior occurrences and can also occur as recurring nightmares. Various theories suggest that recurring dreams result from risk avoidance, internalized fears, or other unresolved issues.

Stress dreams: Another common dream phenomenon involves stress. While not outright nightmares, stress dreams are often tense and unpleasant. Many people report dream content that involves tests for which they are unprepared or other situations that are confusing or difficult.

Dream Theories

There is no clear scientific explanation for the function of dreams, but there is a range of theories.

Sleep expert Matthew Walker says, “The origin of dreams or the belief of where dreams come from has a very storied history and past.”

The study of dreams is a large and growing field of scientific inquiry, and theories continue to emerge from neuroscience, psychology, psychiatry, and cognitive science.

Some notable examples of dream theories include:

Emotional processing: One theory is people dream to process emotions. Dreams can often be emotionally charged, and by dreaming, people might work through emotional challenges and better prepare themselves for the difficulties of everyday life.

Learning assistance: Some researchers suggest the purpose of dreams is to learn new skills and sharpen problem-solving abilities. When a person focuses on learning a new skill or working through a challenging problem, they might dream about the activity to help them complete the task.

Memory consolidations: Another dream theory holds dreams are instrumental in forming new memories. While the precise mechanism remains mysterious, some sleep experts believe dreaming in the REM stage helps the brain consolidate short-term memories and store them as long-term memories.

Mental organizing: Some sleep experts believe dreaming is a way to organize mental space. During sleep, a person’s mind sifts through the sensory data they encountered while they were awake, making important neural connections where necessary and editing out extraneous information.

Otherworldly communication: Many religious traditions maintain dreams are a way to connect with other worlds or dimensions. Many believe dreamed encounters with departed loved ones contain great significance. “Back in ancient Roman and Greek times, they believed that our dreams were being gifted to us from on high, from in the heavens, from specific gods,” Matthew says. “And then other cultures, for example, Eastern Asian cultures, believed that dreams were coming from somewhere in our soul, perhaps somewhere in our body.”

Random noise: Some researchers believe dreams don’t have any particular purpose and are a byproduct of an active brain. This random brain activity might not have any other special purpose.

Unconscious desires: Austrian psychotherapist Sigmund Freud’s theory posits dreams are expressions of the unconscious mind’s desires. If people cannot express desires in their waking life, the unconscious mind might enact them as fantasies during sleep. “[Freud] made, in some ways, the science of dreaming a brain science [or] a neuroscience,” Matthew says. “Because it was Freud who suggested that it was somewhat in the mind of each of us that our dreams were coming from. That was the repository of dreaming.”

How to Remember Dreams

Everyone dreams at night, but few people can remember their dreams. Consider the following tips for recalling your dreams:

Establish a good sleep routine. Having a regular bedtime and waking time is a good way to practice healthy sleep hygiene, which might help you recall your dreams.

Focus on recall right after waking. The memory of a dream fades fast, so you are most likely to recall your dreams right after you wake up.

Keep a dream journal. By recording your sleep stories in a dream journal, you will build a habit of recalling your dreams more often. As you write down the details of your dreams, you might strengthen your ability to remember even more.

Wake up gently. If you wake up abruptly, you are likely to jolt into your waking mindset, and any fragments that might remain of your dreams will quickly disperse. Try using an alarm clock that has gentle sounds. Soft, low-volume music or voices can also assist in a smoother transition to waking life, making dream recall easier.

“Dreams are visual. They're filled with motor activity. We tend to be doing things. Are they filled with past autobiographic memories? Yes, very often. Are dreams sometimes emotional? They can be, very much so. Are dreams irrational, illogical, or bizarre? Yes, very much. And so brain science has given us the first neural evidence for describing the way in which we experience this strangest of all things called the dreaming state.” — Matthew Walker, neuroscience professor

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[skzdarlings]

bodyguard: the first guard | part five | chan/reader

masterlist.

(part one of the previous story.)

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | tba

( read on AO3 )

A sequel to the Bodyguard. Miroh’s daughter is assigned a bodyguard of her own. The past is confronted when old friendships and new enemies are pushed to the brink.

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: sequel to the bodyguard (felix/reader). this is a new reader perspective. this chapter contains explicit sexual content. this chapter also has a content warning for descriptions of torture and dehumanization, plus the aftermath of trauma, themes of identity loss and healing. the previously established story dynamics are prevalent. chapter word count: 10,200 words.

enjoy <3

-

B E FO R E

Felix returns to the base and he is scrutinized, as expected.  They all want to know why he was taken, what the enemy wanted, how he escaped.   Felix has never played so many sides all while obfuscating his real objective.  Alone, he guides himself through the venomous viper’s pit that is this war: Miroh and his enemy, Miroh and the world. 

Where it concerns the enemy, Miroh will always intervene.  He sees the enemy as the antithesis to the house of Miroh.   A rich, spoiled fool, holed up in his golden cave, oblivious to what he has and the work it takes to acquire it.  Miroh is jealous. Miroh is hateful. 

Those are emotions that Felix can manipulate.  He learned it from the best. 

“It was an ambush,” Felix tells him.  “They knew I was going to be there.  They were waiting for me.”  He uses his reputation, formed by Miroh, against Miroh.   

Felix would never lose a fight.  Felix would never fail a mission.  Felix would never surrender.    Felix is a reflection of Miroh so he presents the most flattering image. 

“What information did they want?”  Miroh asks. 

Felix can see the gears spinning in his head.  What could the enemy be seeking so determinedly to lay a trap for Miroh’s asset?  Oh, Miroh has a suspicion.  Felix can see it, because he knows exactly what it is.   

“They asked about Project Twenty-Three,” Felix says.  “I told them I had never heard of it.  Even if I had, I wouldn’t tell them anything.” 

Project Twenty-Three.  Chris has vented about it to Felix.  It is a cyber mission, striking against the enemy’s tightly guarded servers.  It intends to blackout the grid and lay virtual traps while they re-calibrate, compromising not only the enemy but everyone else on that grid: civilians, their homes, their hospitals, their shelters. 

It is a significant job for its scope and because it is the first time a mission will be helmed by Miroh’s daughter. 

Miroh’s daughter, Chris says, intends to sabotage the operation. 

It is Felix’s worst fears coming true.  Miroh’s daughter rebelling against Miroh is doomed to be a catastrophe.  She will inevitably go down and when that blaze tears through the sky, Chris will crash and burn in a similar inferno.  He is too blinded by proximity, too idealistic to see how it is impossible to truly destroy a man like Miroh. 

No one but classified personnel are supposed to know about Project Twenty-Three.  Miroh’s daughter let it slip to Chan, who let it slip to Felix.   As far as Miroh is concerned, Felix should not know about it.  As far as Miroh is concerned, Felix is telling the truth. 

As far as Miroh is concerned, someone is leaking highly sensitive data to the enemy. 

“I’m smarter than that, though,” Felix says.  He appeals to all that haughty vanity and says, “I was trained by the best.  Of course I got away.”

“Of course,” Miroh says.  Where before, he was wary, his guard comes down. 

Felix can sneak in.  Felix can lay his attack. 

“What else did they say?” Miroh asks. 

“I overheard them,” Felix says.  “They’re going to try and kill you.  And it’s going to happen inside your house.” 

The trap is laid.

-

P R E S E N T   D A Y

Miroh only put one soldier through a reconfiguration program.  And it wasn’t me.  It was you.   

Chan looks at you as if you shot him even though he was the one who fired at you.  

The words land with more violence than a bullet. 

It can’t be true.  That is your first reaction: denial. He is lying or he is confused or something, something, something. Anything but whatever he just said. 

He tries to step towards you.  You look at him and think of the First Guard: him in that corridor, a hand around your neck.  He fought just enough to make it real, the way you and Changbin sometimes fight, but it never went too far, did it?  You think back to that first fight in the ring.  You commended yourself for lasting so long, but that should have been a hint.  You would not have lasted a round with the First Guard on a good day, never mind after fighting several others.   He never came at you with the full brunt of his fatal capacity like you would expect, like you should have considered at the time. 

His eyes in the van, the tilt of his head.  

Trusting as your car stopped an inch from his body. 

His hands out like you were a wild, unpredictable animal, a weapon, something lethal he had to contain.   It’s me, he said.  It’s just me.  As if you knew who that was.

He does the same thing now.  You wrench away from him.   

“No,” you say.

He says your name but it doesn’t sound like a name; it sounds like begging, it sounds like please, it sounds like desperation, painfully barbed on his tongue.  You half expect him to start bleeding from the mouth. 

“No,” you say again.  You jerk away even though he has stopped reaching for you.  You feel a phantom hand on your chest and on your head, a cold fire in your veins. 

You slam shoulders as you dart past.  He says your name again, this time like an alarm, only barely short of a scream as he chases after you.  You get as far as the door before he catches you, his hand wrapped around your bicep and your name a weapon on his lips.

“Stop it,” you say.  It isn’t loud but it is brutal all the same. 

He lets go as if you electrocuted him. 

You look at him.  He stares back, all that begging in his dark eyes. 

“You can’t – you can’t leave,” he says.  His panic bubbles into frustration and he says, “You just told me off for doing that, didn’t you?”

You think of him on that rooftop, not even blinking at Miroh’s dead body, like he couldn’t care less, his eyes rivetted to you alone.   

“Do you trust me?” you ask. 

You think he would rather get hit.  A moment of pain, a scar to join the others. Instead, he has to endure the intensity of your eyes, suffer whatever fucked up expression is haunting your body, and then he has to let you go. 

You do not look at his face when leaving.  You don’t want to see this side of him.  There are already too many versions of him in your head, just as there are too many versions of yourself. 

The denial does not last long.  You walk through the brisk night, destination nowhere.  The sky feels too big.

It’s preposterous, isn’t it?  You are in your body right this moment, looking at the world with your own eyes.  How can anything be wrong inside?   But even while attempting to convince yourself otherwise, you know the truth.  It has been long unfurling in the back of your mind.   You have not felt like yourself for days, maybe weeks, maybe the entire three months since this downfall began. 

You don’t even remember what it means to feel like yourself. 

All the nightmares, the visions, the flashes of dreams that feel more like memories – maybe memories is exactly what they are.  So suppressed it feels like watching a movie rather than your own life, but your story regardless.   Sifting through those fragments feels like searching through rubble in a collapse. How are you ever expected to find a person under that much annihilation? 

When it happens, Changbin said, what feels like a lifetime ago.  When it’s just you and you’re trying to decide who you want to be, not who your father wants you to be…  When you’re trying to remember everything and you can’t decide what was real and what was just training and what was Miroh…”

A sob rips out of you.  You have cried more in days than you have in years.  You cover your face and fall into the dark of your closed eyes.  You see your friend, not a fragment or broken memory, but a whole person.  The scar on your palm twinges, reminding you that you are real and here. 

Remember me, he said. 

That was the very first thing you did.   You saw him on that rooftop and you remembered something.  Him, younger, bleeding, emerging from a fog of smoke.  He lifted a weight off your chest.  He made you a promise. 

You try to chase the memory of that dream, try to hold the image of him in your mind, but it moves like water through a sieve.  It’s like he’s standing right there, just in the corner of your eye if you could only turn your head to look.  But you are trapped in place.  Pinned down, a weight on your chest. 

You lose track of time under the stars.  You are too numb to feel the cold.  Only when the sky purples with the very earliest streak of dawn do you move.  You look at your feet as you walk and it feels like someone else is moving you.  You know it’s just exhaustion, a trick of the weary eye, but a shudder moves through you.   

You don’t want to think about it.  Whenever your mind starts to go there – to that room, to that hole, to the cell – it backs away screaming.  It is probably why you can’t hold any picture for longer than a second. 

A small part of you still rebels, insisting it isn’t true because it’s can’t be true, but you know intrinsically that it is. 

This confirmation solidifies when you get back to the room and find Chan still awake, sitting in a chair with his head in his hands. 

He lifts his head.   You can’t hold his gaze for long, swallowed up by the dark depth that sees something in you, far beyond the surface, buried so deep you can’t find it. 

You turn away.   You climb into bed. 

It isn’t an escape.  You know that, even as you close your eyes and shut out the world.   It’s all waiting for you there, your subconscious caught in a perpetually crashing tidal wave.  

You fall asleep, ready to face the nightmares. 

-

It feels like swimming against an acidic current.  You push through but it bears down; you struggle but it burns your skin, sloughs down to the clean marrow.  Pieces of you are lost to the tide.  You try to catch each flaking sliver of personhood but then your arms are full and you can no longer swim.

You are going to drown. 

“Let go,” says a voice, colder than the water.  “This will all stop.  Just let go.” 

Just let go.  Just let your skin unravel.  Just let the tide take it away.  You will never get it back.  You will be a living corpse, a half-consciousness puppeting your bones. 

You decide to drown.  You slip further and further into the blackness behind your lids.

“Hey, it’s me!  I’m coming!” 

Changbin.

You can hear his footsteps as he thunders towards you, but you can’t see him.  Your eyelids are so heavy, as if being held shut by a hand in the water.

Another hand reaches straight through the corrosive cold and seizes your face in a desperate grip. 

“Wake up,” Changbin says.  He taps your cheek repeatedly, a little harder each time, a little more frantic.  “Hey, wake up.  Please.  Please wake up.”

It feels like he is prying your eyes open.  One moment there is nothing but darkness, then Changbin is there.  He looks like he did when you last saw him, grown, fight-ready, a little scar on his face.  It bleeds more than such a tiny mark should.  A droplet hits your cheek, burning hot compared to the water. 

“It’s me,” he says. “Hold on.  Keep your eyes open.  Don’t go.  I promise I’ll get you out.” 

Don’t go.  Don’t go.  An echoing reverberation that circles the wooden beams high above your head.  You look there, staring at the ceiling as your lungs slowly fill with oxygen. 

The ceiling shatters in a spray of splinters, the world vanishing in a cloud of grey smoke.  Changbin is gone and your father stands over you, keeping that weight on your chest with a press of his fist. 

“You’ll thank me one day,” he says, and plunges you back under water.  Ice cold currents and electric hot fire twine in and around you in an unfathomable vice.  Your vision flickers as you twitch and flail, avoiding one sensation to succumb to the other. 

“Don’t go,” Changbin says.  “I promise I’ll get you out.” 

Another bolt of lightning slices through you. 

“Just let go.”  A cold and clinical voice.

There is a war between those voices.  Time passes slowly as you volley in the current, slamming into one or the other. 

In the bubbling frenzy, you hear a whisper.  

“Let her go.”  That is not Changbin.  That is not your father.  It’s too soft – soft, until it’s not, until it sounds like speaking through an open chest cavity, heaving up its heart with every cry.  “Please,” the voice begs.  “Let her go.” 

“Thank me,” your father says.  He stands with his back to you, angled just enough you can see the gun in his hands.   You can’t see the person on the receiving end.  You just know it’s a soldier.  You just know it’s a boy. 

You have to stop it.  The thought overwhelms you and you reach for the gun, but your hand never makes contact, splashing through cold water. 

“Subject recognizes control,” says that clinical voice.

There is a hand on your chest.  It pushes you back under water. 

You are alone in the current and the corrosion and the cold.  The hand pushes you deeper and deeper into the endless darkness under you.  

You are going to drown.  You are going to let yourself drown. 

“You don’t want to do that,” you say. 

Your father still has a gun in his hand.  It is pointed at that boy. 

“Subject— Control—”

You need to get that gun.  You need to swim.  You need to see him.  You need to save him. 

You finally let go. 

-

You open your eyes. 

Unlike in your dreams, it’s fast.  You jolt awake in a cold sweat.  The ceiling is unmoving, the air cool and dry from the motel’s cheap, noisy air conditioner.  The blinds are closed but the neon light outside the window creates a fuzzy square halo.  It brightens the room just enough to see  the outline of everything clearly.  

That includes Chan.

He is still awake.  If this was just one night ago, you would tell him to get into bed and sleep because you can’t have him tired for the mission.  But now, you find yourself staring back at him, at his bare and open face, his tired eyes and the uncomfortable tension in his shoulders.   

When you went to sleep, he was sitting on that same chair in the corner, and it looks like he hasn’t moved once.  He’s been waiting for you. 

He’s been waiting a lot longer than one night.   If she ever came back to me, he said, revealing years of hope, of watching, waiting for you to break through your conditioning and show him a sign.  He was never brainwashed, just trapped in a precarious situation, bound to a bargain with no way out that didn’t compromise you.  He could have saved himself at any time but it wouldn’t have mattered.   

“You were never reconfigured,” you say. 

“No.” 

The question and answer breaks a dam.  A flood of questions pour to the front of your mind, overwhelming you, taking you back to your dreams where you almost drown – again and again.  You remember the report, stating too much recollection could trigger some kind of breakdown.  Yes, you could ask Chan to tell you everything, to string together all those gaps in your nightmares, but you already know that would not help.  It would either feel like a story about a girl you do not know, or it would just throw you deeper into the whirlpool.

You let those questions turn over themselves like a crashing wave.  When it settles, you ask the one question that remains.

“Were we friends?” 

He doesn’t answer right away.   He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands under his chin.  He is impossibly strong but right now he looks too weak to support himself.

“No,” he finally says.  His eyes dart to the floor.  “No, we weren’t friends.” 

He looks at you and you fall into the unspoken story within his eyes.  You have been conversing without words since you met.  He has been looking at you with that wanting tilt and desperate stare since he stepped into the ring. 

You remember a fragment from a dream.   Him, younger, his face ravaged with tears and his mouth open on a muted shout.   It would be easy to mistake that as him being tortured, his pain that palpable.  But your memory is not of his suffering, just his watching, just his waiting.   

All this time, he has been waiting.  

“Did you love me?” you ask. 

This answer comes faster, but rougher as if guarding against vulnerability.  His voice is low.

“Yes.”

A phantom spark fires up your arm, straight into your heart. 

“Did I love you?” you ask.

He holds your gaze, though it feels like he is looking just a little past you, seeing something you can’t see.  Then again, maybe he doesn’t see it, maybe he is just searching, and maybe he comes up empty.  Because when he answers, his voice is airy, and the word is like a hiss of pain, like getting hit in the chest and all the air leaving the body at once.

“Yes,” he says.

You feel the weight of that hit too.  Wavering under the force of it, you blurt, “I don’t remember.” 

“I know,” he says.  He drops his head into his hands and rubs his palms over his face, scrunches his eyes shut tight and shakes his head.  “I know.”    

You want to go to him.  You are not sure where the urge comes from because, despite what he said, you have never loved like that.  Is it something buried inside you, something that remembers?  Maybe it’s just you, who you are now, the person who has spent the last few days with this man at her side.  His proximity has been a confusing comfort from the start.  Maybe it’s a memory or maybe it’s just him. 

You stand before thinking it through.  He doesn’t even notice, a sign this competent soldier is very far gone, his face still buried in his hands.  When you touch his shoulder, it catches him off guard, both arms jolting as if stung. 

He looks up at you, his hand instinctively flying to the one you rest on his shoulder.  He clasps it, holds it there, presses it down like he needs convincing it is real. 

He meets your eyes.   You do not know what you look like; you just know it hurts him, that it makes everything so much worse. 

A child-like sob punches out of him.  His eyes close tight, his face going red as he fights to hold it in.   He cried earlier and it looked like the typical outpouring of stress and hurt, but it did not look like this. 

After that first sob, reminiscent of the little boy he never really was, years of torment come tearing violently out of his chest.  Flashes of memories melt with the sight, his young face twisted as he wails, that muted shout filled in with his voice now. 

He holds his forehead, doubles over.  When you see the top of his head, those other images fade away.  It is just him, here, now.  Whoever he is, he has been good to you.  Your hand is still on his shoulder and he is still clinging to it. 

“Chan,” you whisper.  You’re not sure if he hears it, but his breath catches when you nudge him upright.  You are certain he can’t see very well through his tears, but he looks up anyway. 

When you climb into his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck, he does not hesitate to throw his arms around you.  His hands find your back and he presses you so close, it feels like he is trying to push you right into his heart.  He puts his face in your neck where he fights to steady his breathing. 

You touch the nape of his neck.  You shiver at his long exhale. 

You feel miserable and choked for a myriad of reasons.  For him, everything he as endured and lost.  For you, who doesn’t even know what she lost at all. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.  His breathing is less laboured, though his voice sounds sore.  He exhales again, some tension leaving his shoulders where you rest your hands. 

You squeeze those shoulders and lean back to look at him.  His expression is more than a little abashed, gaze uncertain.  You are not good at smiling but you try, even though you think your brows are furrowed and his sorrow is reflecting back through your eyes. 

“Thought we agreed to stop apologizing,” you say. 

His laugh is as weak as your smile, but certainly there.   You touch his face with your scarred palm, feel the curve of his jaw where that wound runs sharpest.    You think you can only touch him because of that scar.  You used to balk at the sight of someone else’s tears, even deride them.  You don’t remember being a lover.  You didn’t even realize you had a friend until it was too late.

You might not know who you are, and you might not know how to describe how you feel, but you certainly understand it feels different, and you certainly know what kind of person you do not want to be anymore. 

So you do not rip your hand away.  You curl a tuft of hair behind his ear. 

“I just—”  You trip over your own words, wishing you were a better speaker, more personable and warm than your stiff recitation.  “I can’t be that person,” you say.  “I don’t know what person I will be, but I’m not – I can’t—”

“I know,” he says, sincere.  He is holding your waist and he gives it a small squeeze, a reassuring touch that moves through you with a burst of warmth.  It simmers in your bloodstream when he smiles – his eyes still sorrowful despite the dimple in his cheek.   “I don’t wish you were someone else,” he says.  With a wince, he says, “I wish I was.” 

Your stomach twists in an awful knot.  You think of all that blood on his hands.  Despite his efforts to keep it away from you, you feel it on yourself.  You have to close your eyes to push away the flood of images, unsure which are imaginative fabrications and which are potential memories.  You just know he looks too young to have that kind of red on him. 

You open your eyes and look at him.  His eyes are open but his gaze is faraway, lost in thought.  You touch a tendril of curly hair, feel it under your fingers like you have the past couple nights.  He looks at you with eyes that have already shared multiple conversations. 

“I wish you hadn’t suffered,” you say.  “I don’t think anyone should suffer that way.  I don’t think the ends justify the means anymore.  But also I—” 

Even while your heart is changing inside, getting those words outside is a different struggle entirely. 

Chan looks at you with that tilt to his head, that questioning brow, his eyes a lot softer with his curiosity.  Your breath is jagged, a messy gasp as you gather yourself.  You look away, wholly incapable of maintaining eye contact.

“I got in the car with the First Guard,” you say.   “Not with some other version of you.  This soldier.  This Chan.”   You look down at your hands, absent-minded in the way you move them, from his shoulders down to his chest.  “This is the man I trusted,” you say.  “The one I still do.”

Your eyes lift.  They meet his.  His expression is a mix of confusion and amazement. 

His lips part with a question, but it gets caught.  He stares a little longer, then he asks, “Why?”

An unexpected laugh bubbles and bursts right out of you. 

“I have no idea,” you say, giving in to that bubbly feeling, letting it fill your chest and lift you up like a safety raft.  “I don’t know anything at all.” 

You realize there is something freeing in that thought.  No, you don’t know who you are.  No, you don’t know what is going to happen past right now.  You have to save your friend.  You have to end your father’s business.  Everything else, the becoming of you and the world and your place in it, is unanswerable.  You can’t find blueprints or scour maps or form battle strategies.  You don’t know where the water leads.  You just have to swim. 

“Maybe it doesn’t even matter,” you say with a shrug.  “I don’t know.  Nothing about yesterday, nothing tomorrow—”

“Just right now,” he says.

His voice is a little lower.  Just right now.  That was the pact you made the other night. 

Your whole body comes alight, waking from the ice cold state it has been frozen in.  It warms under his palms on your hips and where his dark eyes roam. 

“Just right now,” you repeat as softly.  You look at your hands again, realize more consciously how intimately they rest on his chest.  Rather than retract, you swipe your thumb across the exposed strip of skin where his flannel is buttoned askew.   “Maybe that’s all I need to know.” 

This right now feels different than before.  You don’t blame his emotional reaction to your earlier intimacy if it was an affect of all his memories, all he had lost, and all he was.  You think your straightforward trust in him – not in spite of his identity, but because of it – has shifted things again.  Your hands on his chest and your words in the open seem to have changed the shape of this whole room. 

“I’m the First Guard,” he says.  His eyes drop to your mouth then back up.  “You’re Miroh’s daughter.” 

“Yes, you are,” you say.  “And no, I’m not.”  You see the shiver that moves through him when you run your hands up his chest and curl your hand around the back of his neck.   You feel his thighs get tense under yours, his whole body reacting.  “Say my name,” you say.

When he does, it is not like a weapon or alarm, but spoken in a way that makes you feel like you have never heard your name spoken properly before that moment. 

You kiss him first and this time it lands deliberately, catching him mid-breath and stealing the rest of it.  When you start to lean away, to see if it’s all right, he puts his hand on the back of your head, curls his fingers in your hair, and draws you right into him, stealing back that breath with a desperate kiss. 

In a way, this is familiar to you.  You always liked and used sex as a grounding exercise.  You feel present in your body, regardless of how floaty and detached you felt before.  From the tingling top of your head to the curling of your toes, you feel every inch of yourself, alive and hot. 

But it feels different too.  You were always eager to chase the high, to reach the final destination with little care for the journey.  You realize, maybe, it is about the becoming, itself.

“Chan,” you say, squeezing his hips between your legs when he runs his hands under your shirt.  You climbed into bed still wearing your pants and shirt, wishing differently now as you rock your body against his. 

You buck a little eagerly, sensations going to your head quicker than intoxication.  Chan brings you back down, shushing you gently, guiding your open mouth back to his.  He kisses you slowly, touches you like he is memorizing every contour.   You make a sweet sound into his mouth, cupping his face as you kiss him back. 

“Can we—” you start.

“Yes,” he says.  “Yes, yes.” 

You stand on shaky legs and strip your bottom layers away.  The few seconds apart are dizzying, the whole world around him fuzzy as that neon yellow light leaking into the room.   Because he is staring at you, looking dazed and dishevelled, it takes him longer to unbutton his jeans than it did for you to remove your pants altogether.  You climb back onto his lap and do not help at all, distracting him with another kiss. 

A kiss always felt like a waste of time, but you think you could content yourself with just kissing him forever.   Slow or fast, gentle or needy.  

You are kissing when he gets inside you, gripping your bare thighs with a possessive hold that will feel tender tomorrow.   You luxuriate in the pleasure and the pain, your body yours, shared with him, reciprocated in turn.  

Whatever else existed – or could exist – ceases to matter for a time.  You come together and come apart in each other’s arms, chests pressed together, hearts racing against each other.  You tug his hair and pull his face into your neck, moaning under the press of his teeth and the heat of his lips. 

“Mm, fuck,” he groans into your skin, clutching your hips even tighter, rocking up into you while you roll down against him.  His gentle curse has you whimpering, his mouth on your throat making you shake.  “Mm, get all tight when I bite you, you know,” he murmurs, and leaves no time for argument or embarrassment because he nips at your neck again.  You do exactly what he said, clenching around him with an involuntary shudder. 

“Fuck,” is all you say.  He breathes a laugh against your skin. 

You clutch his shoulders when he gathers you and stands, moving the couple small steps towards the bed where he lays you out.  You are apart for only seconds, but you feel so cold and empty that it is almost terrifying.  When he shucks his jeans and gets back on top of you, you unbutton his shirt with shaking fingers, body in convulsions from the angle he is fucking you.   

You have never been fully alive in your body until right now. 

You come while he fucks you and you come again, when he puts his hands on you, like he really does need to feel every inch of you with his searching fingers.  When he keeps touching you, you are so stimulated you slap his chest, making him smile at your loss of words. 

 You lay in a tangled heap, your legs twined together.  Your shirt is gone and his is unbuttoned, your cheek on his chest as he lays on his back.  You let yourself be a little lulled by the cadence of his breathing.

Your eyes eventually wander.  You realize the sun has joined that neon light, the fuzzy halo around the window now a clearer glow.  The day is beckoning.  It brings you back to reality, to the world outside this re-shaped room. 

“I know I need to face it eventually,” you say.  “I don’t know what will happen. But right now – I can’t be distracted from the mission.  I need to rescue Changbin.  I need to stop my father.”

Miroh is dead but everything he did haunts you, like a ghost around every corner.  You can’t afford to confront the other ghosts, including your own. 

“Whatever happens after right now,” you say.  “I guess I’ll see.” 

“I understand,” Chan says.  He is caressing your spine, fingertips stroking up and down the slope of your back.   He scratches a little at the nape of your neck, making you hum in contentment.  “Really,” he says.  “I know things got crazy earlier but… I think right now… I can do right now.”

You look up at him.  He smiles down at you, dimples digging into his cheeks.  You have to look away, because you just promised yourself no distractions, but that smile causes a flush of warmth that goes beyond the physical. 

“Well,” you say with a sigh, patting his chest.  “Maybe by then you and me will be friends for real.” 

You feel his body stiffen, shoulders dropping, the hand on your nape freezing.   You look up to see his face, a questioning brow quirked.  He is returning the expression, though his countenance is a little more drole. 

“What?” you say. 

He answers with a firmer grip on the back of your neck.  He rolls you over, onto your back, keeping your head lifted in his hand.  The length of his open flannel drapes over your warm skin, a soft tickle as he leans down and kisses you.  It starts gentle but doesn’t last, his tongue parting your lips and the hot, needy press of his mouth pinning you to the bed and his arms.   You kiss back but hardly keep up, dizzy with breathlessness as he licks into your mouth, as he chases down the breath of you, as he keeps your lips on his for as long as he possibly can. 

Then he leans to one side.  His breath tickles your neck before he kisses just below your ear.  He whispers, “I don’t want to be friends.” 

He looks at you with a far too innocent dimpled smile.  You think Chan might be a bigger threat to your well-being than the First Guard. 

“Okay,” you say, breathless.  “Noted.” 

-

You open the blinds.  Once the room is full of sunlight, you revert to soldiership and work on your next strategy. 

There is no doubt the Miroh corporation is floundering in a state of panic.   They are not only dealing with the loss of its boss and heir, but also destabilizing insider attacks on various sectors while vulnerable.  On top of everything else, stocks have plummeted and investors are running for their lives and their wallets. 

You and Chan have watched the company as well as the social reaction.  With different leaks and financial fallouts, especially given Miroh’s connections to governmental and military divisions, it is no surprise that different stories have been cycling through the news.  You have kept an ear on the radio and an eye on tv stations. 

As you scour blueprints and map your next manoeuvre, you have the news playing at a low volume in the background.  They are currently reporting the combustion of a Miroh facility.  Their research and sources have led them to deduce it is an inside job.  

That much is fairly obvious as no one else could do what you and Chan are doing, though you are not suspects.  The media believes you are dead, that both you and your father were assassinated at the same time.  You are not sure if the company honestly believes you died, that the First Guard killed you then disappeared without Miroh to corral him, or if they reported that so they could kill you without a fuss in the future. 

There are no reports on Chan, of course.  No one outside of Miroh’s world even knows he exists. 

The major suspects are disgruntled investors and former employers, so far mostly scientists and research assistants given the targeted facilities.  With some of the government leaks, there are also theories that some deals with legislators went sour and resulted in a target being painted over the name Miroh. 

This seems to the angle the current report is taking.  At first, you are only half-listening, as the news reporter does not mention anything you have not heard before. 

Then you catch the latter half of a sentence you are not expecting.

“—of greater potential concern as this latest attack was on a military base.”

Both you and Chan whip your heads up at the same time. 

You have not attacked any military bases. 

“Turn that up,” you say.

Chan is already on his feet and moving towards the bed where the remote was discarded.  He turns up the volume on the television and you both watch the report. 

It is not impossible that a domino effect could ripple from one facility to the next.  The more attacks you make – targeting all the little chinks in Miroh’s armour – the more likely it is that certain institutions will collapse entirely on their own.  Either people will chase the money, like a lot of former investors, or they will abandon course altogether.  Eventually, Miroh’s world will eat itself alive, with or without your help. 

But you have so far only targeted a couple smaller research facilities.  Yes, there have already been consequences, but not enough that a totally unrelated military base on the other side of the country would spontaneously combust. 

You stare at the screen.  That base is big.  It isn’t going down without a fight.  No one outside of the house of Miroh would have dared target it.  No one else would have known how. 

“Changbin,” you say. 

Chan puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.  You look at him then at the television, at the story unfolding rapidly in front of you. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” you ask.  “It has to be.”

There might be just enough chaos in the ranks that if a solder of Changbin’s calibre was being held, something might fall wayside and he would have an opportunity to escape.  

You are just not sure he would try.   Changbin has obviously undergone changes of his own, all seeming to stem from that final confrontation with Lee Felix before the enemy went down and took his world with him.   Changbin clearly decided once and for all what was really important to him.  Changbin has always played the game carefully, but in the last few months he repeatedly put himself between you and your father.   He intercepted multiple interactions with Miroh’s men, altercations you dismissed as nuisances at the time but shudder to realize the weight now. 

Changbin threw himself in the middle, again and again, painting a bigger and bigger target on his back.  He seemed resigned to his demise.  For that reason, you are not sure how much he would fight even if given the opportunity.  He seemed whole-heartedly certain he would be left behind, no matter what happened. 

You curl your hand into a fist, digging your nails into your scar.  There was so much you should have told him.  If he knew that you were willing to fight this hard.  If he knew you would find out the truth.  If, if, if—

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Chan says. 

You look at him just as he kneels down beside your chair.  He takes your hand, the one with the scar, and unfolds it carefully. 

“Kicking yourself won’t save him, yeah?”  Chan says. 

“Yeah,” you say with a huff. 

The report continues.  It details this attack as being an inside job as well.  Supposedly, according to rumours breaching the walls, multiple people have gone missing, but their identities have not been given to the press.  Hearing that, you become marginally more hopeful that Changbin is among them.  The company would not report their supposed missing persons because they are most likely prisoners being held in less-than-legal circumstances.  Changbin would be that type of prisoner.  

The fight is ongoing.  He could still be there. 

“It’s a lead, at least,” Chan says, echoing your thoughts. 

“Maybe we’ve been looking in the wrong place this whole time,” you say.  You have been targeting the science sector when maybe your father kept it all in the military house after all.  Maybe after the initial pass through that research facility, he was moved onto a more secure base, given his background as a former child soldier of the special-ops program. 

Well, if that is the case, their extra security did not work.  Of course it didn’t work.  It’s Seo Changbin.   You could laugh at their idiocy. 

“We need to find out either way,” you say. 

You manage your expectations for now, but as you sit at the table and change course to plan an entirely new strategy, it is with a hope as clear and bright as the sunlight.

-

It is a lot of driving to the military base.  You will get there at nightfall the next day if you stop only sparsely. 

You and Chan are swift in packing and climbing back into that car.  You take turns sleeping and driving, though the last leg of the journey is spent on edge.  You are braced and ready for a fight, all that determination exacerbated by the very real possibility that you are about to see Changbin again. 

What will you say to him?  What will he say to you?  You wonder how much he knew about the reconfiguration.  Clearly, he knew something, if not the specifics, as he went to great lengths to keep you away from your father. 

You thought Changbin had saved you on an emotional level, but you realize now how it crossed into every sphere of life.    

You close your eyes while Chan drives.  You see Changbin on that rooftop, saying he will not leave you behind.  It was the first hit that shattered the glass around you.  Miroh had so carefully built that clear coffin around your consciousness, and Changbin smashed right through with the sheer brute force of his friendship. 

You glance at Chan.  Miroh did everything in his power to make sure you forgot about him.  Bang Christopher Chan, the First Guard.  Someone you loved and who loved you.  Your father would have focussed on that.  He would not have seen anything. 

Why would he care about a friendship?  What does that word even mean to a man like him?  He would have looked right past Changbin.  He spent all that time wiping Chan from your mind, that he never thought to look for anything else. 

Your body gets cold as you remember – something.  You close your eyes.  You are standing in front of Changbin.  He’s young, in his late teens, about the age you would have been when they reconfigured you.  He is looking at you with uncertainty.  You feel an uneasiness looking back at him. 

Don’t you know me? he asks.  He pulls a face, makes some dumb noises, waves his hands.  Then he frowns.  Changbin can be funny, but he turns it off in a second, as deadly as the rest of them.   So much anger floods his eyes, they look black with the focussed intensity of his fury.  You know me, he says.  Think.  Remember me. 

You see a slant of moonlight, a windowpane, a streak of blood.  Remember me. 

You feel a weight as it is lifted off your chest.  You hear him shouting your name.  You hear him running. 

You know me, he says. 

You flinch – in your memory? – right now? – and a piercing wail floods your mind.  You don’t want to go towards that scream.  You can’t go there. 

It’s me, he says.  Hold on.  Keep your eyes open.  Don’t go.  I promise I’ll get you out.

“Changbin,” you say. 

“Hey, hey, baby, hey—”  That is Chan.  He is shaking your arm.

Your eyes pop open. 

You have never had flashes of recollection while awake.  It feels like a bigger adrenaline rush than waking from a nightmare, very little to divide your mind from reality. 

You take a few steadying breaths while Chan rubs your shoulder.  He was driving but the car is now stopped on the side of the road.  You did not even feel him braking. 

“What happened?” he asks when you are settled enough to speak.

“I don’t know,” you say.  “I just—I was thinking.  Remembering.  Not like that.  It’s complicated.  I just—”

You close your eyes.  A teenage Changbin is still standing there, looking at you warily. 

You know me. 

I know you.

“Changbin,” you say, choked up.  You blink your eyes open and take another breath.  “I’ll be okay,” you say.  “We can’t stop for long.  Let’s get back on the road.”

Chan does not look convinced, frowning as he stares into your face.  You blink at him, then narrow your eyes into a squint.

“Did you call me baby?” you ask. 

He clears his throat and turns back to the steering wheel.  Looking out over the dashboard, definitely not at you, and with the tips of his ears more than a little red, he says, “You’re right.  Let’s get back on the road.”

In spite of everything, you find yourself smiling. 

-

It is only natural that you are waylaid at the very last minute, right on the cusp of sunset as you approach the vicinity of the military base.  Not only is your path to finally rescuing Changbin obstructed, but it is halted by the most asinine, mundane nonsense in the world. 

Soldiers, agents, entire convoluted military operations – those you can easily take.  Minimum wage workers, on the other hand, are impossible combatants.  More grizzled than the worst of ancient servicemen, they blink at your pleading with a harsher chill than a mob boss.   You are certain this gas station attendant has seen some shit because he is not remotely inclined to assuage anyone’s anxiety. 

“The till is down,” he says with an icy tone, face pinched unpleasantly.  “It’ll be back up in a minute.” 

He goes back to talking to his manager on the phone, smacking his computer till at random intervals.  It does not exactly inspire confidence. 

While you and Chan have been getting by with theft and subterfuge, you do everything in your power to not draw attention.  That means you pay for gas as many stations have security cameras that log and report drive-offs and defaults. 

That means you are stuck in this line with several other customers while the hapless cashier whacks his computer.

The little bell above the door rings as Chan steps inside the shop. 

“What’s taking so long?” he asks. 

“I want to hit him,” you say, pointing to the disinterested cashier.  “He’s never gonna get that thing fixed.  We have somewhere to be, we can’t just stand here all day—” 

“Ah, ah, ah, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Chan says soothingly.  He interrupts your rant as you were raising your voice.   Not that it matters because the incompetent cashier is not paying any attention. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Chan says.  “You just have to know how to talk to people, yeah?” 

The cashier paid you absolutely no mind when you tried to complain.  He gave you a nasty look and ordered you to get to the back of the line.  Chan, on the other, receives a quick onceover and a blink of seeming approval. 

Chan leans on the counter and smiles a devastatingly charming smile, those dimples blinding.  The cashier puts the phone on his shoulder and looks at him expectantly.    

“Hey there,” Chan says. 

“Hello,” the cashier replies, coolly but not as rudely.  “The till is broken, sir.  We’re going to have to wait for a repair.”

“You know, I’m pretty good with my hands,” Chan says.  “I bet if you let me under there, I could figure something out.” 

The cashier blinks at him.  One blink, two blinks, three.  Then he hangs up the phone and opens the gate to let Chan behind the counter. 

You cross your arms and roll your eyes. 

Chan, perhaps unsurprisingly given his necessary breadth of skills, helps the useless cashier get his dumb register running again.  You all but throw the money at his stupid pretty head before marching away. 

“Thanks, Wolfgang,” the cashier says, using the made-up name Chan gave him.

“No problem.”  Chan winks back at him.   “Have a good day, uh—”  He squints at the name tag, gives it only a sparing glance as he steps out the door.  “Hyunjin,” he says.

The door swings closed and you continue on your way. 

-

Fortunately, you have no more preposterous interludes.   You approach the base differently than the facilities, especially because you have not been able to do a proper sweep.  However, that should be fine given the entire operation here has already been massively destabilized.  All the main assets have moved along, either because of imminent danger or because the media now has its eyes on its actions. 

Either way, you get inside without much fuss.  You stick together for longer, not trusting the dark corridors and labyrinthine tunnels. 

It is a lot emptier than anticipated.  The fight seems to have ended some time in the last couple hours.  There is an eerie, unsettled feeling, like a house abandoned in the middle of a meal.  Unlike the dusty underground hovels at the research facility, this place is still breathing.   You are not sure what it will cough up. 

“Still think he’s here?”  Chan asks, likely coming to the same conclusion as you: that even if Changbin was here, he has probably moved on.  He has either escaped and gone of his own volition or he was caught and reprimanded and has been relocated. 

“Maybe,” you say with a sigh.  “Maybe not.  But it’s still a lead.  Treat it like one.” 

You finally split up to cover more ground, agreeing to reconvene at the central warehouse in half-an-hour. 

Maybe Changbin is no longer in these walls – maybe he was never here at all – but there might still be answers.  You suspect there are questions too, because you cannot imagine who outside of the special-ops program would have both the calibre of skill and necessary intel to pull of an operation like this.  Someone reached right into the heart of this base and yanked at its ventricles like it was nothing.  And if not to escape, then why?

It has to be Changbin, you tell yourself, even while a sense of wrongness creeps under your skin.  It is the same odd, unsettled feeling you get when you think about the night the enemy died – specifically when you think about that security system somehow being wiped after the house burned down with everyone inside it.  It is that strange discombobulation, where the answer is probably simple and right in front of your face, so blatant that its absence haunts and distracts you.

You are distracted with thought.  Maybe that is why you make your first mistake.

You turn a corner and crash right into someone.  You are shocked because you did not hear their approach.  Even distracted, you should have heard footsteps in an empty corridor, especially in heavy combat boots.  You are quiet but you have unique bodily control that even well-trained soldiers cannot replicate.  No one else can walk that quietly.

It is clear the same startled reaction ripples through their body. 

You draw guns at the same time, firing with equal speed and precision.  You also both duck at the same time.  Smooth as a dance, you whirl around each other, firing and re-loading until they do a spin-kick and knock the gun aside.  

As you fight with your hands, you only catch glimpses of your opponent.  They are dressed all in black but not in Miroh’s uniform, a balaclava pulled over their face and head.  They are very slender, but they land a hit like someone twice their size. 

Your second mistake is your own fault.  You underestimate them based on their build and it earns you a good right cross. In the ensuing dizziness, they make a break down the corridor at an alarming speed.  It leaves you reeling more than the hit. 

“What the fuck,” you say, staggering after them. 

This person does not work for Miroh, that much is obvious.  It also definitely isn’t Changbin.  This person has the completely wrong build, opposite of Changbin in almost every way.   No, it isn’t your friend, but it might very well be another prisoner.  They might have an idea of what happened.  They might know if Changbin was here and where he went. 

The thought propels you into a determined sprint.  You cannot follow sound as the person is good enough to keep their footsteps low, but you are just as skilled so they likewise do not see you coming. 

They coincidentally head straight for the central warehouse.   The warehouse previously functioned as a pseudo-armory, but it has already been completely cleared.  It is two levels, the top floor a balcony walkway overlooking the main warehouse floor. 

The warehouse is empty except for the intruder. The person seems to be deliberating.   They remove their head covering for a second, long enough to catch their breath.  You see a flash of black hair and a hint of a masculine profile before you are spotted.   The man tugs the fabric back over his head. 

He leaps right off the balcony. 

It is too high for a normal person to jump without breaking a leg.  Naturally, you run to the railing to look over.

Your adversary is a step ahead of you.   He is dangling there, waiting for you to approach so he can swing back over and knock you down.  You skid across the balcony level, the metal walkway rattling under your weight. 

You don’t stay down for long.  Another fight begins, a back and forth tussle that makes you think you need more training.  The past day has been more than a little hectic, but you should be able to take down even a well-trained soldier. 

He does another spin-kick, a solid roundhouse that knocks your mask right off.   You stumble sideways while the mask clatters across the balcony before spilling right over the ledge.  It is a long descent before it smacks the ground. 

You ground your footing, assuming a defensive stance with a swift upward swing.

“Who are you?” you ask.

At the exact same time, the man says, “You.” 

That prompts another question, a bigger question, why on earth this stranger would recognize you in this context.   You cannot even think about your question, however, because the man abruptly flies at you with twice the verve as before.  Caught off guard, at first you struggle to defend yourself.   When he finally swings too wide, giving you an opening, you do not waste the opportunity. 

You tackle him, fully and bodily, arms around him as you charge the balcony.   You shove him right over the railing.  It is not so high that he’ll die, but you don’t want to kill him anyway.  You need to ask him questions – like did he do all this and how and why?  Are there others?  Is Changbin among them? 

You grasp the railing.  You are prepared to swing and jump over but you stop short at what you find.  The man, who should be nursing a fractured leg right about now, is instead getting to his feet.  He looks a bit dizzy, shaking his head and rubbing his temple, but he is otherwise unscathed. 

You just stand there for a second, gawping at him like an animal. 

That shielded face finally lifts, eyes finding yours across the space.   His head cocks, seemingly a dry and irritated, Really?

You launch yourself off the balcony, landing heavily but safely.  You absorb the shock and straighten, not taking your eyes off this man for a second. 

“I’m not interested in hurting you,” you say. 

He scoffs, pointedly looking down at your uniform. 

“I don’t work for Miroh anymore,” you say.  “I’m just trying to blend in.” 

“You?” he says.  It is so far the only thing he is willing to say.  His voice has a darker, deeper tone, scratching at the back of your head, but his monosyllabic replies do nothing to help place him. 

You want to say more but he doesn’t let you, jumping back into action.  You huff in aggravation, wanting to shout, we’re on the same side!   But he is fast.  You expend your energy just keeping him at bay.

Your stamina is fairly well-matched, just like everything else.  You move around the warehouse, kicking and punching and flipping around each other, losing track of minutes. 

A sheen of sweat breaks under your uniform.  He is slowing down too.  There is just one difference: he still has his gun. 

He gets you behind the knee and puts you on your back.  Before you can retaliate, he draws his gun and points it at your face. 

You freeze, staring down the barrel.  You slowly lift your eyes to him, just in case any sudden movement convinces him to fire.  So far, he is holding, though you are not sure why.  If he truly wanted to avoid detection, it would have been in his best interest to kill you and move on. 

He hesitates.  His hand is steady but his eyes are darting around inside the masked fabric. 

Your eyes continue to wander up, up.  Your heart leaps when you see Chan approaching on the balcony, silent and serious, gun in hand.  He has a longer-range weapon, not a little pistol like you and the adversary.   He takes aim from his perch but you shake your head.

You know Chan can make the shot, that he could get the man through the head and not so much as graze you under him.  But if this man dies, his answers go with him. 

“No!” you shout at the same time the gun goes off. 

You wrap your legs around the man’s midsection and yank him to the side.  You roll, one over the other until you are pinned once more.  You are both unharmed.  With the head covering, it is hard to tell if he is frazzled.  He certainly whips his head around quickly, trying to see where he dropped his gun. 

You spot it at the same time.  You glance at each other then bolt, stumbling over one another as you charge the discarded pistol. 

Chan jumps down off the balcony.  He takes more of a running leap, jumping forward rather than just down.  It gives him far more momentum so he hits the ground and tucks into a roll, riding the wave of that momentum until he is in the middle of the room. 

Chan reaches the gun first.  He kicks it out of the way and comes at the adversary with his bare hands.  He may not understand why you wanted to save an enemy who had you pinned under a gun, but Chan must trust there is a reason because he fights to incapacitate rather than kill. 

It is a good fight, but the man is already tired from fighting you. 

And you are good, but Chan is better.  If he could not beat you, only tie, then he cannot beat Chan. 

Sure enough, it takes a few more moves before the man is on his back.  Chan, still wearing his half-mask, straddles the man’s chest, pinning his arms at his sides and his body to the floor.  He draws a knife out of a thigh holster for good measure.   

“Got him,” Chan says.  “Who is this guy?”

“I have no idea,” you say, jogging over to them.  “That’s what I want to find out.”

“Let me go,” the man says, wriggling uselessly under Chan’s weight.   “I have nothing to say to her.”

“I told you already, I’m on your side,” you say.  “Or at least I’m not on Miroh’s side.”

“Whose side are you on?”  Chan asks with a jerk of his head. 

“Mine,” the man answers.  “Now let me go.  I have a job.”

“We have a job,” you say.  “We’re the ones who have been taking out the facilities so far.”

That gets the man to stop squirming.  He looks at you through the narrow eye slits in his balaclava, eyes darting to where you stand behind Chan. 

“You?” the man asks, seemingly his favourite word. 

“Yes, me,” you snap.  “And who are you exactly?” 

“One way to find out,” Chan says.  He does not wait for any further acknowledgement, ripping the man’s mask right off his head.  It is not a cruel or violent action, more a casual shrug of his arm than anything.  You are not expecting to find anything more than the scowling face of a stranger.   

You and Chan freeze.   

Staring back at you, with his hair returned to its natural pitch, his dark eyes narrowed in an intense glare, and a face full of unmistakable freckles, is a former agent of Miroh’s special-ops program.  One of the last and a traitor, not to mention supposedly dead. 

“You,” is what you say.

You do not know what else to say to Lee Felix. 

[ayeforscotland]

AI advocates frustrate the hell out of me, because of their singleminded insistence that AI is solely a good thing and that everyone should adopt it and stop whining about it.

Like they just outright do not give a damn about the very real CONSEQUENCES, like the loss of jobs, the theft of other people's work to feed the egos of a bunch of wannabe grifters, the increasingly blurry lines between fact and fiction that is being created by these fake images... It's all "ME ME ME fuck anyone who isn't me, go back to McDonalds if you're an artist or someone who gets in the way of my instant gratification!"

Yeah, I mean that anon was obviously written as a wind up but nice to have someone playing that role so it can be rebutted properly. Before it was 'big data' then it was 'blockchain' then it was 'NFTs' then it was 'the Metaverse' now its 'Gen AI'. It's all just hype for hype's sake, and they don't really care about the social implications of any of it.

Hence why none of the 'pros' of AI are about making the world a better place, they want everyone to be able to generate their own movies with a few key words which is honestly boring as shit.

[astra-ravana]

Technomancy: The Fusion Of Magick And Technology

Technomancy is a modern magickal practice that blends traditional occultism with technology, treating digital and electronic tools as conduits for energy, intent, and manifestation. It views computers, networks, and even AI as extensions of magickal workings, enabling practitioners to weave spells, conduct divination, and manipulate digital reality through intention and programming.

Core Principles of Technomancy

• Energy in Technology – Just as crystals and herbs carry energy, so do electronic devices, circuits, and digital spaces.

• Code as Sigils – Programming languages can function as modern sigils, embedding intent into digital systems.

• Information as Magick – Data, algorithms, and network manipulation serve as powerful tools for shaping reality.

• Cyber-Spiritual Connection – The internet can act as an astral realm, a collective unconscious where digital entities, egregores, and thought-forms exist.

Technomantic Tools & Practices

Here are some methods commonly utilized in technomancy. Keep in mind, however, that like the internet itself, technomancy is full of untapped potential and mystery. Take the time to really explore the possibilities.

Digital Sigil Crafting

• Instead of drawing sigils on paper, create them using design software or ASCII art.

• Hide them in code, encrypt them in images, or upload them onto decentralized networks for long-term energy storage.

• Activate them by sharing online, embedding them in file metadata, or charging them with intention.

Algorithmic Spellcasting

• Use hashtags and search engine manipulation to spread energy and intent.

• Program bots or scripts that perform repetitive, symbolic tasks in alignment with your goals.

• Employ AI as a magickal assistant to generate sigils, divine meaning, or create thought-forms.

Digital Divination

• Utilize random number generators, AI chatbots, or procedural algorithms for prophecy and guidance.

• Perform digital bibliomancy by using search engines, shuffle functions, or Wikipedia’s “random article” feature.

• Use tarot or rune apps, but enhance them with personal energy by consecrating your device.

Technomantic Servitors & Egregores

• Create digital spirits, also called cyber servitors, to automate tasks, offer guidance, or serve as protectors.

• House them in AI chatbots, coded programs, or persistent internet entities like Twitter bots.

• Feed them with interactions, data input, or periodic updates to keep them strong.

The Internet as an Astral Plane

• Consider forums, wikis, and hidden parts of the web as realms where thought-forms and entities reside.

• Use VR and AR to create sacred spaces, temples, or digital altars.

• Engage in online rituals with other practitioners, synchronizing intent across the world.

Video-game Mechanics & Design

• Use in-game spells, rituals, and sigils that reflect real-world magickal practices.

• Implement a lunar cycle or planetary influences that affect gameplay (e.g., stronger spells during a Full Moon).

• Include divination tools like tarot cards, runes, or pendulums that give randomized yet meaningful responses.

Narrative & World-Building

• Create lore based on historical and modern magickal traditions, including witches, covens, and spirits.

• Include moral and ethical decisions related to magic use, reinforcing themes of balance and intent.

• Introduce NPCs or AI-guided entities that act as guides, mentors, or deities.

Virtual Rituals & Online Covens

• Design multiplayer or single-player rituals where players can collaborate in spellcasting.

• Implement altars or digital sacred spaces where users can meditate, leave offerings, or interact with spirits.

• Create augmented reality (AR) or virtual reality (VR) experiences that mimic real-world magickal practices.

Advanced Technomancy

The fusion of technology and magick is inevitable because both are fundamentally about shaping reality through will and intent. As humanity advances, our tools evolve alongside our spiritual practices, creating new ways to harness energy, manifest desires, and interact with unseen forces. Technology expands the reach and power of magick, while magick brings intention and meaning to the rapidly evolving digital landscape. As virtual reality, AI, and quantum computing continue to develop, the boundaries between the mystical and the technological will blur even further, proving that magick is not antiquated—it is adaptive, limitless, and inherently woven into human progress.

Cybersecurity & Warding

• Protect your digital presence as you would your home: use firewalls, encryption, and protective sigils in file metadata.

• Employ mirror spells in code to reflect negative energy or hacking attempts.

• Set up automated alerts as magickal wards, detecting and warning against digital threats.

Quantum & Chaos Magic in Technomancy

• Use quantum randomness (like random.org) in divination for pure chance-based outcomes.

• Implement chaos magick principles by using memes, viral content, or trend manipulation to manifest desired changes.

AI & Machine Learning as Oracles

• Use AI chatbots (eg GPT-based tools) as divination tools, asking for symbolic or metaphorical insights.

• Train AI models on occult texts to create personalized grimoires or channeled knowledge.

• Invoke "digital deities" formed from collective online energies, memes, or data streams.

Ethical Considerations in Technomancy

• Be mindful of digital karma—what you send out into the internet has a way of coming back.

• Respect privacy and ethical hacking principles; manipulation should align with your moral code.

• Use technomancy responsibly, balancing technological integration with real-world spiritual grounding.

As technology evolves, so will technomancy. With AI, VR, and blockchain shaping new realities, magick continues to find expression in digital spaces. Whether you are coding spells, summoning cyber servitors, or using algorithms to divine the future, technomancy offers limitless possibilities for modern witches, occultists, and digital mystics alike.

"Magick is technology we have yet to fully understand—why not merge the two?"

[nasa]

Ways NASA Studies the Ocean

We live on a water planet. The ocean covers a huge part of the Earth's surface – earning it the name Blue Marble.

The ocean is one of Earth’s largest ecosystems and helps moderate Earth’s climate. NASA scientists spend a lot of time studying the ocean and how it is changing as Earth’s climate changes.

In the last few years, NASA has launched an array of missions dedicated to studying this precious part of our planet, with more to come. For World Oceans Month, which starts in June, here are new ways NASA studies the ocean.

1. Seeing the colors of the ocean 🎨

A new NASA mission called PACE will see Earth’s oceans in more color than ever before. The color of the ocean is determined by the interaction of sunlight with substances or particles present in seawater.

Scheduled to launch in 2024, PACE will help scientists assess ocean health by measuring the distribution of phytoplankton, tiny plants and algae that sustain the marine food web. PACE will also continue measuring key atmospheric variables associated with air quality and Earth's climate.

2. Surveying surface water around the globe 💧

The SWOT satellite, launched in late 2022, is studying Earth’s freshwater – from oceans and coasts to rivers, lakes and more – to create the first global survey of Earth’s surface water.

SWOT is able to measure the elevation of water, observing how major bodies of water are changing and detecting ocean features. The data SWOT collects will help scientists assess water resources, track regional sea level changes, monitor changing coastlines, and observe small ocean currents and eddies.

3. Setting sail to understand interactions between the ocean and atmosphere 🚢

With research aircraft, a research ship, and autonomous ocean instruments like gliders, NASA’s S-MODE mission is setting sail to study Earth’s oceans up close. Their goal? To understand ocean whirlpools, eddies and currents.

These swirling ocean features drive the give-and-take of nutrients and energy between the ocean and atmosphere and, ultimately, help shape Earth’s climate.

4. Building ocean satellites the size of a shoebox 📦

NASA’s HawkEye instrument collects ocean color data and captures gorgeous images of Earth from its orbit just over 355 miles (575 kilometers) above Earth’s surface. It’s also aboard a tiny satellite measuring just 10cm x 10 cm x 30 cm – about the size of a shoebox!

5. Designing new missions to study Earth’s oceans! 🌊

NASA is currently designing a new space-based instrument called GLIMR that will help scientists observe and monitor oceans throughout the Gulf of Mexico, the southeastern U.S. coastline and the Amazon River plume that stretches to the Atlantic Ocean. GLIMR will also provide important information about oil spills, harmful algae blooms, water quality and more to local agencies.

6. Taking the ocean to new heights ⬆️

The U.S.-European Sentinel-6 Michael Freilich satellite is helping researchers measure the height of the ocean - a key component in understanding how Earth’s climate is changing.

This mission, which launched in 2020, has a serious job to do. It’s not only helping meteorologists improve their weather forecasts, but it’s helping researchers understand how climate change is changing Earth’s coastlines in real time.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!