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[hamilton-here]

Your writing is so great, I love it :)

I would love one, where Lewis and the reader are teammates and she has an accident and after that they finally show their feelings for eachother 😊

Have a nice day :)

𝒜𝓁𝓁’𝓈 𝐹𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝐼𝓃 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑅𝒶𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑔

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Slowly recovering from my sickness. At the moment I’m moving house, so I am very busy. Thank you so much for loving my writing and I hope you have a wonderful day as well. I hope you enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: After a devastating crash at Silverstone, Lewis Hamilton and his fiercely competitive new teammate finally confront their buried feelings. Turning rivalry into something much deeper.

Warnings: mentions of a crash

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Mercedes garage was alive not just busy, but buzzing, like an organism with a thousand moving parts, each one vital and hyper-focused. Engineers hovered over telemetry screens, scanning data streams with eyes sharpened by caffeine and pressure. Mechanics swarmed the sleek silver machines, torque wrenches hissing, tires being wrapped in blankets like swaddled infants. The air was a heady mix of fuel, rubber, and carbon fibre, undercut by the palpable crackle of anticipation.

But the static in the air had nothing to do with machinery.

It was you.

You stood in the heart of it all, posture straight, eyes forward, your helmet resting against your hip. The shimmering vehicle sat before you, its aerodynamic frame gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Your name, stencilled in crisp black letters near the cockpit, still looked foreign to you. Beautiful. Surreal. Replacing Nico Rosberg wasn’t just a seat switch, it was a seismic shift.

He had stunned the world by retiring right after sealing the 2016 championship, a move no one saw coming. But now the world was watching again. Watching you.

And the weight of that was heavy.

But you didn't show it.

You adjusted the cuff of your fireproof undersuit as someone stepped up behind you.

“Looks like they upgraded the team,” came a voice smooth, amused, unmistakably British.

Lewis Hamilton.

You turned slowly, eyes meeting his. He stood there, casually leaning against the wall, race suit half-zipped and hanging around his waist, arms folded, tattoos stark against the rich brown skin of his chest and collarbone. His curls were slightly damp, and a grin pulled lazily at his lips like he was in on a secret.

He wasn’t just confident. He was magnetic.

You raised a brow. “Still bitter Nico got the title before retiring?”

Lewis chuckled, pushing off the wall to close the space between you. “Not bitter. Just intrigued. Replacing the guy who beat me? That’s a hell of a way to make an entrance.”

You tilted your head. “Are you worried?”

“Only about how many times I’m going to have to carry your ego off the podium.”

You smirked, eyes narrowing. “You might want to focus on staying ahead of me before worrying about podiums.”

There was a beat. A moment too long. The tension hung between you not sharp but charged like a storm waiting for the right moment to break.

He stepped closer, voice lower. “Guess I’ll have to find out, won’t I?”

Before you could reply, Toto Wolff walked in, clutching a clipboard like it was the last shred of his sanity. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you two, then closed his eyes like he was already calculating the therapy bill for the season.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “I can feel it. It’s going to be one of those years.”

“What years?” you asked innocently.

“The ones where I regret every decision that brought me here,” Toto said without missing a beat. “Let’s go, people. Media in thirty.”

You and Lewis gave matching innocent smiles.

“No promises,” Lewis called after him.

That afternoon in the press conference room of Albert Park Circuit.

Flashes from dozens of cameras exploded as you stepped onto the stage with Lewis. The air was warm, crowded with the scent of fresh print paper, deodorant, and just a hint of media bloodlust. Reporters practically vibrated with excitement.

Lewis slouched back in his chair with practiced ease, mic already adjusted, one hand on the desk. You sat beside him, back straight, legs crossed, every inch the composed professional. Until the questions began.

“Y/N,” a journalist in the front row started, “how does it feel stepping into the shoes of Nico Rosberg, the reigning champion and are you prepared for the inevitable tension that comes with partnering Lewis Hamilton?”

You leaned into the mic, barely concealing the sparkle in your eyes. “It’s an honour. Nico’s shoes aren’t easy to fill, but I’m not here to fill them. I’m here to win. And as for Lewis…” You turned your head; gaze locked with his. “I like a challenge.”

The room rippled with murmurs.

Lewis arched a brow, then turned to the crowd. “Why do I feel like I’m being flirted with and threatened at the same time?”

The press burst out laughing.

You didn’t blink. “Because you are.”

Toto, seated beside the stage, dropped his pen.

Soon enough free practice 2 was official.

You lit up the track.

Fastest in FP1. Even faster in FP2. You pushed the car to the edge of its capabilities and then some, dancing on the line between risk and brilliance. When you peeled into the garage, unbuckling your helmet and pulling it off, your face was flushed, pulse racing.

And Lewis was waiting.

He stood just outside the engineers' circle, his arms folded, visor already up, suit rolled down to his waist.

“Okay, okay,” he said, clapping once, grinning from ear to ear. “I see you. Coming out swinging.”

You blew a strand of hair from your face. “Gotta keep the world champ humble.”

“You keep this up and you’ll be paying for my therapy.”

“I’m flattered you think I’m worth that kind of emotional damage.”

An engineer near the back of the garage fumbled a wrench with a loud clang.

No one looked at Toto.

That night after completing your nightly routine, you scrolled on your phone in bed, bare feet tucked under the covers. The F1 Twitterverse was melting down.

@f1teatime:

THE FLIRTING. THE SMIRKS. THE COMPETITION. THIS IS A FANFIC COME TO LIFE.

@mercedesgirl77:

y/n and lewis need to GET A ROOM or GET A TROPHY. Either way I’m here for it.

@f1media:

The tension between Hamilton and his new teammate Y/N Y/L/N is already setting up the 2017 season to be unmissable.

The clips were going viral - your smirk, his grin, the toe-to-toe timing charts, Toto’s eternally pained expressions.

You didn’t reply to any of it.

But you watched. You watched the replays of your lap, the press conference, the teasing glint in Lewis’s eye when he looked at you.

You didn’t know where this was going.

But it was already moving fast.

And God, it was going to be one hell of a ride.

You were only a few races into the season, but by the time the paddock touched down in Bahrain, it was clear to everyone:

You were no longer “Nico Rosberg’s replacement.”

You were something else entirely.

The headlines had stopped comparing you to the former world champion.

Stopped framing every move you made in the shadow of the 2016 title winner.

Because the longer you stayed in the car and the faster you went the more obvious it became:

You were nothing like Nico.

Nico had been cold steel beneath the surface. Calculated. Tactical. A chess player in the body of a racer.

You?

You were fire.

You provoked. You teased. You smiled when the red lights went out and snarled when the helmet came off. Where Nico baited with passive aggression, you bantered with bite. While Nico gave quiet interviews, you gave headlines.

Where Nico and Lewis had waged a cold war - all unsaid tension and icy post-race stares as you and Lewis were something else.

Something volatile. Something dangerous. Something alive.

And Lewis?

He didn’t resent it. He thrived in it. Even when you beat him. Especially when you beat him. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The desert sun pressed down on the paddock like a spotlight. You sat side-by-side with Lewis during the media pen interviews, legs crossed, sunglasses on, your fireproof undersuit peeled halfway down and tied at your waist. Reporters hovered like vultures, microphones extended, every question laced with the same electric curiosity.

“How’s the dynamic shaping up between the two of you now that we’re into race four?” someone asked. “You’ve already split pole positions and race wins. Is it friendly rivalry, or something more intense?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I think it depends on what you mean by ‘friendly.’”

Beside you, Lewis let out a quiet laugh. “She means she enjoys making me sweat.”

You tilted your head toward him. “Only because you deserve it.”

“You love it.”

“Guilty.”

The reporters lapped it up.

Someone else chimed in. “Y/N, do you think Lewis underestimates you?”

You glanced sideways at him, lips twitching. “I don’t think he underestimates anyone. But I do think he was expecting a handshake, and I showed up with a middle finger.”

Lewis smirked, biting back a laugh.

“Didn’t know you were this charming,” he said under his breath.

“Wait ‘til race day.”

Toto, who was lurking at the edge of the pen like a chaperone trying to prevent a scandal, muttered something in Austrian German and walked away shaking his head. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

A week later Saturday: Monaco Qualifying

You were flying once again.

The streets of Monte Carlo blurred past in a kaleidoscope of speed, precision and adrenaline. The engine screamed in harmony with your heartbeat as you threaded the car through corners that had claimed legends and yet you treated them like home.

You danced with the track, kissed every apex, flirted with every wall. Sector one? Purple. Sector two? Flawless. In sector three, your rear tires twitched slightly under braking at the Nouvelle Chicane, but you caught it smooth as silk and hugged the inside barrier at the tunnel exit so tightly that the tire brush left a black kiss mark on the guardrail.

The lap was a work of art. Pure poetry in motion. As you crossed the line, your race engineer’s voice crackled through the headset.

“P1. That’s provisional pole. Outstanding, Y/N.”

You exhaled, a grin forming beneath your helmet as the adrenaline washed over you in waves. This was Monaco. This was your lap.

And now, all eyes were on Lewis.

You peeled off your gloves as you sat in the garage, helmet in your lap, eyes glued to the screen. Lewis was still out on track his silver car slicing through the dusk-lit circuit. He was fast. You watched the timing split glow purple in sector one. Then green. And then - Turn 15. A millisecond of instability as he clipped the inside curb. The rear kicked out. He corrected, but he had to lift.

You saw the tenth slip away like water through his fingers.

The screen flashed: P2.

The moment he stepped out of the car, still in his helmet and suit, his eyes went straight to the monitor above the engineers. Then, slowly, they turned to you. He tugged off his balaclava and stalked toward you, sweat glistening at his hairline, jaw tight.

“Seriously?” he said under his breath, voice low enough that no one but you could hear. “You knew I was on a flying lap.”

You stood, arms crossed, unbothered. “What, I wasn’t even on track?”

He tilted his head, annoyed but not angry. Just frustrated. “I want a fair fight.”

You stepped a little closer, the air between you dense with heat and pride. “That was a fair fight, Hamilton. You just lost.”

He stared at you. Long enough that a mechanic nearby awkwardly turned away.

Then his lips twitched. A reluctant smile.

“You’re dangerous.”

You raised a brow, slow and deliberate. “You’re just figuring that out?”

He didn’t answer. He just walked away, pulling his suit down to his waist and muttering something to Bono. But his eyes lingered, and you felt the static he left behind like a spark on your skin. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Everything about race day in Monaco felt dipped in gold.

The bay shimmered with anchored yachts, the hillsides were dotted with sun-kissed faces behind sunglasses worth more than most cars, and every lens in the paddock turned to follow you and Lewis as you made your way to the grid. You in P1. Him beside you in P2. Side by side at the front of the most prestigious race on the calendar, the most unforgiving circuit in the world.

When the lights went out, you launched off the line like you were shot from a cannon. The opening laps were clean. Tense. Calculated. Monaco didn’t leave room for wheel-to-wheel chaos, but the pressure was suffocating and Lewis applied it like a surgeon with a scalpel.

By lap 22, he was on your gearbox.

You could feel him, not just in your mirrors, but in your bones. Breathing down your neck, matching your pace, probing every turn. He never committed not yet. But he was watching. Waiting. And you knew what he was doing. He was calculating the moment you’d crack.

But you didn’t.

You defended like hell. Protected the racing line. Blocked just enough without overstepping. A lesser teammate would have moved aside. But you weren’t lesser, and Lewis wouldn’t have wanted that anyway.

No team orders came.

Whether Toto was trusting you both...or screaming into a couch cushion in the hospitality suite was anyone’s guess.

But then, you made one mistake.

Just one.

You stayed out one lap too long before pitting. Your tires were crying out, the fronts beginning to lock in the hairpins. Your race engineer called you in and you dove into the pits, seconds too late.

Lewis had already pitted.

And he’d undercut you.

When you rejoined, it was behind him. Behind traffic. Trapped. Furious.

You slammed the wheel, muttering through clenched teeth, “You clever bastard.”

Your engineer’s amused reply was barely containing laughter. “Copy that.”

You pushed like hell, got past the traffic but Monaco offered no second chances.

Lewis won. And you finished second.

You’d barely unbuckled when Lewis was there at the paddock gate, helmet in hand, sweat on his brow, looking for you. You half-expected the signature smirk, the subtle dig. But he surprised you.

Instead, he just said, “Now we’re even.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your gloves at his chest. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He caught them easily, stepped closer. His voice dropped.

“Oh, I will.”

And then, for a second, it felt like something cracked. Something shifted between the rivalry and the banter. Like maybe it wasn’t just about racing anymore.

The afterparty was held at the Hôtel de Paris, the kind of place where history dripped from the walls and every champagne bottle had its own sommelier. The ballroom was glowing with crystal chandeliers and classical string quartets; elegance wrapped in decadence.

You walked in wearing a black satin gown that fit like a second skin, open-backed, thigh slit high enough to draw attention but not outrage. Your hair was swept up; your earrings sparkled under the low lighting. You knew you looked good.

But the look on Lewis’s face when he saw you?

It was something else entirely.

He stood near the bar, a flute of champagne in hand, wearing a tailored tuxedo with the top button undone and just enough swagger to make it lethal. When your eyes met across the room, something in your chest tightened.

He made his way over, slow, deliberate.

“You clean up alright,” you said, sipping your drink.

He handed you another glass perfectly chilled, of course. “I was about to say the same, but I’m a little distracted.”

You raised a brow. “By what?”

His gaze swept the room, then returned to you sharp, possessive and somehow both a warning and a confession. “By the fact that every guy in this room is looking at you. And I can’t tell if I want to punch someone...or ask you to dance.”

You took a slow sip, letting the silence hang between you. “Maybe both?”

He leaned in slightly, lips near your ear. “You always ruin my smooth lines.”

You looked at him over the rim of your glass. “You always give me something to ruin.”

His smirk turned molten.

And for the first time that night, the racing lines between the two of you blurred. Just a little.

Thursday – Press Conference, Montreal

The media room crackled with the usual pre-race tension of humming cameras, the soft rustle of notepads, lights too bright for comfort. You sat next to Lewis at the long table, arms crossed, legs casually stretched out, the brim of your cap pulled low enough to shade the quiet smirk on your face. Your fingers tapped lightly against your knee, equal parts nerves and anticipation.

By now, it was routine. You and Lewis, shoulder to shoulder, playing your well-rehearsed roles of the rising star and the reigning titan. But Montreal had a particular energy, one that electrified beneath your skin and made your heartbeat a little louder in your ears.

The journalists started off polite enough. Predictable questions. Tire choices. Weather forecasts. Championship predictions. You and Lewis answered like seasoned pros, never missing a beat until one voice cut through the room like a scalpel.

“Lewis, do you think having Y/N as a teammate is pushing you harder than Nico ever did?”

Silence, sharp and immediate, followed. Then Lewis’s lips quirked but not into a smile.

“Y/N doesn’t push,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate. “She shoves.”

Laughter rippled across the room. You tilted your head toward the reporter, resting your chin on one hand, eyes half-lidded with mock innocence.

“What can I say?” you murmured. “I like making him sweat. He said it himself once.”

The laughter got louder. Cameras clicked, trying to capture the side glance Lewis gave you a part glare, part grin.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes on you now instead of the press. “That explains the tire strategy you pulled last race,” he said lowly, just loud enough for the microphones to catch.

Your smirk widened, unapologetic. You shrugged one shoulder as if to say sorry, not sorry.

Between you, Toto let out a long, audible sigh. “I’m going to need blood pressure medication before Austria.”

You and Lewis, in perfect sync, didn’t miss a beat:

“Sorry, Toto.”

The room laughed again, but this time, you barely heard it.

Because when you looked at Lewis again - really looked the tension between you sparked. Not angry. Not flirty. Something quieter. Something simmering. Something you weren’t quite ready to name.

But it was there.

And you both knew it.

On Saturday, the day had drained you. Qualifying had been brutal every sector fought down to the millisecond. You’d taken pole, but only by the skin of your teeth. Lewis was right behind you, less than a tenth off. The debrief had been stiff, full of long stares across the table and passive-aggressive telemetry talk.

You were back in your hotel room now, trying and failing to wind down. Pyjamas on. Strategy notes open. You were on your third read-through of tire degradation predictions and still hadn’t taken in a word. The air conditioner hummed softly. Outside, the city sparkled, golden and wide awake. But you weren’t thinking about the lights.

You were thinking about him.

The knock at the door was soft. Three quick raps. Hesitant.

You blinked. Pushed your laptop aside. Walked to the door, heart ticking faster than it should have.

When you opened it, Lewis was standing there in sweats and a hoodie, hood pulled up. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, and he looked at you like he was waiting for you to tell him to go away.

But you didn’t.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said simply.

You nodded and stepped aside.

“Same.”

He walked in without another word. Sat on the edge of the bed like it was his own. You crawled back under the sheets, legs tucked under you, trying not to feel the shift in the air.

He didn’t speak. Just scrolled idly through his phone. The glow of the screen lit up his jaw, sharp and unreadable. You pretended to return to your notes, but your eyes kept drifting.

Minutes passed. Quiet minutes. Comfortable, strangely.

There was nothing romantic about it. And yet…it was the most intimate thing you’d felt in weeks.

Eventually, exhaustion crept in, and you let your eyes close. Just for a second.

You didn’t even realise you’d fallen asleep.

When you woke hours later, to the dim blue light of dawn bleeding into the room - Lewis was gone.

But his hoodie was folded at the foot of your bed. Left behind like a signature.

You stared at it for longer than you should have.

You should’ve laughed. Sent him a text. Something stupid, sarcastic. Didn’t know you moonlighted as a sleep therapist.

But instead, you picked it up - soft, worn-in, warm and pulled it over your head. His scent clung to the fabric. Clean. Familiar. Too familiar.

You didn’t think about what it meant. You didn’t want to.

You just tucked your hands into the sleeves and went back to your notes.

The next day rolled in faster than you expected but, the Canadian Grand Prix always delivered. This year was no exception.

From pole, you held the lead through the first stint, managing the tires, fending off Lewis who was never more than a second behind. Every lap felt like a chess match at 300 km/h DRS threats, over-cut possibilities, traffic playing interference.

He never let up. Not for a second. But neither did you.

When the pit window opened, you stayed out an extra lap which was a gamble. One you thought might gain you time.

But when you rejoined, Lewis was ahead.

He’d undercut you by half a second.

“Shit,” you muttered into your radio.

The rest of the race was damage control. You pushed. You clawed. You closed the gap to within striking distance by the final ten laps, but the tires weren’t there. Lewis crossed the line three seconds ahead.

P2.

When you climbed out of the car, helmet tucked under your arm, you expected the usual smug grin. Expected a quip. A jab. Something sharp-edged.

But Lewis met you at the paddock gate, helmet still on, visor lifted just enough for you to see his smile.

Not arrogant. Not taunting.

Just proud.

“Now we’re even,” he said, voice low.

You rolled your eyes and tossed your gloves at his chest. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He caught them easily, grin still playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, I will.”

After Montreal

Something had shifted.

Neither of you said anything about the hoodie. Or the hotel room. Or the way the air between you had started to hum with something more than competition.

But it was there.

The paddock noticed. The engineers noticed. Hell, even the Sky Sports commentators started speculating.

You still fought each other tooth and nail on track. But in the quiet moments, a look across the garage, a shared smirk during warm-up, a shoulder brush that neither of you stepped away from. The line between enemies and something else began to fade.

Whatever was growing between you and Lewis, it didn’t have a name yet.

However, it was coming fast.

One minute, you were stepping off the plane from Montreal, the champagne still sticky in your hair and Lewis’s half-smile still lingering in the back of your mind. The next, you were in the middle of the Styrian hills, Red Bull Ring laid out like a postcard, sky stretched above you in impossible shades of blue.

Austria was always beautiful. Always fast.

But this year? This year it felt like a storm waiting to break.

The paddock buzzed with something electric. Sharper than usual. Everyone moved with that mid-season intensity, chasing perfection in half-second intervals but underneath all of that, something else stirred.

You and Lewis.

It followed you like a shadow. Your names stacked beside each other on headlines, in interviews, across every trending hashtag. The questions came faster now from fans, press, even other drivers. The tension? Constant. Thick enough to feel on your skin. Like the moment before lights out.

Like standing too close to a flame you couldn’t stop reaching for.

Saturday – Qualifying Day

Q3 was hell.

Fast laps. Dirty air. Nerves wired too tight. Sector times bounced between green and purple like a heartbeat. You were quicker in the middle sector, Lewis in the third. Each lap built on the last, the timing screen an endless taunt.

Final run.

DRS open. Grip on the edge. You nailed your entry into Turn 7, carried perfect speed through the double left and still, it wasn’t enough.

Lewis crossed the line just before you. 0.036 seconds. You stared at the screen. P2. Your name flickering beneath his.

You muttered a curse into your helmet, just loud enough to fog the inside of your visor but not loud enough for Bono to ask questions. When you rolled into the garage, helmet off, race suit peeled halfway down, Lewis was already there leaning against the wall like he’d been born there.

He didn’t even look at you at first.

Just unzipped his race suit a little lower, sweat still drying across his collarbone, before shooting you a look over his shoulder.

“You’re getting slow.” His voice was low. Teasing. Dangerous.

You walked past him, deliberately close, brushing the edge of his elbow as you tugged off your gloves.

“You’re getting cocky.”

His smirk turned razor-sharp. “You like it.”

You paused, gaze flicking to his, something warm and wicked curling in your chest.

“Never said I didn’t.”

For just a second, he blinked. Smirk faltering like a driver who missed the apex by a breath. You saw it the shift behind his eyes and then he straightened, like the moment hadn’t just punched him in the ribs.

He stepped back. Just an inch.

But the space between you stayed hot. Buzzing. Unspoken.

Not quite rivals. Not quite anything else.

Saturday night was the team dinner.

The restaurant sat at the edge of a valley, glass walls framing a sunset that didn’t look real. The whole team had turned out - engineers, strategists, comms. Wine flowed. The food was good. Someone was halfway through a dramatic retelling of Canada 2011 when the chair beside you scraped back.

Lewis.

He didn’t ask. Just dropped into the seat beside you like gravity had pulled him there. Your shoulders brushed. You didn’t move.

He leaned over mid-story to steal a piece of bread from your plate, elbow bumping yours. His thigh pressed against yours not enough to be obvious, but enough that neither of you adjusted.

The jokes flowed faster. Every glance from him lasted a little too long. When you made a crack about his hair taking longer than his tire warm-up, he let out a bark of laughter and reached across to steal your fork in retaliation.

Toto, across the table, looked like he wanted to throw the wine bottle at both your heads.

He took a slow sip. Deadpan. “Did I wrong a god in a past life?”

You batted your lashes. “I’m delightful.”

Lewis raised his glass and clinked it against yours.

“Debatable,” he said, eyes glinting.

You didn’t look away.

And neither did anyone else. But no one said it. Not out loud. Because they all saw it too.

The next morning was race day.

Lights out. Chaos. Heat.

The race was all muscle and instinct.

You stuck to him like a second shadow. DRS flaps opened in perfect rhythm. You hunted him down, corner by corner, lap after lap. There was nothing gentle about it - this was a war fought in tenths of a second, elbows out, every move on the edge of legal.

He blocked you cleanly in Turn 3. You dove down the inside into Turn 7, forcing him wide. He retaliated the next lap, sweeping across the racing line so sharply you nearly clipped his rear.

It was beautiful. Exhausting.

By the final stint, your tires screamed, and your hands ached. The gap narrowed to under a second, but he held you off. Barely.

P2. Again.

You rolled into parc fermé, helmet still on, adrenaline laced with bitterness. Lewis was already climbing out of his car. He caught your eye. Didn't say a word not there. No smug comments in front of the cameras. No podium digs.

But later, when you passed him in the paddock still flushed from the heat, helmet tucked under your arm he was waiting.

That smirk was back.

“You’re starting to make this a habit.”

Voice low. A little too smooth.

You stepped up, so close your words dropped between you like sparks.

“Keep pushing me, Hamilton. I dare you.”

His eyes narrowed, half-amused, half-something else.

“Who said I ever stopped?”

And then, silence.

You held his stare for too long. Too knowing. And for a breathless second, it wasn’t about racing lines or qualifying splits.

It was about the way his gaze dropped to your mouth and back. The way your chest rose like a challenge. Whatever this was it was dangerous.

And you were already too far in to care.

After Spielberg

The internet exploded.

#HamY/N trended globally. Again.

Every clip dissected: the looks on the grid, the thigh-brushing at dinner, the tension in parc fermé. Some tabloid ran a side-by-side photo of the two of you from the national anthem, both staring straight ahead except your heads tilted just enough to catch the other out of the corner of your eyes.

“Rivals?”

“Lovers?”

“F1’s Slowest Burning Flame?”

Neither of you said a word. Didn’t need to.

Because the next time you stayed late in the sim room, Lewis showed up with two iced coffees and a smug grin. He dropped into the chair next to yours like it was routine. No questions. No excuses.

Later, in his hotel room, the silence settled differently.

The TV played some old onboard footage - Monaco, maybe 2008 with the volume low enough to be a lullaby. The light flickered faintly across the bed, the muted glow of past speed and younger versions of the man beside you. Your knees touched under the blanket. Neither of you moved.

He told you about a karting race he lost when he was twelve. You told him about the first time someone told you girls don’t win world championships and how, for a long time you almost believed them. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like it physically pained him. Like if he could go back in time, he’d put his hands around the words before they ever touched your ears.

Eventually, his eyes fluttered shut. Breath deepening. Shoulders relaxing.

Sleep, gradual and quiet, claimed him.

You didn’t mean to stay that long. But something about the weight of the day, the warmth of his side pressed to yours, the way his blanket smelled faintly like him of citrus, salt and something woodsy made you still. And when you shifted, curling ever so slightly in his direction, your head found its way to his chest.

His breathing hitched not quite awake, but not fully gone either. And then his arm moved. Slow. Sleepy.

He tucked you in closer, hand spreading wide across your lower back, anchoring you to him like his subconscious already knew what he wanted like this was muscle memory. You froze for a moment. Just breathed. He sighed in his sleep a soft, content sound and murmured your name so faintly it barely carried.

You didn’t answer. Because that was the moment you let go. Head rising and falling with the rhythm of his chest, you let your eyes fall shut. Let yourself be held.

And for all the chaos that waited outside that room the racing, the press, the questions - here, in this quiet space, Lewis was just a man asleep with his arm around you. And you? You were exactly where you wanted to be.

You didn’t dream of winning that night. You just dreamed of him. Though both of you were just too oblivious to see one another’s feelings.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Soon enough the oppressive weight of Silverstone loomed, not as a harbinger of rain, but as a chilling premonition of impact. Each breath caught in your throat, tight and constricted, a physical manifestation of the immense pressure. This was Lewis Hamilton's home race, the very heart of British motorsport, a crucible where legacies were forged or shattered. The pressure wasn't merely heavy; it was a suffocating shroud that clung to every inch of the paddock.

The air vibrated with an amplified hum, louder than any other race weekend. The British press, a relentless pack, circled with predatory intent, scenting vulnerability. And the fans - a roaring, impassioned sea of Union Jacks, homemade signs, and painted faces unleashed a deafening chorus of cheers. The Silver Arrows, your team, bore the crushing expectation to deliver.

The championship, though still technically within grasp, was a precarious dream, its fragile hold threatened by the encroaching might of Ferrari and Red Bull. Every single point became a battleground, every position a declaration of war. The team itself operated with the precision of a finely tuned machine, sharp-edged and tightly wound, yet disturbingly brittle.

Smiles were absent, relaxation a forgotten luxury. The only thing more fragile than the fluctuating standings was the pervasive sense that any distraction, however slight, could shatter their collective focus.

And you, were rapidly learning that distractions often wore the disarming, elusive and utterly impossible guise of Lewis Hamilton. He was dangerously close, both on the track and off. During media rounds, he consistently stood a little too near, always just beyond reach. You felt his presence before you saw him, the undeniable weight of his attention, a lingering static in the air.

The press, with their keen, predatory instincts, noticed. "Y/N, are you prepared to play support to Lewis this weekend?" one reporter purred, their voice thick with feigned sweetness, the microphone thrust so close you could feel its proximity, catching the barest flicker in your eyes. You didn't blink.

You steadfastly refused to glance at Lewis, even as you felt the searing intensity of his gaze, a palpable sensation akin to the electric calm before lightning strikes.

Instead, you offered a smile sweet, sharp and undeniably lethal. "Tell him to stay ahead of me," you retorted, your voice laced with a subtle challenge, "and we won't have a problem."

A low, warm chuckle escaped Lewis's lips beside you, the kind of sound that instantly became headline news. He attempted to mask it with a cough, but the charade fooled no one. Somewhere beyond the flashing cameras, you could almost hear Toto Wolff's enraged roar echoing into his water bottle.

The internet, predictably, erupted. The hashtag #Y/NvsLewis trended furiously, even before the first free practice session had begun.

Free practice began not long afterwards. The car beneath you felt like an extension of your own body, light and incredibly nimble, possessing the kind of perfect balance that drivers dreamt of. Each lap was a testament to precision, tighter and smoother than the last.

You felt an almost symbiotic connection, as if your very being and the machine spoke a shared, intuitive language. The screens in the garage glowed with your name at the top of the FP2 timings, fastest overall, fastest through the speed traps.

As you climbed out of the cockpit, the garage erupted in a wave of applause, though only one sound truly registered: the distinct clap of Lewis Hamilton. He leaned casually against the wall near your workstation, a water bottle arcing through the air towards you.

His eyes, crinkled at the corners, held a quiet admiration. "Nice lap," he murmured, his voice low and steady, carrying an undertone of something deeper than mere politeness.

You didn't offer a verbal reply, simply took a long sip of water, fighting to suppress the schoolgirl grin that threatened to break through your carefully maintained composure. It wasn't just a compliment; it was something else entirely.

Sunday — Race Day

Five red lights glowed, each one a stark, silent countdown. Your breath hitched, held captive in your lungs.

Then, they extinguished.

Go. A clean start. You and Lewis launched yourselves forward, a synchronised dance of pure power and precision. The world around you blurred into an indistinct canvas of speed. Nothing existed beyond the guttural roar of the engine and the rapid-fire pulse of strategy in your ear.

Lap after relentless lap, you hunted, your gaze locked onto the intricate dance of Lewis's gearbox. He defended flawlessly, with a clean, precise artistry, but you were gaining, clawing back tenths of a second with each corner, your car biting harder, hungrier.

On Lap 7, you closed the gap through the challenging Maggots and Becketts complex. DRS active, you weighed your options, considering a move. He covered, a seamless defensive manoeuvre. You held your line. It was still clean, still fair. But you saw it – the faintest flicker of vulnerability.

Lap 8. Copse. A flat-out, no-lifting, absolute commitment corner. You went for it.

And in that terrifying instant, the world shattered. Mid-corner, the rear of your car violently gave out. Snap oversteer. Zero grip. The tires screamed a desperate, futile protest, unable to save you. The car spun once, twice and then, abruptly, it wasn't spinning anymore. It was flying. There was no time for a scream.

There was only the sickening, visceral crunch of carbon fibre and steel tearing themselves apart against unforgiving concrete. Then: silence. Total. Absolute. Silence. The kind of silence that drowns. Your ears rang, a deafening hum. Or perhaps that was your own frantic heartbeat. Or perhaps, horrifyingly, you were already gone. You didn't know.

A red flag. The race halted. Marshals scrambled, a flurry of orange and white. Back in the garage, radios shrieked with panicked static. And then, Lewis's voice, raw and desperate, sliced through the chaos. "Is she okay?! What happened?! Tell me she's okay!" Nothing. Only static. No confirmation, just the chilling echo of chaos. He didn't care about the race, didn't care about restarts or championship points.

"Y/N?!" he shouted into the comms, his voice cracking, strained with anguish. "Someone answer me!"

Finally, a voice, calm and professional, from the medical team. "She's conscious. Awake. She's being taken to the medical centre." Lewis exhaled, a long, shuddering breath, as if he hadn't drawn one since the moment of impact. But it wasn't relief. It was merely the bare minimum of hope, a fragile thread in the face of overwhelming fear.

He got back into the car when they told him he had to. Lights out, again. He drove like a man possessed, a singular, unstoppable force. He seized the lead, held it with an iron grip, extended it relentlessly, dominating the restarted race. But he didn't celebrate. Not once. The race concluded. He won. Ten seconds clear of the field. Fastest lap. British Grand Prix champion.

The crowd erupted in a thunderous ovation. Fireworks painted vibrant streaks across the sky. And Lewis didn't even look up. He pulled into parc fermé, his helmet coming off to reveal a blank, unreadable face, his eyes dark and haunted.

He didn't pose with the trophy. He didn't take the flag. He walked straight past the throng of press, past the podium, past the waiting champagne.

He was already gone. Already heading for the medical centre, consumed by a singular, urgent purpose.

The world surged back, not with a sudden clarity, but in disorienting fragments. The oppressive hum of fluorescent lights, buzzing like an agitated hive, slowly coalesced from blurred streaks into harsh overhead fixtures.

Shapeless blurs sharpened into the outlines of unfamiliar medical equipment. A dull, persistent ache in your ribs, a grim souvenir of the impact, pulsed with every shallow, agonising breath, reminding you of the violent forces that had brought you to this sterile place.

The distant, rhythmic hum of machines, a symphony of life support and monitoring, permeated the air, punctuated by the insistent beeping of monitors that seemed to track every fragile beat of your heart. Faint, indistinct murmurs of voices drifted in and out of your consciousness, fragments of conversations you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then, cutting through the haze, came his voice. It was low, tense, a raw thread of anxiety woven into every syllable. Yet, it was undeniably familiar, a sound that resonated deep within you. “…you didn’t see her? Nobody saw the rear instability?” The words were sharp, accusatory, and edged with a desperation that sent a shiver down your spine.

You blinked, your eyelids impossibly heavy, feeling like they were weighted with lead. But his silhouette, even through the fuzzy veil, was unmistakable. Lewis.

He was a restless shadow, pacing agitatedly at the far side of the hospital room, his movements tight and jerky. He was still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and hanging loosely at his waist, revealing a sweat-dampened undershirt.

His brows were deeply furrowed, etched with worry lines that made him look as if he’d aged five years in the past five hours, each wrinkle a testament to the agony he’d endured.

A soft-spoken nurse, her expression a blend of professional calm and gentle authority, stepped forward, attempting to block his path as he tried to storm past the flimsy privacy curtain separating your bed from the rest of the room.

“I just need to see her,” Lewis pleaded, his voice a strained whisper, stripped of its usual confidence and bravado. “Just for a minute.” The nurse, understanding the raw emotion behind his words, replied gently, her voice soothing. “She’s awake,” she confirmed, a small, reassuring smile gracing her lips. “But sore. Don’t stress her.”

Your body, still protesting its recent ordeal, responded with a soft groan, a low, involuntary sound of discomfort as you shifted slightly in the bed. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through your battered body, reminding you that every inch of you was a battlefield. But that small sound, insignificant as it might have seemed, acted like a potent spell, freezing Lewis in his tracks.

His head whipped towards you, eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and raw relief. And then in what felt like two impossibly swift strides he was there, suddenly beside the bed, dropping to his knees with a speed that belied his agitated state. He looked like a man on the verge of either proposing a lifetime commitment or shattering into a million pieces.

“Hey,” he breathed, the single word a fragile whisper, laced with an overwhelming tenderness. His voice cracked, betraying the immense emotional strain he was under. “

“Hey.” Your lips, dry and cracked, twitched into a faint, weak smile. Despite the pain, despite the confusion, a familiar spark of your competitive spirit flickered. “You win the race?” you managed to croak out, your voice hoarse and barely audible.

He let out a short, choked laugh, a sound devoid of its usual mirth, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Yeah,” he said, his gaze fixed on you, as if trying to memorise every detail of your face. “But who cares.” The words, usually so important to him, were dismissed with a dismissive wave of his hand, their significance utterly dwarfed by the sight of you.

You swallowed hard, your mouth feeling like sandpaper. “You should be celebrating,” you insisted, a faint echo of your usual banter in your tone. “Not without you,” he countered instantly, his voice firm, unwavering.

Something profound, something fragile and yet immensely powerful, broke open between you in that moment.

He looked at you, as if he hadn’t taken a full, unburdened breath until this very second. His fingers, trembling slightly, hovered near your hand, not quite touching, as if afraid to break the delicate spell. “I thought I lost you,” he whispered, the words laced with an agonising vulnerability that sent a jolt through your heart.

“You didn’t,” you said, your voice still weak but imbued with a fierce conviction. “I’m here.” He closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of relief washing over his features.

When he opened them again, they were clouded with a torment you hadn't seen before. “I watched the crash back,” he confessed, his voice raw with self-reproach. “Over and over. Trying to see what I missed. What I should’ve done differently.” The weight of his unasked questions hung heavy in the air between you. “It wasn’t your fault—” you started, trying to reassure him, to alleviate the crushing guilt you saw in his eyes.

“I know that. I know.” His voice wavered, a tremor running through it that spoke volumes of his barely contained emotion. “But you don’t get it. I’ve never cared like this. Not with a teammate. Not with anyone in the paddock.” His gaze intensified, seeking to impress upon you the profound truth of his words.

You stared at him, your mind racing, trying to process the magnitude of his confession. He continued, his voice softening, becoming almost reverent. “You got under my skin so fast I didn’t even feel it. One minute you’re challenging me, mocking me, laughing at me and the next I’m in the hospital hallway thinking what if she doesn’t wake up. What if I never get to tell her.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with the lingering pain from the crash, and everything to do with this. The raw honesty of his words, the vulnerability he laid bare, stole your breath away.

“What would you have told me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, the question hanging delicately in the silence between you. He looked down, his gaze dropping to your intertwined hands, then slowly, deliberately, looked back up, his eyes locking with yours.

“That I love the way you race,” he began, his voice imbued with a newfound tenderness. “That I hate how much I want to win until I see you smile and suddenly second place feels okay. That every time I lose to you, I fall harder.” A profound silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft beeping of the monitors.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That I’m falling for you, Y/N. And I don’t think I know how to stop.”

You didn’t reply immediately. The weight of his words, the sheer vulnerability of his confession, left you speechless. Instead, you reached out your fingers, still a little weak, gently brushing over his, a tentative, unspoken invitation. His breath hitched.

“You’re not the only one,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion, a fragile admission mirroring his own. “You made it impossible not to.” Lewis blinked, his eyes wide, as if unsure he heard you right, as if the reality of your words was too good to be true.

Then, slowly, deliberately, your fingers laced together, a silent confirmation of the burgeoning connection between you. “I should’ve told you sooner,” you confessed, the words a soft sigh of regret. He shook his head, a small, barely perceptible smile gracing his lips.

“You’re telling me now,” he murmured, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. A beat of comfortable, understanding silence passed between you. “Come here,” you whispered, the invitation a soft plea.

He stood, his movements careful and gentle, leaning over you as if you were made of the most delicate glass. Your fingers remained locked, a constant, reassuring link between you. You lifted your face just enough, your eyes meeting his, a silent permission passing between you.

And then he kissed you. It wasn’t the hesitant, exploratory kiss of a first date, nor the grand, passionate declaration of a dramatic confession. This was a kiss born of relief, of profound gratitude, a silent vow-exchanged between two souls who had stared into the abyss of loss and found each other again.

His lips against yours were soft and reverent, a gentle pressure that grounded you. It was a promise whispered without words, a silent affirmation of your shared vulnerability and the deep affection that had blossomed between you.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured, his voice still thick with emotion. “You made it worth it,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering closed, a profound sense of peace settling over you.

Current time Monday, June 10, 2024 at 12:47:04 AM AEST.

Two days after the terrifying embrace of the hospital room, a subtle shift had occurred. You were no longer just a teammate to Lewis, nor he merely a formidable rival. There was an unspoken current, a tender understanding that hummed beneath the surface of your every interaction. Lying in your stark white hospital bed, still mending, you picked up your phone, a fleeting thought sparking in your mind.

You recorded a quick voice note, the lingering pain in your ribs a dull throb, your voice a little scratchy from disuse. “I’ve watched the crash three times,” you admitted, a wry smile playing on your lips. “I think I’m more upset about your lap time than the wall.” It was a familiar jab, a return to the playful antagonism that defined your professional relationship, a subtle test of the new boundaries.

Lewis’s reply was almost instantaneous, a clear indication of how closely he’d been awaiting your communication. He sent a selfie, a rare glimpse into his off-track world. He was in the simulator, the familiar cockpit surrounding him, but his usual intense focus was replaced by a wide, unburdened grin.

“Heal up fast," his text read, the words accompanied by an emoji of a flexing bicep. "I need you back on track so I can finally beat you without feeling guilty about it." The playful bravado was back, but now, it was tempered with a warmth that hadn’t been there before, a subtle acknowledgment of the stakes that had been so dramatically raised.

Recovery, it turned out, did not suit you. You were a creature of perpetual motion, of high-octane adrenaline, and the forced stillness chafed at your very soul. You hated the relentless downtime, the endless hours of physio that promised slow, arduous progress, each session a frustrating reminder of your temporary incapacitation. What you hated even more was the agonising experience of watching the races from a screen instead of being out there on the grid, the roar of the engines a distant, tantalising echo.

But Lewis, in his own quiet, persistent way, kept you anchored, kept you close. His presence was a constant, comforting hum in the background of your recovery: constant texts filled with mundane updates and genuine concern, late-night calls that stretched into the early hours, dissolving the distance between you, and a steady stream of photos from the garage captioned with a poignant, almost wistful, “your seat misses you.”

You weren't accustomed to such softness in motorsport. The paddock was a cutthroat world, a place where vulnerability was a weakness, where emotional attachments were liabilities. But with him? With Lewis, it didn't feel like a weakness. It felt like fuel, igniting a different kind of strength, a warmth that seeped into your bones and accelerated your healing. And by the time the Hungarian Grand Prix loomed on the horizon, you were not just recovered; you were ready. You were ravenous for the track, for the fight, and for him. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Race weekend. Budapest. The very air vibrated with anticipation. Your return was, quite literally, all anyone could talk about. The paddock buzzed with a frenetic energy, and every journalist, every pundit, every fan had an opinion. "She’s back!" echoed through the media centre, a triumphant declaration. "What will this mean for the Hamilton dynamic?" they mused, recognising the intricate dance between you two. "Have the team lost control of their golden duo?" The question hung in the air, tinged with both apprehension and excitement.

You stepped out of the motorhome, the vibrant team colours a stark contrast to the flash of a hundred cameras that instantly swarmed you, their lenses like hungry eyes.

But you didn’t blink, didn't flinch.

You met their relentless gaze with a steely resolve, your focus already elsewhere. Just past the press barrier, amidst the controlled chaos, Lewis was waiting. His gaze, usually so guarded, was open, raw, searching only for you.

His arms opened slightly, just enough, a silent, almost imperceptible invitation. You didn’t hesitate. You walked right into them, the world blurring around the edges as his embrace enveloped you. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense of a passionate, sweeping gesture. Instead, he hugged you the way someone hugs the missing half of a whole. It was tight, desperate in its unspoken relief, an absolute connection that transcended words.

The cameras caught it all, every single click immortalising the unguarded moment, the undeniable truth of your bond.

Later that day, the press conference was packed, the air thick with expectation. The moderator, a seasoned professional, smiled warmly. “Y/N, how does it feel to be back?”

You leaned into the microphone, the familiar weight of it a comforting presence. “Like I’ve been holding my breath for three weeks,” you confessed, a wry smile playing on your lips, acknowledging the stifling frustration of forced inactivity.

Then, the moderator turned to Lewis, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And Lewis,” he began, “what’s it like having your teammate back on the grid?” Lewis didn’t miss a beat, his answer delivered with a smooth, almost theatrical flourish. “Safer, faster, and way more fun.”

Across the table, Toto, the stoic team principal, sat beside you both. At Lewis’s declaration, he visibly sagged, his shoulders slumping. He then closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for an inevitable onslaught. “Please,” he muttered, his voice barely audible, laced with a plea that bordered on desperation. “One race weekend without flirtation. I beg.”

You, emboldened by Lewis’s easy charm and the shared moment, leaned forward, a playful glint in your eye. “Define flirtation,” you challenged, a subtle dare in your tone. Lewis, never one to be outdone, added, “Define fun,” his grin widening.

The room, filled with jaded journalists and cynical analysts, burst into genuine laughter, the tension momentarily dissipating in a wave of shared amusement. Toto, however, merely massaged his temples, a man perpetually on the verge of an aneurysm.

The race itself was a masterclass in controlled aggression, a tight, thrilling ballet of speed and strategy. Lewis led, a familiar sight at the front of the pack. You followed, a relentless shadow, chasing hard, pushing the limits of your still-recovering body. But you didn't push stupid.

Your instincts, honed over years of high-stakes racing, held you back from unnecessary risks. Your body was still adjusting, finding its rhythm, reacquainting itself with the brutal demands of a Grand Prix.

You crossed the line in P2, a second-place finish. And for the first time, it didn’t sting. There was no bitter taste of defeat, no gnawing frustration. Because as the chequered flag waved, a blur of black and white, and the team erupted in cheers over the radio, Lewis’s voice, clear and resonant, cut through the celebration. “That’s my girl.”

Your breath caught in your throat, a sudden, unexpected gasp. You didn't answer not over comms, not where the entire team, the entire world, could potentially hear. The intimacy of his words was too precious to be broadcast.

But later, in the cool-down room, the sterile air a welcome relief after the oppressive heat of the cockpit, you sat on a low bench, sipping water, trying in vain to stop sweating through your race suit. Lewis sat beside you, his presence a comfortable weight, his gaze soft as he watched the replays on the wall monitors. “You know they’re gonna figure it out, right?” he said, his voice a low murmur, a subtle acknowledgment of the cameras that dotted the room, capturing every nuance.

You wiped your face with a towel, the cotton rough against your skin. “They already have,” you stated, a quiet certainty in your voice. He leaned back, stretching out his long legs, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“So, what do we do?” he asked, the question hanging in the air, laden with unspoken possibilities. You looked at him, your gaze unwavering, a confident grin spreading across your face. “You drive,” you said. “I drive. And we keep being us.” He turned his head, his smile deepening, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Even if it’s complicated?” he pressed, a hint of playful apprehension in his tone.

You laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound. “Lewis,” you said, shaking your head in mock exasperation. “What about this was ever going to be simple?”

Soon enough Monza race day arrived dawned under a sky heavy with the promise of chaos. Rain began to fall, turning the iconic Monza circuit into a treacherous, shimmering ribbon. It was a day for brave hearts and precise hands, a day for mayhem. You thrived in these conditions, your instincts razor-sharp.

You overtook him on Lap 4, a daring move that sent a ripple of excitement through the commentary boxes. He undercut you during the first pit stop, his team executing a flawless strategy that put him back ahead. But you weren't done. You dived past again in Turn 1, a breathtaking manoeuvre that brought the crowd to its feet, a collective gasp and roar echoing through the grandstands. By the final ten laps, you were neck and neck separated by a single second and sheer willpower, an epic duel unfolding before the eyes of the world.

“Let me race her,” Lewis demanded over the radio, his voice urgent, a primal desire to compete with you, unhindered.

Toto’s voice, a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration, came back: “You two are going to drive me into therapy.” Inside your helmet, a wide, unbidden smile spread across your face. “Then book a double session,” you muttered to yourself, the words a silent challenge to the man who held your careers in his hands.

You won. Your second win of the season, a momentous victory on one of motorsport's most iconic tracks. Lewis crossed the line just behind you, a mere blink of an eye separating your cars but his face, visible on the big screens, was plastered with a wide, unburdened grin, as if he’d won too.

On the podium, the air crackled with a triumphant energy. Champagne rained down, a glorious, golden shower. You sprayed him, a playful, victorious torrent, soaking him thoroughly. He didn’t even fight back, he just stood there, letting the cold spray wash over him, his eyes fixed on you, a gaze so intense it felt like sunlight through smoke, seeing only you in that moment.

And then, as the cheers reached a crescendo, as the champagne continued to fall, he pulled you close, still soaking wet from the celebration. He didn't say a word, just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his drenched race suit. And then, in front of the entire world, on the hallowed ground of the podium, he kissed you.

It wasn’t a quick peck, or a tentative brush of lips. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a powerful, raw, and undeniable declaration. His lips, still wet with champagne, met yours with a desperate urgency, a profound relief, and a fierce, burning passion. It was a kiss that tasted of victory, of fear conquered, of love unleashed.

His hand found the back of your head, tangling in your damp hair, pulling you even closer, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Your hands instinctively found purchase on his shoulders, gripping him tightly, as if to anchor yourself against the sudden, overwhelming force of his confession. The world faded, the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the presence of your team - it all dissolved into a singular, all-consuming moment.

It was a kiss that acknowledged every shared glance, every late-night call, every unspoken understanding. It was the public unveiling of a private love, an answer to every rumour, every whispered question. When he finally, reluctantly, pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, breathing you in. The air around you thrummed with a tangible energy, a silent hum of connection.

That night, the headlines didn’t know what to do with you, or with him. They struggled to categorise the raw, undeniable force that had just been unleashed on the world stage.

Sky Sports, usually restrained, ran with a headline that captured the essence of the moment:

“Teammates, Rivals, Lovers — Whatever They Are, It’s Working.”

Motorsport.com, ever the pragmatist, focused on the immediate outcome, but couldn’t ignore the context:

“Y/N Y/L/N Becomes Title Contender. Hamilton Still Grinning.”

The world watched, captivated, as the lines between professional rivalry and profound personal connection blurred, creating a story far more compelling than any championship fight.

This was more than just racing; this was a love story, unfolding at 300 kilometres an hour, for all the world to see.

[poetrex]

Littoral Combat Song (One Piece At A Time)

Well, I left Kentucky back in 2006, And moved to Mobile to work on ships— First year, they had me weldin' plates on LCS-2. Every day I'd see her high and dry, And sometimes I'd hang my head and cry 'Cause I always wanted me one that was long and blue. So one day I devised myself a scheme, an' It's the envy of most any seaman— I'd sneak it out there in whatever I could fit it in. Now gettin' caught meant goin' to prison, But if a diesel engine or two went missin' I'd have me a boat worth at least a half a billion. I'd get it one piece at a time, And it wouldn't cost me a dime. You'll know it's me when I come through your sound. I'm gonna sail around Austal style, Gonna drive Lockheed Martin wild 'Cause I'll have the only one there is around. So the very next day when I punched in To distribute lethality with some help from a friend, I left that day with a lunchbox full of gears. I've never considered myself a thief, But GD wouldn't miss just one little piece, Especially if I strung it out over several years. The first day I got me a stator vane; The next day I got me a whole A-frame, Then the turbochargers, compressor, and that alternator. Little things I could fit in my hands Like nuts an' bolts, and most of the cams, But the big stuff we snuck out in my buddy's flatbed trailer. Now, my plan was workin' out just fine Til' at last that trimaran was mine, But during sea trials, we faced significant hurdles. See, one crankshaft was from LCS-3, And the shaft seal was a bit leaky— She made over fifty knots, but only in circles. So we upgraded her Mission Module, And with a little bit of help from a Youtube video, We fixed her waterjets and that helped a lot. Now the weapons was another sight— Gold Crew removed the 57 one night 'Cause they found that it interfered with their wifi hotspot. The superstructure looked funny too, But we put it together and when we got through, Well, that's when we noticed that we only had one bridge wing. Then we had a small explosion; Some minor issues with aggressive corrosion, But other than that, she'll take you for a helluva spin. But when we took her out for a shakedown cruise To show the flag and spread the news, I could hear everybody laughin' up in OPNAV. Now, CNO didn't find it amusing 'Cause when they showed up, I expected a bruisin' But they promoted me to NAVSEA, even let me pick my own staff. I got it one piece at a time, And it didn't cost me a dime! You'll know it's me when I come through your sound. I'm gonna sail around Austal style, Gonna drive Lockheed Martin wild 'Cause I got the only one there is around.

HOOYAH! Red Ryder this is the USS Dale Earnhardt saying Bravo Zulu to all our Navy team, and She's not a corvette, do not call it a corvette.

And negatory on the cost of this here mow-chine Red Ryder, You might say I won it in a no-bid contract. It's cheaper that way.

Uh, what Mission Package is it? Well, it's a Surface Warfare SSM Counter Unmanned Aircraft System Anti-Air, Counter-Mine, Counter-Anti-Submar-ine High-Energy Laser Littoral Combat Ship.

Yeah, a VLS PDS Aviation Countermeasures, ALMDS UISS DEW and Knifefish operator, Agile and modular Littoral Combat Ship!

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1955 Ford Fairlane Two Door Woodie Wagon

1955 Ford Fairlane Two Door Woodie Wagon! This is nicely restored car that is a great car show cruiser or beach ride! Powered by a healthy Supercharged 292CID V8 Engine and Automatic Transmission. It has a period correct McCullouch Supercharger that boast great power! This car runs and sounds great. It drives very nice and handles the road straight and tight. It was driven to many shows across the states and gets a lot of attention everywhere it goes. The suspension is lowered with a great stance and sitting on newer tires with polished chrome wheels. The paint is beautiful Sunflower Yellow with a great shine. The body is solid and straight. The chrome bumpers, trim, glass, seals, etc was redone and show very nice. The car has been driven and enjoyed so it has a few small paint chips that were color matched touched up but overall this car shows extremely well and is ready to show off. The interior was also redone in two-tone gray with wood panels and rear floor. It is very comfortable and shows great. The dash was redone, professional black headliner installed, seats redone, newer carpet with rear wood floor, etc please view photos. The back glass is sliding and rear seat fold down for your surfboard or golf clubs! The engine compartment also shows nicely and was refinished. It has a new rebuilt motor with a mild cam, offenhauser modifications, dual exhaust, electric fuel pump with kill switch, aluminum radiator and upgraded cooling system, etc.

[usafphantom2]

This is not a picture of a manufacturing assembly line

This is a picture of the SR 71 Program Depot Maintenance (PDM) input back shop at site 2 Palmdale, California. Directly under the titanium panels are the fuel tanks.

The triangle-shaped panels were for reducing the radar cross-section. Everything about this beautiful SR 71 had to be invented because of the high heat; traditional sealants to seal the panels would break due to the extreme temperature range from very, very cold outside to very, very hot inside the plane.

The SR-71 was trucked from Burbank, assembled at Palmdale, and Flight Tested, then delivered to Beale.

SR-71s would disappear while being rotated in and out of maintenance, so there is no certain tail number that only stayed at, for instance, Beale, Okinawa, or Mildenhall. I once asked my father Butch Sheffield, which SR-71 did you fly in? and he said ALL of them.

This picture shows a full-blown phased inspection where the entire aircraft and systems were thoroughly inspected. Every 800 hours, the plane would be sent south to Palmdale, California, for the Periodic Depot-level Maintenance (PDM) inspection performed by the Lockheed Skunk Works. This six-month-long inspection is where the aircraft is basically taken apart, inspected, modified, upgraded, put back together, and flight tested.

When making the A-12/SR -71 at Palmdale, they had trouble dealing with the titanium. Lockheed engineers used a titanium alloy to construct over 90 percent of the SR-71. Titanium was challenging to work with and unavailable in the United States in large amounts. It was available in Russia!

Lockheed did have a big problem early on;it discovered that spot-welded parts made in the summer were failing very early in their life, but those welded in winter were fine.

They eventually tracked the problem to the fact that the Burbank water treatment facility added chlorine to the water they used to clean the parts to prevent algae blooms in summer but took it out in winter. Chlorine reacts with titanium, so they began using distilled water from this point on.

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

What are Gallifreyan funerals like?

What are Gallifreyan funerals like?

💀 The Build Up

Oddly enough, preparations for their funeral begin way before they're actually dead.

Many Gallifreyans actually pick a Death Day, and are expected to face it with dignity. In the time before their Death Day, they use confession dials as a form of purification ritual and spend potentially months in meditation to ensure their minds are in a state of absolute peace. Once they've excised their demons and done all their contemplating, they imprint a last will and testament on the confession dial, which can only be opened by the intended receiver. Once this is imprinted, they're ready to die.

Gallifreyan Sarcophagus

The not-quite-dead Gallifreyan is placed in a specialised hibernation chamber known as a Gallifreyan Sarcophagus.

This device keeps the individual in a state of hibernation, preserving the body until it can be transported to the Capitol for the next stage.

If the 'deceased' is a Time Lord, the Sarcophagus will have the Seal of Rassilon.

The Sarcophagus is equipped with a biomechanical locking system that only a Gallifreyan can open, preventing any tampering.

Cinerary Urn

In some cases, perhaps by choice or mitigating circumstances involving the body, a Gallifreyan's 'pattern' can also be put into a cinerary urn.

🌑 The Moment of Death

Mind Linkage Equipment

Within the hour of physical death, Mind Linkage Equipment scans the brain pattern, creating an electrical copy of the deceased's consciousness to be put into the APC Network in the Matrix (more details on that below).

Soul Catching

Gallifreyans can also use Soul Catching while the person is still alive to take their mind into theirs, though this is not a very pleasant process for the Gallifreyan doing the catching.

⚰️ The Ceremony

The funeral is usually an incredibly huge affair.

Location: The funeral is traditionally held at the family's House. However, for prominent figures, especially Time Lords, the ceremony might get upgraded to the Panopticon.

Ancient Tradition: Ancient customs dictate that attendees may wear red-heeled boots as a sign of respect and tradition.

Other Attire: The deceased's closest relatives and significant figures in Gallifreyan society may wear ceremonial robes. Other Gallifreyans may choose to wear white, as this is the colour representing the personification of Death.

Flowers of Remembrance: Yellow six-petalled 'Flowers of Remembrance' are showered on the attendees during the ceremony.

💻 Internment in the Matrix

One of the most significant aspects of a Gallifreyan death is the internment of the deceased's consciousness into the Matrix.

Legal Obligation: By Gallifreyan law, everyone must be interned in the Matrix. This ensures no knowledge or experience is lost, and the deceased's essence remains part of Gallifrey forever.

Separation of Evil Impulses: Before the person's consciousness becomes part of the Matrix, Gallifreyan engineers psycho-surgically separate any evil impulses from it, which are confined to the Dark Matrix.

Amplified Panatropic Computations Network (APC): The consciousness, including all memories and experiences, is transferred into the APC, often called the Remembrance Garden of the Matrix. Here, the deceased's mind continues to exist, contributing to the collective knowledge and consciousness of Gallifrey.

⚱️ Entombment and Aftermath

The body of the deceased is entombed in the vaults beneath their House.

Time Lord Tombs: For Time Lords, their tombs are safeguarded—only the real name of the deceased can open the tomb.

Disintegration: Over time, the body breaks down into degenerate matter and eventually random molecules.

Roll of Honour: The Gallifreyan Roll of Honour lists those who've died with valour. Being included in this list is one of the highest honours you can get as a Gallifreyan.

Eternal Life in the Matrix: With their consciousness now part of the Matrix, the deceased lives on, contributing to Gallifreyan society in a way that transcends physical death. Their knowledge and experiences remain accessible to future generations.

🏫 So ...

So do Gallifreyans really die? There's a technicality that'll have you up for days, but that's essentially the whole process. Fittingly, Gallifreyan funerals are as much about the future as they are about the past. They honour the life lived, ensure the preservation of the deceased's essence, and constantly update the collective memory and knowledge that defines a Gallifreyan's connection to their homeworld.

Related:

💬|⏰🎉What are some major Gallifreyan traditions and holidays?: Events through the Gallifreyan calendar.

💬|💍💎What are some Gallifreyan wedding traditions?: Expanded look at how weddings might work on Gallifrey, both in ceremony and legalities.

💬|💍💔How does divorce work on Gallifrey?: How divorces might actually work, legally and socially.

Hope that helped! 😃

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features: ⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

[gingerdusk]

Assorted Post-TotK Spirit Tracks AU thoughts:

The main technology you use is the Robbie Rucksack—mirroring the Purah Pad, Purah did most of the designing, but Robbie got to name it. Turnabout is fair play.

It gets upgraded as you go with more and more features, like a grappling hook, paraglider wings, a dowsing rod, etc.

Its most important feature, though, is the ability to switch tracks (hence locking Link into a specific rail until Zelda joins his side).

Link is piloting the first ever engine in the modern day, the Sheikah Engine. The tutorial segment is him driving it to Lookout Landing Station, so Zelda can name him Hyrule’s first official engineer.

The cannon you get later is actually a guardian laser.

The Railway Tower is the central hub for the rails that spread across Hyrule initially. Purah runs it.

Beneath it, in the Depths, Josha (now 16, eagerly talks about taking a trip to Mt. Lanayru on her birthday) has excavated what looks to be some kind of seal. Onlooker in the ZST crowd seems unusually interested and lavishes Link with an absurd amount of praise.

Shortly after the ceremony, Josha rushes in and says there’s an emergency. Right then, something BURSTS out of the ground beneath the tower, shattering it to smithereens—Purah barely escapes. The stone tower dwarfs the other rail towers around Hyrule in size, reaching from the Depths all the way up to the Sky. Link has to use it to switch his train between map layers.

Calling it the Spirit Spire. It’s full of Phantoms and poes.

Zelda gets her body stolen (expected)

Link gets the Master Sword stolen (NOT expected; snuck up on by Byrne a la Ganondorf vs Sonia). After all, a king revived deserves a fitting weapon.

At the bottom of the Spirit Spire, in the Depths, Link gets the Phantom Flute. Various functions of the tower are enabled by flute song.

Zelda’s spirit can be seen by the Sages, Impa, and Link—nobody else. But she accompanies you and comments on a LOT

Phantom Zel is scared of Keese (same way ST Phantom Zel is scared of rats, reference TotK first battle)

Phantom Zel can go anywhere in the Depths, but she loses her armor in the light.

Spirit form Zel can also take control of certain mechanisms, unlock things for you, phase through walls, etc.

Bringing Zelda to a bargainer statue has the statue reject her soul. It would disrupt the balance of the afterlife to take a soul while the body still breathes.

Tracks in the sky due to Spirit Spire

Remlit sanctuary > Rabbit sanctuary

References to other Zelda games like DLC outfits/items are accessed by playing those games’ songs. Stone walls have the song notes, you’re not taught them outright.

Opening scene is Link in his Tarrey Town house, getting woken up by Zelda who’s excited to see him drive.

Working title: Rails of the Realm

[kaijuposting]

Jaegers of Pacific Rim: What do we know about them?

There's actually a fair amount of lore about Pacific Rim's jaegers, though most of it isn't actually in the movie itself. A lot of it has been scattered in places like Pacific Rim: Man, Machines, & Monsters, Tales From Year Zero, Travis Beacham's blog, and the Pacific Rim novelization.

Note that I will not be including information from either Pacific Rim: Uprising or Pacific Rim: The Black. Uprising didn't really add anything, and The Black's take on jaegers can easily be summed up as "simplified the concept to make a cartoon for children."

So what is there to know about jaegers, besides the fact that they're piloted by two people with their brains connected via computer?

Here's a fun fact: underneath the hull (which may or may not be pure iron), jaegers have "muscle strands" and liquid data transfer technology. Tendo Choi refers to them in the film when describing Lady Danger's repairs and upgrades:

Solid iron hull, no alloys. Forty engine blocks per muscle strand. Hyper-torque driver for every limb and a new fluid synapse system.

The novelization by Alex Irvine makes frequent references to this liquid data transfer tech. For example:

The Jaeger’s joints squealed and began to freeze up from loss of lubricant through the holes Knifehead had torn in it. Its liquid-circuit neural architecture was misfiring like crazy. (Page 29.)

He had enough fiber-optic and fluid-core cabling to get the bandwidth he needed. (Page 94.)

Newt soldered together a series of leads using the copper contact pins and short fluid-core cables. (Page 96.)

Unfortunately I haven't found anything more about the "muscle strands" and what they might be made of, but I do find it interesting that jaegers apparently have some sort of artificial muscle system going on, especially considering Newt's personnel dossier in the novel mentioned him pioneering research in artificial tissue replication at MIT.

The novelization also mentions that the pilots' drivesuits have a kind of recording device for their experiences while drifting:

This armored outer layer included a Drift recorder that automatically preserved sensory impressions. (Page 16.)

It was connected through a silver half-torus that looked like a travel pillow but was in fact a four-dimensional quantum recorder that would provide a full record of the Drift. (Page 96.)

This is certainly... quite the concept. Perhaps the PPDC has legitimate reasons for looking through the memories and feelings of their pilots, but let's not pretend this doesn't enable horrific levels of privacy invasion.

I must note, though, I haven't seen mention of a recording system anywhere outside of the novel. Travis Beacham doesn't mention it on his blog, and it never comes up in either Tales From Year Zero or Tales From The Drift, both written by him. Whether there just wasn't any occasion to mention it or whether this piece of worldbuilding fell by the wayside in Beacham's mind is currently impossible to determine.

Speaking of the drivesuits, let's talk about those more. The novelization includes a few paragraphs outlining how the pilots' drivesuits work. It's a two-layer deal:

The first layer, the circuity suit, was like a wetsuit threaded with a mesh of synaptic processors. The pattern of processor relays looked like circuitry on the outside of the suit, gleaming gold against its smooth black polymer material. These artificial synapses transmitted commands to the Jaeger’s motor systems as fast as the pilot’s brain could generate them, with lag times close to zero. The synaptic processor array also transmitted pain signals to the pilots when their Jaeger was damaged.

...

The second layer was a sealed polycarbonate shell with full life support and magnetic interfaces at spine, feet, and all major limb joints. It relayed neural signals both incoming and outgoing. This armored outer layer included a Drift recorder that automatically preserved sensory impressions.

...

The outer armored layer of the drivesuit also kept pilots locked into the Conn-Pod’s Pilot Motion Rig, a command platform with geared locks for the Rangers’ boots, cabled extensors that attached to each suit gauntlet, and a full-spectrum neural transference plate, called the feedback cradle, that locked from the Motion Rig to the spine of each Ranger’s suit. At the front of the motion rig stood a command console, but most of a Ranger’s commands were issued either by voice or through interaction with the holographic heads-up display projected into the space in front of the pilots’ faces. (Page 16.)

Now let's talk about the pons system. According to the novelization:

The basics of the Pons were simple. You needed an interface on each end, so neuro signals from the two brains could reach the central bridge. You needed a processor capable of organizing and merging the two sets of signals. You needed an output so the data generated by the Drift could be recorded, monitored, and analyzed. That was it. (Page 96.)

This is pretty consistent with other depictions of the drift, recording device aside. (Again, the 4D quantum recorder never comes up anywhere outside of the novel.)

The development of the pons system as we know it is depicted in Tales From Year Zero, which goes into further detail on what happened after Trespasser's attack on San Francisco. In this comic, a jaeger can be difficult to move if improbably calibrated. Stacker Pentecost testing out a single arm describes the experience as feeling like his hand is stuck in wet concrete; Doctor Caitlin Lightcap explains that it's resistance from the datastream because the interface isn't calibrated to Pentecost's neural profile. (I'm guessing that this is the kind of calibration the film refers to when Tendo Choi calls out Lady Danger's left and right hemispheres being calibrated.)

According to Travis Beacham's blog, solo piloting a jaeger for a short time is possible, though highly risky. While it won't cause lasting damage if the pilot survives the encounter, the neural overload that accumulates the longer a pilot goes on can be deadly. In this post he says:

It won't kill you right away. May take five minutes. May take twenty. No telling. But it gets more difficult the longer you try. And at some point it catches up with you. You won't last a whole fight start-to-finish. Stacker and Raleigh managed to get it done and unplug before hitting that wall.

In this post he says:

It starts off fine, but it's a steep curve from fine to dead. Most people can last five minutes. Far fewer can last thirty. Nobody can last a whole fight.

Next, let's talk about the size and weight of jaegers. Pacific Rim: Man, Machines, & Monsters lists off the sizes and weights of various jaegers. The heights of the jaegers it lists (which, to be clear, are not all of them) range from 224 feet to 280 feet. Their weights range from 1850 tons to 7890 tons. Worth noting, the heaviest jaegers (Romeo Blue and Horizon Brave) were among the Mark-1s, and it seems that these heavy builds didn't last long given that another Mark-1, Coyote Tango, weighed 2312 tons.

And on the topic of jaeger specs, each jaeger in Pacific Rim: Man, Machines, & Monsters is listed with a (fictional) power core and operating system. For example, Crimson Typhoon is powered by the Midnight Orb 9 power core, and runs on the Tri-Sun Plasma Gate OS.

Where the novelization's combat asset dossiers covers the same jaegers, this information lines up - with the exception of Lady Danger. PR:MMM says that Lady Danger's OS is Blue Spark 4.1; the novelization's dossier says it's BLPK 4.1.

PR:MMM also seems to have an incomplete list of the jaegers' armaments; for example, it lists the I-22 Plasmacaster under Weaponry, and "jet kick" under Power Moves. Meanwhile, the novelization presents its armaments thus:

I-22 Plasmacaster Twin Fist gripping claws, left arm only Enhanced balance systems and leg-integral Thrust Kickers Enhanced combat-strike armature on all limbs

The novel's dossiers list between 2-4 features in the jaegers' armaments sections.

Now let's move on to jaeger power cores. As many of you probably already know, Mark-1-3 jaegers were outfitted with nuclear power cores. However, this posed a risk of cancer for pilots, especially during the early days. To combat this, pilots were given the (fictional) anti-radiation drug, Metharocin. (We see Stacker Pentecost take Metharocin in the film.)

The Mark-4s and beyond were fitted with alternative fuel sources, although their exact nature isn't always clear. Striker Eureka's XIG supercell chamber implies some sort of giant cell batteries, but it's a little harder to guess what Crimson Typhoon's Midnight Orb 9 might be, aside from round.

Back on the topic of nuclear cores, though, the novelization contains a little paragraph about the inventor of Lady Danger's power core, which I found entertaining:

The old nuclear vortex turbine lifted away from the reactor housing. The reactor itself was a proprietary design, brainchild of an engineer who left Westinghouse when they wouldn’t let him use his lab to explore portable nuclear miniaturization tech. He’d landed with one of the contractors the PPDC brought in at its founding, and his small reactors powered many of the first three generations of Jaegers. (Page 182.)

Like... I have literally just met this character, and I love him. I want him to meet Newt Geiszler, you know? >:3

Apparently, escape pods were a new feature to Mark-3 jaegers. Text in the novelization says, "New to the Mark III is an automated escape-pod system capable of ejecting each Ranger individually." (Page 240.)

Finally, jaegers were always meant to be more than just machines. Their designs and movements were meant to convey personality and character. Pacific Rim: Man, Machines, & Monsters says:

Del Toro insisted the Jaegers be characters in and of themselves, not simply giant versions of their pilots. Del Toro told his designers, "It should be as painful for you to see a Jaeger get injured as it is for you to see the pilot [get hurt.]" (Page 56.)

Their weathered skins are inspired by combat-worn vehicles from the Iraq War and World War II battleships and bombers. They look believable and their design echoes human anatomy, but only to a point. "At the end of the day, what you want is for them to look cool," says Francisco Ruiz Velasco. "It's a summer movie, so you want to see some eye candy." Del Toro replies, "I, however, believe in 'eye protein,' which is high-end design with a high narrative content." (Page 57.)

THE JAEGER FROM DOWN UNDER is the only Mark 5, the most modern and best all-around athlete of the Jaegers. He's also the most brutal of the Jaeger force. Del Toro calls him "sort of brawler, like a bar fighter." (Page 64.)

And that is about all the info I could scrounge up and summarize in a post. I think there's a lot of interesting stuff here - like, I feel that the liquid circuit and muscle tissue stuff gives jaegers an eerily organic quality that could be played for some pretty interesting angles. And I also find it interesting that jaegers were meant to embody their own sort of character and personality, rather than just being simple combat machines or extensions of their pilots - it's a great example of a piece of media choosing thematic correctness over technical correctness, which when you get right down to it, is sort of what Pacific Rim is really all about.

[enzaelectric]

Air-Insulated vs Gas-Insulated Switchgear: Which One is Right for You?

In the world of power distribution, switchgear plays a vital role in ensuring safe, reliable, and efficient control of electrical systems. But when it comes to choosing the right type of switchgear for your application, a common debate arises: Air-Insulated Switchgear (AIS) or Gas-Insulated Switchgear (GIS) — which one is the better fit?

In this blog, we’ll break down the key differences, pros and cons, and application suitability of each, helping you make an informed decision.

What is Switchgear?

Before diving into the comparison, let’s quickly recap what switchgear is. Switchgear is a combination of electrical disconnect switches, fuses or circuit breakers used to control, protect, and isolate electrical equipment. It’s critical for fault detection, power isolation, and system protection in electrical networks.

Switchgear typically falls into two main types based on insulation medium:

Air-Insulated Switchgear (AIS)

Gas-Insulated Switchgear (GIS)

What is Air-Insulated Switchgear (AIS)?

Air-Insulated Switchgear uses air as the primary dielectric medium for insulation between live parts and ground. It’s commonly found in both indoor and outdoor substations.

Pros of AIS:

Lower Initial Cost: Generally less expensive to manufacture and install.

Simple Design: Easier to maintain, inspect, and service.

Ease of Modification: Flexible and scalable for future upgrades or expansions.

Environmentally Safer: No greenhouse gases like SF₆ are used.

Cons of AIS:

Larger Footprint: Requires more physical space, making it unsuitable for compact or urban environments.

Vulnerable to Environmental Factors: Susceptible to dust, humidity, and pollution in outdoor settings.

What is Gas-Insulated Switchgear (GIS)?

Gas-Insulated Switchgear uses sulfur hexafluoride (SF₆) gas as the insulating medium. This technology allows high-voltage switchgear to be extremely compact.

Pros of GIS:

Compact Design: Ideal for space-constrained environments like cities, buildings, and offshore platforms.

High Reliability: Fully enclosed system offers excellent protection against external elements.

Minimal Maintenance: Components are sealed and protected, requiring less frequent servicing.

Longer Lifespan: Designed for durability and consistent performance.

Cons of GIS:

Higher Initial Cost: More expensive in terms of equipment and installation.

SF₆ Gas Concerns: Although SF₆ is effective, it’s a potent greenhouse gas with strict handling requirements.

Complex Repairs: Repairs and servicing can be more specialized and expensive.

AIS vs GIS: Quick Comparison Table

Feature AIS GIS Insulation Medium Air SF₆ Gas Size / Space Needed Larger Very Compact Initial Cost Lower Higher Maintenance Frequent Minimal Environmental Impact Low High (due to SF₆)Installation Complexity Simpler More complex Suitability Rural, open spaces Urban, limited-space settings

Which One Is Right for You?

The decision between AIS and GIS depends on several key factors:

1. Available Space

Choose GIS for space-limited locations like high-rise buildings, tunnels, and offshore platforms.

Choose AIS if you have ample room and want easier access for maintenance.

2. Budget Constraints

If cost is a concern, AIS offers a more economical solution.

If lifetime value and reliability are priorities, GIS might justify the investment.

3. Environmental Considerations

AIS is more eco-friendly due to the absence of SF₆.

GIS requires special handling and monitoring for SF₆, especially in regions with strict environmental regulations.

4. Application Type

AIS is well-suited for:

Power stations

Industrial zones

Rural substations

GIS is ideal for:

Urban substations

Underground systems

Critical infrastructure with limited space

Final Thoughts

Both Air-Insulated and Gas-Insulated Switchgear have their strengths and are engineered to serve specific needs. The right choice ultimately depends on your project requirements, site conditions, budget, and sustainability goals.

As a trusted supplier of high-performance switchgear, we can help you evaluate the best solution tailored to your project — ensuring safety, reliability, and efficiency.

[sngl-led-auto-lights]

Why does one side of my car's headlights always blow out?

Recurring failure of a headlight on only one side of your car typically signals an isolated electrical, environmental, or mechanical issue affecting that specific circuit. Here’s a step-by-step guide to diagnose and fix the problem:

Common Causes & Solutions Vibration Damage (Most Common)

Why: Rough roads or engine vibrations fatigue the filament in halogen bulbs. The side closer to the engine (e.g., driver’s side in LHD cars) often fails first.

Fix:

Install vibration-resistant bulbs (e.g., Philips XtremeVision, SNGL).

Add anti-vibration pads to the headlight assembly. Moisture Intrusion

Why: A cracked lens, bad seal, or missing dust cap lets condensation corrode contacts or cause thermal shock.

Fix:

Inspect for cracks/haze; reseal with butyl tape or replace the housing.

Use silica gel packs inside the headlight to absorb moisture. Poor Ground Connection

Why: Corroded/loose ground wires cause voltage fluctuations, overheating the bulb.

Fix:

Locate the ground point (near headlight or on chassis).

Clean corrosion with a wire brush, apply dielectric grease, and tighten. Voltage Spikes or Drops

Why: A failing alternator, bad voltage regulator, or weak battery sends uneven power.

Test: Use a multimeter to check voltage at the bulb socket (engine running):

Normal: 13.5–14.5V.

Problem: <12V (wiring issue) or >15V (alternator failure). Damaged Socket or Wiring

Why: Melted/burnt sockets or frayed wires restrict current flow, causing overheating.

Fix:

Replace the socket/harness.

Apply dielectric grease to contacts to prevent corrosion. Faulty Relay or Switch

Why: A failing headlight relay can send erratic power to one side.

Test: Swap the left/right relays (if separate) to see if the problem moves.

Diagnostic Checklist Swap the Bulbs

Move the "good" bulb to the problematic side. If it blows, the bulb isn’t at fault. Check Voltage at the Socket

Test with a multimeter while the headlight is on (ideal: 12–14.5V). Inspect for Moisture

Look for condensation, water droplets, or green corrosion on contacts. Examine the Fuse

Some cars have separate fuses per side; replace even if it looks intact.

Prevention Tips Always replace bulbs in pairs to ensure even performance.

Upgrade to LEDs: More vibration/voltage-tolerant (ensure CANBUS compatibility).

Install a relay harness: Bypasses factory wiring for stable power (e.g., Putco 240008).

Avoid touching halogen bulbs: Skin oils create hotspots that shorten lifespan.

When to See a Mechanic If basic fixes fail, suspect: A short circuit in the wiring harness.

Faulty body control module (BCM).

Parasitic drain overloading the circuit.

⚠️ Ignoring this can lead to:

Repeated bulb replacements ($).

Electrical fires from overheated wires.

Failed safety inspections.

Pro Tip: For recurring issues, a $50 professional electrical diagnostic can save hundreds in guesswork. Most problems stem from grounding faults or voltage irregularities—address these first! 🔧🔦

[georgegraphys]

[GP3 & F2 LIVE]

-George mentioned he loves Montoya for his aggressiveness (also said he admires Verstappen for the same reason and his overtaking, in another interview as well), Hamilton for his strength in pace. But overall, he picks Schumacher as his all time favorite. He said it's a difficult pick!

-Because George has only previously driven the night race thrice (Bahrain, AD quali, AD race), he actually makes a gamble of undercutting De Vries during AD18 to try and take the lead back. No one had any clear idea of how long the tyres were going to last and he managed it! He compromised a bit by managing the tyres when he could've pulled a +10s gap but with the risk of the tyres being gone due to how the Abu Dhabi circuit is

-The press commented on how George had a really good attitude and they're excited to see how he goes in the future

-George names Maggots and Becketts (Silverstone) as his favorite corner. But also mentions Parabolica (Monza) as one of the greatest ones.

-George Russell said he won't participate in the 2017 Macau GP because he'd have to seal his championship win before the final in Abu Dhabi and he's not sure if he can do that. Later, He did win it before Abu Dhabi and had the chance to participate in the 2017 Macau GP but by Jerez, he was sick with ear infection and even then, he had to drive while being sick in Jerez. So, no Macau GP 2.0 in the end for him

-George's favorite race track in the GP3 calendar is Silverstone because that's where he got his first F1 test and it's his home race but his favorite race track in the world is Macau because it's one of a kind street circuit, "nothing can ever come close to it"

-F2 Era George drives a Mercedes A200. He also would like to drive Senna to Mansell, early 90s Williams F1 car if he had the chance!

-On other interviews, George mentioned liking Wolverhampton Wanderers and Manchester United but he didn't in this specific interview. George mentions football player Ronaldinho as his favorite player in the past though!

-George asked for the press to include Alex Albon in the championship photoshoot of him and Lando at Sochi 2018. He also kept reminding the press of Alex's achievement throughout the 2018 F2 season and also talks about his rivalry/friendship with Alex.

-George's lows on F2 season was Baku FR, when Nyck De Vries locked up and crashed to George who was in the lead, causing George to drop down to P12. Although everyone backs him, he felt like he could do something or compromise a bit to minimize the accident that day. While his overall lows is the Monaco GP where he had engine failure during the practice, qualifies P16 and +1s from pole, and DNF-ed in both races. He also mentions Baku SR as his memorable race as he managed to fight to P1 from his initial P12 starting position.

-Other than not participating again at Macau GP, George also opted out from Race of Champions because he didn't want to risk sustaining any serious injury that might have an impact on his upcoming racing schedules.

-George mentions about being interested in oval track racing after watching Fernando Alonso in Indy500 and that he'll be interested to try that out in the future

-George did not play F1 2016 or other racing related games due to his busy schedule with being the sim driver. He mentions he plays the "upgraded version" of it with the Mercedes F1 Simulator instead.

-A fan asked about how the sim works had helped him in GP3 races and George said the sim works did not help him much for race prep as the set up for the simulator is for an F1 car while he drives a GP3 cars but it gives him more laps and experience under his belt on different circuits.

-The celebratory chocolate brownie that he ate after Austria 2017 (the one where he took a pic with Valtteri) did not taste that good. He flew back with the Mercedes team and they offered everyone champagne or chocolate brownies. George had to opt for the brownies.

-George was asked by a fan about his opinion on what Liberty Media is doing in F1 😭😭 He responds to it maturely with saying that Liberty Media aims to have more publicity for the Formula One by having more coverage of the sport and he respects that they are trying to do so as well with the feeder series. He said he looks forward to what they'll do in the future.

-Another fan asked him about the Mercedes powertrain plan (as well as Mercedes' GT3 powertrain plans 😭😭). Again, he answers it maturely by saying the fan should ask Mercedes that as George didn't have much knowledge about it.

[charles-leclerc-official]

So we know Ferrari are bringing updates to Monza and they always turn the engine up there.

Hypothetically, if these are major upgrades and Ferrari manages to leapfrog Red Bull - how do you see the season playing out? Do you think it will be a Max WDC with Charles and Lando taking points off each other?

Do we see Charles potentially taking advantage of Lando's inexperience, and winning more races and potentially getting close to the WDC?

I think that the moment the car is seriously competitive at the front Charles will be capitalizing. Carlos should be up there as well.

Mathematically Max is going to be WDC, something really big has to change for that to not be the case. As in Charles or Lando have to win every race going forward and Max has to drop out of the top 5. Which is just not likely.

So it's really a race for the WCC because that is really on. And also for P2. Lando also has another problem as Oscar is also in the mix and will probably take more points off of him. You could argue the same might happen with Charles and Carlos, but Ferrari have been better at managing that this year.

And I have said it before, if it comes to competing at the front on any metric Charles is going to come out ahead of Lando. If the car is even close to being a front runner Charles will be ahead.

The WDC will probably look close by the end of the year, but how close remains to be seen.

I need to wait and see a few things, but I still think that Max isn't done winning (depends on what they do to that car) But I think there's going to be another for him this year and that would pretty much seal the deal.

You are right though, if Charles and Ferrari come back then the battle for P2 will be pretty tight (because he's got a sizable points gap to close)

It is also important to remember Oscar is a factor here and I think he will also be taking points off of everyone (mathematically) so.

As far as predictions for additional multiple race winners this season.

George (and it will stick this time, I know he won, but this one will go towards his official stats this time) Charles (assuming the Ferrari upgrades take the car closer to the front) Oscar (at the moment this is most likely)

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1969 PLYMOUTH ROAD RUNNER

NO RUST, 4-SPEED AND A FACTORY A/C CAR!

Super desirable factory air conditioned Road Runner with 4-speed, power steering and power disc brakes. Ground up restored 20 years ago and looks like it was done this year. Other then a couple small paint flaws, its really exceptional nice. Even the underside is painted white. Super clean, rust free floors. Everyone agrees the car looks really sharp in white and no vinyl top. Body is super clean and straight. Has a smooth, glossy finish. Painted jambs. Stainless trim is polished like chrome, grill restored like new. Rechromed bumpers, new handles and taillights. Replaced weatherstrips, windshield and window seals. New Magnum 500 wheels and BFG tires. Interior is also mint. Firm cushions, replaced upholstery, door panels, carpet, headliner, armrests etc. Steering wheel looks new, chrome switches sparkle. Has bucket seats with the buddy seat armrest in the middle. Clean metal in the trunk painted white. Engine bay painted white. Rebuilt motor, upgraded aluminum Mopar intake and Edelbrock carb. Runs strong. Has Flow master exhaust. A/C needs servicing. "Beep beep" horn works. This is an impressive Road Runner!

[dailycharacteroption]

Junk Technomancy Technomancer (Technomancer Alternate Class Feature)

(art by David Bonilla on Artstation)

Perhaps one of my very, very favorite things about the Starfinder technomancer class and their spells is how well they integrated technology and magic together, (in the spells at least, the magical hacks are kinda hit and miss for me) and nowhere else is this clearer than in the “junk” spells. Junk spells include those that either transmute nearby junk into a form usable by the mage, conjure junk usable for the former as their primary function or as a side effect, or that utilize already transmuted junk in a new way.

It began in the core book with the various junkbot spells, which were a stand-in for summoning until they perfected that with Alien Archive, but as more books came out, we got junk armor, junk swords, barricades, grenades, extradimensional shelters, and even the ability to detonate junk or transmuted creations!

It only makes sense, then, that there would be technomancers that specialize in these sorts of spells. They might be self-taught mystical tinkerers using the most readily available resource they know of in low-income neighborhoods, or they might be enthusiasts that see the ruined beauty and functionality in what others deem worthless.

Regardless of where they come from or how they feel about these things, only a fool would underestimate a junk technomancer just because their arsenal is all secondhand. It may not look pretty or be as sturdy, but they can squeeze surprising amounts of power out of what others cast off.

In exchange for having a cache and cache capacitor, these techno-mages specialize in junk spells, learning junk armor and junksword immediately in addition to their normal spell allotment, as well as upgrading to higher level versions of junksword as they gain levels (the text suggests that junk armor upgrades as well, but that spell doesn’t have variable level. It’s just a first level spell. A mistake on the author’s part?) Additionally, they can cast either one of these spells once a day without expending any energy.

Their junk spells also prove just a little bit better, their armor becoming tougher, and their transmuted creations lasting longer.

Given their focus on cobbling together contraptions than programming, they also focus on engineering rather than computers.

Finally, they improve their junksword and junk armor to allow for upgrades, their armor gaining an armor slot which they can install an upgrade into, and their junkswords able to incorporate a fusion seal the technomancer has on hand into their design.

The junk spells of a technomancer are versatile, ranging from defense to attack to utility, but they all require scrap electronics to work, which is why spells that conjure junk, be it the junk shards attack spell or the fabricate junk cantrip are very important for when you venture beyond junkyards, broken-down slums, or easily-smashable tech labs. That being said, you also still have all your other spell slots to diversify for those times when junk is not available and conjuring some would waste precious seconds. In any case, the focus on junksword and junk armor does mean the build expects you to be at least partially a melee build, so your spell and feat selection could probably do with options that tilt melee combat in your favor, such as debuffs and battlefield control options, to say nothing of enhancing your own combat prowess.

The versatility of junk spells cannot be denied, but one must also remember that no only are these creations temporary, but they render the junk used in them inert to any more castings of the spell, valuable only for their use as scrap. As such, I imagine that many of these technomancers also enjoy making longer-lasting creations as well, possibly from the junk they’ve spent on previous castings of their magic, incorporating components harmlessly into the whole of a project.

Strange attacks have been happening in the upper city, with people being slain by beams of light from invisible foes. The culprits are a group of lurkers-in-light, led by a lightweaver. However, confronting the fey in the upper city will be nearly impossible without first causing a blackout. The simpler option would be to track them to their dark undercity lair, home to junkers of all descriptions.

Most would consider Visak’s Folly, a debris field of derelict ships left over from the last great war, to be a poor place to forge a community, but for the xulgaths that dwell there, it is a golden opportunity. So much salvage to recover and sell. Many of them take up technomancy as well, turning the scrap that surrounds them into tools and weapons, the latter especially one those that attempt to muscle in on their claim.

It wasn’t the plentiful resources or the verdant wildlife that attracted Polgan to the colony world of Pillar, it was the ancient superstructure that gave the planet its name. Attempts to explore or survey it have been met with disaster before, but the young technomancer is certain that with his junk magic and know-how he can make the attempt alone and self-sufficiently. Such is the foolishness of youth.

[the-exhausted-xexandaler]

Tears of the Kingdom hot take; It’s not actually the latest in the canon… it would’ve been the first in a repeating cycle.

I’m not talking about like how Majora’s Mask does it with the Song of Time reverting Link to the start of the three day deadline. I mean a cosmic repetition. Let’s break it down:

Bomb Flowers are commonly seen around the caves and underground, yet only super tech from an ancient civilization can make explosives artificially. Bomb Flowers are also nowhere at all in BotW, but plentiful in TotK. It may be true that the BotW had bomb Arrows and barrels, but no organic bomb flowers.

The master sword broke and was ‘restored’ by the light dragon who (it’s already been a few months since the game came out so spoilers are a go ahead), in other words Zelda, an incarnation of the Goddess Hylia who is said in multiple places to be the Goddess of Light and/or Time. The sword is now filled with so much holy, godly energy that if Link didn’t have his arm on loan from the original king he probably wouldn’t have been able to handle.

Notice how Ganondorf was specifically called ‘Demon King’ in multiple accounts of TotK’s plot and takes an appearance similar to the original Demon King Demise. If Zelda hadn’t been able to restore the Master Sword over 10,000 years, he might’ve conquered the world or had to be sealed by the gods all over again.

Ganondorf is also the origin of all monsters. Bokoblins? Moblins? Hinox? All from Ganondorf’s malice.

Bokoblins in both BotW, TotK and Skyward sword hold similar appearances. About human sized goblin creatures.

While the Moblins of BotW and TotK don’t look like Moblins in SS, the Boss Bokoblins do. Large stocky body that lumber over to whack the incarnated hero with lots of sticks.

Freaking floating islands that no doubt would have been Skyloft and it’s accompanying islands a few thousand years down the road.

The map of the regions in SS matches pretty well with BotW and TotK. Eldin Volcano matches up with Death Mountain in the Eldin and Akala regions to the NE.

Faron’s woods matches up with Lanayru, Nacluda and Faron regions being a mix of both a well forested and very watery region.

Lanayru Desert matches up with the Gerudo region pretty nicely with the exception of the robots and greenery, but oh oh the Zonai have a depo deep underground and a swarm of well learned ladies who could easily learn how to reverse engineer the technology for agriculture and mining especially given the Gerudo highlands that are literally a light jaunt away.

The boss Scaldera is eerily alike a pillbug version of a Talos or more likely to be akin to the Marbled Gohma, a similarly single eyed creature that lives in a volcanic region.

The Mucktorok is a being that creates vile sludge that could poison the resilient Zora, likely would be able to even poison a legendary dragon in a strong enough dosage.

The Gibdos in TotK may be more humanoid and more similar to moths, but Lanayru Mining facility has had an awful infestation by a seemingly immortal species of Scorpions.

Rito species could easily be seen as an evolutionary upgrade to the Loftwings, but could also be seen as a predecessor. The Loftwings aren’t simple birds, but a clever species able to respond to complex instructions and respond to the unique whistles of their chosen riders. This is especially likely as the region might’ve just kept growing colder and colder until the Rito race have to adapt to new surroundings.

Nit every Goron had been corrupted by the Marbled Gohma. The young could have fled Death Mountain after all the corrupted Gorons killed eachother over the Marbled Roast. Maybe becoming a race of nomads like they were in SS.

Zelda was able to restore herself with the help of Link, Sonia and Rauru at the end of the game, so it’s likely the other three roaming dragons that loop around Hyrule (Farosh, Naydra and Dinraal) could regain a modicum of sense in time to help restore a few regions to sense, and all three relate to the elements of the sacred dragons of Skyward Sword (Faron and Naydra have water and ice based abilities respectively, Eldin and Dinraal are fire based, Lanayru and Farosh are electric based).

[katgametable]

TAZ Abnimals Episode 12 Loose Eel

Written on 06 Feb 2025, shortly after listening, before listening to Ep13.

This episode establishes that the Royal Seals suck. Probably even more than the Amphibi-Force.

The Royal Seals come into play because Eel Patrick Harris swam off, ended up near one of the Seals’ station, and decided to hide out in there, and the Seals happened to arrive at that particular station around the same time. It turns out the Seals are a family operation, which means that Golden Seal, the leader, is Navy’s father. It’s also mentioned that they’d been operating for some time before they decided to go colour-coded, and I think this might’ve been glossed over by the guys playing, but it was mentioned that Navy was assigned navy. He didn’t pick it, one of the others did, possibly Golden. And then he not only got slung out of the group, he got ostracised by his family and thrown out of his home. A conversation later in the episode with Teal Seal, Navy’s sister and the group’s engineer, indicates that there’s mixed feelings within the family, but Golden is very much the patriarch, and what he says goes.

…it would probably make for a much darker podcast if they actually dug into the implications of all that.

Anyway, the station was built by the Royal Seals in association with Barker Industries – the scientists dudes who made the robots – which does then somewhat beg the question why Navy didn’t know who Barker was when he turned up at the arena, but I guess it’s a case of fleshing out backstory as you go, so I’ll give them a pass.

What actually happens in the episode is they track the eel to the station, get help from one of the Seals’ support guys to find him, interrogate him, find out the Bayside Baddies were hired by The Walrus to take Carver to another location, but Eel and his friends stayed behind to delay anyone Carver might’ve called and Eel doesn’t know exactly where they took Carver. Then because they happen to be in a Barker Industries facility, they get some upgrades. Roger gets a pocket watch that can hack things, Navy gets a bit more of an upgrade to his splash pack (that’s the convo with Teal I mentioned) and improves his bulky boy skills, and I cannot remember what Lyle did.

Regarding The Walrus. We the listeners know that this must be Walter Russell, partly because we’ve heard the post-credit scenes, and also because he’s the only walrus that has been mentioned. But the team haven’t figured it out. I’m not sure if they’re thinking about other potential walruses or what, obviously Travis can’t ask them without giving the game away, but also…

I wish they hadn’t had those post-credit scenes. The unhinged PSAs aren’t bad (they didn’t have one this episode, btw), but Travis has given away a big secret of the game, which to me, kinda sucks. Of course I’ll keep listening to find out how the team find out what we know, but still.

I’m mostly feeling cheated of a mystery.