#data center concepts

[wallpapers4screen]

[mostly-natm]

can you draw bashir?

I can. The jury is still out on if I should.

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP Fanfic Idea: Not My Business

Danny Fenton develops a unique set of skills throughout his life. He knew how to disarm a bomb when he was seven, thanks to his Dad making minebombs in the front yard as a ghost defense. (They only covered humans in ecto-goo, but it was the same concept of not wanting to have it explode on him)

He knew how to fight with a bo-staff only because he had to fight off the meals his parents brought back to life with a broom. He knew how to balance a checkbook, file tax forms, and properly build credit by the time he was ten, thanks to the years his parents ran a business at the kitchen table.

His sister taught him how to charm rude customers with a smile, how to lie without flinching, and how to complete all his assignments on time, despite having only a few hours to do so. She spent a lot of time volunteering, often dragging him along, which allowed Danny to build up his resume with both soft and hard skills he likely would never have thought there was a name for.

Problem-solving, teamwork, communication, time management, adaptability, data analysis, cybersecurity, data entry, and copywriting were the skills that Jazz focused on the most. She all but beat them into his head.

Along with cooking, sewing, basic plumbing, basic mechanics, and budgeting. Jazz was the one who looked for practical abilities.

That left time for his mom and dad to teach him things like forging, combat training, reprogramming everyday objects into weaponry, defending his position before a board for grant money, turning everyday household liquids into knock-out gas, and how to talk his way out of traffic tickets.

Not to mention everything he learn as Phantom.

Danny knew how to verify jewels and gold due to the years spent in the ghost zone fighting off pirates and treasure hunters. Phantom's reputation made him a target for many ghosts who wanted to add his rarity to their collections.

How to command a room, then a town, and finally an army. Diplomatic missions increased in number as he began meeting with the leaders of various sectors within the Ghost Zones.

Really, Danny didn't make a whole lot of sense, if anyone bothered to ask him how he came to this set of skills. The thing was, unlike the rest of his family, Danny was far too reserved to show them off. He edged the line of shyness from a young age, which sometimes bled into reclusive tendencies.

He didn't get anxious from social interactions; he just didn't feel like seeking them out. Sam and Tucker felt a similar way, as they were always willing to talk to a stranger, but they tried to branch out of their safe little bubble to make friends rather than acquaintances. Then the summer between sophomore and junior year happened.

Sam, Danny, and Tucker left tenth grade as plain losers only to arrive in junior with a splash.

The trio noticed that people were staring at them more intensely than they had been before. That they were used to, what they weren't used to was that the stares were not mocking or dismissive.

It was odd, but it didn't click on why that was until winter break, and more specifically, Star's Holiday party.

Ever since the fourth grade, Star hosted the biggest party of their generation. Her parents owned the local fun center, which featured indoor kart racing, laser tag, arcade games, paintball, and virtual reality pods. Everyone tripped over themselves to be given an invitation as she offered a full day and night of free entertainment at the center.

It always ended with wild stories of teenage fun that Danny always wanted to see in person, rather than hearing about in the hallways the next day. Not that everyone in their grade went. The invitation list was super selective (Star's parents did lose a lot of profit for letting their daughter do that)

You either received an invitation from the party girl herself, or you were asked to be a plus one, which was just as much of an honor as it was a symbol of social status among the teenage population of Amity Park.

The trio was never invited, which is why they were already making their way to the student parking lot when Star stood in the courtyard, holding up the scarred envelopes. Inside them was the bracelet that one had to scan at the door of her center to let people in. It was how her father ensured only the agreed-upon guests stayed at that number.

In the middle of making plans for hot chocolate at Sam's favorite poetry slam cafe, Star had run at Tucker's car, practically falling over to knock on his window. Danny had never been so confused in his life as his friend rolled down his window to arch a brow at the girl.

She stuttered her way through a pathetic request for fashion advice that Tucker easily answered in two sentences. Sam snickered as Star seemed unsure what to do with Tucker's lack of interest in her or her popularity.

Ever since Tucker started focusing more on his self-confidence and joined the fashion community, he hadn't been so girl-crazy nor as desperate to get one's attention.

Just as Danny reminded Tucker that other cars were waiting for them to clear the road, Star had pushed three envelopes into the driver's hand and run off with a red face.

Tucker stared at the envelopes in his hands with a wild look that both Sam and Danny shared. They slowly kicked their brains back into gear when an angry honk from the car behind them sounded, and they ended up silently driving the cafe, still in a daze.

Jazz laughed herself silly when they rang her up to ask if she thought it was a trick (Sam was sure they were going to be Carrie-ed), a mistake (Danny insisted Star had gone to the wrong car, but due to the tinting, didn't realize until it was too late). Or a genuine invitation (Tcuker had always been the most optimistic of the three).

"Haven't you three ever wondered why Spectra used emotion-based ectoplasm for her appearance?" She giggled, "It makes people hot. And you guys literally spend all summer in the Ghost Zone during your internships, feeling human emotions while being exposed to natural ectoplasm. You three came back looking good."

That was a shock.

The summer apprenticeships had been a compromise between Sam and her parents. They were growing tired of her not growing out of her "phase" and were threatening to send her to a military camp to straighten her out.

Thankfully, Jazz had stepped in, brilliantly changing their minds into allowing the college student to match Sam up with a well-known friend as a mentor. She even threw Danny and Tucker into her "program" to further show that it was just what Sam needed to stop her from being a troubled teen.

Since only Maddie and Jack knew about Phantom, it took some effort among all of them to create fake websites and legitimate-looking summer programs before Sam, Tucker, and Danny arrived in the Ghost Zone in different vehicles to spend their summers. It helped that Ghostwriter owed them a favor, and he brought the programs to life.

Danny was learning medical practices of various species with Frostbite. Sam was with Princess Dorathea, learning how to govern and manage a large estate. Tucker had taken Wulf up on his offer to join him through the Ghost Zone's wildness, allowing Tucker to experience life off-screen and learn more about animals.

Jazz had said she placed them out of their comfort zones, but with trusted ghosts that could help them build well-rounded characters. At first, it wasn't for them, but the trio found themselves falling in love with their activities.

By the time they came back, they had many stories and exceptional skills to share with their parents. Sam's parents weren't happy she was still a goth, but they did appreciate her newfound determination to connect with them and her interest in running companies like the family business.

Tucker's parents were amazed by the muscles he gained and how he started to limit his screen time. He still loves his tech, but now he was branching out into fashion, helping out around the house, and appreciating animals and nature like never before.

Maddie and Jack watched as Danny grew more empathic while becoming more sure of what to do in stressful situations. Confidence that their son desperately needed had been gifted to him over the summer. He no longer lowered his eyes or slouched, even if his awkwardness lingered a bit.

That apparently made them hot? Yes, it did.

At Star's party, even though the three kept to themselves, laughing and hanging out as normal, people were constantly attempting to talk to them or simply flushing whenever they made eye contact. Danny, Sam, and Tucker all agreed that they no longer wanted to be popular.

They stay firmly behind unbreakable walls even as the party skyrocketed them to the same level of popularity as the A-listers (they refused to join the club). The three were more excited to return to their summer internships the following summer.

By the time graduation rolled around, Danny, Sam, and Tucker had been voted the most attractive and the most likely to succeed. They were a new type of untouchable royalty walking the halls of Casper High.

It came as no surprise that their resumes and internships got them offers from various colleges, not to mention their looks. Jazz, by that point, was still working on her degree at Gotham U, so the three chose to go there.

Danny was studying to become a doctor, Sam was in business, and Tucker chose computer sciences. They had moved into a house that Sam's parents bought for them, allowing Jazz to move out of the dorms into the spare room. Things were going great for a while, living in the big city and being adults on their own for the first time.

Then Danny applied for an internship at Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital in the administrative area- Sam convinced him it would be a good way to get a foot in the door when he applied to medical school. He needed someone to write him rec letters.- And one night, when he was working late on data entry, he happened to see Batman's maskless fall out of a portal produced by a trenchcoat man.

The trenchcoat man carried Batman to the abandoned operating room that had been left behind when they remodeled the place and converted it into offices, followed by the rest of the Bats. Their faces were covered entirely, but it did not hide their worry as they rushed to catch up with the pair.

A woman wearing scrubs pushed through the portal and the group of masked heroes, barking out orders to prepare the room.

There was a magic spell wrapped around the group that typically would have made them invisible, and erase their importance in the mind of whoever looked at them, as if they were from a forgotten dream. Still, Danny's ecto contamination made him immune to the spell, so he witnessed the whole thing.

Huh. Bruce Wayne was Batman. Neat.

Danny figured it wasn't his business and turned back to his two monitors to finish the Excel spreadsheet he was working on. He later left after saving his work, ignoring the fact that he now knew why the operating room had been left untouched, despite having all that technology on standby.

He would get home, mention it over a plate of reheated pizza, while Tucker would be working on an essay due at midnight. His best friend would shrug, claiming his own ectoplasim had made him immune to Poison Ivy's plants- they were shockingly similar to some of the plants Wulf and he encountered in the Ghost Zone- and had seen Red Robin's face after the man had been sprayed in the face and some of the powder lingered on his mask.

Apparently, Tucker's midnight essay writing had given him a familiar, dazed college look of exhaustion. Still, since he wasn't freaking out at the man eating plants, Red Robin had thought him too gone on whatever Posion Ivy how dosed the crowd of hostages with, to worry about his bare face. He had merely moved Tucker somewhere safe, stabbed him in the thigh with a needle, which had been rude according to Tucker, and run off to fight Ivy.

Red Robin was Tim Drake. Neat.

The two changed the subject to a TV show, but eventually Tucker had to focus on his essay, and they fell silent.

The following morning, Sam reported that she, too, had figured out a Gotham Hero's identity by accident. Her ectoplasim contamination had made her an attractive goth, who was approached by a blushing Damian Wayne to ask her to model her alternative style for his art club.

At the offer of a bit of pocket change, Sam had agreed to follow the art club president to a park where a group of teenagers were setting up canvases and easels. They asked her to sit on the park fountain for a few hours while they tried to capture her likeness in charcoal.

During the session, she noticed a change in Damian's movement as he grew more relaxed and his old habits began to shine through. Princess Dorathea had taught her the dangers of the court and how to notice little changes in body language that could keep her safe.

She thought it was odd that Damian moved like an assassin, reaching for a small knife in the same way he wielded his charcoal. It made sense later when she was rescued by Robin on her walk home from a would-be mugging and noticed the same little habits.

Robin was Damian Wayne. Neat.

If three of the many Bats were Waynes or connected to the famous family, it only logically makes sense that the rest were all Waynes too. Double neat.

The only one who was sincerely shocked by this reveal was Jazz, who had not even a hint of suspicion that Bruce Wayne was Batman.

"This is huge!" Jazz gasps, "Don't you guys realize how crazy this is!?"

"I mean, sure," Tucker slowly responded, sharing a confused glance with Sam and Danny. "But it's not really our business, is it? It's not like Danny is in the hero scene anymore."

"Well, yes but come on it's Batman!"

"I don't think Batman even cares about us, much less his Bruce persona. As someone from the bottom of the first class, trust me, the top of the first class doesn't even notice us taking up space. " Sam laughs, shaking her head. Danny hesitates to mention that Bruce Wayne has stopped by his office multiple times to bring coffee for all his coworkers, but figures the man must do that for all his employees.

Miles and miles away in Wayne Manor, Bruce narrows his eyes at the three screens displaying three newly graduated teens covered in paranormal residue. It's possible that they were all haunted and just didn't know it, which was a common thing, according to the Justice League Dark.

After some digging into their background, he found that companies, summer camps, and internships had all been fabricated by an incredible hacker who provided an oddly convincing cover-up for the various skills the trio possessed. Again, the Justice League Dark also stated that it was common, as that was a tactic the Otherworlders frequently used on humans to leech onto them.

Like a gas station in the middle of nowhere that was there and then it wasn't a few days later.

The three weren't experiencing any negative emotions, which meant whatever was haunting them would soon pass, and it wasn't necessary to intervene. Zatanna promised Bruce that everything was fine.

He had some doubts.

So far, the three have been doing everyday things that first-year college students typically do, and yet, Bruce's children have reported seeing the three often in their civilian lives.

Foley worked out at the same gym Dick did and was often at the ramen shop Jason just helped one of his friends open. Manson began spending time at Cass's favorite café and attended Duke's poetry nights as an observer. Fenton, the male one, was literally working a few floors below Tim.

A coincidence?

Or was it something nefarious at play?

Bruce decided to wait and see what happens.

[cressidagrey]

Love Letter

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

Summary: Other people write love letters, Felicity Piastri reengineers tire degradation. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who actually knows what she is talking about and is the genius behind the science. She said this science "was understandable and accurate enough for fic." (Also I am aware that this is not believable, but hey, let me have fun 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

By the time McLaren hit mid-season in 2024, Andrea Stella had become something of a veteran in the art of bracing for impact — the kind that came not from a crash, but from the Piastri household.

He had gotten used to it.

Oscar’s precision. His unnerving calm. The way he drove with the composure of a man triple his age and none of the ego.

Felicity, who wasn’t technically on the payroll, but might as well have had a desk in R&D. Who was so liked in the engineering department that Andrea had overheard an engineer asking Oscar like an overexcited puppy when his wife was going to come back and play with them. 

Felicity was always lingering at the edge of a race day.

Always watching. Always noticing.

And then there was Bee — small, serious, and so wildly intelligent it made his engineers nervous. She had literally seen an issue with their suspension during her first trip to the garage. Now, she asked about downforce balance mid-lunch and then drew airflow diagrams on her juice box.

Andrea had learned to expect brilliance from them.

But what Felicity handed him that morning wasn’t brilliance.

It was revolution.

It came in the form of a single-page drawing.

A3 paper. Hand-sketched. Neat annotations in clean block lettering.

She passed it over casually, like it was a grocery list. “Was thinking about deg last night. Couldn’t sleep. Just a theory. Don’t know if it’s actually useful, sorry.”

Andrea glanced at it.

Then really looked.

And stopped breathing.

At first glance, it looked like a cooling solution — rim cooling, a variation on brake duct design. Not uncommon. Not radical.

But then he saw it.

Phase. Change. Materials.

His eyes darted to the margin where she’d written:

PCM core set to activate at 276°C. Peak drawdown window ~30 seconds, reset threshold <210°C. Tapered air channel design for directional retention. Modeled after CPU heat-sink transfer.

Andrea looked up.

Felicity just shrugged. “Everyone’s been trying to brute-force cooling through airflow. I figured… maybe it’s not about keeping it cool. Maybe it’s about controlling the peak.”

It wasn’t theoretical.

It was elegant.

Andrea’s brain kicked into high gear. 

PCM — phase change materials — had been a whispered concept in F1 circles for years. The holy grail of thermal management. 

The idea that you could insert a material that would melt in response to a precise temperature range, absorbing energy as it changed state — holding a system in a stable thermal window. It worked in CPUs. Data centers. Rocketry.

But no one had ever made it viable in an F1 brake drum environment.

Not until now.

Not until this.

Not until it came from Oscar Piastri’s wife, at 2 a.m., in the quiet space between insomnia and motherhood.

Andrea blinked hard. “You know we’ve had engineers — PhDs — trying to crack this for years?”

She just shrugged. 

He had no words.

Just respect.

And the rising sense that something seismic had shifted.

He handed it straight to the sim team. They ran a closed simulation. Quietly. Then another. And another.

By the time they tested it under controlled parameters, the engineers were whispering about windowed degradation curves. About temperature floors. About thermal consistency that shouldn’t be possible.

Oscar was suddenly able to manage medium compounds like they were hard. The performance drop-off curve flattened — flattened. Andrea had never seen anything like it.

No magic bullet in F1 ever worked this fast.

But this?

This wasn’t a magic bullet.

It was physics. It was material science. It was control — without compromise.

They ran it again during a private test at Silverstone. And then — stealthily — implemented portions of the system into the race package.

By the time the 2025 season came around, Red Bull was accusing them of cheating. Mercedes was sulking. Ferrari was confused. 

The paddock wanted to know what the hell McLaren had done.

The answer?

Felicity Piastri.

When Andrea called her into his office, holding the latest race run data in one hand and a calculator in the other, she sat across from him sipping tea out of a mug with Bee’s name on it.

“You realize you’ve just solved one of the biggest unsolved problems in modern F1?” he said.

Felicity blinked. “I was just tired of watching Oscar hemorrhage tire life while driving perfectly.”

Andrea stared at her.

She added, a little awkwardly, “I didn’t… mean to change the whole season. I just wanted him to stop overcompensating for a thermal flaw no one was fixing.”

Andrea leaned back in his chair and said — for the first time in his career — “I am both terrified of and completely in awe of your entire family.”

Felicity just smiled and said, “Would you mind printing a copy of the new tire envelope profiles? Bee wants to compare the heatmaps to the old ones.”

Andrea buried his face in his hands. “Tell her to go easy on us.”

“I’ll try. No promises.”

They were rocket ships now. Every track. Every compound. Consistent, controlled, deadly fast.

And somewhere, deep in the McLaren server, the drawing still existed. In a scanned file. Named Piastri_Insomnia_Fix_v1.pdf

Andrea renamed it later that week.

"Found the Window."

Because that’s what it was.

A window — held open by a woman who thought differently. Who didn’t need the spotlight. Who just loved someone enough to stay up all night figuring out how to protect him from heat, chaos, and failure.

And somehow, she’d done the same for all of them.

***

Mark Webber had seen a lot in his career.

Title deciders. Broken bones. Politics dressed up as progress. He’d seen technical miracles and driver meltdowns and the rare, perfect moment when both came together and worked.

But he had never seen a technical revolution arrive folded in half on a single piece of A3 paper, annotated in gel pen and handed in like someone had just scribbled down the grocery list.

And he certainly hadn’t expected it to come from Felicity Piastri. Maybe he should have. 

He was standing trackside in China when Andrea Stella handed him the printout — not the PDF version with simulations, but the original. The drawing. The one that changed their 2025 season from promising to dominant.

“She gave me this on a Tuesday,” Andrea said, voice flat with disbelief. “Said it was just a thought. I’ve had people with entire departments fail to model this. She did it because she couldn’t sleep.”

Mark turned the page over once. Then again.

It was neat. Clean. Not showy.

Pressure curves, airflow vectors, the highlighted activation band of the phase change material she’d used to stabilize tire temp near the brake drum.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “She’s a genius.”

He knew that. He had been aware of it for years. But it was something else entirely to see it in action. 

Andrea didn’t argue. “She just… wanted to help Oscar.”

Mark stared at the drawing again.

That’s when it hit him.

This wasn’t a flex.

This wasn’t about glory. Or proving herself. Or showing up a paddock full of men with degrees and dynos.

It was a love letter.

Written in airflow.

Signed in melting point theory.

Stamped in the stable temperature range of a tire that could now go ten laps longer without falling off.

Felicity hadn’t just solved degradation.

She had — quietly, brilliantly — rewritten the way Oscar raced.

Because he was hers.

And this was what loving him looked like.

Not flowers. Not poems. Just… making the world easier for him. A little softer. A little kinder. A little less brutal at 300km/h.

Mark let out a slow breath.

“Do you think she knows what she did?” he asked.

Andrea shrugged. “I think she knows why she did it. That’s probably enough.”

Mark folded the paper again — carefully, reverently — and tucked it back into the folder.

And in that moment, he didn’t see the terrifying engineering breakthrough.

He just saw a woman who loved her husband enough to change the laws of tire life —So he wouldn’t have to carry the weight alone.

***

Oscar had just come back from a long run on used mediums when Andrea called him into the office.

Nothing dramatic — just a quiet, “Got a sec?” as Oscar peeled off his gloves and handed his helmet to a mechanic. The kind of thing that sounded normal. Routine. Like maybe they were going to go over sector data or tire drop-off or which curb had tried to kill him today.

So when Andrea closed the office door behind them and reached into his drawer without saying a word, Oscar raised an eyebrow.

Then Andrea handed him a sheet of paper.

A3. Slightly folded. Faint graphite smudges along the margin.

 The original one. Still folded along the crease Felicity had made when she handed it to Andrea like it wasn’t the single greatest thermal breakthrough in modern tire strategy.

Oscar took it automatically.

Looked down.

And stilled.

There were notes in clean block print. Equations. Angled airflow paths, subtle thermal gradients, annotations on phase change material melt points and rim temperature drawdown.

Oscar’s throat went dry. His eyes scanned the drawing again, heart starting to race—not from adrenaline, but from recognition.

He knew that handwriting.

It was so her. The tidy script. The neat arrows. The absence of drama.

Just a brilliant mind trying to fix something that made the person she loved suffer.

He’d seen it on post-it notes stuck to Bee’s whiteboard. On margin scribbles in books Felicity had left lying around. On every note she slipped into his suitcase before he went to a race….every note that he then slipped into his racing gloves. 

Oscar looked up, voice quieter than it should’ve been. “This is Felicity’s.”

Andrea nodded once. “She gave it to me three months ago. Said it was probably nothing. Just an idea she had when she couldn’t sleep.”

Oscar sat down.

Because suddenly, his knees weren’t quite up to the task.

He stared at the drawing like it might vanish.

This was it.

The fix. The reason their tires held. The reason he didn’t fall off in stint two. The reason strategy meetings had shifted from damage control to aggression. The reason the car felt like it trusted him back for the first time in forever.

He felt it like a punch to the chest.

“She… she did this?”

“She did,” Andrea said. “And she didn’t want credit. Said she just wanted you to stop overcompensating for bad thermal management. That you were too good to keep bleeding lap time for other people’s mistakes.”

Oscar swallowed hard. His hands were shaking.

He looked back down at the paper.

At the numbers.

The calculations.

Oscar turned the page over.

A post-it was pressed to the back, Andrea’s handwriting.

“From Mark: ‘This isn’t just engineering. This is her love letter to Oscar — making the world around him easier.’”

Oscar’s heart stopped.

He stared at the sentence for a long, long time.

He read it again. And again.

The words didn’t feel like compliments.

They felt like someone had taken a flashlight and pointed it directly into his chest — illuminating something he hadn’t dared to articulate, even to himself.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

The sketch. The concept. The whole damn thing.

Felicity hadn’t set out to change a season.

She’d just wanted him to stop hurting.

To stop watching his tires fall apart under perfect driving. To stop fighting physics he couldn’t control. To stop carrying all that frustration on his own.

She’d stayed up at 2 a.m. not because it was her job — but because it was his dream.

She had never once made him feel like he had to win for her.

But God, she made him believe he could.

He blinked hard.

Thought about the way she kissed his temple when he came home late. The way she labeled Bee’s lunchbox with thermal guidelines for optimum snack temperature. The way she never said I love you like a performance — only like a truth.

Then he looked up. “Mark… he really said that?”

Andrea’s voice gentled. “He did.”

Oscar stared at the page again.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah. That’s her.”

And in his chest, where the engine noise usually lived — Where the pressure, the expectations, the sheer weight of competition settled — He felt something loosen.

Because winning was nice. The championship would be incredible.

But this?

Being loved like this?

That was better than anything he’d ever drive for.

***

The house was dark when he got home.

Not silent — not entirely. There was the low whir of the dishwasher. The cluck of a chicken outside, ruffling in its sleep. The soft creak of floorboards as he kicked his shoes off at the door and padded down the hall in his socks.

It was late. He hadn’t texted. He hadn’t needed to.

The bedroom door was open.

Bee was curled up in the middle of the bed like a starfish in mismatched pajamas, one hand still clutching the tail of her stuffed frog. Felicity was beside her, lying on top of the duvet, eyes closed, one arm slung across Bee’s little body like she was anchoring her in a dream.

Oscar stood in the doorway for a long time.

Just… watched them.

His wife and his daughter. One terrifying genius and one tiny one-in-training. Both of them unknowable and brilliant and his.

He swallowed around the knot in his throat and moved quietly to the other side of the bed, careful not to wake Bee as he lay down beside them.

Felicity stirred almost immediately, her breath catching as her body registered the warmth beside her.

Her eyes opened — drowsy, soft.

“Oz?” she murmured, her voice rough with sleep. “You’re home late.”

Oscar didn’t answer at first. Just slid his hand beneath hers and laced their fingers together. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, slow and steady.

She didn’t push.

Didn’t sit up.

Didn’t ask.

Just waited.

And because she didn’t ask — because she already knew — he found his voice again.

“Mark saw the drawing,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “The one you gave Andrea.”

Felicity blinked slowly. “Oh.”

“He said it was a love letter. That you were making the world easier for me.”

She was still for a beat.

Then: “He’s not wrong.”

Oscar exhaled sharply. Pressed his forehead to her shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve figured something out eventually.”

“I know.”

“But you did.”

She turned her head just enough to press a kiss to the crown of his hair.

Her voice was quieter than ever. “I’d do it again.”

Oscar’s breath hitched.

“I’d do it again tomorrow,” she said. “And the next day. And the day after that. If it meant you could breathe easier. If it meant you didn’t have to fight so hard just to keep pace with people who were working with better tools.”

He closed his eyes. Let the weight of her words settle over him like a blanket. Warm. Certain. Steady.

She ran her fingers through his curls once, twice.

And then she whispered: “You make the world easier for me, too. You just don’t notice it. You make it softer.”

Oscar kissed her shoulder. Didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Because she knew.

And he’d carry that with him — into every debrief, every qualifying lap, every moment on the podium.

This wasn’t just about racing.

This was home.

And it felt a hell of a lot like winning.

***

Lando found out in the most Lando way possible: completely by accident and one week too late.

He was in the simulator debrief when the topic of “thermal management integrity stability” came up — words that immediately made him want to die a little inside.

They were talking about their tire performance. Again.

Specifically, the fact that they could now absolutely cook it through mid-stint without falling off the cliff. And no one else could.

Lando was half paying attention — until one of the engineers muttered something about “F. Piastri’s material integration concept.”

Lando blinked.

“Sorry, whose what now?”

The room went quiet.

Andrea didn’t even look up from his screen. “Felicity. The drawing. You’ve seen it.”

“No, I have not seen it. Unless it was attached to a meme or came with a side of banana bread, I was not included.”

Will Joseph — Lando’s race engineer — slowly slid a printed diagram across the table.

Lando took one look.

Paused.

And said, “Wait. This is her?”

Andrea nodded without looking up. “Came up with it over insomnia. Gave it to me like it was a shopping list. It works.”

Lando stared at the airflow map, the PCM trigger temperatures, the annotated note that literally said ‘the goal is to stabilize the moment he usually starts slipping — give him room to breathe.’

He felt like someone had sucker-punched him with science and sentiment at the same time.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said, sitting up straighter. “You’re telling me Felicity Piastri — as in, Oscar’s wife who wears motor oil like perfume and once fixed the coffee machine with a literal wrench — came up with the strategy that made our car an actual rocket ship?”

“Yes.”

“And it works.”

“Yes.”

“And she just gave it to you? No credit, no fuss, just… ‘here, I fixed the entire concept of high-deg tire strategy because I couldn’t sleep’?”

Andrea finally looked up. “Correct.”

Lando sat back, stunned.

He knew Felicity was scary smart. Knew she could rebuild a gearbox while calculating orbital velocity. Knew Oscar worshipped the ground she walked on and never made a big deal out of it because he didn’t need to.

But this?

This was something else.

“She didn’t do it for the team,” Lando said quietly, the realization hitting all at once. “She did it for him.”

Andrea didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Lando looked back down at the page — the margins, the equations, the gentle note that said “he’s too good to be held back by bad thermal behavior.”

And he felt it in his chest — that familiar ache.

Because that wasn’t engineering.

That was love.

The quiet kind.

The kind that doesn’t shout or show off.

The kind that stays up at 2 a.m. fixing something no one else thought could be fixed — just so the person you love can breathe easier.

So he doesn’t have to carry it all alone.

So he can go faster, safer, freer.

It was a love letter.

Not in flowers or poems.

In airflow and melting points.

Lando leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “Jesus Christ. She built him a better world.”

Will snorted. “She rebuilt tire degradation, but sure, let’s make it poetic.”

Lando didn’t even blink. “It is poetic. He’s the quiet guy. And she’s the quieter genius who knows exactly where he hurts and rewrites the laws of physics to help him anyway.”

Andrea tilted his head. “You’re getting sentimental again.”

“I’m right,” Lando shot back, still staring at the page. “He’ll win the title because she didn’t want him to bleed for it.”

He tapped the margin with his knuckle. “This is the kind of love that never asks for a podium. Just builds the car to get him there.”

And for once — no one had a comeback.

Because they all knew it was true.

***

They were in the driver’s lounge two days later, when Lando struck.

He’d been waiting for the perfect moment.

And Oscar, blissfully unaware, had just taken a bite of his protein bar like he wasn’t about to get emotionally roasted.

Lando stretched out across the sofa like a cat in a sunbeam and said, far too casually, “So… what’s it like being loved so much your wife reinvented tire degradation for you?”

Oscar blinked mid-chew. “…Sorry?”

Lando grinned. “Just curious. I mean, some of us get love letters or handmade birthday cakes. You? You get full-phase material integration strategies and temperature-controlled brake ducting. Romantic stuff.”

Oscar groaned, immediately regretting not hiding in the sim room instead. “Lando.”

“I’m serious,” Lando said, sitting up now, fully energized. “Felicity took one look at your stint data and said, ‘this man needs help. Let me just rewrite thermodynamics real quick.’”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t—”

“No, no,” Lando cut in. “Don’t you dare downplay this. The rest of us? We have to manage deg. You? You have a thermodynamic guardian angel in your marriage bed.”

Oscar flushed, the tips of his ears visibly pink. “She had a theory. That’s all.”

“‘Just a theory,’” Lando mimicked, using air quotes. “‘Just a casual bedtime sketch that turned McLaren into the most stable tire platform on the grid.’ My God, Oscar. She loves you so much it’s physically measurable.”

Oscar sank lower in his seat, muttering, “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re married to the Nikola Tesla of tire temp control. I deserve to be insufferable.”

“Lando—”

“She built us a better car because she hated watching you suffer.” Lando flopped dramatically. “Imagine. Being loved with that level of efficiency. Can you even comprehend?”

Oscar sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s just… always been smarter than all of us.”

Lando stopped mid-rant.

And smiled, softer this time. “Yeah. I know.”

There was a long pause.

Then Lando added, “Anyway. If she ever wants to fix my brakes, tell her I’m emotionally available.”

Oscar snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“What about Bee? Can she be bribed with juice boxes and data sets?”

Oscar shook his head, laughing now. “She’s already running her own simulations. She’s got standards.”

Lando grinned. “Just like her mum.”

Oscar looked down at the McLaren logo on his hoodie — the one Felicity stole all the time — and felt something warm settle in his chest.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t need to.

But when he went home that night, he kissed Felicity extra softly — and whispered thank you against her temple like a promise.

And Felicity?

She just smiled, wiped her grease-smudged fingers on her jeans, and said, “Don’t thank me yet. Bee thinks we can improve the airflow angle by three degrees.”

Because love — in their house — was always a work in progress.

And always worth the effort.

***

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𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which things get trust earned not given

part one - part two - part three - part five

The Vegas locker room smells like lemon-scented floor cleaner and industrial anxiety.

The Wings are sprawled across benches and carpet, legs stretched, headphones in, slides tapping rhythmically against linoleum. It's calm chaos — the kind only teams running on fumes and unsaid tension can cultivate.

You're standing near the staff rack with tablets and warm-up data, eyes flicking to Paige every few seconds. She’s got a sleeve on her knee, AirPods in, hoodie up, head down.

She’s calm. Locked in. But she’s also… waiting. For the part everyone dreads.

Chris.

“Alright, everybody listen up!”

Koclanes steps into the center of the room like he’s about to audition for a one-man show called Basketball Clichés and the Men Who Can’t Take A Hint.

He claps once. Too loud. A few heads turn. Barely.

DiJonai doesn’t remove her headphones. She just blinks once. JJ is dribbling a stress ball, staring through Koclanes with the deadpan of a seasoned freshman who’s heard enough motivational speeches to last a lifetime.

“Vegas is gonna come out swinging,” Chris says. “But I don’t want us thinking about the Aces as a team. I want you to think about them as concepts.”

That gets Arike to blink. “Concepts?” she mutters.

Chris points to the whiteboard.

“They’re aggression. They’re illusion. They’re gravity. We are anchors. We are sound. We are pressure.”

There’s a long pause. Myisha mouths what the fuck to NaLyssa, who just shrugs and closes her eyes like she’s trying to evaporate out of the locker room.

“We don’t just want to score tonight,” Chris continues, voice rising, “we want to transcend. We want to dismantle their idea of tempo and replace it with our own identity. We rip the roots out and replant the game in our image.”

He looks around for validation.

Nothing.

Luisaclears her throat. “Do we, uh… do we have a starting five yet, or…”

“Let me finish,” Chris snaps.

The room goes back to its default setting, mild disdain with a dash of I-can’t-do-this-again.

You’re still watching.

Not him. Them.

Because they’re not just ignoring — they’re resisting.

Chris claps again.

“I want Paige pressing Jewel early. Don’t let her get clean looks. I want Luisa to help strong side on Kitley, even if it leaves Nye open. Trust the gamble. DiJonai, you’ll be rotating with Myisha. Arike, I need you off-ball more tonight, but also more on-ball. Like… be water. And also like a wall.”

Paige slowly lifts her eyes, finally pulling out one headphone. “Did you say be water and a wall?”

Chris nods enthusiastically.

“Exactly. Duality.”

Paige stares at him. “That’s not what duality means.”

DiJonai mutters, “Man said play like an Avatar.”

You smother a grin behind your tablet. You finally step forward.

Calm. Measured.

“Coach,” you say. “Starting five?”

Chris blinks like you interrupted his TED Talk.

“Right. Yeah. Okay. We’ll go Bueckers, Ogunbowale, Carrington, Hines-Allen, Geiselsöder.”

He tosses a clipboard to the bench like he just dropped a mic.

“Get locked in. We take the court in ninety.”

He walks out. No one follows. The second he’s gone? The locker room breathes again.

Paige finally looks up at you. You meet her eyes. She doesn’t say a word. But you can see it written all over her face. Can you please talk to us now?

The tunnel is dim.

It always is. That deep purplish concrete corridor between bench and battle. No cameras. No microphones. Just thick, recycled air and the distant murmur of crowd thunder rolling toward you like a wave.

You’re standing with your arms crossed just beyond the rubber mat, clipboard tucked under your arm, badge lanyard wrapped twice around your wrist.

And Paige?

She’s pacing.

Slow, fluid steps in her pregame sweats, the jersey still hidden beneath. Hair braided tight. Elbow sleeve halfway pulled up. She’s breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. Focused. But not quite still. You wait until her third pass.

“Breathe,” you murmur.

She doesn’t stop. You wait for her to turn back again. This time she meets your eyes.

“I am breathing,” she says, too fast.

“Okay,” you say softly, “but not like someone who trusts her lungs.”

She snorts once — just air through her nose — but you see the tension finally crack. You step forward.

“Paige.” She stops pacing. You stop about two feet in front of her. Close enough to drop your voice. “You good?”

“I don’t know,” she mutters, voice quiet. “It’s Vegas. They’re loaded. Chelsea’s back. Kitley’s huge. Jackie’s always in rhythm. We’re underdogs.”

“You like being the underdog.”

“Yeah, but-” she falters, “-I need to be more than just… points tonight.”

You tilt your head. She’s not looking at you. She’s staring at her shoes. The way she used to after losses in high school. The way she would when she thought being enough meant being perfect.

“You’re more than just points every time you touch the floor,” you say.

She doesn’t move. You take a breath.

“You are gravity. You are vision. You’re calm. You’re why this team has a heartbeat.”

She looks up at that. Eyes soft. Tired. Still that flicker of fear behind them.

“But what if that’s not enough?” she says. “What if all that doesn’t win games?”

You step closer. Just enough to press a hand lightly against her taped wrist.

“Then we try again. But not alone.”

She exhales, looking down at your fingers on her wrist.

“I don’t think I ever told you this,” she says. “Back in high school? That first time you stood up for me against Coach?”

You blink. The memory flashes — a gym, a whistle, her limp.

“You didn’t have to,” she says. “But you did. And I think... I think that’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

Her voice drops.

“That I’d never want to play this game without you next to me.”

You blink once. Throat tight.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” she says, clearing her throat, stepping back just slightly. “Because I need you to remind me not to force a pull-up three when I’m cold.”

You smirk.

“And I need you to remind me not to throw my clipboard if Koclanes says we need to ‘be illusion and pressure’ again.”

That gets a full smile from her.

“Deal,” she says.

From down the hall, the PA system roars to life.

“And now your Dallas Wings stating five—”

The tunnel floods with spotlight shadows. Arena bass kicks up like a thunderstorm. You nod toward the court.

“Go get it.”

She hesitates. Then grabs your hand for half a second. Squeezes. And jogs into the light.

The ball flies in the air.

Luisa tips it backward, flicking it off the fingertips of Kitley.

Dallas possession.

“Luisa Geiselsöder wins the tip and we are underway from Las Vegas — Dallas looking to shake off a tough loss in Phoenix.”

“And keep your eyes on Bueckers tonight. Thirty-five last game, and already directing traffic.”

Paige curls off a pin-down from Myisha, catches above the wing. Dribbles left.

Chelsea Gray trails. Kitley sags under the screen. You’re already shouting from the bench — “Lift, Luisa!”

Luisa lifts to the elbow.

Paige swings it — pump fake — Luisa drives. Scoop layup.

2–0 Dallas.

You clap once, calling out, “Keep the action tight!”

Chris is pacing already.

“Run the—run the orbit set! Arike go backdoor!”

She ignores him.

Arike jogs up, takes Paige’s handoff, steps back.

Jumper. Bucket. 4–2 Dallas.

“Paige and Arike reading each other beautifully — no clipboard required.”

You signal — two fingers to your temple.

It’s the same sequence you walked them through in shoot around, stagger screen for Myisha, flare for Arike.

Chris tries yelling something. “Motion slice! Motion slice!”

No one responds. Paige gives a little head shake and calls your set with a tap of her hip. Execution? Perfect.

Myisha catches mid-post. Turns. Hits a cutting DiJonai.

Layup. 10–8 Dallas.

“Coach L/N’s fingerprints are all over this early offensive rhythm — watch how clean their off-ball movement is when Paige ignores the play called from the sideline and calls her own.”

“Sometimes leadership doesn’t come from titles. It comes from trust.”

Jewel Loyd gets hot — two jumpers in a row, both off Chelsea Gray assists. Kitley pulls Luisa away from the rim with hard screens.

Aces lead 14–10.

Chris calls timeout. He storms in.

“We’re not switching! We’re reacting too slow! That’s not the coverage we talked about!”

Paige’s towel is already over her head. DiJonai picks at her fingernails. You wait. When he’s done yelling, you squat in front of the players.

“We knew they’d heat up early,” you say. “Don’t chase. Show early help, recover with control. Force them left. Trust the wall. Switch only if you see Jackie call the stagger flare.”

They nod.

Paige lifts the towel. “Run triple-drag out of the break?”

You nod. “If they show two at the top, skip to Arike corner. Hit JJ on the lift if it’s not there.”

Chris walks off without saying anything. The girls just listen to you.

Triple-drag screen.

Vegas traps.

Paige waits a half-second longer than usual.

Skip pass. Arike. Corner three. Splash.

15–14 Dallas.

“That skip pass was gorgeous — the second the defense committed, Bueckers punished it.”

“That’s the kind of read you don’t teach. That’s instinct, and trust in the play call — not from the head coach, mind you.”

The quarter ends and the players come off. You’re already flipping through slides on your tablet. 

Chris tries to say something — “We’ve got to guard with more integrity—” — but no one’s making eye contact.

Instead?

Paige sits beside you. So does Arike. JJ stands behind you, reading the scouting sheet over your shoulder.

And in that moment, surrounded by the rhythm of halftime prep, warm Gatorade bottles, and sneakers squeaking behind the bench…

…it’s clear who they’re following.

The second quarter begins quietly. That dangerous kind of quiet—the kind that means something’s about to snap.

Jackie Young takes her first possession slow, pulling JJ up into a half-spin before dishing out to Jewel, who’s already gliding to her spot above the break. You see the release before Paige does. Jewel doesn’t even hold her follow-through.

The net doesn’t move.

24–21, Aces.

Chelsea Gray walks the next one down like she’s done this a thousand times. Stokes fakes a screen and slips behind Luisa, catching the pass off a bounce that’s too perfect to contest.

26–21.

The Aces are smooth. They look like a unit that’s played together. A group that knows exactly when to cut, when to clear, when to flash. Dallas, by contrast, is improvising—playing jazz off a conductor who’s too busy yelling metaphors to listen to the rhythm.

You lean forward.

“Next set—elevator screen. Paige trails. Delay to DiJonai flash.”

She nods once.

Chris shouts out “Dagger Slice!” like it means something.

It doesn’t. No one runs it.

Instead, the elevator closes around Paige, and she glides through like she built the play herself. She doesn’t take the shot—she sends it to Arike in the weak side corner, who fakes once and drives baseline, flipping it to Myisha mid-cut.

Layup.

26–23.

You glance toward Chris. His arms are out like he’s waiting for applause, but the players aren’t even looking at him. Paige walks by him on her way back to defend and doesn’t even slow down.

Vegas presses next possession. Chelsea traps the inbound. JJ hesitates and gets picked. Jackie scores on the break. Paige slaps her hands in frustration, but doesn’t yell. She just taps her chest, calls for calm.

The sideline’s tense now. Chris is clapping, shouting about "urgency" and "pressure.” You kneel beside the bench, point at the tablet and show Luisa where Stokes has been cheating left every time she thinks the switch is coming.

“She’s gambling. Sell the screen. Slip baseline instead.”

Luisa nods. “Got it.”

No big speech. No drama. Just a fact. A tiny truth. That’s the difference. Next possession, Paige sees it coming. She bounces it to Luisa with a perfect seal as Stokes lunges the wrong way.

Soft reverse. Bucket.

28–25.

But Vegas is still rolling.

Gray to Jackie. Jackie to Kitley. Kitley post-spin on Myisha. Hook shot.

30–25.

They’re not flashy. They’re clinical.

“Vegas is surgical right now,” one of the commentator says from the booth. “They’re forcing Dallas into short decisions, and if not for Bueckers' poise, this game could be pulling away early.”

“Chris Koclanes keeps yelling ‘Triangle Drag,’ but the players are clearly going rogue,” the other adds. “I don’t even know what Triangle Drag is in this context.”

On the floor, Paige isn’t trying to match buckets anymore. She’s setting tempo. Slowing things down. She waves Arike off a screen, motions DiJonai to curl from the corner, and hits her mid-air with a lead bounce pass through two defenders.

Layup. 30–27.

DiJonai jogs back and doesn’t high-five Chris. She points at you on the sideline.

That’s three direct plays called from your clipboard, not his. And they’ve all worked.

The Aces push back harder.

Chelsea Gray throws a no-look to Jewel, who’s dancing now. She steps back on JJ and buries another three.

33–27.

Paige holds up one finger. Not to Chris—she’s not even facing him. She’s calling your delayed curl for JJ.

You give her a subtle nod.

She runs it perfectly.

Paige dribbles into a double team, knowing it’s coming, drawing the defense just long enough for JJ to rise off the flare.

Splash.

33–30.

The bench is louder now. ZaZa jumps up and slaps the side of Luisa’s leg. Arike claps. Myisha turns to you between possessions, asking if she should front the next post entry.

You say, “Half-front. Show early help on Kitley’s shoulder and recover fast. They’re not swinging quick enough to punish.”

She nods. No hesitation.

The Aces don’t slow down.

Jackie gets to the cup again. Stokes sneaks in another offensive board. Aaliyah Nye hits a corner three after a miscommunication between DiJonai and JJ.

It’s 40–32 now.

Chris calls timeout.

This time, the players don’t even sit around him.

They grab water and circle loosely in front of the bench. You pull the tablet out, flip through three screenshots.

“Watch this,” you say, showing the gap forming every time Vegas runs dual screens on opposite wings. “We’re trailing too high. I need early weak side hedging. Luisa—step out sooner. Force the next pass wide. We can rotate faster than they can realign.”

The players nod. Paige leans in closer, pointing to an angle you circled. “That’s when they start the backdoor cut,” she says. “Right after the second dribble.”

You grin. “Exactly.”

No one looks at Chris. He’s pacing, sweating, muttering about "energy" and “lack of identity.”

But the identity is right here. You’re building it in real time.

Final minute of the half.

Paige hits Myisha on a duck-in.

Arike draws a foul. Hits both.

Now it’s 42–36.

Vegas misses one. Paige walks it down with eight seconds left.

You’re standing. You know what’s coming.

She looks left, waits until Jewel shades too far baseline, then fires a bullet pass to DiJonai in the slot.

Three. Pure.

Buzzer.

Halftime. 49–40, Vegas.

The Wings jog into the tunnel—not defeated, not lost. Still down. But steadier.

Paige looks at you once before disappearing through the curtain. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. You’re in this. Together.

The locker room feels like a submarine. The air’s pressurized. Every sound feels like it ricochets.

Most of the team is half-dressed. Towels around shoulders. Ice packs on knees. Arike's sitting on the floor next to her chair. Paige is at her locker with her head down, one leg up on the bench, stretching her hip. DiJonai’s sipping red Gatorade like it’s wine. JJ is already running a towel over her face like she wants to wash off the entire first half.

You’re by the door. Clipboard still in hand, half-covered in notes. And here comes Chris. Clapping. Too loud again. Always too loud.

“Okay,” he says, voice bright like he’s about to deliver a motivational monologue he wrote on the plane, “we’re right there. This game is about who wants it more. It’s about toughness. Togetherness. Grit. We’ve got the tools. But we’ve got to unlock them. You understand?”

Nobody responds.

He keeps going. “I’m talking eyes on the prize. Ears closed to doubt. Heart open to effort. You want to win this game? Start believing in yourselves. Stop looking for someone to do it for you.”

He paces.

“We are not reacting—we are dictating. They’re flashy. We���re force. They’re pace. We’re patience. They’re heat—” he points to DiJonai, who blinks up at him— “we’re pressure. We’re pressure and power. Got it?”

“...got what?” JJ mutters under her breath.

“Play with identity!” he shouts. “Whatever that means to you, channel it now.”

He claps again.

“Let’s finish our story.”

He walks out. The door swings softly behind him. Silence. For a few seconds, nobody speaks.

Then DiJonai sighs. “Bro said we’re pressure and power like we’re superheroes.”

“Was it even a plan?” Luisa asks.

Paige pulls her towel off her head.

Arike leans back against the locker and says exactly what’s sitting in the air, “Okay, cool. Now… can you talk?”

All eyes shift to you. You’re still by the wall. Still holding the clipboard. But you walk forward. Not rushed. Not trying to perform. Just ready.

You flip the clipboard around and show them a sketched possession map.

“They’re overcommitting on weak side switches,” you say. “That’s what’s getting us beat baseline. But if we can force them to switch high and trap hard, we can slip Myisha or Luisa right into the blindside.”

You kneel and draw the secondary path.

“This? This is space manipulation. They think they’ve figured us out because we’ve been running high curls and flares. So let them think it. Let Paige stall at the top, draw two, then let the interior reset. You just need to trust each other to stay home weak side.”

DiJonai nods slowly. “That’s why Jewel kept getting that top slot pass. I was rotating late.”

You look at her. “Exactly. It’s not effort. It’s angle.”

Luisa steps in. “So we bait them with slow help, then recover hard on the swing?”

You point. “Yes.”

“Got it.”

“Paige,” you say, turning. “If they hedge you again off the third screen?”

“I dump to Arike and crash opposite.”

“And if they tag Myisha early?”

“I reset corner. Run triangle delay. Let DiJonai flash backdoor.”

You tap the clipboard.

“That’s it.”

You glance around. Each of them is locked in. JJ’s standing now. ZaZa’s stretching. Arike cracks her knuckles. Paige is silent, but nodding, eyes locked on the clipboard.

You feel the room breathe for the first time.

This isn’t chaos. This is clarity.

The buzzer sounds once. Five-minute warning.

No one moves until you say, “Let’s go be the smarter team.”

That’s it. No chant. No theatrics. But they move with purpose.

Paige is the last to leave, brushing your hand as she passes.

“Thanks,” she says quietly. “For not wasting our time.”

The five walk out. Paige, Arike, DiJonai, Myisha, Luisa. Same starters.

But it’s not the same energy. They’re sharper now—less reactive, more anticipating. Paige is calling sets with her hands, subtle taps at the top of her thigh, slight gestures with her fingers. Not to Chris. To you.

You’re standing behind the bench, tablet held against your chest, nodding as she scans the floor.

Across the court, Jackie Young adjusts her ponytail and glances at Jewel Loyd.

They know this isn’t the same Dallas team from the first half.

You watch it unfold exactly as designed.

Paige holds the top after Myisha slips. The defense hesitates, expecting the flare. Paige doesn’t take it. Instead, she stalls, eyes on the help defender creeping toward Luisa.

Then she skips the ball baseline to Arike, who curls—not sharp, but delayed—letting DiJonai screen her own defender off instinct.

Arike drives. Two steps, body to body. Off the glass.

Bucket.

42–41. “Brilliant misdirection there. That’s a set you only trust if you’ve drilled it with discipline.”

“That’s a coach’s fingerprint, Monica. That entire possession was built on film review. Subtle but exact.”

You don’t react. Neither does Paige. You both already knew it would work.

Paige Turns into a Conductor

This is her stretch. Not scoring—orchestrating. She feeds Luisa on a delayed dive. Draws two and hits JJ cutting. Drops a bounce pass to Myisha under the rim, so clean it looks rehearsed. She doesn’t force a shot. Not once.

You catch her eyes once during a dead ball. You hold up three fingers, swipe diagonally. She nods. Next possession? Arike lifts. JJ slips baseline. DiJonai sets a ghost screen.

Vegas bites hard. Paige dumps it back to JJ. Short corner jumper.

Bucket.

52–51 Dallas.

“Paige Bueckers is playing a masterclass of unselfish basketball right now. Every read is decisive. Every pass has a purpose.” “Let’s be real — the Wings are tuned in to Coach L/N right now. That’s where the flow’s coming from. You see it in how crisp their sets are when she calls the plays.”

“And the chemistry between her and Bueckers? Elite. Paige doesn’t even look confused — she just responds. That’s years of trust built right into the system.”

The third quarter ends with a missed jumper from Vegas.

And as the buzzer sounds, the Dallas bench is electric. JJ slaps Paige’s hand. Arike’s grinning. Luisa flexes her fingers out, watching the replay on the jumbotron like she still can’t believe how clean that dish was.

You feel the shift again.

The energy. The belief. The unspoken loyalty that says, we go where you go.

But it’s not pointed at Chris.

It’s pointed at you.

The Aces are on their heels.

Paige just hit her third step back of the quarter — caught Gray flat-footed, rose up, net. Luisa is grabbing every loose ball like her life depends on it. Arike is chirping. DiJonai is snarling. JJ’s a menace off the switch.

And on the sideline, you’re standing tall with your arms folded, watching your girls go to work.

Nine-point lead. Four minutes left. The Vegas crowd’s gone weirdly quiet. Nervous.

Aces possession.

Chelsea Gray dribbles off a Jackie Young flare. JJ fights through the screen, forces a tough pass. Liz Kitley catches off balance, tries to swing it left — The ball clearly bounces off Aaliyah Nye’s knee. Out of bounds.

You immediately raise your hand. So does Paige. She’s twirling her index finger in the air, locking eyes with the bench. She wants the challenge.

DiJonai’s arms go up. “OFF HER LEG! CHALLENGE THAT!”

The ref points. Aces ball.

Your jaw drops.

And Chris? Chris turns toward the ref crew. Turns back to the bench.

Doesn’t even glance at Paige. Doesn’t even look at Nai.

Just raises one palm to his team.

“Trust me.”

Nai steps toward him. “CHRIS! CHALLENGE IT. THAT’S OUR BALL.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t call timeout. Doesn’t move.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Let it play.”

You explode.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

Every head on the bench whips around.

You take two steps forward. Past the first seat, clipboard clenched in your hand, eyes locked on Chris.

“WHY DON’T YOU TRUST YOUR OWN PLAYERS?”

Chris recoils. “We don’t have the angle.”

“THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD HAS THE ANGLE, CHRIS.”

JJ’s standing now. Paige turns her back to the bench, jaw locked, pacing.

You keep going. You can’t stop.

“Paige is BEGGING you to challenge. Nai is yelling in your face. You don’t even look at them. You look at the GODDAMNED bench.”

“I made the call,” he snaps.

“You made the WRONG call,” you shoot back. “Again.”

The crowd is roaring now. You don’t even hear the whistle for the ball to be inbounded.

Chris tries to pull rank. “I’m the head coach. You don’t—”

“I DON’T CARE,” you say. “Your team doesn’t trust you anymore. You know why?”

You point toward the court, where the ball is being inbounded to Chelsea Gray.

“Because every single time they ask you to believe in them, you believe in yourself instead.”

He tries to say something.

But it’s too late.

“Oh, wow. Tense moment on the Dallas sideline — Coach L/N is absolutely letting loose on Koclanes.”

“You can see it — Paige called for that challenge instantly. DiJonai was screaming. That was clearly off Nye’s leg. That’s a momentum killer.”

“And it’s not just the call — it’s the message it sends. This is a team that trusts each other. Not being listened to right now is devastating.”

The Aces score on that possession. Chelsea floats it over Maddie.

80–71.

Next trip? Jewel Lloyd gets a clean corner look after a miscommunication. Splash.

80–74.

Timeout Wings.

Too late.

You don’t even want to be in the huddle. You sit on the far end of the bench, arms crossed, refusing to look at Chris. He talks, but no one listens. Paige takes a sip of water and stares at her knees. Arike shakes her head and mutters, “This is why we can’t have shit.”

JJ just keeps her eyes on you. Waiting.

The team tightens up.

You can see it — the frustration bleeds into shot selection, into defensive closeouts, into chemistry.

The Aces? They sense it.

Gray hits a midrange. Kitley gets a put back. Jackie Young hits two at the line.

84–82 Aces.

Dallas still has a chance.

Out of a timeout, Paige hits a pull-up over Gray.

Tie game. 84–84.

But with 41 left, Jewel Lloyd isolates. Hits a dagger off glass.

86–84.

Dallas comes down — Paige passes to JJ, who slips, recovers, finds Arike. Late clock. Arike forces a tough three.

Miss.

Foul. Kiah Stokes at the line.

Hits both.

Final score… Aces 88, Wings 84.

Chris is standing by the tunnel, trying to meet eyes with someone. Anyone. No one gives him a look. Paige walks straight to the locker room. DiJonai tosses her towel into the stands. You stand there. Motionless.

You were up by nine. All it took was one moment — one refusal to listen — and the team knew. They’re not losing because of effort. They’re losing because of him.

You walk in last.

The air is thick with sweat and something else — something heavier. Not grief. Not sadness. Just that raw, simmering tension of a room full of people who’ve given everything and watched it dissolve because of one man’s pride.

Players are scattered.

Paige sits on the lowest bench in the corner, head in her hands, jersey still stuck to her back, sweat drying uneven on her neck. JJ is across from her, chewing the inside of her cheek, arms folded. DiJonai’s on the floor, back against her locker, towel over her head, not moving.

Arike hasn’t sat down. She’s still pacing. Still muttering.

“Could’ve iced it right there… could’ve fucking iced it…”

Luisa’s untying her shoes without looking up. Paige is just staring at the scoreboard replay on the flatscreen across from the lockers, expressionless.

Koclanes walks in. Claps once.

“Alright,” he says. “Tough one.”

Silence.

You stay leaning against the back wall, clipboard untouched, arms folded.

Chris keeps going.

“I’m proud of the effort,” he says, tone too even. Too hollow. “We controlled the pace for most of the game. Executed in spurts. Need to clean up second-chance looks, and obviously some late-game fouls didn’t go our way.”

No one reacts. He’s just talking now. To fill the room.

“We’re still finding our identity,” he says. “Still molding the togetherness.”

Still molding the togetherness.

You glance toward DiJonai. She lifts the towel off her head just enough to roll her eyes.

Arike finally stops pacing. She turns, slow and sharp.

“You really just gonna sit here and act like that bullshit challenge call didn’t change the game?”

Chris blinks.

“I made the decision I thought was best.”

“Yeah,” Arike scoffs. “For who? Yourself?”

He opens his mouth. DiJonai lifts her head.

“Can I ask something?” she says, voice low.

He nods, cautiously. “Sure.”

“Did you even see me? When I was calling for it?”

Chris shifts. “I was scanning the floor—”

“No,” she cuts in. “Did you see me? Because I was standing there. Right in front of you. Begging. And you didn’t look once.”

He doesn’t answer.

Nai stares at him for a long time.

“Got it,” she says. Then looks down.

Chris tries again.

“We can’t let emotions cloud decision-making. I had to weigh momentum against risk.”

You speak now.

“Bullshit.”

His head jerks.

“What?”

You step off the wall. Calm. Cold.

“You weren’t weighing anything. You weren’t protecting momentum. You weren’t trusting your gut. You just didn’t want to be wrong. That’s all it was.”

“Watch your tone,” he says sharply.

“No,” you reply. “Watch your ego.”

You step further into the room. Past Arike. Past Myisha. Until you’re near the middle.

“You know what I saw tonight?” you say. “A team clawing their way back into a game with trust, chemistry, real basketball. I saw them fight for each other. I saw Paige run a masterclass. Nai defend like hell. Arike sacrifice for the right read.”

Your voice doesn’t rise. But it sharpens.

“And I saw you ignore them. Again. And again.”

Chris steps forward, defensive. “We lost by four. One call didn’t decide that.”

“You’re right,” you say. “It wasn’t just one call.”

You sweep your hand around the room.

“It’s been every decision you’ve made since camp. Every time you’ve ignored a read, shut down a voice, drawn up a play no one runs. You’re not losing games, Chris.”

Pause.

“You’re losing them.”

That hits.

Paige doesn’t move. But the rest of the team? You see it.

Heads nodding slowly. Eyes lowering. Chests lifting like a weight is starting to shift off their backs.

Koclanes glances around the room. No one meets his gaze.

He finally says, “We’re done here.”

And walks out.

The door shuts softly behind him.

For five seconds, the room doesn’t move.

Then Paige looks up at you. Quietly.

“Thanks.”

You shake your head. “Didn’t say anything y’all weren’t already thinking.”

JJ leans back against the locker. “So what now?”

DiJonai lifts the towel off her head fully.

“We run it our way,” she says.

Arike steps over, nudging you with her elbow.

“Yo, next time he says ‘togetherness,’ I might actually walk out mid-sentence.”

The room laughs. A little.

Paige stands up slowly.

“We’re not done yet,” she says. “But we’re done pretending.”

You don’t say anything.

You just nod.

Because the truth’s already landed.

The team knows who they listen to now. And it’s not the guy who walks in with a title. It’s the one who walks in with truth.

The cameras are already rolling.

A sea of reporters lines the front row — beat writers, national press, radio guys with iPads, bloggers holding phones on selfie sticks.

The PR rep looks like she wants to melt through the floor.

Chris Koclanes sits in the center.

You’re to his left. Paige to your left. DiJonai on the far end. She’s slouched back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. Paige sits forward slightly, hands clasped. You don’t look at Chris once.

A reporter with a laminated WNBA Weekly tag raises his hand.

“Coach Koclanes,” he begins, “you had a chance to challenge but didn’t, and your team was up eleven. There was a clear out-of-bounds call that looked to hit off Aaliyah Nye’s knee. Paige signaled. DiJonai called for it. You chose not to challenge. Why?”

Chris leans into the mic. Smiles thinly.

“I made the decision in real-time based on our vantage point and momentum,” he says. “In the heat of a game like this, you trust your instinct. We didn’t have conclusive visual from our angle, and I didn’t want to burn a challenge that could be more valuable later.”

You watch Paige look down at the table.

The reporter follows up. “Did you consult with your staff or players before deciding?”

“I made the call I felt was best for the team.”

Another reporter raises a hand. This time he’s from The Athletic.

“This question’s for Coach L/N.”

You lift your eyes.

The reporter hesitates.

“Your sideline reaction to the no-challenge was… passionate. Can you walk us through what happened? And your response to Coach Koclanes’ explanation?”

You lean forward. Voice steady.

“You want the truth?” you ask.

The reporter nods slowly. You look out across the room. Cameras blinking.

“Chris didn’t consult anyone,” you say. “He didn’t look at his players. He didn’t look at his assistants. Paige was asking for it. Nai was begging for it. Everyone saw the ball hit off Nye’s leg.”

Chris shifts beside you.

“He didn’t challenge it because he doesn’t believe in shared input,” you continue. “He doesn’t believe in trust. Not from players. Not from his staff. Not from anyone who isn’t holding a clipboard.”

Murmurs spread across the room. Reporters writing faster. Chris starts to open his mouth. You beat him to it.

“You want to know what really happened tonight? This wasn’t about one call. This is the result of months of poor leadership. Months of confusing schemes, tone-deaf speeches, and ignoring the intelligence of the women in this locker room.”

You point, subtly, to Paige and Nai.

“These are brilliant basketball minds. They see things most people can’t. And they’re treated like pawns. That’s not coaching. That’s ego.”

Chris sits upright now. “You’re out of line.”

“No,” you say, “I’m finally in line, with the team.”

Silence. The press waits.

“I’ve tried to keep this internal,” you say. “I’ve tried to back him, even when it made my job harder. But this team’s trust is broken, and it’s not because of the players.”

Chris glares. “This isn’t the place—”

You cut in again. Cold. Controlled.

“You’re not a great coach, Chris.”

You pause.

“You’re not even a good one. You’re someone who hides behind jargon and shrinks from responsibility. And the only reason you’re still in that seat is because Curt Miller is your best friend and you’ve got front office insulation.”

That sets the room on fire. Gasps. Shuffling.

Chris jerks his head to the PR rep. “This is over—”

“No,” Paige says, suddenly.

Clear. Calm. Loud.

The room freezes.

She leans into her mic.

“Coach L/N’s not lying. We’ve been silent for too long. We’re being coached by a man who doesn’t trust us, doesn’t listen, and doesn’t treat us like professionals.”

Reporters are practically leaning out of their chairs.

DiJonai sits up now, too.

“And when we finally start to win? It’s because we’re following her. Not him.”

Chris is boiling now. “You don’t get to hijack a press conference—”

“No,” you say again, voice even lower now. “You hijacked a team.”

More silence.

“I’m not naive. I know I’ll be punished for this. I know what happens when assistants speak out against the network. But someone had to say it. Someone had to say it on the record.”

A reporter asks quietly, “Are you calling for his resignation?”

You look into the camera.

“Yes.”

Chris stands suddenly, slamming his hands on the table.

“We’re done here.”

He storms out.

The PR rep tries to end it too, but the room is alive now.

Cameras still roll. Reporters yelling questions. Paige and Nai stay seated beside you. You don’t leave yet. Because you’ve just told the truth.

And for once?

Someone finally listened.

It’s past 1 a.m. when you knock on her door.

Paige opens it in a hoodie two sizes too big — your hoodie, actually — with her hair pulled into a lazy bun, her face washed clean, soft and worn around the edges.

“You shouldn’t be walking around alone,” she says.

You smirk. “I’m not alone now.”

She exhales through her nose. Opens the door wider.

You step inside.

The room smells like the lavender lotion she travels with and the faint salt of postgame sweat. Her bag’s half unpacked. Her shoes are by the window. ESPN’s muted on the TV. A highlight reel loops over the box score. Paige Bueckers – 16 PTS, 8 AST, 2 STL.

You watch her cross the room and sit on the bed, knees pulled up. She doesn’t say anything for a moment.

So you speak first.

“You okay?”

She nods slowly. “Tired.”

You sit beside her. Not close, not far. Just… right there. You both stare at the muted TV.

“I meant everything I said,” you murmur after a beat.

She doesn’t answer immediately. But she doesn’t need to.

She leans her shoulder into yours. “I know.”

A long silence settles. Not heavy, just real.

“Do you think they’ll fire you?” she asks quietly.

“Maybe.” You look over. “Do you think I care?”

She gives a small, sad smile. “You should. You worked so hard to get here.”

“I worked so hard,” you say gently, “to stay near you. That was the whole point.”

She breathes out like it hurts.

You take her hand.

She lets you.

“You were on fire tonight,” you say after a long moment.

She lifts her eyebrows. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“You had sixteen.”

“And we still lost.”

You shake your head. “Paige. You were brilliant. You read everything before it happened. You trusted your team. You played through the noise, through him, through everything. That’s what leadership looks like.”

She looks down at your joined hands. “Yeah, well… didn’t feel like leadership when no one was listening.”

“They were listening,” you whisper. “To you. To Nai. To me. Not to him.”

You squeeze her fingers.

“Everything’s changing.”

She glances up at you. “Is that a good thing?”

You smile. Tired. Steady.

“It is if we’re the ones changing it.”

She lets that sit for a moment.

“I think I’d follow you anywhere.”

You blink. Swallow.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You look at her. Really look at her.

And you don’t say it — not yet — but it’s in your eyes. You always have.

She leans forward and rests her head on your shoulder. You wrap your arm around her back, tucking her into the curve of your body like she was always meant to fit there.

The TV keeps looping. 16 points. 8 assists. 2 steals.

But all you feel is the weight of her against you, the thud of her heartbeat syncing with yours.

She whispers against your chest, “Thank you. For saying it. For not letting him erase us.”

You close your eyes.

“Always.”

[woradat]

HALL OF RECORD

SUMMARY – once he was chief advisor, once you were archivist. Now they are not

PAIRING – sentinel prime x reader

NOTE – I read this fanfic and oh my god, the concept is so awesome?? I really couldn't help but have to write this one out after I finish reading

—

“You always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m not being appreciated properly”

—

The restricted archives of the Hall of Records didn’t have doors

Instead, a shimmering energy curtain flickered in the threshold—neither entirely solid nor passable without resistance. It hummed faintly, a curtain of containment and silence, casting the interior in a calm, undisturbed glow

Inside, You was standing at the center of a semi-circular array of holographic control panels. The light from them cast soft reflections across your plating, washing your frame in gentle hues of blue and gold. Your optics were narrowed, fingers dancing across the controls as lines of Proto-Cybertronian text hovered and rotated before being carefully sorted into branching timelines. Names, eras, battles—entries from the Age of Origins that most bots only heard of in myth or prayer—floated across the air in spectral luminescence

You were so focused you didn’t notice the energy curtain shift. Didn’t hear the quiet approach of footsteps echoing off the polished floor outside. But you did hear him “It’s so quiet in here, I half-suspected you'd unplugged the whole room just to keep people like me out”

That voice. Smooth as always, laced with that specific flavor of smugness only one bot had perfected into an artform. You didn’t turn around, just kept your optics on the console

A voice followed. Predictable as clockwork “You know, if you're trying to make this place uninviting, you're doing an excellent job. It feels like a tomb in here"

“Then do us both a favor and leave the tomb” You tapped a glyph to dismiss a particularly long-winded transcript, expression unreadable – the tone was dry as sand

The kind that scraped slightly on its way out

“Oh, temping” Sentinel replied easily, his silhouette now visible beyond the flickering field. He stepped closer, the energy parting around him in a faint shimmer. Every movement he made was deliberate—graceful in a way that suggested performance, not necessity. His arms folded behind his back as he glanced around, as if pretending to study the room when it was obvious who had his attention

“but I’m waiting for Alpha Trion. He told me to collect a report from you” He paused, letting silence settle, then added in a quieter, almost conspiratorial tone “Though... I suspect he meant for me to wait. Probably figured you wouldn’t hand anything over unless someone stood here breathing down your neck”

You sighed—long and theatrical—and flicked a glowing folder through the air toward him. It hovered just beyond arm’s reach, daring him to step through the last layer of distance

“Fine. Take it” But instead of grabbing it, Sentinel stepped into the room. Through the field. Through the silence. He walked with the sort of casual confidence that suggested he was used to testing boundaries—and getting away with it

Your shoulders stiffened “I said—”

“I heard you”

He smiled that smile—the one that never reached his optics but somehow always reached your nerves

“I just had to wonder... Do you archivists actually read all this? Or is the dramatic lighting part of the job description?”

That made you turn

You pivoted slowly, lifting your gaze with the kind of patient menace that suggested this was not the first time you’d had to deal with him while resisting the urge to throw a data-pad. Your voice, however, was calmer than expected — not fast, not irritated. Just a calm, evaluating glance—like a scholar measuring a hypothesis before entertaining it

“Sometimes we don’t have time”

You glanced past him at the glowing panels, timelines shifting silently in the background “But I make time. Because if we don’t read the past... the ones building the future will start thinking they were the ones who invented counting"

Something in your voice held weight. Not anger, not sarcasm—but purpose. A quiet kind of conviction that echoed beneath the words. Sentinel, for once, didn’t speak right away. His optics dipped to the floor for a breath, then lifted again—expression softer. The faint smile remained, but it was... tempered. Less a smirk, more a trace of something else. Maybe thoughtfulness

“Tell me this, then. All these hours poring over the past—do you honestly think it’ll change what happens next?”

“No. But if we don’t remember where we’ve already walked, we’ll keep falling into the same holes. Just with better boots”

“You sound like Alpha Trion when he hasn’t recharged in a week"

“That’s rich” you muttered “Coming from someone who thinks leadership is about dramatic speeches and hero poses"

"I do not pose”

"You paused in the middle of a battle to stand on a cliff"

“It was tactically advantageous!” Sentinel protested “The high ground—”

“It was sunset, Sentinel"

He made a strangled noise—equal parts indignant and caught "…Alright, maybe the lighting was good"

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was still. Reflective. As if the room had paused with them—time stretching between two minds not in agreement, but in rhythm

“You know.." Sentinel finally reached out and took the data-folder from the air, fingers brushing the edge of the projection with practiced ease

“You’re probably the worst assistant Alpha Trion’s ever had…”

He turned the file over in his hand, optics skimming the surface—but he didn’t leave “ and he once told me you’re the only one who reminds him he’s not a god. I thought he meant it as an insult. Now I think it might’ve been gratitude”

You blinked. Your gaze flicked to him, surprised—but not in disbelief, didn’t say anything. But your stance eased. Just slightly. Like a string that had been pulled too tight for too long had finally loosened a notch — Sentinel turned then, walking toward the exit. He passed through the energy field, static dancing across his armor—but paused, halfway through. One foot out, one still in

“Next time, could you maybe not sound like you hate me so much? ease up on the open hostility? Some of us bruise easily” He turned his helm slightly, optics glinting with that old familiar mischief

You raised an optic ridge, mouth twitched “Is that what you’re calling your ego now?”

Sentinel chuckled—low, and far too pleased with himself “Among other things” he replied, already vanishing into the shimmer

“But good luck getting rid of me, I haunt well" with that, he disappeared through the barrier and the room was quiet again. But it wasn’t the same kind of quiet anymore. It lingered differently. Like the space between pages, before you turn to the next

Like a history book left open

Still waiting to be finished

—

The Hall of Records was supposed to be a place of reverence

KEYWORD: SUPPOSED TO

Vaulted ceilings soared high above, ribbed in glimmering alloys and etched with flowing script older than most functioning civilizations. Stained-glass data channels cast shifting patterns of cyan and violet across the marble floor, and the soft hum of ancient servers echoed like distant chanting

It was a place meant for quiet awe, for scholarly silence. It was not designed to accommodate Sentinel’s ego. Ever since he’d discovered that the shimmering energy curtain at the entrance didn’t shock intruders—merely issued a stern sonic warning in a disapproving librarian voice—Sentinel had made it his personal mission to stroll in whenever he pleased. No authorization. No warning. No respect for the rules of spatial awareness

Usually mid-shift. Always mid-sentence

“You changed the lighting layout again”

His voice preceded him, gliding in a split second before his tall frame breached the energy field with a dramatic flicker “What is this now, mood lighting for monologues?”

You didn’t look up

You sat in the central alcove, surrounded by a web of holographic panels arranged in concentric arcs, your fingers flicked through three overlapping treaty records—each with footnotes, post-conflict amendments, and suspiciously contradictory date entries. A headache wrapped in bureaucracy, topped with illegible seals "It adjusts based on optic strain”

“You wouldn’t know anything about that"

Sentinel grinned as he sauntered in, clearly unbothered. His stride was the kind that echoed on purpose—heels angled just enough to produce a satisfying click with every state

“You wound me” he said, placing a hand over his spark in mock offense

“I have very sensitive optics, thank you"

He attempted to lean against one of the translucent crystal data pylons that jutted from the floor like frozen lightning. There was a sharp snap of static, and he jerked back with a hiss as a warning glyph lit up in disapproval

Again

You didn’t even flinch

“Stop touching things” you muttered, still scanning through sub-clause annotations

“Every time you lean on one of those, it reroutes a quarter of the data flow”

“Oh?” Sentinel said, perking up like a mech who had just found a big red button labeled Do Not Press

“So this one messes with the stream?” he asked, already reaching toward a pulsing glyph marked in ominous red. A symbol that all but screamed catastrophic protocol override — You looked up, finally. Your optics widened “Sentinel—!”

Too late

His fingers brushed the glyph. There was a soft ping, a hum like an engine hiccuping, and then— All the lights dimmed to a dull amber. The panels around you flickered, rippled... and then recompiled. All at once. Every menu, every label, every command—rewritten in looping, sharp-edged characters

You stared “You rewrote the interface in Old Vosian" It wasn’t even a living language anymore. Not really. Mostly used in ceremonial inscriptions and bad poetry

Sentinel blinked, stepping back with a shrug and zero remorse “…You’re welcome?”

“GET OUT" Your’s shoulders tensed like they were physically restraining themselves from launching a stylus across the room

“Too late” Sentinel said, lowering himself into the spare console seat like he absolutely belonged there “I live here now”

He leaned back with that satisfied sigh he always made when he thought he was being hilarious. One foot kicked up against the base of the pylon. The interface flickered again, this time turning the archive’s auto-index into a rotating wheel of Vosian proverbs. You slowly, very deliberately, pinched the bridge of your nasal ridge

There was no reverence left in the Hall of Records today

Only Sentinel

The worst part wasn’t that he kept coming back It was that somehow, he always managed to bring food This time, it was a ration cube with what looked suspiciously like hand-scraped energon drizzle—artisanal he’d claimed, from a street vendor in the lower spires “Do you even like these?” you asked, eyeing the cube on their desk with wary suspicion

“Not particularly” Sentinel shrugged “But you get weird when you don’t recharge or eat”

“I don’t get weird”

“You cataloged two hundred years of war records in reverse chronological order because you were cranky”

“That was for cross-referencing purposes—!”

“You growled at a light”

Some days, Sentinel brought things that absolutely, unquestionably, did not belong in the Hall of Records

One cycle, it was a cleaning drone the size of a knee joint, scuttling around your workstation with a high-pitched hum and a sensor that kept mistaking ancient dataplaques for dust "To help you declutter” – Sentinel had said, setting the bot down with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t read a single regulation about archival containment. Another time, he’d arrived with a battered datapad in one hand and a suspicious grin on his face

“Found this under a floor panel. Probably cursed. Or priceless. Or both"

You barely looked up from indexing screen “You can’t just bring things into the archives without logging them"

“What if it’s historically significant?”

“It’s a receipt for wing wax. From a Seeker bar"

Sentinel had held it up like a trophy “Exactly! Cultural anthropology"

You pinched the bridge of your nasal ridge and sighed, the kind of sigh one developed only after multiple encounters with the same brand of madness “One day you’re going to knock over a whole building”

“Then you’ll just have to yell at me until I help you rebuild it" He said it with a smile so falsely innocent it could have been carved from polished smugness. You didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. The silence you gave him was honed, practiced, and about 80% ineffective now and yet. For all the chaos he trailed behind him—misfiled reports, rerouted light fixtures, at least one energy spike traced back to an extremely suspicious pastry— You had long stopped trying to keep him out

Somewhere between the first complaint logged and the thousandth ignored intrusion, his presence had settled into something else

Routine

A break in the quiet

A reminder that not everything needed to be orderly to be valuable

That cycle, the ambient light had dimmed to its evening hue, fading into soft golds and purples that streamed through the stained dataglass and washed over the polished floor. The archive felt half-asleep, hushed and slow – Sentinel’s voice came from the doorway, framed by the low gleam of the setting shifts “You’re staying late again"

He leaned one shoulder casually against the frame, his figure lit from behind in dusky silhouette “Trying to impress the scrolls?”

You didn’t glance up—still combing through a data tangle from the war of the Thirteen Clades, most of which seemed written in ego and coded pettiness. But your voice lacked its usual bite

“Trying to make sense of a thousand years of ego and bad handwriting" There was a pause, and then— “You’re included in that”

“Naturally”

Sentinel stepped inside

This time, no jokes, no data pylons knocked over. Just the quiet tap of his footsteps and the warm scent of a synth-brewed energon cube he placed gently beside them. You looked at the cube first—steam curling into the low archive air – then at him – then... they just shook your helm with a faint huff, like amusement trying not to be seen “…You’re not as intolerable as you were”

Sentinel smirked, folding his arms and leaning slightly closer “I’ll take that as a heartfelt declaration of affection”

“Take it as a warning. You’re wearing me down”

“Good” Sentinel murmured, pleased “Makes it easier to sneak into your schedule”

You didn’t tell him to leave

And he didn’t ask to stay

They just worked. Side by side. Occasionally brushing data windows toward each other, occasionally sharing quiet that didn’t feel like silence. Like this was normal now. Like somehow—without anyone announcing it—he’d become part of the footnotes in your day

—

The archives had always been quiet. But this… was too quiet

You sat before the central validation terminal, optics narrowed as lines of processed data ran across the screen. Normally, your work involved verifying temporal consistency, cross-referencing source authenticity, and cleaning up language input from field bots who treated historical reporting like casual gossip — but this wasn’t gossip

This was a timestamped field report. From a Prime-tier outpost. And it didn’t match the report Alpha Trion had handed them this morning

Same event. Same operative. Different wording. Different outcome

And this was the fourth time this week

You brought up both documents—parallel, floating side by side. At a glance, identical. But not quite. The phrasing was just clinical enough to avoid suspicion. The numbers… just plausible enough to escape casual audit. Some were altered more subtly than others. Some inserted new information. Others erased things. Patterns began to form—certain names vanishing from records. Certain decisions scrubbed clean of dissent. A slow, deliberate redirection of narrative

But You didn’t read casually, you read like the future depended on it. Because sometimes, it did

You leaned closer. Opened the metadata. Something flickered – an override signature

Sentinel

Not the full one. Not overt. But his code was in the chain. A sublevel authorization ping—probably buried deep in a rerouting command. Too clean to be a mistake. Too careful to be a coincidence

And why is that? That is the question

—

The chamber was silent but it wasn’t the silence of order and it wasn’t peace. It was the kind of silence that came after something broke— Suddenly – Violently —So completely that even the echoes didn’t know where to go

You sat alone in the central atrium of the Hall of Records. The room—once alive with soft lights and quiet, rhythmic humming—now felt vast and hollow, like the inside of a broken bell. The archive’s main lights had dimmed themselves hours ago, following protocol that couldn’t tell the difference between motionless focus and simple absence. Holographic glyphs still hovered faintly above the console. Fragmented, flickering. Half-rendered thoughts waiting for a directive

They pulsed softly in the darkness, as if uncertain whether their purpose remained

You hadn’t moved. Not since the message came through. Not since the declaration hit them like a blade made of code and finality

The Thirteen Primes have been lost

No battle. No footage. No grand sacrifice — Just... a report. One sentence. Cold, clean, absolute and a follow-up notice:

They will not return

Not “they cannot” Not “they may not” they will not. Your hands had been still on the console ever since. Locked in place. Not gripping—clutching, with pressure that only now began to tremble from strain. You hadn’t moved. Not from disbelief. You had seen enough in your long life to know that nothing—no matter how vast—was immune to destruction. Not even from grief, not yet. The pain hadn’t taken shape. It was numbness. Cold, static-lined void. Not like losing a person. More like watching the stars themselves turn off, one by one, and not knowing if you were next

If someone had asked you yesterday whether the Primes could die, you would’ve said no. Not because you were naive. You had never been one to place blind faith in divine myth. But the Primes were not just icons — They were anchors — Mountains, carved into the structure of Cybertron itself. Fixed points around which history rotated. You didn’t believe in them, the way you believed in stories

You relied on them and now? Gone

Gone, without a trace. Without a last word. Without even a record. Like they had never been

You hadn’t noticed the way your joints had locked until you finally loosened your grip on the console. One finger twitched first, then another. The sensation returned slowly, pins and needles rippling down your arm as you exhaled for the first time in what felt like megacycles. The silence pressed back in

And then—

Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. Too measured to be uncertain. Too composed to be innocent You didn’t need to turn. You knew

“You’re still here”

The voice came low, as though reluctant to break the stillness—but unable to resist doing so. Controlled, almost gentle but not quite — Sentinel stepped past the edge of the darkened corridor and into the atrium, his frame outlined in the cold ambient glow of the failing terminals. Even his footsteps sounded louder than usual here, every contact with the stone floor ringing too sharp, too deliberate “Everyone else has gone to the Spire"

You didn’t answer, didn’t even blink. Your gaze remained fixed forward, eyes dim and distant, staring through the projections as though trying to read something that hadn’t yet been written

Something that should have been there

Sentinel’s footsteps echoed again as he moved closer—slow, even, deliberate

“The official rites are being drafted” he said, after a moment “They want you to verify the final accounts. For the records"

He didn’t phrase it as a command. Not exactly. But the weight behind it was undeniable. At that, Your helm dipped slightly. Not in obedience. Not in agreement. Just… acknowledgment. Your voice came a moment later. Quiet. Hoarse in a way that had nothing to do with their vocalizer

“They’re dead..” A beat “All of them”

The words didn’t echo, simply fell, flat, lifeless, like corrupted data hitting a locked node

Sentinel didn’t respond right away. He stood behind them now—just a few paces away—but made no move to reach out, no pretense of comfort. Only the silence, shared “Yes”

One word. Heavy as a headstone

The word lingered. Not in grief. Not in reflection. Just—confirmation. Neatly clipped. Perfectly balanced. As if he had been waiting to say it

You didn’t move at first. Only optics shifted—quietly tracking the flickering remains of the central display. The soft wash of light from the terminal painted shifting glyphs on the metallic floor, but no new data came. No emergency alerts. No last pings from the outer sectors. No autologs from the Primes. Nothing — Your hand moved slowly, brushing a few dormant glyphs back into focus. The last outbound transmissions. System traces. Anything

But the logs were clean

Too clean

“They didn’t send anything” you murmured, the words soft, but weighter “Not one of them. No burst signal. No fail-safe ping. Not even a corrupted echo"

The words turned brittle. The disbelief was not loud—but it was cutting. You turned—just slightly. Enough to glimpse him standing behind, his figure still and controlled, as though carved from the archive walls themselves. Hands clasped behind his back. Shoulders squared. That same unreadable expression he always wore like armor

But now… it felt wrong —Too smooth. Too complete. Like a statue placed just a little too soon after the funeral

“And you…”

“You’re very calm”

There it was: a twitch

Not obvious—just the faintest narrowing of Sentinel’s optics as he turned his helm slightly toward them “Would you rather I fall to my knees?” he said. Tone level. Not mocking—but not grieved, either

If it was meant to soften the moment, it failed

Your optics didn’t waver “I’d rather you look like someone who just lost everything"

The air between them was thin now. Like atmosphere stripped bare. Sentinel stepped forward, one pace only. Careful. Measured “The rites must be prepared. The Council needs stability. Cybertron needs structure. If I crumble now, what will they cling to?”

“Structure..?” The word tasted sour on your tongue. You turned to face him fully. The low light caught the edges of your frame, casting a faint halo over the lines of wear fatigue had etched over long hours

Your voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to “Funny how fast structure came together... considering how sudden this all was"

Something flickered across Sentinel’s face. Too brief. A pause, like static between signals. He recovered quickly. But you had seen it “You think I planned this?”

“No" They took a step closer, boots clicking softly against the stone floor “I think you expected it”

Sentinel didn’t reply. So you pressed forward, calm as a scalpel’s edge “The sealed Spire. The rites drafted before the message even reached all districts. The in memoriam archives already preloaded" your optics glinted now, cold and sharp

“You don’t prepare that fast, Sentinel”

Silence. A heavy one

Sentinel’s gaze held steady—but his stance had shifted. A subtle set to the jaw. A flicker of tension behind the shoulders “There are contingency plans” he said at last

“But you didn’t react like this was a contingency – You moved like someone whose schedule had simply... advanced" you weren’t shouting. This wasn’t anger. Not yet. This was worse. It was the kind of quiet that cracked glass — you took another step forward. Sentinel didn’t move “You knew”

You said it not as a claim—but as a data point “You knew something. And you didn’t say anything. Not to me. Not to the Archives. Not to anyone who might have asked why”

Silence stretched again, pulled thin between them like a wire ready to snap. Even the terminals seemed to hold their breath

Then— “Knowing…” Sentinel said slowly “isn’t the same as choosing”

“Then whose choice was it?”

That stopped him. His expression didn’t break—but it no longer looked composed. It looked constructed and still, he said nothing. Which, perhaps, was the loudest thing yet

The Spire bells had long gone quiet. The mourning banners were still up, but the tones of grief had already begun to shift—less raw now, more ceremonial. Official. Muted into symbols

In the weeks that followed

Sentinel did what he had always been best at: He moved forward. Quietly. Confidently. Like a mech simply answering a call no one else could. No one declared him the new Prime. Not at first. But decisions began flowing through his office. Emergency coordination. Transition logistics. Security restructuring. Public reassurance. Every corridor that once ended in silence now echoed with orders signed in his glyph. And no one stopped him. Because no one knew what else to do

At first, it was small. A council meeting held without you—an oversight, you were told. A briefing rerouted to a secondary terminal—misfiled, the assistant claimed. Requests for archival access began to be reviewed then delayed then quietly ignored. One by one, your permissions shifted. Not revoked—restricted. Not banned—just... paused, pending Sentinel’s authorization “Just protocol” he said with that same calm smile “We’re all adjusting to new parameters”

And yet—those parameters always seemed to shift in one direction. His

The chamber above the New Arc Circuit was always cool, always dark. A half-circle of open air overlooked the hall below—a place once alive with debate, bright with the thrum of Prime-forged voices. But now, like so many places in recent cycles, it stood hollow. The ancient lighting had dimmed itself to a low ambient hue, cool silver washing over the stone and metal in shadows and soft reflections.

You stood near the edge, hands resting on the curved railing polished smooth by centuries of counsel. Below, the great speaking floor stretched wide and silent, a ceremonial space untouched since the Spire bells fell quiet. You didn’t turn when you heard the footsteps. Didn’t need to

They had learned the cadence of his walk. Smooth. Steady. Never rushed. Never loud. The stride of someone who believed he already belonged in every room he entered “You’ve been reallocating my permissions"

No anger in your voice. No shock. Just cold, deliberate observation — The kind of truth that left no room for denial. Sentinel didn’t slow. He crossed the polished obsidian floor behind them, his reflection a ripple of dark armor and gold filigree beneath their feet

“Temporarily” His tone was light. Gentle, even. But too balanced to be mistaken for casual

“You didn’t inform me” your gaze fixed on the empty floor below—an echo chamber now. The ghosts of the Primes no longer stirred. Sentinel stopped a short distance behind you

“I didn’t need to” he said quietly “The system recognizes my authority now — Your position, on the other hand, is being... redefined”

That made you turn. Sharp. Controlled. But sharp, optics caught the low light, glowing brighter than he remembered—like you had finally reawakened from grief, only to find anger waiting behind it

“Redefined?”

“By whose decision?”

“By necessity” he replied so so simply

“Your role was constructed under the old paradigm. The Primes are gone”

He took a step closer—not threatening, but deliberate “You served history well”

He meant it. He did. He had watched them work for vorns—methodical, incorruptible, brilliant in ways few ever saw. You had been the voice behind the curtain. The invisible measure by which even the Primes were kept honest. He respected that even… envied it.. But it couldn’t remain

"But I am building something new”

Now he looked at them fully. Not like a subordinate. Not like a rival. Like a problem that used to be a person “And history… isn’t what we need right now.”

You didn’t respond. Not with words

But he saw the tension in your jaw. The stillness in your hands—too still. Like someone holding a thought so tightly they feared it might shatter if spoken aloud. He waited a breath. Two. Then smiled. Just barely “Let it go” he said, voice low. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… final

“Let the past rest” He took one step more. Just near enough to stand beside you. His voice dropped even lower. Almost a murmur and for a moment—just a moment—he thought they might yield. That the weight of it all—the grief, the isolation, the slow, quiet cuts to your place in the world—had finally worn you down “You don’t want to turn yourself into a relic chasing ghosts”

He didn’t want to erase you

Not like he had erased others

He remembered the way you used to speak in the early days, side by side during cross-era briefings. He remembered the dry wit. The spark of challenge in your optics. You had once made him feel watched. Not in the paranoid way—but in the way that reminded him to stand taller. To be better. But this wasn’t then and if you couldn’t see the necessity of what he was doing…

He would have to act, eventually

But not yet

“Let the archives sleep a while” he added, almost soft “We’ll find a better use for you”

He turned then, the floor catching his reflection as he walked back across the chamber and you remained behind, silent at the rail, watching as your world—your work—shifted underfoot like sand in the tide. They said nothing. But in your chest, something clenched. Because they could hear it now. You quiet, subtle shape of a lie forming in every document you weren’t allowed to see

And it carried his glyph

[kenzdolls]

KYOKA JIRO RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS .

𖤐 tags: kyoka jiro x reader, kyoka x reader, kyoka jiro x gn! reader 𖤐 pairing: kyoka jiro x hero student! gn! reader

𖤐 notes: none, I js love kyoka sm

MEETING KYOKA JIRO:

▸ she probably noticed you before you noticed her. her enhanced hearing picks up on the little things - your nervous humming before a test, the way your footsteps change when you're excited, the unique rhythm of your heartbeat when you're laughing with your friends. it's all data to her, initially, but data that starts to pique her interest.

▸ first official interaction? probably during a group project. she's the efficient one, the one keeping everyone on track, and you're the one with the surprisingly brilliant ideas that she didn't expect. she respects a sharp mind.

▸ she's initially wary if your quirk is loud or disruptive. but if you can control it and respect others' personal space (sonic booms in the dorms? instant deal-breaker), she'll slowly soften. karaoke night at the dorms is a make-or-break moment. if you butcher a classic, she'll cringe internally. but if you pick a good song and actually have some rhythm? major points. bonus points if you suggest a punk rock song.

▸ jiro would give a slight, almost unnoticeable nod of acknowledgement if you gave her good music recommendations. if you also suggest some obscure underground bands, consider her impressed. she might even lend you a pair of her headphones.

KYOKA CRUSHING ON YOU:

▸the first sign that she's crushing? she gets flustered when you ask her about music. suddenly, she can't remember the name of her favorite band or what genre she likes best. her carefully cultivated cool demeanor cracks.

▸ she starts leaving her headphones around "accidentally" so you have to return them. it's a flimsy excuse, but she hopes you don't notice.

▸ she'll start composing little melodies inspired by you. they're usually short, instrumental snippets that capture your essence. she'd never admit it, but she plays them over and over in her room. ▸ studying together becomes a regular thing. she pretends it's just for academic purposes, but she strategically positions herself so she can subtly observe you. she notices the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating, the way your eyes light up when you finally understand a concept.

▸ she subtly starts mirroring your mannerisms. if you tend to tap your foot when you're thinking, she'll find herself doing the same.

▸ she gets noticeably protective of you during training exercises. if you're paired up against someone with a particularly powerful quirk, she'll subtly guide you and offer tactical advice with the excuse "i just wouldn't want you to get hurt".

DATING KYOKA JIRO:

▸ dates are low-key and heavily music-centered. think small, intimate concerts at local venues, record store browsing, or just sitting in her room listening to music together.

▸ physical affection is initially subtle. casual brushes of hands, leaning against each other while listening to music, maybe a shy hug after a great concert.

▸ she loves it when you play with her earphone jacks. it's a vulnerable spot for her, but she trusts you. it's also strangely intimate.

▸ she makes you mixtapes (or playlists, if she's feeling modern). each song is carefully chosen to reflect your relationship and her feelings for you.

▸ she teaches you how to read music and play a simple instrument. sharing her passion with you is incredibly important to her.

▸ she's surprisingly sentimental about your anniversary. she'll probably make you some handmade music-related gift.

▸ she loves to use her quirk to enhance your experiences. imagine feeling the vibrations of a concert through her earphone jacks or hearing the subtle sounds of nature amplified.

▸ she's a fiercely loyal and supportive girlfriend. she'll always have your back, and she'll always be there to listen (literally and figuratively).

▸ she likes to tease you, but it's always gentle and playful. she loves to see you flustered.

▸ she might write a song about you. she'll probably never play it for an audience, but she might play it for you, late at night, when you're alone together.

taglist: [open]

mutuals: @https-bakugo @haikyuubby @va-3 @lotusstarr @tulippanes @gh0st-g1rll @luvseraphh

© property of kenzdolls — do not copy, steal, or plagiarize my work.

[emberfrostlovesloki]

Kintsugi  金繕い [Spencer x Reader]

Photo credits Left (@mon-petit-coeur-noir) Center (@whoisspence) Right (@shakespearesdaughters)

Prompt: When the reader gets kidnapped for being friends with Spencer, she is mentally tormented to get back at Reid, and the reader and team, especially Spencer,  have to find a way to communicate before it’s too late for her to make it out alive. 

Pairing: Spencer x BAU-Fem!reader, Nerdy!reader. The reader uses she/her pronouns

Category: angst/hurt/comfort [happy ending] 

Word Count: 15K

Content Warnings: Mention of death and sexual assault, mention of blood, mental torment [threat of assault, being unclothed, forced partial blindness - eyes glued open, forced partial deafness - loud music is played, degrading comments (reader)], physical harm [being cut with a knife, being put in a feezing unit, being beaten (reader)], distress, mentions of hospitals. If I missed any please let me know. 

A/N: Hi all! I hope you are all doing very well! If you are a student on Summer break I hope you are having fun and relaxing! As always, I return with a novel of a Spencer story. This story was requested by an Anon, thank you so much, and I hope you like it! I do throw in a few Star Trek and literary references in this fic, but I try and explain them well. My requests are open, so feel free to request a fic from me if you like anytime! I do want to encourage you to read the tags as this is a bit dark for me (though it has a happy ending). If you like this concept and would like to see part two of the reader’s healing process with Spencer, let me know. Please be kind to yourselves this week and do something you love, you are so special. If you enjoy this fic, likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated! Love Levi - ❤️

List with all stories 

y/n = your name 

y/c/h = your color hair 

y/l/n = your last name 

t/c/s = tea/coffee/soda 

y/n’s head was pounding. It was throbbing with pain and the hard floor and air itself seemed frigid. y/n clutched her sides and rubbed. She was grateful that their clothes were still on. Given the unsub the team was dealing with, it wasn’t what y/n had expected. But then again, the man the BAU had been trying to find in the last week had been full of surprises. He didn’t fit the early profile the team had created, and now y/n was alone and scared, but she pulled together her strength and courage and opened her eyes. This was her job and she’d been doing it for a year. She’d seen team members taken, and harmed, and sometimes almost died, but if there was one thing y/n knew about the BAU, it was that they cared for each other. Everyone on the team would be looking for her. They wouldn’t leave a stone unturned until they found her. That was what had drawn y/n to the Unit in the first place. 

The BAU had done a joint operation with y/n’s Counterterrorism team where they were the unofficial data specialist and literary nerd. As soon as Derek had seen y/n and Reid together, he looked at Emily and said, “Well, this is going to be trouble,” to which both agents looked up and said in unison, “What?” It was during that case that Spencer had been in danger, and y/n was a bit too. Spencer had put himself in harm's way to ensure she was okay. Just seeing how the BAU responded with more than just professionalism, but also with care had sealed y/n into wanting a transfer. It wasn’t for another two years before that became a possibility. There was some issue with the documents that she had mailed to the Quanitco office, eventually, she sent fresh ones and drove them down herself. 

It was that knowledge, that the team was looking, at that filled y/n with warmth and shared determination. She opened her eyes and realized why she was so cold. From the looks of things, the white cement floor, the fluorescent lighting, and the crusted blood on the ground, y/n was in a meat packing plant. She sniffled and rubbed her shivering torso as she opened her eyes and sat up. There were conveyor belts on the far side of the wall, along with sharp meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. This setting would make sense given that the bodies of the three victims that had the team come down in the first place had seemed very fresh, even though they had passed a few weeks ago. The thought of the women and what the unsub had done to them and their bodies made y/n want to vomit. 

They had been killed excruciatingly. Not only had they been tortured, but they’d been assaulted as well. With this in mind, and possibly in her future, y/n moved away from the dried blood on the floor, not sure who or what it was from. y/n wondered how long the man kept his victims alive. The team had hypothesized that he was a sadist and loved long drawn out kills, to watch the victims suffer. The unsub had a type, and y/n fell into it. There was a sound at the far side of the room, and y/n moved to the center of the space. There was no point in cowering in the corner. She decided to face the unsub head-on. Show no fear, even if she was filled with it to the brim. The man’s outline filled the door making it unable for her to see him, but y/n knew that would change soon enough. 

As y/n waited to test wits with the man in front of her, the rest of the BAU, many miles away had set up a tent at the Kansas State Fair. Their team tent looked much less adorned than those of the food and game vendors with their bright colors and light. The satellite pop-up of the BAU and police presence were needed to gather information and vet the people leaving the fair since y/n had been taken. Their tent was on the far side of the fair. It would be unassuming if there weren’t loads of cops, police cars, state troopers cars, and a SWAT team all moving in and out of the space. Aaron and Rossi were heading up the operation and working through the bureaucratic tape and interdepartmental things that would otherwise slow the team down. There was a tension in the air that permeated each member of the BAU. It was palpable with all of them, but with Spencer, it was coming off him wave after wave. The lithe agent was with Emily and Derek, walking through the empty mirror house where y/n had been abducted. As Reid, Em, and Morgan move through each cranny and trick door for guests and employees. He caught his reflection in mirror after mirror and it all felt like a sick joke. Reid was absorbed in his own reflection for a moment before he heard Derek’s voice cut through his brain fog. Spencer snapped up and moved toward his friend's voice. Emily and Morgan were kneeling down next to an employee entrance. Reid was upset and angry, and the sight of a blood stain on the bright floor along with a few strands of y/n’s y/c/h should have made him feel good, but the blood only meant that y/n was already hurt, and probably being hurt more at this point made his stomach churn. 

Emily looked at Spencer’s serious face and re-asked “Can we get a blood sample vial, Spence?” The question finally registered with Reid and he replied sharply, “I’ll do it. Can you just step aside a bit?” Derek’s brow furrowed. He knew that Spencer had a thing for y/n. Everyone on the team did except, infuriatingly, the pining agents themselves. But that didn’t give Spencer a reason to be hot at them. Morgan replied, “Easy Spence. We’re doing everything we can.” Spencer couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Well not enough to keep her safe when she was with you both.” At that statement, both Prentiss and Derek stood and looked at Spencer disappointingly, like a child who had said a naughty word they had been told not to say. They both moved back and their physical reactions made Spencer drop his head in shame. He took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, and said to the floor, “I’m sorry.” He was trying to hold back all the emotions. Emotions he often didn’t let himself feel. He looked up at his friends and continued, “I’m sorry. I… I don’t think I know how to deal with this. I know it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have done anything, and you both care about y/n as much as I do. I let my emotions get away from me.” 

Morgan and Emily looked at each other as Reid said that they both liked y/n as much as he did, knowing it wasn’t true. Yes, they both loved y/n, but not like Spencer, and that realization justified Reid's words for them. They both moved forward. Derek gave Spencer’s shoulder a firm squeeze, and said, “It’s okay, kid. Now, have you got that vial Em needs?” Reid released a relieved breath, pulled a sample kit out of his shoulder bag, and handed it over to Emily who was back on her knees near the evidence. As she began taking the sample, Morgan and Spencer moved down the narrow trap door to see where it led and to see if there were more clues about the unsub or y/n’s location. 

As the duo moved down the narrow hallway, it became apparent that y/n must have been unconscious or tightly bound as she was being taken away by the unsub. There would have been more of a struggle on y/n’s part if she’d been awake or free, but none of the boxes or supplies for the House of Mirrors seemed to be broken or messed up. Derek didn’t know if this was a good or a bad thing, and Reid’s mind was moving too fast, even he couldn’t keep up with it. He knew the team needed to find all of the physical evidence first, to vet the guests and vendors that were leaving for information, but that could be a slow process and all Spener wanted to do was use his full brain power to think about the victimology, update the profile, make a map pinpointing the locations of the victims, but this process had to be done first. The team was a member short, and they all knew the police weren’t helpful in situations like this, so Reid sucked it up and kept moving beside Morgan, trying desperately to still his brain for once. 

Back in the freezer, y/n looked as the mountain of a man came into view. He looked disheveled and red-faced. He wore jeans and a button-down T-shirt. y/n looked at him. She wanted him to make the first move, to understand him better -- his ticks, any weaknesses he had. Anything she could use against him. Force wasn’t an option right now, but she had her mind, and that was worth a lot. The unsub grinned and said, “This will be fun. You’re prettier than I expected. That look of fear on your face, he’s going to love that.” y/n swallowed and replied, “‘He?’ Don’t you mean you. You’re the one taking and killing the woman. And thanks for the compliment.” The man chuckled and said, “You have a mouth on you alright, just like I expected. Of course, he’d like you the little bitch. And who he is doesn’t matter. For now at least. But it will be fun. Not for you of course, but for me it will be. I’ll get so, so very much pleasure from you. I just didn’t expect you to be so cute. It’s a shame, really.” 

y/n frowned. She couldn’t tell if this was dissociation or multiple personalities, but the constant mention of her looks and another person was odd. There hadn’t been any signs of a second unsub, nor was there any other DNA evidence on the victims. As the man made a fast step toward y/n, she moved away from him. This only had the unsub smile and laugh as he moved toward y/n again and said, “You can’t run away from me little bird. You’re only going to make it worse on yourself.” y/n stopped at that. y/n stopped immediately. She swallowed thickly. If she was someone else, like Hotch, Morgan, or Spencer who had the presence and size to act brave in a physical altercation she would bluster and make herself big and threatening. But y/n wasn’t them and didn’t take risks like they did. Firstly, because even y/n assumed Morgan would be physically intimidated by the man’s size and bulk, secondly, y/n was still new to the BAU. Not that she hadn’t picked things up quickly or was good at the job, but it was still more difficult for her to pick up small tells or things like Reid or Emily could. Plus, it wouldn’t help her in signaling the team in some way if the first thing that happened to her was to be fully incapacitated. 

The unsub noticed her submissive posture and liked it saying, “That’s it little bird, now I need you to get out of your things.” y/n looked up at him, biting her lip asking, “Why? What happened to the bird when it gets defeathered, defrocked?” y/n knew what to expect next, assault was part of this man’s MO and if she could postpone that, she sure as hell would. The man laughed again, harsh and cruel, like he was in on a joke that she wasn’t. The man replied, “I’m not going to break you like the others. I could, and I will if you give me too much bratty attitude, but that’s not the plan. All of that other shit with the women and how I treated them, that was to get your attention. Their attention. And I don't think physically breaking you would hurt him either, but don’t test me. However, for now, just take off your clothes and I won’t touch you, that way.” 

y/n didn’t look forward to being undressed in front of anyone. It was uncomfortable for her to be vulnerable with their body like that, even with close friends like Penelope and JJ. In fact, a memory of Emily trying to get her to buy a more revealing swimsuit for the summer popped into her mind and the coaxing it took for y/n to finally buy and wear the skimpy swimwear. Of course, Spencer’s attempt to not look over her body with rapt attention had made the discomfort worth it. When the unsub grabbed at her shirt, y/n began undoing the button of her shirt. It took longer than she expected as her hands shook with cold and fear. y/n expected the man to ask her to move faster, but he didn’t. Again, he seemed to have a sick enjoyment of watching her cower. y/n took this opportunity to think and think fast. The man had said he was trying to get the team's attention. Not only the team’s attention but ‘his’ attention. So that narrowed it down to four people. That was something to go off of. Second, this unsub was someone y/n would have remembered if she’d dealt with him before, but she didn’t, so he was someone from before her time. This was some kind of lesson. There was only a small glimmer of hope that y/n had for her health, both physical and mental because if the unsub wanted to break a member of the team through her, it was going to take more than just taking them captive and keeping them in a poorly regulated freezing unit. 

At this point, y/n was down to her undergarments, and she wondered how pushing the man would be. How quickly he would react, and with how much force? There was only one way of finding out, and she intended to know this early on. This way she could better gauge her actions and submissiveness. If that turned out to be a thing he liked, then she could use it as a small way of gaining control later. So y/n stopped when she stepped out of her pants, and the man quickly changed his demeanor saying, “Don’t stop now. I may not be interested in you, but I know he is, and it’s no good if we’re keeping this at a PG-13, scary movie rating. I need this to be the unrated version birdie, so get out of those panties and bra.” y/n now knew that the man’s emotions were volatile and could change on a dime. That was all she needed to know to get out of her last things. The cold chilled y/n further now that she was nude. 

y/n couldn’t stop herself as she moved her hands to cover her nudity. The unsub bent down not even noticing her discomfort as he picked up her undergarments and examined them to an odd degree muttering, “Do you think he knows you match your bra to your panties? Because he will soon enough.” y/n stepped back, slowly onto one of the patches of dried blood which made y/n cringe. The serious ‘he’ was back and the expression of rage on the man’s face was so intense that y/n wanted to run to the door to try and escape. Whatever this man who had supposedly wronged the unsub, there was a vitriolic rage for him simmering underneath the surface. Before y/n even had the chance to fully think through making a run for it, the man stood up and whipped his hand over y/n’s face so hard that the blow threw her back and into one of the metal supports of the conveyor belts. 

The pain in the side of y/n’s face shocked her into stillness as her jaw clicked oddly and she grunted in pain. Again, before y/n could react, the unsub was on her again. He kicked her torso, legs, and face with the steel tips of his boots breaking the skin every time another blow landed on her prone body. Along with the damage to her front, every time the man’s foot met y/n’s bare flesh, her back was pushed back and harder into the sharp corner of the convey belt. y/n quickly figured out that the unsub was being fast and efficient. When she looked up at his face, he seemed bored as he landed each kick. There was a callous disinterest in what he was doing. He seemed to not be affected at all by what was happening to his victim. Due to this y/n began planning accordingly. Shifting her position slightly so the blows landed on a more padded part of her body, and along with giving her lower back a break by shifting the hits to her lower shoulders, this meant her breasts getting hit, which was not pleasant in the least, but it was somewhere new, and somewhere padded by a bit more. 

y/n felt jostled to the core and rattled to the bone. The pain she was experiencing was blinding and she couldn’t think about much more than trying to protect her face and groin, both of which got hit anyway. What felt like an eternity’s worth of blows ended as soon as it began, and all y/n could do was lie on the ground and grit her teeth against the pain. Her attempt to stay strong physically and mentally was already being tested, but she refused to lick her wounds in front of her captor. If this was about being broken, then she wasn’t yet. The unsub knelt with a grunt and jerked y/n’s face up and into the light, looking at the bruising on her face examining her like a piece of meat for consumption. Something about her battered appearance didn’t suit his liking and he said like a painter finishing a masterpiece, “Just a bit more, right there.” His large stubby pointer finger gesticulated at her lower face and he gripped her hair more tightly and rammed her head onto the floor splitting her lip and jarring her jaw again. 

With that, the man dropped y/n’s face, stood, and walked straight out of the room. Just for the fun of it, he kept the door open for three minutes as he watched y/n turn onto her side to find any place that was comfortable enough to breathe. y/n looked at the open door and the look of delight on the man’s face as he stood by the entrance, and y/n realized that this was going to be her form of torment, an option in view but not accessible. When the large metal door finally swung shut and was locked from the outside, y/n closed her eyes and tried to use her brain. There would be time to assess her physical damage later, for now, she could use one thing that she had. She made mental notes: that the unsub walked with a limp, that he had a New York accent, that he wasn’t over fifty years old. He also had a large size footprint to match his large stature. He also had a mermaid tattoo on his left ankle. Next, she thought about his mental patterns. He was volatile and not afraid to cause harm, but he took no pleasure in doing so to her. It was about a certain result. He had also said that he had only killed those other women, and eviscerated them, to get a man on the team's attention. y/n could work with that. Try and use that to her advantage. If only she could find out who the man was. As the pain took y/n over, and her brain shut down to the basic feeling of hurt and cold, y/n’s mind turned to Spencer. How I must have looked at the moment. Stressed, tired, on edge. It wasn’t a pleasant sight, even if it was for her. She wished she could pull him into a hug and say “It’s alright Spence. I’m holding on. I promise.” The last sentence would stay silent, but he’d know. Because he always knew her. And with that thought, y/n closed her eyes, curled in on herself, and attempted to rest. 

The night was not pleasant for anyone but the unsub. But even Moore Eiarty, the unsub, was worried that his plan wouldn’t succeed, That he couldn’t break the genius of Spencer Reid. But all the pieces were finally in place, and now it was time to play. As the team finally got through vetting the people in the park, they got back to work. The main thing they had to go off of was that one of the performers, the Giant Man, was missing. He’d been added last minute to the tour and there had barely been time to get his paperwork in order before the Kansas Fair began. And it wasn’t until that evening that they discovered that the man, Mr. M. Earity, had very well-forged documents. Not just one, but all of them. That gave Penelope a lot to work on while the team took the angle of victimology and reworked the profile. The BAU had moved back to the police precinct except for Derek and Rossi. Spencer knew that Morgan was taking this especially hard because y/n had been taken while she was with him, but Spence’s head was too full of ideas and concerns to worry about how the others felt right now. 

Aaron watched the team do what the team did. Perhaps they were working a bit more hectically than normal, but this was one of their own on the line and Hotch would rather die before he stopped working to get y/n back. As he looked at Spencer, writing on over seven whiteboards with three coffees on the table, he considered that Reid might also die if they didn’t find y/n soon. That thought sat with the Unit Chief, and he tucked it in the back of his mind for later. This felt especially pertinent to this case, though he didn’t know why yet. Nothing much came in terms of developments for a few hours. JJ released a statement for the press, Derek and Rossi returned to the team, and the Fair was shut down for legal safety. The tip line ran nonstop and everyone felt the weight of time. It wasn’t until 3:00 AM that the first real forward momentum was given to the team, and target to Spencer specifically. 

It came in the form of an email from an unlisted account. It was labeled Urgent Dr. Reid - Re:y/n, y/l/n. Spencer looked at the email and decided to open it. He was tired, and his brain was beginning to numb at all the stimuli that were assaulting his mind. What he saw once he opened that email made him drop his coffee and whip his hand over his mouth in horror. Aaron and Emily were in the room with Spencer, and they both noticed their colleague’s distress. Prentiss moved to Reid’s side and looked at the laptop as well. Her mouth went slack and she whispered, “Oh my God. H-hotch…” It didn’t take Aaron more than four strides to see what had both of these friends looking like they were going to be sick. As soon as he saw the first picture of y/n, naked, heavily bruised and bloody, and head down he knew why Reid and Em had reacted as they had. y/n’s hands were forced above her head with zip ties and strung to a hook hanging from the ceiling. The position she was in had her knees barely brushing the floor which meant that all of her weight was in her wrists, elbows, and shoulders.

y/n wore a pained expression, and Hotch’s eyes darted up for a second out of proprietary. He didn’t want to have to see y/n undressed. To be forced into such a humiliating position and know others, people she trusted, would see it made Aaron pause. It hurt. He composed himself and said as professionally as he could, “We need this on the big screen. Em, can you get on that? Reid, is there any text in the body?” Prentiss and Spencer came back to themselves, though it took Spence a moment longer, and they registered their Leader’s questions. Emily nodded and moved to pull down the projector in the room and pushed some of the whiteboards Reid had been using aside; meanwhile, Reid scrolled past the 25 attached photos to where there was some text. He read it in a millisecond and said, “Yes there is. I’ll get Gacia on Zoom while you get the rest of the team in here.” Hotch nodded and took one more second to look at Spencer to see if he was okay. This was targeted at him, which was both a good and a bad thing, but right now, the smartest member of the team looked determined to get to the bottom of this, so Hotch moved to the door to get everyone else into the conference room. 

After the team looked at all of the photos and the attached email, they split into smaller sub-groups to work more efficiently. Aaron and Emily agreed to look at all of the images with a more critical eye. They would break down every angle and shot and bruise on y/n’s body. The one positive thing that the pictures did show was that y/n was alive. Or at least she had been, and given the unsub’s propensity to draw out his kills, there was a good chance that y/n was still alive. The time stamp on the email had been from only a half hour ago and didn’t appear altered. Hotch assigned Spencer and JJ to look at the body of the email. He gave this task to Spencer so he could do something he excelled at. He was the best linguist and forensic document analyst in the FBI after all. JJ was also excellent at identifying patterns in writing and could help Spencer. It also gave Reid an out for not having to look at y/n’s prone and exposed body. 

Aaron as the leader took that burden of looking at y/n with Emily because Prentiss was also very good at compartmentalizing her emotions related to her friendships and the job. Derek was working with Garcia, who was on overdrive to find the source of the email and pin down a location along with about ten thousand other things. She’d gone as far as calling in Janet, another Technical analyst at Quantico to come and help her because two computer processors and brains were always better than one. Lastly, Rossi coordinated with the police on-the-ground operation of searching for y/n. Even though a lot of moving pieces were happening at the same time, the BAU did what it always did -- work with excellence and as a team. Aaron looked at his team for a moment, proud of them. He was worried about Spencer, who was more on edge than normal. Hotch turned his eyes back to the screen, he’d check in on the genius in a few hours, for now, he had a difficult job to do. 

After a few hours that slipped by like grains of sand in an open palm, the team had discovered a few things. The first thing that Spencer and JJ broke down was the email which read: 

I have waited for a long time to get this opportunity. While I have watched you all, the most famous and infamous team in the FBI, I have been looking at one of you in particular. I wonder if you know who you are yet? Let me give you a hint. Last I saw you, you were just a child not even weaned on crimes or violence. Do you know now? Estranged from your friend, I wonder if you’re floundering like I have been before because of you. Sorry if this is all a bit obtuse, but this is fun, and I’m going to draw it out for you. Try not to get too excited yet, the best is yet to come. Rest assured that your friend will face the consequences of knowing you so well. Only when I see you so ruined as I have been ruined will I be happy. Yesterday you were so determined to catch me, do you feel that way now, or are you feeling the fear in your veins? You can find me eventually, but not before I find you. Other things may happen too. Under my control, I may make y/n do anything I want. Don’t worry though, I don’t have plans like I had for the others, this is different. Ready now. Ready now. Enough of waiting for you, and this moment. I’d start praying for y/n, and you, my friend. Dare we should meet in person and you’ll see what I’ve done to her and you’ll finally taste my revenge. 

It didn’t take Spencer more than a minute to read the ‘secret message of’ I will destroy you, Dr. Reid, in the unsubs email. He almost laughed at the grandiose nature of the writing. JJ then pointed out that y/n wasn’t even mentioned until the end of the rambling message. This told the team that this kidnapping was all about Spencer, as it was clear from the email, and had little to do with y/n. That y/n was being used as a tool to get at Reid. Of course, the pictures of y/n who was bruised heavily all over her body, showed that the unsub was still willing to inflict serious bodily harm on her. But this fact made Emily and JJ feel slightly better. 

Spencer had come up with at least seventeen facts, grammatical patterns, and hints at a personality based on egomania. After Reid had said about five of them in the span of a few minutes, Derek gave him a look and Spencer stopped talking. Aaron and Emily then broke down the patterns of bruising and how the depth of the day-old bruising was likely from one sustained moment in time. That there didn’t seem to be layer upon layer of bruising on y/n’s body. Also, from the look of it, there didn’t seem to be any sign of sexual assault. Hotch had caught onto the dark red-rimmed circles under y/n’s eyes, indicating that she hadn’t slept much if at all since she had been taken nearly twenty-four hours ago. It was also pretty easy for Aaron to tell that y/n was being kept in some kind of industrial freezing unit. This was concerning as staying anytime long-term in such a cold space could lead to frostbite and long-term nerve damage. 

After the team had gone through the information and made a start at a new profile that focused mostly on the unsubs' hatred for Spencer, this put even more pressure on Spence. The rest of the team took a small break to just breathe or step outside or get a drink of the bad coffee from the office breakroom, Reid stayed behind and furiously wrote in his notepad and looked at the photos of y/n while biting the inside of his cheek so hard that he broke the soft pink skin. Spencer turned off the bright light to let his eyes and at least his occipital cortex have a break. The rest of his body was working pell mill. Derek moved back to the room ten minutes later and Spencer was leaning, his hands forward, and head bowed toward the wooden table. He looked like he might collapse. Morgan could see his friend’s outline backlit against the brightness of the screen. He looked frailer than normal, skinnier than his usual tall body. Derek knew this was hard for Spencer because it was y/n who had been taken, and it was because of him. Even if Spencer hadn’t realized he had feelings for y/n yet, he still felt the weight of what was happening to her because of him. Morgan entered the room with a cup of coffee and said gently, “Spencer, I brought you some coffee.” Reid hummed softly like he hadn’t really heard Morgan and Derek said, “Reid,” a bit louder. Spencer’s head shot up and toward Derek and his hands gripped the side of the table harder, knuckles turning white. Spencer snapped a “What?” at Morgan before taking a breath and relaxing his shoulders. Morgan didn’t mind Spence’s tone now. It made sense. 

Derek moved into the room and said, “I brought you some coffee. Maybe we could step outside for a minute? Get some fresh air?” Reid dropped his head again and he said mournfully, “I can’t rest right now. I have to figure out who has y/n.  I don’t know who the unsub is, but they know me and I don’t want y/n to have to pay the price for that.” Derek sighed and replied, “Spence, y/n would never blame you for being her friend, for being someone special to her.” Reid sniffled and replied, “She won’t thank me if she’s dead and neither will I.” Spencer’s voice broke off halfway through his last sentence. Morgan stepped forward and placed his hand on Reid’s shoulder. He gave is a gentle squeeze and replied, “Well thinking like that isn’t going to save her. And you need that super processor of a brain of yours to cool off before it shuts down on it’s own. And y/n is a tough cookie, she’s going to make it Reid. If there’s anyone who can find her, it’s you. And if you start letting this guy get to your head, then he’s already won. And we don’t let fuckers like that win. I know y/n sure as shit won’t thank you for that. Now let's go outside.” Spence allowed himself to be led out of the dark room, and Morgan closed the door behind them. 

y/n was beyond tired, she dozed off on and off as she lay in the corner of the room. She was too sore to move around. She did take a look at her surroundings every time she woke abruptly from an unknown sound. She’d look for the man who called himself Mr. M., or to shift from side to side to try and increase her circulation and shift the pain to a new place if that was possible. Much to Mr. M.’s credit, he didn’t seem to enjoy stringing y/n up to the ceiling and he’d taken her down as soon he’d finished taking what seemed like an endless stream of photos. He’d positioned her more like a clay statue looking at angles and composition than as if she was a human in pain. This gave y/n an indication that he might be a sociopath given that he seemed immune to her pained sounds as he adjusted her body again and again. He’d muttered “He’s going to love these. To see what I’ve made of you so far.” y/n opted to stay silent. To see if she could get any more information from the man, but he didn’t do much more than complain about the lighting and make comments about the ‘he’ in question. y/n highly considered that the male member of the team could be Rossi or Aaron, whom Mr. M was muttering on about. M seemed to address this person with such dignified authority that would fit those two people on the team. But that didn’t make sense, as y/n didn’t think Hotch or Rossi held her in any higher standard than the rest of the BAU. Yes, she respected Aaron as a leader and he respected her back. And surely he was beating himself up for not looking out for her, but it didn’t seem to fit with the rage that M felt toward this person. 

It seemed even more outlandish for the ‘he’ to be Rossi. Rossi was like a father figure to y/n. He had helped her really learn the ropes of the team and cases. Especially the paperwork after a case was finished, but if Mr. M wanted to hurt Rossi, he’d surely know to find one of his Ex-wives or someone closer to Dave. It was the odd reverence that the unsub continued using that threw y/n off of the real person he was targeting. The next interaction that y/n had with the man would clear things up for her significantly, and give her an option to use her brain to help the team find her. 

Mr. M came back sooner than y/n had wished. Her exhaustion and numbness made not only her body weak but her brain slow. When she saw that he was holding her underwear and a knife, she sat up and crawled back against the wall clumsily, not liking that combination of objects together. The man snorted and said, “Trying to fly away bird, I’m going to clip your wings if you do that too much. Then you won’t be able to run, ever.” y/n slowed her movements,  not willing to test the huge man in front of her. y/n swallowed thickly and looked from Mr. M.’s passive face to his hands holding the mismatched objects. The intimate and the violent. The man watched her eyes,  tracked their movements, and when he saw where they landed he genuinely laughed and said, “I told you before, I didn’t like doing those things to those girls. It was to make a point. Touching people intimately is my least favorite idea of a ‘good time.’ I just plan on making him think I’ve had you that way. Send him a little surprise gift and watch as he tries to process his loss of that part of you.” Somehow this response baffled y/n’s sleepless brain even more. Who the hell on the team wouldn’t be upset if she got assaulted in that way? If fact y/n could imagine each member of the team taking Mr. M out in rather lurid ways. It was stupid, but it gave y/n comfort and she even smiled softly at the thought of Derek beating the man up, or Spencer setting some kind of trap of wits for him. M. saw her happy look, and struck her face with the back of his fist, now only a foot from her body. He sneered and said, “‘he’ won’t be as happy as you are right now when he gets our present.” M grabbed her left arm, placed the tip of the knife on her forearm, and pressed it into her skin. The man drew a line down her wrist. 

The red liquid bubbled up and out of the wound like a stream. The cold of the freezer numbed the pain a bit. In fact, the feeling of the hot blood dripping down y/n’s arm was warming and she would have spread it over her arm if she was just a bit more tired. However, she didn’t have the chance as M grabbed her arm in a vice grip, and with his other hand, grabbed her panties. He ran the crotch of her undergarments over her fresh cut, spreading blood over the inside seam. He then dropped them to the ground and turned her arm over. He pinched at the wound, causing the bleeding to increase and easing large red droplets onto her already-soiled underwear. 

y/n felt disgusted at being used this way and said to fill in the oppressive silence, “I don’t think Derek will find this appalling, mainly he’d going to think it’s gross as fuck.” y/n hadn’t really meant Morgan, she’d just said the first name that popped into her head. As tough as Derek was, he wasn’t great with blood, just like Gracia. The slip was the best thing y/n could do as M dropped her arm and looked at her like she’d grown a second head. He shook his head and said, “Lord, and I thought ‘he’ liked you for your brain. It seems you may not have one up there. Dr. Reid is who I am referring to bird. Not agent Morgan. Derek couldn’t figure this out if you put all the pieces in front of him on a board.” 

y/n was astonished for a moment. Not only at the apparent racism of Mr M. but his other statement as well:  Spencer! This was about Spencer! How the hell this guy knew and had been wronged by her best friend on the team was beyond her. Certainly, Reid would have told her about him if they’d had run-ins in the past. They spent so much time together that they basically knew everything about each other. The weariness and pain were starting to get to y/n and she muttered as she closed her eyes, “Why would Spence care about this, he’s seen me on my period before. He’s gotten my sanitary products before, hell I bitch at him when I get cramps, and he takes it.” M stopped looking at the work of art which was y/n’s blood-soaked underwear and said, “You really are hopeless. And I don’t see the appeal to the good Doctor. He’s in love with you and you can’t even see it. Hopeless bird, I’ll take care of that though. You won’t have to think for much longer.” The vitality that y/n had been lacking came back in a rush of heat as M said that Spencer was in love with her. y/n sat up and took her injured arm and cradled it to her chest. The pain finally registered in her synapses. She let out a prolonged breath and said. “You think Spencer is in love with me? That’s a bit of a stretch.” y/n knew in the back of her mind that this might get her hurt more, or killed, but she was finally getting answers and perhaps if she had more answers she could do something with that. Actually use her brain, which the unsub had insulted she didn’t. 

M sighed and replied as if this was a normal conversation, “Bird, the data adds up. Dr. Reid puts himself in forty-three percent more danger when you are in a dangerous postion on a case. He puts himself in the line of fire for you over and over. At least five times by the records I’ve seen. Not only that, the chronically lonely young man who shuns women’s attention chooses to spend time with you above his other friends, even the likes of Morgan or Penelope. If that’s not the start of a crush, then I don’t know what is.” y/n looked up at the man with awe. Not so much at his intellectual prowess that he seemed to think he had, but at how stupid he sounded. Perhaps, maybe, maybe, there were some more feelings between y/n and Spencrs than friendship, but the other things he said were just crap. His use of statistics, and characterizing Reid as a lonely hermit was laughable. However, y/n was more aware than ever now, and this time she kept their mouth shut. She knew that saying those things out loud might likely get her knifed to death, and although the current situation was far from comfortable, she didn’t fancy dying. M hadn’t broken her yet, and now she was more determined than ever to live through this moment. 

The unsub noted that y/n had calmed down slightly and said, “I’ll be back shortly. I can’t let you or him rest too often now. I need to pick up the pace, but I need to send this little gift his way. Any loving words you want to tell him with my little letter? Perhaps it will give the Doctor some comfort.” The man said it sardonically, but y/n pulled herself together and tried to do her best acting and used a sorrowful tone as she said, “Tell him I’m sad it was my first time like this. I’d wished that we’d done it in Tanagra when we had the chance, but he knew I wasn’t ready. I won’t be ready.” y/n let the words slip off her tongue like she’d said them with a longing sadness and it put M at unease to see the odd shift in emotions; however, he shrugged his shoulders and replied cooly, “I’ll be sure to relay your sentiments.” 

Once the man had left the room with the knife, y/n lay back exhausted. The unsub had said he’d be back shortly, but maybe he was playing a game and he’d just leave her there to rot or starve. Either way, y/n needed to use this renewed time to think, and not just about the fact that she was trying to come to terms with the fact that she might love Spencer more than she’d allowed herself to do before. She needed to leverage this situation and not let those feelings overwhelm her. She’d already hopefully set one clue and one trap, she’d just need a bit more information to let the trap work. She pondered these things as she rubbed her skin which was slowly losing sensation as the minutes ticked by. 

When the package arrived at the precinct, the team was more prepared for it this time. The police stopped the carrier to ask him a plethora of questions while the team opened the box with some apprehension. Emily took on the role of the person who opened the box. Given the nasty surprise of the pictures of y/n in a state of complete undress in the first contact with the unsub, nobody wanted Spencer to get that kind of a shock again, even if the box was addressed to him alone. Inside the well-packaged cardboard parcel was a letter which Prentiss handed over to Morgan and then she pulled aside a good deal more pink tissue paper than was needed for the pair of underwear in the box. It took Emily and the team a moment to realize what they were given the blood had caked and dried, wrinkling the thin fabric into a distorted blob shape. The team looked at the item not so much with disdain as confusion. Some members of the BAU, JJ, Emily, and Penelope, had seen y/n in her underthings when they shared rooms in a busy hotel, but none of them, especially not Spencer, could immediately identify that they were y/n’s panties until M stated that directly, and implied that he’d done to y/n what he’d done to all his other victims before slowly killing them. 

This information did seem to shock and horrify the team until Derek read this part of the letter aloud with a hint of awkwardness, “And the little bird has a song for the doctor ‘I’m sorry that this was my first time, and that she wishes you had both done it in Tanagra.’ How unfortunate for both of you that that wasn’t the case…” Spencer cut Derek off before he could go into more grotesque details from the letter about what the unsub had done to y/n by saying, “Wait, wait, say that again.” Morgan paused and the team looked at Reid with questioning expressions. Derek repeated the last sentence, and Reid let out a soft breath in relief as he confidently said, “He didn’t touch her,” then under his breath, “thank God.” The BAU was more baffled than ever, and JJ looked over at the soiled underwear now back in the box getting ready for processing by the forensics lab. With hesitation, JJ replied, “Spencer, y/n’s underwear is telling a different story, as does the bruising on her body” 

The team was at a loss for what to think. y/n had been a reserved person far before she joined the team, and the reference that she might have had sex with Spencer, or wanted to have sex with Reid was not totally a shock, given that the BAU knew the two agents were in love, even if they didn’t. But for her to state it like that either showed signs of mental duress or something of that nature. It was just incredibly out of character for her to say anything like that to anyone, even the women on the team. Reid’s response was even more shocking as he said, “y/n’s had plenty of sex. She’s been in a lot of relationships before, so why would she say this was her ‘first time.’ That doesn’t make any sense. Also, I think she would have singled out something more extreme if she had been hurt in that way. It’s all too faux intellectual.” The team stood in stunned silence for a moment before Derek said, “And you and y/n talk about your sex lives often?” 

Spencer flushed at the intrusive question, realizing that he was putting a lot out there about his and y/n’s friendship. Things they may not have shared with other members of the team and kept between themselves. But this was a case where revealing some private details could save y/n’s life, and Spencer would rather die than lose y/n, so he replied steadily, “Yes. Sometimes. When we hang out we talk about our relationships. Why they worked or didn’t? How we’re, different.” Spence omitted the line, “How we can be hard to love.” He meant it more for himself than y/n, even though she echoed that sentiment whenever he brought it up. Spence never really got that. When they’d lay sprawled out under a blanket arguing about the symbolism in Dr. Who, or what the best adaptation of Jane Austen was, he felt like loving y/n would be the easiest thing in the world. Of course, he’d never said that to her either. The team was still silent when Reid came back from his internal journey and Hotch, who most of the time came forward and realized patterns and trends asked, “And Tanagra? Is it a small island or something? I’ve never heard of it before.” Spencer’s eyes moved up and he said, “It’s a reference to an episode of Star Trek we both like called ‘Darmok.’” The team looked at Reid for further clarification because, unlike Spencer and y/n, they didn’t go on overnight watches of Star Trek the Next Generation. 

Again, Reid reddened but patiently explained, “In the episode Captain Picard gets sent to a planet without any weapons. There’s another alien there as well. The Enterprise crew thinks it is some sort of setup, as does Captain Picard. But as it turns out, Picard and the alien, Dathon, need to come together to fight a common enemy. They end up beating the enemy, but Dathon dies. The moral is that they had to find understanding to become united, not only as fighters but as a species.” After Reid quickly gave his recap highlighting the plot and moral of the episode, the team, with the new information seemed to be revitalized, and put at ease. It was just a sliver of hope because y/n had managed to gain some way of communicating with them. Aaron cleared his throat and said, “Alright, Reid, and you Morgan take the letter. If y/n is sending any other covert messages then you should be able to find them.” Hotch felt the weight of pressure from this case on his shoulders and raised a hand to his forehead closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Rossi saw his friend's distress and continued the conversation, “Aaron and I will go and check some of the places Garcia flagged as potential locations that y/n could be kept. JJ, you and Emily accompany the forensics team and get us the information once they have some, stat. Is that really y/n’s blood, are there any toxins present, all that? Okay?” Everyone nodded. Now that they all had a direction to go and a specific task to do, it felt more manageable. 

Despite the bright light and thanks to sheer exhaustion, y/n had managed to get a few hours of sleep at some point after being cut by M. She woke with the sound of the door opening. y/n had lost all track of time at this point. There were no windows to tell if it was night or day, and her circadian rhythms were off. Logically y/n knew that it couldn’t have been more than a few days, but at this point, it felt like a week at least. The constant stress, hunger thirst, and cold had drained her so much that she struggled to get up to a seated position to see what her captor was doing this time. M seemed uninterested in y/n, but he did glance at her, the door, and then at her again, as if taunting, “Try me.” The man had brought in a bigger load of items this time. Thanks to his size and strength, he could hold multiple trash bags and a backpack which he could handle all in one trip.

y/n watched M with apprehension and fear as he pulled out a multitude of lights and stands. M set up the lights like a makeup influencer might. M set what looked like extra bright lights in a square formation only a few feet off the ground. y/n bit her lip. If the man was planning on filming something, mainly her, she would be so close to the ground that it would be uncomfortable for him to have to lean down like that. The setup seemed to make no sense, and y/n didn’t like that. In interrogation training, she, along with new FBI agents, were instructed to mentally prepare for what was going to happen to them to better not spill state secrets. However, in this scenario, she couldn’t guess what would happen and it really wasn’t about her. It was about what her deteriorating mental and physical state would do to Spencer. She was important to the extent that she was important to Spencer. 

The unsubs plan became clear as he pulled out a makeshift stand that looked like a prop from a horror film where someone’s eyes get removed. The stand, which M set down and then slotted the wooden frame into was so heavy that even he grunted as he set it down with a loud clanking sound on the floor. y/n closed her eyes and began trying to move away and toward the exit. But y/n wasn’t fast enough. She felt like she was running in knee-deep water as she moved and was quickly grabbed by the hair and pulled to the center of the room. y/n muttered, “Please no, please…” Her cries fell on deaf ears as M bound her hands to the rough wooden post with zip ties so tight that they felt like the plastic was cutting into her wrists. y/n dipped her head down but it was jerked up again as M set her chin on a portion of wood with a cut out for her chin. Just close enough to the skin of her neck was a sharp piece of metal that would slice at her jaw and chin if she tried to move her head; effectively keeping it in place as the unsub lowered a heavy plate for her head and secured it with screws on either side of her face like a vice. When the lights were turned on they were so bright that y/n tried to pull her head back but was stopped by her constraints. Even with her eyes closed the light was searing hot into her retinas and there was no espacing it. Even though the light was bright, y/n took this time to try and pry more information from the unsub as he moved close by her. 

y/n asked with false confidence, “Why do you hate him so much. He certainly doesn’t talk about you.” y/n appealed to his sense of ego which worked. She could hear his heavy footsteps fall silent. There was a long pause and M finally said, “I’d hurt you for that, but I’m planning on that already. If you think this is bad now just wait.”

The words were meant to intimidate y/n, but she knew there was nothing she could do right now but get info and try and relay it to the team. So she stayed firm and didn’t show how scared she felt. Again the silence seemed like a gulf between them but M liked the sound of his own voice and he continued, “And I don’t like the doctor because he bested me. And you did too funnily enough even though I don’t care about you. I applied to the FBI Academy twice. As a Vet with an interrogation specialization, I thought I was the perfect fit, but what happened? Jason Gideon picks some lousy, scrawny kid, and appoints him to the BAU straight out of college, and he didn’t even go to the academy when I DID. Then they hire some woman who ends up leaving under dubious circumstances anyway and then you you -- whore. I don’t know who you had to suck off to get onto that team but both you and the good doctor took a spot that I deserved. I got stuck working at a local college teaching government classes, but I was planning this too. I didn’t want it, but by God am I going to make the FBI regret picking either of you above me, because neither of you will be fit to serve when I’m finished? And I’m far far from finished with you. After M said this, he opened y/n’s right eyelid and instantly she was blinded further. It was with the full intensity of the lights on her that y/n did feel like she might be broken. She didn’t know if she could handle this. But the team stayed in her mind and she grit her teeth. She’d signed up for this, and y/n did her best to remain strong for as long as possible and not lose herself. Not yet, not when there was hope. And if that hope took the form of Spencer Reid, so let it be, it could hardly be a secret to her anymore anyway. Not after this. 

By the time the team got their next message from Mr. M. a few things had happened. The first was that Hotch and Rossi had crossed out a few sectors and limited the range of where y/n was likely being held. The second was that Penelope had caught a red eye and came down from the Quanitco field office to be closer to the action. Lastly, Spencer and Derek had made a solid guess from the tone of both letters that the unsub was likely in the military or the police force and had changed career paths to something like office work or business. This would explain his blunt prose yet stilted attempt at sounding academic or over-intelligent. The team was unprepared for when loud music blasted in their ears when Penelope opened the unlisted video link on her computer. Everyone covered their ears, and Garcia quickly turned down the volume. The team watched in horror, and Pen almost felt like she was going to be ill as the unsub circled y/n with a handheld camera. He zoomed in on y/n’s eyes which seemed glued open and directly facing a very bright light.

y/n was panting like she couldn’t breathe and she hardly looked alive anymore. Not that she wasn’t alive, just that her face was either so pained or slack with the torment that she was being put through that she couldn’t take anymore. All eyes were glued to the gruesome sight and it took a moment for anyone to notice that the music had cut out and the unsub was speaking. Garcia let out a sharp breath, skipped the video back ten seconds, and then raised the volume again. Once the music was cut, and in a calm voice M stated, “Smile little bird, you’re on camera. Have anything to say to the doctor?” y/n’s mouth moved for a moment before she let out a small breath and screamed in a worn and hoarse voice, “Oedipus and his lover, Mr. Dimmesdale was great at his job.” y/n cut herself off with a lot of coughing at the effort of even speaking. Even trying to say something. M pulled the camera back to get a better wide angle of y/n as the unsub said, “Isn’t she great? She sings such a pretty song. I hope you’re enjoying it doctor because I don’t know if she’ll be singing much longer.” 

While most of the team paid attention to what the unsub was saying as a coping mechanism of not having to fully process the mental agony that y/n was going through, Emily paid closer attention. Suddenly Prentiss said loudly, “Roll it back Pen. y/n is mouthing something while the unsub is talking. I’ve almost made it out. I just need to see it once more.” The team, who was looking at Spencer to interpret what y/n had just signaled, and some of whom feared that y/n’s mind was already cracking beyond repair, looked back at the screen as Garcia went back once more. Penelope muted Mr. M, and everyone’s attention went back to y/n, who was clearly mouthing something. Prentiss said softly, and then more loudly, “There are four lights?”  Hearing this Spencer couldn’t stop the tears that came to his eyes with relief, and he sagged with those words. Derek and Rossi helped support Spencer, and the team huddled around him as he brushed the tears aside and said, “She’s okay. She’s saying she’s okay with the ‘four lights’ line. He hasn’t ‘broken’ her yet. At least not her will….” Reid couldn’t stop himself from saying, like it was an inside thing between just y/n and him, “It’s another Star Trek thing.” 

Another thrill rang through the team at this news. They knew y/n was strong, but she was also a good actress as she had played up her first statement. It became less and less of a surprise that y/n and Reid had spent so much time together. That they knew each other so well. This interaction was just solidifying what they had already assumed. But the picture of y/n’s eyes glued open and looking at the bright light also stayed with the team. Reid had his hands in his hair in frustration now trying to parse out the clues that y/n had left him, but he couldn’t fully match those pieces of information with any one person he knew. Dr. Reid did have some enemies, he did work for the FBI after all, but he didn’t think about them like that often. He didn’t just have people hating him enough to go and kidnap and torture the person he cared about the most. His brain didn’t process things like that even though he had calculated the risk every member of the team took with each case. And he did make sure y/n’s score was lowered thanks to him. But it wasn’t clicking because his brain was doing too much. Reid had jotted down a list of people that might come after him for various reasons and he’d given it to everyone in the BAU to see if they had any ideas. Of course, Penelope had made a whole spreadsheet and also found all the information about each person on the list as well. Spencer had gone over those fifteen names thousands of times now and was doing it again, trying to expand it to make something fit. 

Emily finally broke his train of thought and asked, “Spence, what about the other things y/n said? Is that more Star Trek stuff? It honestly sounded like a foreign language to me.” Only after Prentiss said this did Spencer realize that the rest of the BAU didn’t get all the references or implications in y/n’s words. Reid took a steadying breath while he composed himself. Aaron and Rossi simultaneously pulled out legal pads and pens to try and keep up with Reid’s speaking speed. Spencer started with the first part of y/n’s shouted sentence, saying, “Well. It’s kind of Star Trek. You actually just made me think of that Emily.” The parts and y/n’s wit began to click better and Spence continued, “We have to go back to the thing y/n said in her first letter about Tangra.” The team nodded and Hotch was already writing furiously, his hand gripping white on the pen in his grasp. “So Pircard can’t understand Dathon because their species speak only in metaphors, so I think y/n is giving us, me, a metaphor about who the unsub is.” This is where Hotch jumped in and said, “Then it’s not directly related to Trek. Just a way of signaling something. The first part of her metaphor was a reference to Oedipus Rex.” Everyone’s eyes moved to Aaron and they seemed surprised, but he brushed off their apparent shock at his classical literature knowledge and continued for those who didn’t get the reference, “Oedipus Rex is a tragedy about a prophecy that the son of a king will end of killing his father and marrying his mother. The king is horrified and has his newborn son, Oedipus, arranged to be killed. The man meant to kill him takes pity on the baby and spares him, thus many years later the prophecy comes true.” 

Spencer nodded along, and Garcia couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Wow, that’s really messed up.” Before Aaron could remind the technical analyst that it was a thousand-year-old work of fiction, Reid replied, “Yes, Oedipus does end up fulfilling the prophecy, but he didn’t want to. He doesn’t even know about it until later and he leaves his town to try and not fulfill his destiny, but he ends up doing that anyway. That’s why is a tragedy.” The team took in the information and Rossi offered, “So the unsub wanted to do the right thing but ended up doing the worst possible option?” Spence nodded along and then said, “And the second part about Mr. Dimmesdale being good at his job, I assume that’s a reference to The Scarlet Letter. Arthur Dimmessdale is the pastor who gets the protagonist pregnant and ends up being shunned from the Puritan society.” Emily asked, “So are we looking for someone who was thrown away for no reason? Or for doing something that appears bad?” Spencer nodded no, and thought through his list again, expanding it to the new parameters saying, “No. y/n specifically mentioned Dimmesdale, so I think we’re looking for a man. Clearly, Mr. Dimmesdale didn’t love his job because he did something that he shouldn’t have done either. He ends up having a breakdown because he can’t keep his secret. He ends up getting publicly humiliated.” 

The team thought for a moment and Penelope asked, “So is there someone you ended up humiliating enough to do something this horrible? I mean, not intentionally, but like when you were in grad school or at the Bureau? Anything?” Reid shook his head unknowingly. He couldn’t place someone he had specifically wronged except for those he’d put in prison, and thankfully many of those men and women were already dead or sentenced to life, but a picture started forming in Hotch’s head. The Unit Chief stated, “I don’t think you’d know him. Or have even met him, yet? Oedipus didn’t know his father when he killed him. He only figured that out later. So this is more about what you did to him than anything else.” Dave looked at Aaron and asked, “Do you have an idea of who he is?”  Hotch nodded and said, “Yes. This was while Jason was still here and you were ‘retired.’ You know Gideon hand-picked Spencer for the BAU much to the chagrin of the director. But it wasn’t only them, there were other members of the academy who wanted Reid’s spot. There were a few NATS that were more than flustered. Jason and I fielded quite a few complaints. There was one man in particular, an ex-Marine who threatened Gideon and me. That instantly excluded him from our recruiting, and once Gideon invited Reid, we started getting real threats. That man dropped off the map, but he continued sending threats through alternative accounts, and many were targets to you, Spencer. Garcia took care of them actually, took care of blocking them so you didn’t ever see them.” 

Spencer looked up at Hotch shocked and said, “Why didn’t you ever tell me this.” Hotch dropped his head and said, “You were so young Spencer. So much was happening in your life at that time and Jason and I thought it was for the best. I apologize. That was a mistake.” Reid let out a breath, knowing now wasn’t the time to be upset with Aaron. Instead, he asked, “Do you still have his contact information? Do you have anything at all on him?” Before Aaron could even reply, Penelope said, “I do. I keep everything, and this time it’s legal. Any threats that are filed against an agent or a former agent are kept in a database that I helped update.” Morgan said with a happiness he hadn’t felt since arriving in Kansas, “God bless you, woman. Now is the time to show us those computer skills of yours” Penelope smiled and turned back toward her screen, cracking her knuckles, “Glady my friends. Watch me do my thing.” 

y/n slumped onto the ground limp. When M finally released her from the contraption that had held her in place, y/n was too overwhelmed to do anything else but lie. Once the light in front of her had been turned off, she felt like she was in an abyss of black. Even though the man had unglued her eyelids after what felt like an eternity. Just being in front of the light with her eyes shut was still like looking at the sun without shades. Again time was a reality that had left y/n out of place, out of being. It could have been months or years since she’d been bound since she’d been put in this place. Because of the loud noise from the speakers M had brought in, y/n couldn’t hear him moving around. Her ears were constantly ringing even though the sound had ceased. Besides that, y/n didn’t have the energy to try and figure out what was happening around her; she knew whatever it was wasn’t good. At this point, y/n didn’t even feel she was in her own body anymore. She was somewhere else entirely. 

y/n didn’t register anything much apart from pain until the unsub, who had set up the room as a trap, started a livestream that he sent to Spencer, and kicked her in the side. The sharp pain radiated up y/n’s ribcage and she let out a moan though her voice was gone from screaming. Even M had to shout and shake y/n to get her to hear him say, “I’m letting you go. All you have to do is get to the door. You’re useless to me now. I don’t see your doctor coming to save you, so you might as well get out. I guess you’re not as important to him as I thought you were.” Deep down, y/n knew that the man wouldn’t let her go. She’d not leave this place alive. She also knew she was special to Spencer. That he would do anything for her, and that he and the team were still looking for her, but she was so tired and mentally broken that she began to believe it. It felt like for no reason other than to just move instead of being killed not trying, that y/n began to move on the floor. She was too weak to even get on her hands and knees.

Instead, she just moved on her stomach in a direction even though she couldn’t see anything except bright spots covering most of her vision. The rest was so blurry that it only added to the migraine she already had. y/n hardly noticed that there was glass on the ground until the warmth of the blood from her stomach made her realize in horror that she was crawling on a sea of broken glass. y/n stopped and M began berating her for not being strong enough. Not having the willpower to want to get away. That he had won. It took the last of y/n’s strength to speak her mind. To tell the man the truth. She knew it would get her killed, faster, but she would have a clear mind. 

“You’re an idiot.” Y/n couldn’t hear her own voice, but she assumed M was listening and she didn’t let anything he did distract her from continuing, “You are the dumbest person I’ve met. You got Spencer all wrong. You don’t understand him at all. He might like me, and I like him too, but Spence isn’t some weirdo who doesn’t have any friends. He doesn’t stay up at night plotting revenge on people or thinking of zany puzzles because he’s so bored and doesn’t have friends. Spencer is a smart guy, but that intelligence doesn’t push him away from people or relationships. He’s just a smart guy who works for the FBI. It’s clear to me that you’re the weirdo with no friends, and you’re just going to have to accept that you couldn’t cut it in the FBI, forever. It sucks to suck.” Mr. M moved to grab a knife he had brought in the room to finish the job. He couldn’t handle y/n insulting him,  and he was going to finish her off, slowly. He had very little restraint when he was scorned. Before he could get to y/n, he was knocked back by a load of gunfire as the BAU along with a SWAT team swarmed into the room. y/n was so far gone that she couldn’t even tell as Reid knelt next to her and wept. 

The next few days stretched into apparent eternity for many of the team. y/n was taken immediately to the hospital, accompanied by Spencer and Emily, while Derek and Aaron took the unsub into custody for interrogation and criminal proceedings. Rossi, JJ, and Penelope stayed behind to handle the police presence, forensics teams, and clean-up process. In part, the BAU was relieved to find y/n still alive, it was a weight lifted, but the reports from y/n’s team of doctors at the hospitals painted such a picture of pain and mental suffering that y/n must have endured that it broke their hearts. How they could ever forgive themselves for what had happened, to y/n? They didn’t know. But they had to keep moving because that was what the job required. That was the nature of the work, and they all prayed that y/n would get better, and also understand what they had to do. 

Spencer felt shielded from most of the work side of things, as he stayed mostly at the hospital and heard the doctors and nurses' multifaceted and comprehensive care plan for y/n with the majority of it working on how to deal with y/n’s partial loss of vision, mental health, PTSD, and the chronic pain that would likely come in the months ahead. Spencer took in this information and researched and planned and found medical trials and anything that he thought might help. He mostly did this to fill the time. y/n had been put in a medical coma to help facilitate her physical healing. Spencer knew in the end that no amount of research he did it would but y/n It would be up to her to want to keep living after this. And given all that she’d been through, he wouldn’t blame her if she decided to just be whatever was left of herself because of him. Reid was trying to take in the very real possibility that she might never want to see him again given that being his friend had made this fate happen to her. Spence was only out of the hospital when another member of the team tagged him out for a day or a few hours. Even then, Spencer didn’t rest. He just tossed and turned. 

When y/n was taken out of her coma four days later, it was Penelope who was there when her fingers twitched on the sheets and felt the crisp material. y/n’s eyes opened, seeing only the blurred brightness of the room which she quickly closed them again. Garcia leaned forward in her chair and said softly, “I’m here y/n. You just rest for now.” Penelope stayed with y/n for the next few hours as the doctors and nurse checked on y/n’s vitals and her sight and she lay exhausted in every way, just let these things happen to her. Her mind was somewhere else. It wasn’t in the hospital room, part of it was still on the team, like an outsider looking in, and part of it was at her apartment watering the one plant she’d kept alive since college, and another was in the park where they sold a t/c/s that she loved to drink and people watch with, but the majority of her brain was still in that freezer, waiting for death, waiting for the worst to happen. And even though part of her mind knew she was alive and being helped, it couldn’t register beyond what had happened to her. y/n stayed in this state of being in and out of herself and her body for another day. The next time y/n came back to herself, it was still Penelope sitting by her. 

Garcia came back into the waiting room where Spencer was, as always, sitting and waiting for news, waiting for anything. Penelope walked over to him and leaned over his seated form. Reid looked up at her, his brown eyes lit up slightly. He asked something quietly back and Penelope nodded her head. Spencer got up and shook out his legs. They’d gotten stiff with all his awkward sitting positions. He followed Garica and a nurse to y/n’s room and took the place where the blonde and spunky Technical analyst had been for the last two hours. The nurse gave Reid a few words before leaving the room. The mood shifted a bit. Penelope just lit up a room where as Spencer brought a more calm mood to the room. He looked around the space which he’d seen while y/n was unconscious. It was still light, a sad beige color, and lots of pretty soft flowers from the team and friends. It seemed that Reid could look everywhere but y/n. The nurse and Penelope had both warned him that y/n still hadn’t said a word since she had woken up apart from his name. Reid didn’t expect y/n to just become whole because he was near her, but the fact that y/n had called for him had given him hope. But as his eyes finally landed on her face which was healing from the heavy bruising she’d received, her eyes remained mostly closed, but every now and then they opened, took in whatever they could, and then closed again. One time she turned her head slightly toward Spencer, and he wondered if she could even see him, or if she knew he was there. 

It wasn’t until the next day that y/n said in a very soft and hoarse voice, “Spence?” that Reid looked up from his lap and shifted forward in his chair. He didn’t want to be imagining things, but y/n’s voice had been so faint that he could have just made his name up. Anyhow, he softly replied, “Yes, y/n. I’m here.” y/n swallowed and turned her face toward him. She couldn’t see him, but she’d left like he was there. It didn’t seem like Penelope anymore but given how she’d felt, and the things that weren’t real that she’d seen before being saved had messed up her sense of reality. Hearing Spencer’s response helped, and she held back a sob as she asked, “How do I know you’re real? How do I know if any of this is real?”

Spencer desperately wanted to take her hand and reassure her that everything was going to be fine, but he didn’t want to promise things he couldn’t guarantee. He also knew touching y/n might make her nervous and panicked. Spencer looked over y/n and replied, “It’s real because you know it is. Because you’re strong enough to wake up and talk. Because maybe life isn’t so cruel to let this be a dream for either of us.” y/n turned her head toward him again and tried to make out his face. She’d have liked to see what he looked like right now. Was he sad, relieved, or feeling as empty as she was? She wanted to know because she didn’t know how to feel or act or do. For now, there wasn’t more than resting and waiting to see if this was all a charade. To see if she’d suddenly jerk awake to see death in the face again. To be back with M. again. For now, she let out a sigh and tried to feel anything in her body. Her pain receptors were either shot from what she’d been through or she was on so much pain medication that it was intentional. Either way seemed preferable, and yet the pain had grounded her in her time in captivity and now that it was gone there was a strange void where it had pulsed all over her body. y/n rested her head in a more comfortable position and let the sleepiness come back to drag her back under. 

The rest of the BAU shuffled through sitting with y/n as Spencer got his mandated rest and time off ordered by Aaron. The presence of the others and the changes in the atmosphere with each of them helped y/n pull herself back together. The next time Spencer came back she was slightly more herself. She was sitting up on a few pillows and she sensed when Reid stepped into the room. They sat together for a few minutes in silence before y/n said, “The last time you were here you said I was strong. But I don’t feel strong Spencer. I feel broken. I mean I am broken. I can’t see anything and my hearing’s shot too.” Reid bit his lower lip and thought for a bit before responding. He could tell her that she was very likely to get her hearing back and that her vision would improve in time. That with time and care she could resume a pretty normal life. 

But a pretty normal life didn’t feel fair. None of this felt fair, and Spencer knew that. He also knew that the team in charge of y/n’s care would have told her that as well. They would have been doing everything that would attempt to boost her spirits. As it was like Spencer to do, he chose to go with a more metaphorical take on things. It was one of the things that had drawn y/n to him in the first place, and he hoped it would bring her comfort now. He focused on her hands which were gripping the sheets tightly as he said, “No one chooses to be broken y/n. That’s not their fault, but that doesn’t mean that the thing isn’t beautiful, it’s just changed.” y/n let out a breath and said, “I’m not Fitzgerald or Beethoven. I don’t think the tortured broken artist thing will work for me. I’m just a profiler. Was just a profiler.” Spencer could see the disappointment and pain on her face, and he replied, “Not that exactly, but your knowledge about art and literature did make it possible for us to find you. I was useless on this case, and I’m so, so sorry for that. You saved yourself on this one, and given what you’ve been through, you deserve a good life after this, a peaceful life if you want it.” 

y/n wanted to believe Spencer, but his speech so far was giving, “A broken clock is correct twice a day,” and that wasn’t the most uplifting thing she’d heard so far. She didn’t know what she wanted after this. Didn’t know how to want anything after she’d thought she would die over and over again. However, y/n knew that Spence wasn’t done yet. It was a tell in his cadence, and just as y/n expected, he continued, “Have you ever heard of kintsugi?” y/n nodded her head no, and Reid explained, “It’s a form of Japanese pottery. When a plate or vase or anything that’s been fired breaks; the potter puts the pieces back together with gold.” y/n let out a breath, it sounded like a beautiful thing, and it was a nice metaphor, but her pessimistic side said, “So I’m just a broken thing and painted pretty so I’m not a profit-loss?” Spencer sighed and said, “No. What I’m trying to say is that. What I’m trying to say is that things that are broken still have value and beauty. They still deserve to be cared for and looked after. They’re different, but it’s still a precious thing. It is to me at least.”

y/n couldn’t hold back the tears that were now overspilling from the corners of her eyes, and she moved her hand out, palm open. An invitation to let Spencer take it, which he did. Spencer bowed his head over their joined hands and y/n felt his soft hair on her skin. It was the first time she’d felt grounded since waking up. It was the first time she felt real again. y/n sniffled and said, “I don’t know what to do Spence. I don’t know who I am anymore.” Reid nodded and said while gently squeezing her hand said, “I know. And you don’t have to know that right now. Every part of you is still there, but it’s going to be a hard time to dig those things back out of yourself. Maybe some of them you’ll want to leave behind. But I want to be with you as you try to become this new version of you. If you’ll let me. I was such an idiot y/n. I’m so sorry,” y/n nodded and said, “Don’t be. I don’t regret it, Spencer. It’s worth it to know you. I want you here, please.” 

Spencer nodded, and y/n felt tears that weren’t her own on her hand and arm now as Spence ever so lightly brushed his lips over her knuckles. Neither of them said it, but the love in the room was so much more than what it had been before. Perhaps it wasn’t the fluffy teenage love they could have had if none of this had happened, but it was clearer now than ever, and that was worth it. There was a future in that, whatever it looked like. After a few moments y/n asked, “Can you read to me? I knew you had a book in your lap before I said anything and the quiet is slowly driving me insane.” Spencer sat up and said, “Well it’s just a collection of Ginsberg poems and I know you don’t like Ginsberg.” y/n scoffed lightly and retorted, “What do you mean, I love Ginsberg.” Reid shook his head and said, “Liar.” y/n pouted like a child at being read so easily and said, “Fine, but maybe I love Ginsberg when you’re reading him to me. Please?” Spencer chuckled and said, “Anything for you, y/n. Anything.” As Spencer began reading, and y/n listened, neither of them thought about the future or the past, they were just there, and for now, that was as meaningful as gold holding something broken yet precious together.

Text Break Banner by @cafekitsune

Taglist: 🩷 @tgskitten, @princessjax, @maisyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

Want to be added to my tag list? Please check out this post (linked) 

Want to send in a request? Please check out this post, CM Request Post (linked)

[aunteutis]

TLDR;; my personal Severance theory for what the hell is Lumon's deal. it's a cult, but with great benefits (plus dental!). also, the MDR Orientation Booklet! yay!

hi, so,,,, hyperfixation time:::

the Severance Reddit guys (they're the real heroes and we're all a family here at Lumon) said there was something called the 'Lexington Letter' - it's sort of a proof of concept letter/story for Severance's worldbuilding, probably more intended for the studio rather than audiences at first, apparently published as promo later.

SPOILER WARNING HERE, just this once.

so i read it all, and the letter in itself has some elements of the base/what i guess is the original story: car accidents, severing because of depression, Lumon appearing misteriously, innie-outie communication, people following people. it's written as an exposé on Lumon, sent to a small newspaper in hopes they will publish it. it's very interesting (and another piece of media to obsess over), so i'll leave the link here in case you want to read it:

the thing is:: this letter includes a copy of the Orientation Booklet, and it explains the refining process as if the readers were innies.

it goes on about the process, but it defines the data to refine as part of four different categories: WO, FC, DR and MA.

each of these categories ellicits the following emotional responses that we are told about during the show:

WO=melancholy

FR=joy

DR=fear

MA=rage

NOW::: i'm probably not the first to notice this, so please chime in if you did. but i think each of these categories corresponds to each of the four Tempers that Kier believed to conform every human soul/personality. those being WOE, FROLIC, DREAD and MALICE.

so the (human) refiners are !!instinctively!!!! classifying numbers that correspond to each type of the four Tempers that their biotech-founder (and presumably god) believed to make humans, well, human. and every time they put the numbers in each bin, the bin shows a progress report defining how much of each of the four categories there is already. much like the 'balance' between tempers Kier talked about.

small interruption here (i promise it'll be relevant later): in the Lexington Letter, three things are mentioned that stood out to me. first, the letter itself tells about the explosion of a truck of Lumon's business rival, Dorner Therapeutics. the accident kills 6 people, and the explosion is triggered barely two minutes after one of the files has been fully refined. so -at least according to the original show's plan- the refining process is an actual thing with a tangible function. it actually IS encrypted data that they're looking at all day.

the second thing was very brief: some sort of controversy regarding Lumon's feeding tubes that had caused a libel suit (by Lumon) that made another small paper go bankrupt. it's mentioned as a deterrent, and the Lexington Letter is not published.

third (last one, i promise):: Peg, who writes the letter, says at one point that a Lumon employment ad came up on the radio just as she said, alone in her car, 'Fuck this job' (her former job). as if it heard her, basically.

so, end of interruption. bringing me back to::: THE THEORY.

we have the Four Tempers; Lumon, a biotech/generally huge everything-corporation with (according to Devon) influence everywhere; and at the center of it all, Kier, who is effectively a messianic figure.

we have the Gemma reveal (Mark says in s2ep2 that he identified the body, so there WAS a body).

then there's Ms Cobel/Sigwell's shrine and //feeding?// tube, with the name Charlotte Cobel on it, and an apparent lore-compliant, unknown controversy to go with it.

finally, we also have a fuckton of encrypted data that:: a) needs refining b) actually serves a purpose in the real world c) we are very briefly shown that the file's progess is related to Gemma (dead, but also alive, personality-lacking, and in the experimental floor) and, presumably, other people. and goats.

i don't really know the purpose of it, but i think they might be sequencing the human genome and personalities of everyone //related to Lumon//? to like. make replica people??

like,,, sure, maybe they want Mark specifically to chill forever with his not-so-dead-anymore clone of a wife, but it IS a biotech company that plays god with life and death, and HAS a god like in their company policy. they have legends, and paintings, and rites, and scripture, and mysteries.

like. Lumon is -BY DESIGN- THE ultimate intersection between a literal religion and corporate loyalty/devotion that plagues and defines the current job market paradigm. the work is mysterious and important, and the company provides or punishes as an absolute and final entity. Kier is all-knowing father, overseeing judge, the origin and ultimate motive for everything. you don't even need to exit the Lumon product ecosystem to live, because they're already everywhere outside. hell, they've existed from the beginning of the only history you need to care about--late industrialism!! the rise of the market economy!! wouldn't it make sense for them to give you a solution to the final problem of death as well?

so, my current theory (To Be Forgotten Tomorrow) is that they are trying to deliver on that promise that every religion out there gives. they're ending the finality of death, and making people again. not just physically; they are literally bringing back complete reproductions of people, body and soul. they use the severeds' intuitions (and probably some sort of conditioning in their chips) to estimate the precise balance of tempers that make up distinct human personalities, just as Kier said.

because think of Ms Cobel, or Mark. for me, they are the most extreme cases. if you had lost, say, your wife. or your mother, or daughter. the person you loved the most, dead. and if a family company that you've seen everywhere, and known all your life, stepped in and told you they'd be able to rid you of the pain. or bring them back. if they told you that if you're loyal enough, blindly trust them with your own agency, they'll make everything right - wouldn't you take them up on that offer?

and now that's out of my head yaaayy. sorry for the long thing. i hope at least the letter and manual helped.

if you read all that, congrats! you've been awarded a fingertrap.

kiers!!! (as in 'cheers'. like. you get it, right? right.)

❤️❤️❤️

[lonestarflight]

Space Station Concepts: Space Operations Center

"The SOC is a self-contained orbital facility built up of several Shuttle-launched modules. With resupply, on-orbit refurbish- ment and orbit maintenance, it is capable of continuous operation for an indefinite period. In the nominal operational mode, the SOC is manned continuously, but unmanned operation is possible.

The present mission management and control process is characterized by a people-intensive ground monitoring and control operation involving large supporting ground information and control facilities and a highly- integrated ground-flight crew operation. In order to reduce dependence on Earth monitoring and control, the SOC would have to provide for increased systems monitoring; fault isolation and failure analysis, and the ability to store and call up extensive sets of data to support the onboard control of the vehicle; and the onboard capability for daily mission and other activity planning."

"Like most other space station studies from the mid/late 1970s its primary mission was the assembly and servicing of large spacecraft in Earth orbit -- not science. NASA/JSC signed a contract with Boeing in 1980 to further develop the design. Like most NASA space station plans, SOC would be assembled in orbit from modules launched on the Space Shuttle. The crew's tour of duty would have been 90 days. NASA originally estimated the total cost to be $2.7 billion, but the estimated cost had increased to $4.7 billion by 1981. SOC would have been operational by 1990.

NASA's Johnson Spaceflight Center extended the Boeing contract in February 1982 to study a cheaper, modular, evolutionary approach to assembling the Space Operations Center. An initial power module would consist of solar arrays and radiators. The next launches would have delivered a space tug 'garage', two pressurized crew modules and a logistics module. The completed Space Operations Center also would have contained a satellite servicing and assembly facility and several laboratory modules. Even with this revised approach, however, the cost of the SOC program had grown to $9 billion. Another problem was Space Operations Center's primary mission: spacecraft assembly and servicing. The likely users (commercial satellite operators and telecommunications companies) were not really interested in the kind of large geostationary space platforms proposed by NASA. By 1983, the only enthusiastic users for NASA's space station plans were scientists working in the fields of microgravity research and life sciences. Their needs would dictate future space station design although NASA's 1984 station plans did incorporate a SOC-type spacecraft servicing facility as well."

Article by Marcus Lindroos, from astronautix.com: link

NASA ID: link, S79-10137

Boeing photo no. R-1859, link, link

[wallpapers4screen]

[kirbyoctournament]

Hello again everyone,

Over the past 24 hours, there has been a series of misunderstandings regarding the recent poll tampering that we have reported. 

In this post, we hope to clear up some misunderstandings about the server and moderation team as a whole, as well as detail our evidence regarding the poll for those questioning its veracity.

As always, we have a zero tolerance policy for harassment.

>>> MISUNDERSTANDINGS

We would like to begin by stating that with the new year came a new team for the tourney--co-hosts and moderators alike. This tournament has been run and managed very differently from last year’s, and we consider ourselves to be affiliated solely in name and concept alone.

As such, all grievances related to the previous tournament are not related to our current moderation team. If you previously had a bad time in the tourney, we are very sorry to hear that. However, the previous 2023 moderation team is no longer affiliated with running or moderating the tourney.

We would also like to note that last year's host was a minor, and merely wished to help foster a community. They did not expect the event to grow to the size that it did, and do not deserve any amount of hate or contempt for this.

Regarding the Discord server in particular, upon change of ownership, the server eventually underwent an overhaul to better suit the community's new needs. 

One of the changes implemented was removal of an access restricted "Vent Channel" which was created by the previous host when the server still had less than 50 members. The new mods were aware of the risks a vent channel posed in a public server and immediately restricted it to request-to-access. However, as the server grew to foster over 150 members, the channel exhibited constant security breaches and rule breaks, and it had to be removed.

While we care for the mental health of our server members, a large public space is not the place to air private issues. Moderators and server members alike frequently offer support and encourage members to seek aid and consult friends in DMs or personal servers in a safe and private manner.

We also understand that despite the tourney's primary focus being centered around uplifting OCs, the concept remains the same--a "popularity contest” where OCs are matched against one another--which can cause the event to be stressful and mentally draining. We've always encouraged participants to see the competition as lighthearted, to realize that losses do not reflect poorly on their creativity, and to be responsible for their own mental health, as seen in our rules. Any participant can drop out at any time for any reason, a sentiment we reiterate with every new round.

Regarding allegations of bullying and harassing a server member: neither mods nor server members have ever wished the member in question any form of harm, and have frequently offered reassurances and help. No mod has ever sent hateful anons to any of our participants. We request any further allegations regarding this matter to be supplied with evidence, rather than with rumors.

All that being said, we will now share our evidence regarding the tampered poll, including a public catalogue of our minute by minute tracking as well as our calculations of the data.

>>> POLL TAMPERING EVIDENCE

Documentation was not originally released because the moderation team needed several days to analyze, process, format, and present the evidence. While delays are of course not ideal, sharing data with any room for misinterpretation would have been hurtful and harmful to the competitors. To declare a poll tampered with is an enormous action, and not one that we would have done without 100% concrete proof. We received multiple reports from concerned community members regarding abnormal poll behavior, and our moderation team have spent several days working tirelessly around the clock to collect the evidence needed before making any decisions. 

All data was peer reviewed by a team of 7 individuals, and none was falsified.

Firstly, here is a 41 hour graph of the ROUND FIVE: Fylass vs Valfrey poll, from the time we received the first reports of tampering concerns to when we archived the poll shortly after announcing it had been tampered with.

The pattern recorded is mechanical and undeniable.

Any time contestant Valfrey approached or crossed the 50% mark, contestant Fylass would receive a spike of votes within a narrow 10 minute window, surrounded by plateaus on either side. These votes were not accompanied by a boost in public propaganda or reblogs. We recorded this pattern 4 times within a 41 hour period, exclusively when Valfrey approached or crossed the 50% mark.

We reiterate that this pattern had been reported by multiple third party sources prior to our logging, from individuals who saw the spikes happening in real time on the public tumblr post.

Some spikes, especially early on, were smaller, such as the above. Others, such as the final spike below, were significant, recording 18 one-sided votes between 7:51am and 8:00am CDT. As previously, this influx of votes occurred within a ten minute window, and was bookended by a plateau.

What is expected to be seen is a steady fluctuation of votes for both characters. Small spikes are normal. Even a big spike on its own is normal, as someone may have shared their poll in a private space to friends or a separate server, or a piece of propaganda may have rallied potential voters. This was not the activity that was recorded.

Again: we recorded repeated, pattern behaviour of enormous voting spikes within precise ten minute windows, only when Valfrey approached or crossed the 50% marker. The results of these spikes always settled with a slight lead for Fylass, which Valfrey slowly closed; until the spike occurred again like clockwork.

For those who wish to see the numbers and draw their own conclusions, we have provided access to the raw data collected.

UPDATE November 2024: The public-poll-log channel has been archived from our discord server, and is no longer available to the public or server members. If you require access for any reason, reach out to us privately. Here is our minute by minute screenshot log of this information, publicly available in a channel on our discord server, complete with timestamps. PLEASE BE AWARE that clicking this link will take you to our discord server, where you may choose to join. While the discord server has privacy protection and requires emoji reacts to enter in full, this log is completely public to view and can be accessed by anyone. For the next few days, our Welcome/Join channel will be private, for folks who wish to come and go anonymously, and data will be expunged before reinstatement.

Here is our comprehensive spreadsheet logging information in 10 minute increments, which may be fact checked with the screenshot log, with minute by minute highlights during spikes.

Here are the graphs shown above, within the same spreadsheet.

This was a public poll with many eyes on it, meaning these voting spikes were publicly visible, and could have been logged or recorded by anyone at any time. Tournament mods were certainly not the only people aware of this, especially given the size of the final recorded spike; we were just the ones who catalogued it.

We are saddened and upset to hear that some people took what they saw and attacked our competitors. As we have previously stated many times, we do not believe either competitor was aware of or responsible for the rigging of this poll. To tamper with a poll in this way is terribly cruel to the competitors, even those who it seems to "benefit", as it is an enormous betrayal of their trust. We do not believe anyone competing in this tournament would be happy with a doctored victory. 

We are all here because we love Kirby OCs. Tournament contestants in particular are here to spotlight and celebrate their own OCs in the polls, and rally genuine fans. To take that away is an extreme act of unkindness to our competitors, and we are sorry that it came to pass in such a way. We had previously stated our intentions of rerunning this poll through a more secure platform, in the hopes of creating a more fair and enjoyable environment for our competitors. However, due to a competitor withdrawing, we will no longer be rerunning this poll. We would like to once again request not to use this as an opportunity to harass or attack our competitors. Again, we do not think they are responsible for the tampering of this poll. We genuinely believe that the impacted competitors are hurt by this act of tampering above all others.

Bullying and harassment is, as it has always been, something we have zero tolerance for. If anyone has any evidence of bullying or harassment, we ask you to approach us immediately so that we may address it. Thank you to those kind community members who have already stepped up during this time to share material with us while these incidents unfolded, we are very grateful.

We hope that this has helped clear up any lingering uncertainties or confusion.

For now, we would like to keep all other private issues private, and do not intend to release any further evidence regarding any other allegations towards our moderation team or the tournament as a whole. We believe this is in the best interests of everyone involved, and would like to see these claims cease. However, we will not tolerate the continued public slander of our team; we can and will publicise what we need in order to defend them and clear any remaining doubt.

Thank you for your time, The Kirby OC Tournament Moderation Team

[curio-queries]

Are You Sure?!

Episodes 5 & 6 Notes

It was very fortuitous that I've been so busy over the last couple of weeks as I really needed both of these episodes together to make sense of my thoughts. This post is definitely far more conceptual than my last ones so if you're up for it, click on though the cut!

AYS's Main Character?

I would like to propose that AYS has a main character OTHER than the individual humans we're following along on screen. (I warned you, this post was going to be conceptual.) And the main character is the relationship itself, how each of the members relate to one another.

Here's Google's AI overview on what this concept means:

A story can center on the relationship between characters as the primary protagonist, with the dynamic and evolution of that connection acting as the main driving force of the narrative, rather than the individual characters themselves.

Key points to consider:

Relationship-centric stories: Many genres, particularly romance, often focus heavily on the relationship between the main characters, exploring its complexities, challenges, and growth throughout the story.

No single protagonist: In such cases, the "character" is the bond between the individuals, not just one person's perspective or journey.

Exploring the dynamic: The narrative would then focus on how the relationship changes, adapts, and reacts to external situations or internal conflicts.

Examples:

"Before Sunrise": The entire plot revolves around the single night encounter between two strangers, with the developing connection being the central focus.

"Brokeback Mountain": The story primarily explores the forbidden love between two cowboys, highlighting the complexities of their relationship in a restrictive environment.

"Steel Magnolias ": A group of girls in a small town in Louisiana experience grief together, including weddings, fatal illnesses, and the loss of loved ones.

Now before anyone comes for me saying I'm just pitching an argument for xyz fanwar, please note that I included the above just to illustrate the concept of a non-person main character rather than stating any of the above are comparisons to the individual member's relationships. We're talking about a show that was produced and distributed for entertainment, nothing further.

Episode 5

My main feeling after finally being able to watch episode 5 was overall unsettled. There was something sticking with me about that episode and I could NOT figure out what it was.

I knew I was feeling like the entire episode was stretched well beyond what the footage wanted for a complete episode. I'm all for getting to spend more time with our fellas but the Jeju trip would have benefited from being cut down to 2 episodes rather than 3, in my opinion.

There was just a whole lotta nothing happening. The guys eat, travel around a little bit, and eat some more. I had some vague thoughts about how I could quantify some data for y'all to explain this point but then it was time for the next episode...

vs. Episode 6

And what an absolutely lovely breath of fresh air this episode was. I know there have been some Run eps that I review with a smile on my face throughout the whole episode but AYS6?? That was 73 minutes of pure bliss.

So I started thinking about what must be different between the two eps. The guys eat, travel around a little bit, and eat some more...wait, that's exactly what I said about ep 5! Lol

But I think the main difference between the two is episode 6's plot points continually focus on the relationships between the members, while 5 falls a little stagnant.

Some examples:

JM/cat & JK/dog. I'm ALWAYS down for more footage of BTS with pets but this is frankly too much time spent on these scenes. It's honestly footage I would have expected in the bonus content instead of the main product. It's not just an establishing beat or a setup for a callback, this is supposed to be a scene but since it doesn't contribute to the journey of the main character aka the relationships. It could maaaybe work if they'd cut it to highlight the juxtaposition of how JM is calm with the cat vs JKs energy with the dog but that would have shortened the time it occupied and they were clearly trying to keep absolutely everything in that would lengthen the episode.

JKs stew. The ONLY thing that ties this plot point into the narrative of this show (other than it happening while he's in Jeju and Jimin is nearby) is the offhand comment he made that Jimin would like it while he was in NY. I'm going to talk more about this footage below but this was absolutely crucial for this whole beat making it into the episode. This is also why the footage of JM eating it and randomly taking off his shirt was kept in. The cut they chose is actually pretty bad story-wise but they used it anyway. We hear JM saying how much he loves it and how glad he is that JK is a good cook. It ties all of this time we spent watching JK do something alone back into the real main character of the show (the members' relationships between eachother in different circumstances).

Anyway, I won't belabour the point any further. With Tae constantly disappearing from scenes and the slightly diminished lack of focus on the member's relationships, episode 5 left me on an odd note.

A Little Production Note

I was completely thrown by the footage of JK in NY that we got this episode. But not for the reasons you may be thinking. (I do wonder if the anon that was sending in asks about the financing behind the documentaries is still around because we're getting into some of tidbits finally.)

So, all along we've been trying to sus out as much as we can, just a few details about how AYS came to be. We've had some hints but the inclusion of this footage may be another indicator.

The facts as we know them:

AYS is distributed by Disney.

Jungkook's documentary is being distributed by Trafalgar Releasing NOT Disney (at least not now, maybe it'll make it onto streaming after cinematic release but who knows?)

Questions due to the footage of JK in NY:

Was this footage captured as part of JKs documentary?

If so, when was it pulled to be utilized for AYS? Did the editors find it or were the writers involved?

We know that HYBE gathers behind-the-scene content without always having a full plan of how it will be used. But there are times where it did seem intentional for a specific purpose. Where did JKs Golden footage fall in?

Once upon a time, production houses would make deals with distributors about quantities of projects that would be delivered. Was that the case with the Disney deal or has every single project been negotiated separately and we only heard about it once there was a confirmed quantity. Somewhere in the middle perhaps?

And that's all I've got to say for now. I do have some more thoughts about things I've gleaned during these last couple of episodes but it'll likely keep until the end.

Anyway, this footage bumped me because it broke the rules of cross-project production. They got away with it for JKs SEVEN footage in ep 1 because they likely were using the same production crew since it was literally the same day so it doesnt feel like they're'breaking the wall'. But the NY-Jeju crews could have been completely different.

Editing to add further clarification to this point in this ask.

On a sidenote, do y'all remember the last time we got footage of jikook in a hotspring?? I'll jog your memory if not, it was in BV:4 and they 'washed each other's faces'. I can't even imagine what we're about to see in episode 7.

Link to my AYS MasterList

[lavender-moon-milk]

HIDDEN MACHINERY | CHAPTER ONE | MAIN CHARACTER BIO

(Rated M for Mature Audiences. Romance and Humor.)

Summary:

When overachieving service center specialist Tori Sutton stumbles upon a long-buried field manual in the Shinra archives, she doesn’t expect it to lead to a sudden promotion—or a brush with death on her first day. Assigned as executive assistant to the enigmatic Director of SOLDIER, Lazard Deusericus, she finds herself navigating corporate espionage, explosive secrets, and a certain silver-haired general with a sword the length of her career trajectory.

As she attempts to reign in the inner workings of SOLDIER, Tori Sutton learns very quickly that sabotage is subtle, ambition is dangerous, and the most powerful weapon in the building might just be an assistant with a clipboard.

Author's Note:

This idea seeded itself as I started thinking about all the opportunities to make corporate life super endearing and whimsical—Wes Anderson style. If you hate Wes Anderson films, you probably will not enjoy this Sephiroth romance concept. If you do, I can promise you that our tale is going to be lush with satire and humor, guided by an empathetic narrator who follows Torianne "Tori" Sutton’s journey from a lowly Service Center Specialist to one of the most powerful women inside the administrative network at Shinra HQ.

This story is going to have political intrigue, sabotage, petty office drama, hidden corporate agendas, assassination plots, and a well-deserved dollop of forbidden office romance between our leading lady and the Silver General.

Do I have two outstanding Sephiroth fics that need finishing? Yes. Yes, I do. Is that going to stop me? Not a bit. I’ve learned it’s better to go ahead and publish while the writing is HOT and suffer the consequences later. 😎

This story is dedicated to those who have worked in customer service, data entry, and fought the good fight in a chaotic, toxic, or cutthroat work environment. In this story, I want to make you feel SEEN. Sephiroth SEES you.

All my love and enthusiasm,

lavendermoonmilk 💜

Other Sephiroth Fanfictions:

RAW EXPOSURE | THE ART OF MISDIRECTION

[gayconstruct]

Humans are Weird — Fever

We literally heat up to cook our bodies when we can't ward off things with our immune cells, and there's a VERY slim margin for what's healthy vs what's not. If you'd like to skip the context portion scroll down to the second set of emdashes

—————

For some quick context, I use some consistent concepts and variations of time words under the impression there's a unified, simplified time scale in an intergalactic universal community

Shifts are 10 hours with hour lunches

There's 3 parts to every species day — Work, Relax, and Sleep — all 10 hours

Diurnal aliens including most humans are working in the mornings, relaxing in the evenings, and sleeping at night

Crepuscular aliens are working in the evenings, relaxing at night, sleeping in the morning

And Nocturnal aliens are working at night, relaxing in the morning, and sleeping in the evening

The clock is from 01:00 — 30:00 (simple 30 hour days for an even number and more leisure time) and rolls over to 01:00 from 30:59 with 01:00 being the roll over from night to morning

Time Increments

Seconds = Instants

Minutes = Moments

Hours = Periods

Days = Cycles

Weeks = Phases

Months = Stages

and Years = Terms

—————

Temperature Rising

Diverse biomes and work sectors began to stir to life, as the many species stationed upon the Integrated Vessel Ro’Vanna responded to the coming shift change. The Universal Timepiece, standard across the known universe, finally struck 0100 Cycles, the nocturnal species like the Umborra and Nostro eager to spend their recreational hours peacefully, while Diurnal species like the Shal’Dorei and newly integrated Humans were waking to begin another productive morning. 

Qin, the most well known Troqir aboard and one of its select Charters, rushed to his station in the hub of the Astrometry Center, cranial crests flaring with an eagerness that to most of his crewmates would otherwise go unnoticed. Ready to start his shift as soon as his posterior hit the chair, the rather tall and muscular humanoid gracelessly plopped down, emitting quite the noise as he got started. Other species present had their full attention focused on their tasking at hand, not a single thought or care thrown to his quite hasty entrance to his station. Several crystalline scales in the crook of his neck iridesced at the thought of his companion joining him soon, his thoughts anywhere but the latest mapping data coming up on his Virtual HUD. Time passed quickly at first, the sturdy man pointing metallic fingers to different notifications that needed immediate attention, adjusting calculations to chart the next few thousand Cargo routes as he went. After roughly 14.5 moments, though, he turned to search for his oddly quiet coworker to notice that the Human had made no attempt to join him this morning, the thought causing a darker color to glisten across his crystal scaling.

He’s late.

Why is he late?

He specifically stated last night he’d “see me soon.”

He’s never this late.

For the first time in his life, Qin was completely out of focus. Several happy-go-lucky phases — human parlance, not his own — had enveloped him, exchanging his stark Troqir logicality for Human whimsy and curiosity. His work tempo was slower and uncoordinated, an unfamiliar feeling coalescing into the turbulent color shifts across his luminescent scales. Every instant that passed on the cargo vessel's timekeeper seemed to lurch at an uneven pace, a deepening pit forming at the base of his abdomen. For four and a half painstaking periods, Qin swallowed his personal thoughts to gain some form of traction on his workload, swallowing emotion as all of his people were taught and opting for diligent productivity, until - finally - the release of his allotted Nutrition Period arrived. There was no moment spared as his dense footfalls rushed towards his companions quarters, his focus unbroken as the ceiling dropped from 4 meters to a much tighter 2.4m. Qin, at just under 2.2 meters, absentmindedly ducked to overcompensate, having quickly become accustomed to this section and its many distinctions after quite a few visits. 

There at last, the tall, silvery man reached what was worth looking for, a door which read in standard human language,

Room 152

Aspen Wright

With the slightest shake in his hand, Qin formed his digits into a fist to knock. 

Knocking… he thought, quite the odd custom, but like many human practices, this was the most respectful of his companion’s personal space and time. For several instants, the silence in the Human Sector’s Hall allowed him no sweet mercy, the lone alien man uncertain what to do as his weight shifted back and forth between his feet, a metal clang ringing out with each motion. Thankfully, a digital projection finally slid across the width of the door, Entry Permitted, displayed in large English typeface.

Thank the Fathers and Mothers for universal translation.

With the invitation obvious and a rather low duck through the smaller door, Qin entered into the darkened room — the simulated window turned off, the curtains drawn, clothes strewn across the floor, and strange devices and pill capsules laid upon the table — not even the so-called “fairy lights” lit the quarters he had become so accustomed to. The Troqirian’s own voice came quieter than he expected, as he rasped out, “Aspen? Are you there?” A strange groan followed, then silence, then- a weary voice.

“Q-,” a cough, “Qin?”

“Y-yes… it is I, I am present,” a facepalm.

“Oh, this is a-” more coughing, “a surprise. Aren’t you on Lunch Break sweetie?”

For a moment, the light from Qin’s Luminescent Scales - ones at his nape, a few at his crests, even the ones on his exposed digits - shined brighter than before, a rainbow of colors flowing across their surface at the thought of being a “sweetie”, before taking a dim, solemn purple. “I- yes, but when you did not show up promptly 15 moments late after last night's recreation I- I began to worry. Lateness? Normal to an extent. Absence??? Abnormal, even for you… Did I… do something wrong? Did our meetings and leisure time make work uncomfortable for you?”

For his first time that entire cycle, Aspen bolted upright with a purpose, but immediately regretted it as a wave of dizziness caused the room to spin around him before he fell the wrong direction, right out of his bed into the floor.

The sight startled Qin, having no frame of reference where the human man was until now, “Fathers and Mothers! Aspen, are you injured!?”

With a weak chuckle and the groan of even more pain, he responded in turn, “I’m fine, I’m fine… I’m sorry to worry you, you never make me uncomfortable dear, I’m just a bit [under the weather] today.” Another small laugh came, and then he continued, “I was trying to tell you that, and I- I must’ve moved too fast… everything is- ugh everything is spinning. Could you help me back into bed?”

Frantic to assist, Qin’s larger form - clumsy in the smaller space, helped lie the smaller, lighter human in his nest, placing his head upon the pillow. Once situated, he covered the small man, as many human’s liked, and noticed his skin far hotter to the touch than normal, homeostatic balance oddly off. “Damn translator…” a joyous light crossing his scales as he used the human swear as he’d been taught, “for whatever reason the English to Troqirian dictionary hasn’t found a suitable translation for your imprecise speech… Could you please explain?”

“Ah, thank you for the lift, love.” Settling for an instant, eyes closed and his head on the pillow, Aspen pondered with a clouded, slow mind, trying to search for the words as his body ached and caught a chill. “... uh- an English idiom of common use in my native tongue… it’s like… to feel sick, to be unwell. I didn’t go to my work shift today because I’m too sick to go… I’m- I’m sorry I didn’t contact you to say something, this fever is really kicking my ass.”

Fever? What in the Cradles was a Fever? 

“Ah… Fever- yes. Hmm, and that is… The translator states you have an elevated temperature? You were hot to the touch, hot because you’re currently ill, or ‘under the weather’ as it were?” Pondering his line of thinking, Qin couldn’t help but attempt to puzzle it together, his evolved logic center placing presented data together to reach understanding. 

Why is his temperature so elevated? He… he’s too hot… His temperature felt at least 311.8°K through my temperature cells… Humans are on average 310.2°K and their species exhibits signs of death at temperatures of 315°K or more… Fathers and Mothers that’s far too close. That is far too close.

Startling Aspen’s tired eyes open, the large metallic man started in with question after question, “How are you okay? You were perfectly normal yesterday. You’re temperature is far too elevated! Are you dying? Do you need emergency services? I can call the Human Physician on board! I can, I can, I-”

“Stop. It is gonna be okay. This- uh this is a normal human response to various pathogens our immune system is unable to combat with its defense cells, so we get hotter and hotter to try to kill the invader before it can do too much damage. I’ve already spoken to the captain and the doctor and I was given some things to bolster my strength while I attempt to naturally ride out my fever. It’s gonna be okay Qin, I’m gonna be okay. The fever just has to kill the pathogen and it’ll break on its own.”

For several quiet moments Qin sat in disbelief at such a process. Actively breaking their delicate homeostasis for an illness? Their specialized cells unable to do it on their own??? He found himself running his digits through his smaller companions' hair as he pondered. He looked so weak, so small, so… precious. 

Breaking the deathly silence with a few coughs, Aspen shuddered from his fever chills, squinting to the light of Qin’s scales before smiling to himself, “I can see your scared glow through my eyelids, Qin, I promise I’m okay… though the comforting touch is nice.”

“Well your eyelids are thin layers containing Keratin and Collagen, it's a miracle your species is alive…”

A laugh, somewhat stronger this time, escaped Aspen’s lips as he smiled again, “And yours have thick metallic plates and the most beautiful glowing scales I’ve ever seen. What about it?”

A hot reddish-pink overtook the Troqir’s luminescent features as he realized what power the smaller man held over him. The power to care. The power to worry. The power to be emotionally honest, something found few and far between his own people. 

The power to be bold.

“Th-they’re beautiful, you… are beautiful, Aspen… I’m sorry I haven’t said it sooner. You always try to make advances on me, and I always try to deflect them with feigned ignorance.”

Slowly, the small human man scooted to leave some room next to himself in the bed, the blanket moving and leaving him even colder than he already was, “Please… could you stay with me a while longer… could you… could you cuddle me to keep me warm?”

The pink glow wouldn’t cease for some time, as the giant of a man laid down on the small bed and wrapped his warm silvery arms around his companion, a small humming noise coming from deep in his throat like a pur. Aspen snuggled close to stifle his chills, overjoyed to know his feelings were reciprocated. Feeling the radiant heat from his alien partner, he drifted into peaceful sleep for the first time that awful sick day.