#science and engineering complex

[kiwinatorwaffles]

started making blu team headcanons. thought it would be funny if like half the team had it just a little bad for dell

rip sniper he was just like me in middle school </3

[frenchoniontf2]

Pretty man

For the ScienceParty lovers

For the TexasToasters

To HelmetParty stinkies (love wins)

And also Napolen Complex enjoyers

[puella-1n-somn10]

Yeah, uh. I have no explanation behind this, lmao.

Template and the list of ships present are under the cut. Source link will be in the RBs.

-I love them so so much!!!-

Heavy x Medic x Engineer (poly) // Heavy Metal Fest?

Sniperscout // Speeding Bullet

Soldierzhanna // Russian Raccoons

Spy x Scout's mom // Polaroid Collection

-I don't see why not!-

Spy x Heavy // Spoovy

Spy x Medic // Gentle Surgery

Spy x Engineer // Napoleon Complex

DemoSolly // Boots 'n Bombs (Demo is aromantic in my hc)

Pauling x Zhanna // Gay Awakening

Saxton Hale x Engineer

-Frens!-

Scout and Pauling

DemoSolly again

Pyro and Engineer

Scout and Pyro (hc heavy; Pyro is like the grandparent Scout never had)

Merasmus and Soldier, purely for shits and giggles

-May a plague of Sniperbots hit every server you visit-

Spy and Scout (inc//st; canonically father and son)

Heavy and Zhanna (look above; they're siblings)

Pyro and Scout (once more, a grandparent/grandson dynamic in my hc)

Pauling and Administrator (I'm a "Pauling is Administrator's Clone" theory truther)

[trypo-p]

Alright, only gonna do this for THREE DAYS, so get em in quick!

SEND ME REQUESTS AND I'LL DRAW EM!

Whether that be ships, regular ol' friendships, or a character on their own... Send em in!

Although there will be ground rules.

RULES:

No NSFW requests (they can be slightly suggestive but I am not comfortable with very suggestive art or flat out NSFW at the moment)

Nothing overly complex unless it seems do-able

No asking for skin tone swapping (ex: asking for a whitewashed demo or vice versa for someone else)

Okay that's it for rules. I don't have many so make the most of it while it lasts. I also still have asks in my inbox, and I will get to those (sorry for taking so long, I really need to work on making my art style consistent)

Now for the ships!

Ships I WILL draw:

Sniperscout/Speeding Bullet/Quick Shot

Heavymedic/Red Oktoberfest

Engiespy/Practical Espionage/Napoleon Complex

Engiesolly/Helmet Party/Rocket Science

Demosolly/Boots N' Bombs

Spyma/Sex Bomb

Most poly ships

Ships I WON'T draw:

Spyscout

Mediscout

Sniperspy/Bloody Suit

Any ship with Pyro unless it's a broship

Any other ship is fair game and I'll draw them if I feel comfortable drawing them!

If my art style looks weird or out of place, that's because I'm STILL (yikes) working on figuring out an art style I'm comfortable with, so it will definitely change up!

And one other thing, I'm avoiding anonymous requests because I don't want to be flooded with fetish-fishing, suspicious links, fishy requests and scammers. I apologize if this makes you uncomfortable, but I'm not putting myself on blast here.

This is a judgement free zone, so don't be shy with your requests!!

I'll be keeping asks open until JUNE 28TH (or if I get an overwhelming amount of requests) SO GET GOING!

(please ignore the overwhelming amount of tags LMFAO)

.

.

.

(p.s. if I really REALLY like your request, I may turn it into a personal project and make a oneshot based on it ;p)

[feralrabidcrow]

How I Think My Ships Spend Time Together

Heavy/Medic: Heavily inspired by "Meet the Medic". I think Medic just really enjoys operating on Heavy. He loves exploring his body, not in the typical sexual connotation, but quite literally cutting him open and just seeing all the things that work together to make his favourite person tick. Watching Heavy's heart beat and his lungs breathe, it's like poetry to Medic. Heavy loves listening to Medic's wacky stories. Things the average person would find disturbing and terrifying, Heavy simply finds hilarious. He could listen to his doktor talk all day.

Sniper/Spy: They don't spend their time together doing a lot of talking, they smoke together, maybe have a drink, sit in each other's quiet company. They go out driving to who knows where in Sniper's van to stargaze. My favourite way to ship Sniper/Spy is Red Sniper/Blu Spy, so Blu Spy likes hanging out in Red Sniper's nest and just watching him work. He can pretend like he finds sniping a cowardly way to fight, but seeing the precision and skill that goes into it up close is mesmerizing. Of course, he always ends up having to stab the Sniper in the back at some point, but that's just part of the job, right?

Engie/Spy: These two share a love for food. Cooking for each other is how they show their love. Spy learned gourmet cooking from the finest chefs in Paris, and loves to show off by making big fancy dinners for date nights with his beloved. Meanwhile, Engie is a rather simple cook, he likes having barbecues and making classic home comfort food. Whenever Spy is in a bad mood, Engie offers to make him some food and it always cheers him right up. Spy may have learned gourmet from the best, but there's no denying that the Engineer can make a damn good omelette.

Medic/Engie: They're always nerding out over their scientific discoveries and teaching each other new things. They love getting together and pushing the limits of science, combining their knowledge for some of the weirdest things you would ever see. Medic has a particular fascination with Engineer's gunslinger arm, an incredible combination of mechanics and biology.

Demo/Soldier: These two together cause absolute chaos. When he's in a more sober state, Demo is the more levelheaded of the two, but getting into trouble with his partner in crime is just irresistible sometimes, who can blame him? Demo is the more affectionate one too, he gets real cuddly when he's drunk and Soldier can't resist holding him close and giving in to his charms. Of course, Soldier's always getting a bit drunk alongside Demo, which can be a recipe for disaster, but hey, they're having fun!

Demo/Medic: They get wasted and talk about their teammates, whether it be gossip, or complaining, or whatever else is on their mind. After a long day of trying to keep everyone from dying horribly, it's nice to unwind with your drinking buddy who became a bit more than a buddy. Demo also loves telling Medic ghost stories. Being a man of science, Medic hardly believes any of them, but he never says anything because he knows how happy it makes Demo.

[critical-skeptic]

The Illusion of Complexity: Binary Exploitation in Engagement-Driven Algorithms

Abstract:

This paper examines how modern engagement algorithms employed by major tech platforms (e.g., Google, Meta, TikTok, and formerly Twitter/X) exploit predictable human cognitive patterns through simplified binary interactions. The prevailing perception that these systems rely on sophisticated personalization models is challenged; instead, it is proposed that such algorithms rely on statistical generalizations, perceptual manipulation, and engineered emotional reactions to maintain continuous user engagement. The illusion of depth is a byproduct of probabilistic brute force, not advanced understanding.

1. Introduction

Contemporary discourse often attributes high levels of sophistication and intelligence to the recommendation and engagement algorithms employed by dominant tech companies. Users report instances of eerie accuracy or emotionally resonant suggestions, fueling the belief that these systems understand them deeply. However, closer inspection reveals a more efficient and cynical design principle: engagement maximization through binary funneling.

2. Binary Funneling and Predictive Exploitation

At the core of these algorithms lies a reductive model: categorize user reactions as either positive (approval, enjoyment, validation) or negative (disgust, anger, outrage). This binary schema simplifies personalization into a feedback loop in which any user response serves to reinforce algorithmic certainty. There is no need for genuine nuance or contextual understanding; rather, content is optimized to provoke any reaction that sustains user attention.

Once a user engages with content —whether through liking, commenting, pausing, or rage-watching— the system deploys a cluster of categorically similar material. This recurrence fosters two dominant psychological outcomes:

If the user enjoys the content, they may perceive the algorithm as insightful or “smart,” attributing agency or personalization where none exists.

If the user dislikes the content, they may continue engaging in a doomscroll or outrage spiral, reinforcing the same cycle through negative affect.

In both scenarios, engagement is preserved; thus, profit is ensured.

3. The Illusion of Uniqueness

A critical mechanism in this system is the exploitation of the human tendency to overestimate personal uniqueness. Drawing on techniques long employed by illusionists, scammers, and cold readers, platforms capitalize on common patterns of thought and behavior that are statistically widespread but perceived as rare by individuals.

Examples include:

Posing prompts or content cues that seem personalized but are statistically predictable (e.g., "think of a number between 1 and 50 with two odd digits” → most select 37).

Triggering cognitive biases such as the availability heuristic and frequency illusion, which make repeated or familiar concepts appear newly significant.

This creates a reinforcing illusion: the user feels “understood” because the system has merely guessed correctly within a narrow set of likely options. The emotional resonance of the result further conceals the crude probabilistic engine behind it.

4. Emotional Engagement as Systemic Currency

The underlying goal is not understanding, but reaction. These systems optimize for time-on-platform, not user well-being or cognitive autonomy. Anger, sadness, tribal validation, fear, and parasocial attachment are all equally useful inputs. Through this lens, the algorithm is less an intelligent system and more an industrialized Skinner box: an operant conditioning engine powered by data extraction.

By removing the need for interpretive complexity and relying instead on scalable, binary psychological manipulation, companies minimize operational costs while maximizing monetizable engagement.

5. Black-Box Mythology and Cognitive Deference

Compounding this problem is the opacity of these systems. The “black-box” nature of proprietary algorithms fosters a mythos of sophistication. Users, unaware of the relatively simple statistical methods in use, ascribe higher-order reasoning or consciousness to systems that function through brute-force pattern amplification.

This deference becomes part of the trap: once convinced the algorithm “knows them,” users are less likely to question its manipulations and more likely to conform to its outputs, completing the feedback circuit.

6. Conclusion

The supposed sophistication of engagement algorithms is a carefully sustained illusion. By funneling user behavior into binary categories and exploiting universally predictable psychological responses, platforms maintain the appearance of intelligent personalization while operating through reductive, low-cost mechanisms. Human cognition —biased toward pattern recognition and overestimation of self-uniqueness— completes the illusion without external effort. The result is a scalable system of emotional manipulation that masquerades as individualized insight.

In essence, the algorithm does not understand the user; it understands that the user wants to be understood, and it weaponizes that desire for profit.

[jcmarchi]

Interactive mouthpiece opens new opportunities for health data, assistive technology, and hands-free interactions

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/interactive-mouthpiece-opens-new-opportunities-for-health-data-assistive-technology-and-hands-free-interactions/

Interactive mouthpiece opens new opportunities for health data, assistive technology, and hands-free interactions

When you think about hands-free devices, you might picture Alexa and other voice-activated in-home assistants, Bluetooth earpieces, or asking Siri to make a phone call in your car. You might not imagine using your mouth to communicate with other devices like a computer or a phone remotely. 

Thinking outside the box, MIT Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Laboratory (CSAIL) and Aarhus University researchers have now engineered “MouthIO,” a dental brace that can be fabricated with sensors and feedback components to capture in-mouth interactions and data. This interactive wearable could eventually assist dentists and other doctors with collecting health data and help motor-impaired individuals interact with a phone, computer, or fitness tracker using their mouths.

Resembling an electronic retainer, MouthIO is a see-through brace that fits the specifications of your upper or lower set of teeth from a scan. The researchers created a plugin for the modeling software Blender to help users tailor the device to fit a dental scan, where you can then 3D print your design in dental resin. This computer-aided design tool allows users to digitally customize a panel (called PCB housing) on the side to integrate electronic components like batteries, sensors (including detectors for temperature and acceleration, as well as tongue-touch sensors), and actuators (like vibration motors and LEDs for feedback). You can also place small electronics outside of the PCB housing on individual teeth.

Play video

MouthIO: Fabricating Customizable Oral User Interfaces with Integrated Sensing and Actuation Video: MIT CSAIL

The active mouth

“The mouth is a really interesting place for an interactive wearable and can open up many opportunities, but has remained largely unexplored due to its complexity,” says senior author Michael Wessely, a former CSAIL postdoc and senior author on a paper about MouthIO who is now an assistant professor at Aarhus University. “This compact, humid environment has elaborate geometries, making it hard to build a wearable interface to place inside. With MouthIO, though, we’ve developed a new kind of device that’s comfortable, safe, and almost invisible to others. Dentists and other doctors are eager about MouthIO for its potential to provide new health insights, tracking things like teeth grinding and potentially bacteria in your saliva.”

The excitement for MouthIO’s potential in health monitoring stems from initial experiments. The team found that their device could track bruxism (the habit of grinding teeth) by embedding an accelerometer within the brace to track jaw movements. When attached to the lower set of teeth, MouthIO detected when users grind and bite, with the data charted to show how often users did each.

Wessely and his colleagues’ customizable brace could one day help users with motor impairments, too. The team connected small touchpads to MouthIO, helping detect when a user’s tongue taps their teeth. These interactions could be sent via Bluetooth to scroll across a webpage, for example, allowing the tongue to act as a “third hand” to open up a new avenue for hands-free interaction.

“MouthIO is a great example how miniature electronics now allow us to integrate sensing into a broad range of everyday interactions,” says study co-author Stefanie Mueller, the TIBCO Career Development Associate Professor in the MIT departments of Electrical Engineering and Computer Science and Mechanical Engineering and leader of the HCI Engineering Group at CSAIL. “I’m especially excited about the potential to help improve accessibility and track potential health issues among users.”

Molding and making MouthIO

To get a 3D model of your teeth, you can first create a physical impression and fill it with plaster. You can then scan your mold with a mobile app like Polycam and upload that to Blender. Using the researchers’ plugin within this program, you can clean up your dental scan to outline a precise brace design. Finally, you 3D print your digital creation in clear dental resin, where the electronic components can then be soldered on. Users can create a standard brace that covers their teeth, or opt for an “open-bite” design within their Blender plugin. The latter fits more like open-finger gloves, exposing the tips of your teeth, which helps users avoid lisping and talk naturally.

This “do it yourself” method costs roughly $15 to produce and takes two hours to be 3D-printed. MouthIO can also be fabricated with a more expensive, professional-level teeth scanner similar to what dentists and orthodontists use, which is faster and less labor-intensive.

Compared to its closed counterpart, which fully covers your teeth, the researchers view the open-bite design as a more comfortable option. The team preferred to use it for beverage monitoring experiments, where they fabricated a brace capable of alerting users when a drink was too hot. This iteration of MouthIO had a temperature sensor and a monitor embedded within the PCB housing that vibrated when a drink exceeded 65 degrees Celsius (or 149 degrees Fahrenheit). This could help individuals with mouth numbness better understand what they’re consuming.

In a user study, participants also preferred the open-bite version of MouthIO. “We found that our device could be suitable for everyday use in the future,” says study lead author and Aarhus University PhD student Yijing Jiang. “Since the tongue can touch the front teeth in our open-bite design, users don’t have a lisp. This made users feel more comfortable wearing the device during extended periods with breaks, similar to how people use retainers.”

The team’s initial findings indicate that MouthIO is a cost-effective, accessible, and customizable interface, and the team is working on a more long-term study to evaluate its viability further. They’re looking to improve its design, including experimenting with more flexible materials, and placing it in other parts of the mouth, like the cheek and the palate. Among these ideas, the researchers have already prototyped two new designs for MouthIO: a single-sided brace for even higher comfort when wearing MouthIO while also being fully invisible to others, and another fully capable of wireless charging and communication.

Jiang, Mueller, and Wessely’s co-authors include PhD student Julia Kleinau, master’s student Till Max Eckroth, and associate professor Eve Hoggan, all of Aarhus University. Their work was supported by a Novo Nordisk Foundation grant and was presented at ACM’s Symposium on User Interface Software and Technology.

[specioussussurations]

this take sucks. ive been thinking about it a lot and this take does suck

not because its wrong but because it doesn't address the economic anxieties that STEM propaganda feeds on; how the fuck does an English degree pay your bills?

because, on the surface, these exact responses are what you're taught. That you spend 4 years reading incomprehensible books and multisyllabic words then get spit out to starve in the "real" world (i.e. where STEM skills are "more useful")

But like. Y'all. People. Writing several essays a year for several years is actually super effective training for most corporate work. Fuck, most small businesses would KILL to have employees with that kind of training.

Because to write an essay in college you gotta:

read some shit. it'll be dense. it'll be long. it'll be boring

figure out what the fuck you just read

figure out how to explain that same shit

then figure out who you gotta explain it to

often in less than a day while juggling a hundred other social & financial obligations

you'll never guess what skills "talk to the client about procedure then report back to me" type shit uses. you'll never fucking guess.

humanities degrees do have serious artistic & philosophical value. im gonna be a starving poet. its my shitty, awful destiny. im too belligerent and disabled to live my life any other way.

but they have truly enormous economic value, too. you cannot work 90% of jobs IN ANY FIELD IN ANY POSITION without basic communication skills, and literally every raise, promotion, or job opportunity is 1000% more achievable if you know what & how to say the thing your boss (your AUDIENCE) needs to hear

every single humanities degree teaches deadline, drafting, composition, and critical analysis skills that make you an insanely valuable employee. fuck, man, a degree in 16th century russian maritime history would too. going to a "place of learning" for a "FOUR YEAR degree" happens to learn you a thing or two about a thing about a thing or two. go fucking figure

addendum:

i dont think being in STEM makes you stupid. i think being in STEM because "the humanities are useless" makes you stupid. i like math. im a math head. ive given math oral sex and id do it again.

[sildarmillion-grounds]

A Walk Along Speedway Across Time

Entrance to Speedway from Deen Keaton St. 11 Mar 2019.

Engineering Education and Research Center (EER). UT Electrical and Computer Engineering (ECE). 30 Dec 2018.

Moffet Molecular Biology Building. 20 Mar 2019.

Wells Auditorium. Department of Chemistry. 1 July 2022.

Norman Hackerman Building (NHB) featuring Nancy Rubins' Monochrome for Austin, July 1, 2022.

The Bill & Melinda Gates Computer Science Complex / the Gates-Dell Complex. From top: 30 Mar 2018, 17 Dec 2019 (featuring Sol Lewitt's Circle with Towers), 13 Jan 2020.

Courtyard outside the William C. Powers Student Activity Center (WCP, formerly SAC). 21 Mar 2019.

Speedway in between McCombs CBA and Gregory Gym. 15 Apr 2021.

Left: McCombs School of Business CBA Hall of Honors (CBA North Entrance) from Speedway. 18 Jul 2018. Middle: Gregory Gymnasium featuring the Make it Y(our) Texas campaign. 6 Oct 2022. Right: View of Gregory Gym and McCombs CBA from Perry-Castañeda Library (PCL). 30 Dec 2019.

Left: New Undergraduate Admissions Center (attached to PCL). 15 May 2023. Middle: Inside the Perry-Castañeda Library (PCL). 21 Sep 2019. Right: View of Blanton Museum Smith Building (where the gift shop is) fro PCL. 30 Dec 2019.

Blanton Museum of Art. Top: Pictures from the Brazos St. side. 1 Mar 2019. Bottom: Blanton Museum of Art's Moody Patio, featuring Austin by Ellsworth Kelley and the Petals art installations. 15 May 2023.

End of Speedway on E. Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd: The Capitol Mall. 15 May 2023.

[kiwinatorwaffles]

bonus dynamics from my team lineup post! imagining how the teams get along during the mvm merge and mann co take over is honestly so fun

[cressidagrey]

Formidable

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

Summary:  Andrea Stella figures out that Felicity Piastri is more than “just” Oscar’s wife. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble and checks my science-y mumbo jumbo 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

It started the way most breakthroughs did—not with a groundbreaking discovery, but with a tired engineer holding a half-wrinkled printout and a hopeful expression.

“Boss,” James said, hovering just inside the doorway of Andrea’s office. “I think you should read this.”

Andrea looked up from his laptop. “If it’s another CFD model from that Reddit forum, I swear—”

“It’s not. It’s from a paper. Academic. Legit. Published in Race Systems & Applied Motion last month.”

Andrea raised an eyebrow. “Obscure.”

“Very. It has like 20 readers,” the engineer agreed. “But I think it’s real. It’s clean. It’s sharp. It’s…” He hesitated. “We might want to test it.”

That got Andrea’s attention.

He took the paper and began to skim.

Title: Redefining Compliance: Adaptive Suspension Geometry Under Load-Sensitive Parameters for Mid-Field Chassis Configurations.

Andrea kept reading. It was dense—academic, yes—but it was also practical. It spoke the language of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. There were no ego traps. No unnecessary complexity. Just hard math and hard-earned insight.

Andrea flipped the page. Then another. His eyes caught a note referencing flex dynamics in chassis response curves and passive recovery lag.

It was correct. More than correct. It was insightful.

The author wasn’t spitballing ideas from afar—this was the work of someone who had lived in the theory and understood the application. Who referenced real-world tolerances. Racing examples. The math was sound. The diagrams were better than half the ones their CFD team managed.

Andrea flipped back to the byline.

Dr. F. Piastri.

Piastri. 

James grinned. “Fun coincidence in the name, right? He’s smart.”

Andrea didn’t correct him.

Because yes—coincidence. Probably. But something about it stuck in his brain, like a whisper he couldn’t quite place.

He read the essay in full that night—twice. It was elegant, sharp, and frustratingly precise in the way only truly experienced voices ever were. The type of clarity that came from years of not just understanding a concept, but translating it into reality.

The next morning, Andrea sent out an internal email.

Subject: Additional Works by Dr. F. Piastri If anyone has access to prior publications by this author, please forward them to me.

By the end of the week, his inbox was full.

One essay became three. Three became eleven. Eleven became twenty. 

Each one published under the name F.Piastri, buried in obscure journals and small-circulation engineering reviews that didn’t get traffic unless someone was either deeply curious or incredibly desperate. 

Andrea was both.

Each article was smarter than the last—strange, elegant engineering thought-pieces published across the most obscure academic mechanical journals Andrea had ever encountered. Niche ones. The kind that only the most obsessive minds contributed to, with names like Thermoelasticity in Microstructured Materials and Lateral Load Adaptation Quarterly.

F.Piastri had written:

An article about Load-dependent understeer in transitional corners (with math that Andrea double-checked twice because it was too clean).

A 2019 think-piece on long-run stability under thermal degradation.

An essay about Aerodynamic oscillation buffering for short-track endurance vehicles.

An article about the economic viability of 3D printed carbon struts under rotational shear (he actually flagged that one for McLaren Applied).

 A thesis that corrected a widely accepted torque model—buried in a conference archive.

A published rebuttal in Journal of Vehicle Design so politely worded it read like a love letter—until you realized she’d rewritten the reviewer’s assumptions line by line.

There was even one article on fluid dynamics that had been cited in a grad-level textbook from ETH Zurich. 

Andrea devoured them all.

He—She?—wrote like someone who saw the car before it was built. Who understood not just how suspension worked, but how it felt. How energy passed through a chassis not as force but as intent.

The writing style was sharp. Practical. Absolutely ruthless in its logic. There was clarity there—an elegance—that reminded him of only a few people he’d ever worked with.

It was revolutionary. It was poetic.

By the time he tracked down the doctoral thesis from Oxford, Andrea wasn’t breathing properly.

Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite- Structured Performance Environments.

By: F. Piastri.

 Submitted: December 2022

Andrea stared at the name.

F. Piastri.

He stared for so long his tea went cold beside him.

His hands were shaking—not because of nerves, but because he already knew.

He opened the PDF. Skimmed past the table of contents. Scrolled through diagrams that made his heart stutter.

There was no photo. No biographical section. Just a clean Oxford University seal, 284 pages of dense, brilliant theory, and then—

A dedication.

To Oscar: For believing in a future that didn’t exist yet, and building it with me anyway. Every lap, every choice, every time—you’ve been my constant.

And to Bee: For reminding me that softness and strength aren’t opposites. You are the best thing I’ve ever helped create.

Andrea sat back in his chair like he’d been physically shoved.

Bee.

Oscar. 

F. Piastri. 

Felicity Piastri. 

Felicity.

Oscar’s wife.

Dr. F. Piastri wasn’t some reclusive academic or distant uncle with a gift for simulation modeling.

She lived in Oscar’s house.

 She packed his lunchbox.

 She raised their daughter.

 And she had published papers on suspension theory that half of F1 would kill to understand. Quietly. Efficiently. Correctly.

Andrea leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling for a long moment, and whispered:

“…Of course it’s his wife.”

Of course the quiet, composed driver who rarely raised his voice and always had one hand on the bigger picture had married someone brilliant. Of course she wasn’t just talented—she was a published expert with a doctorate from Oxford.

Not a coincidence. 

Not a mystery engineer.

Not some guy.

But Oscar’s wife.

Oscar Piastri—quiet, methodical Oscar—had married a genius.

A doctor of mechanical engineering from Oxford who wrote better technical documentation in a margin note than most engineers did in a year. Who published under initials. Who could probably solve half their handling inconsistencies while holding a toddler on her hip.

Andrea sat in silence for a full minute.

Then he exhaled. “...of course he did.”

He opened a new tab.

Email draft: 

To: Technical Team 

Subject: URGENT – Reference Reading Required Attached: Every single thing Dr. F. Piastri had ever published.

***

The meeting was meant to be quick.

Just a routine Monday touchpoint—debrief, run through media notes with Sophie, talk sponsor appearances, maybe discuss Oscar’s upcoming comms obligations.

Zak had rolled in with a protein shake.

Lando was lounging sideways in a chair like he’d melted into it.

Oscar had a protein bar and an expression of polite mildness, as usual.

Andrea, meanwhile, had not slept.

 Not because of the race.

 Because he’d spent the entire weekend reading Dr. Felicity Piastri’s entire body of work. Every published paper. Every obscenely niche journal article.

And her doctoral thesis.

He hadn’t meant to do it all in one sitting. He just couldn’t stop.

By 2 a.m. he was muttering things like “Of course she used Euler-Bernoulli assumptions, she’s too smart for non-parametric bullshit.”

 By 4 a.m., he’d highlighted her proposed solution to dampen micro-vibration load in corner exits.

 By 6 a.m., he had a headache, an existential crisis, and a desperate need to know: Why had Oscar Piastri never mentioned this?!

So at the end of the meeting—just as Sophie was wrapping up and Lando was aimlessly spinning a pen like a propeller—Andrea set down a file on the table.

Calmly. Casually. Like he hadn’t just had his entire mechanical worldview rattled by a woman who wasn’t even on the payroll.

“Oscar,” Andrea said, voice deceptively neutral. “Why didn’t you ever mention that your wife holds a doctorate in mechanical engineering?”

Oscar, halfway through eating his protein bar, blinked. “What?”

Andrea gestured vaguely, as if the thesis were still radiating brilliance from his desk. “Felicity. Doctorate. Thesis. Dozens of published papers. Half of them useful to our current car design issues. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Oscar blinked once. “Oh. Yeah. She gets bored sometimes.”

Andrea blinked back.

Lando stared like he’d been smacked with a front wing. “Wait—she got a doctorate?!”

Oscar nodded, chewing. “Yeah. Finished it in 2022. She was stuck in that horrible flat in Enstone while I was back and forth with Alpine, and she got bored. Wrote most of it at the kitchen table while Bee napped.”

Andrea just… stared. 

He had read the thesis. Studied it. The mathematical modeling alone had kept him awake at night—and she had apparently written it during toddler nap times, while stuck in a damp shoebox flat in Oxfordshire.

Zak looked up slowly from his tablet. “Your wife was bored. So she got a PhD in mechanical engineering.”

Oscar shrugged. “She already had the research mostly done before Bee was even born in 2020. She just had to write it up. Bee was napping a lot anyway.”

Sophie blinked. “She wrote a 200-page dissertation with a toddler in the house?”

Oscar just shrugged. “It helped that Bee liked the sound of the keyboard.”

Andrea turned to Zak, still stunned. “She predicted the kind of high-frequency oscillation we’re seeing this season. Two years ago. In a footnote.”

Lando leaned forward like he was watching a live feed of someone discovering aliens. “She’s just, like, a genius?” he asked, voice too loud, too incredulous. “And you never brought it up?”

Oscar just sighed. “She hates that word.”

Andrea just stared at him. “Oscar, she’s not just good. She’s formidable. Has she ever applied anywhere formally?”

Oscar looked genuinely confused. “Why would she apply anywhere?”

Andrea stared. “To work. In engineering. In motorsport. Academia.”

Oscar blinked. “She does work. She manages our lives, Bee, the house, and the chickens.”

Lando leaned toward Andrea, wide-eyed: “I’ve never felt dumber in my entire life.”

Andrea sighed. “Join the club.”

***

The kitchen smelled like vanilla and wood polish and faintly like chicken coop — which meant Felicity had mopped and baked and wrangled Mansell, the escape artist hen, all while probably rebalancing one of their stock portfolios.

Oscar dropped his bag by the door and leaned against the kitchen entryway.

Felicity was sitting at the table in her old university hoodie, feet bare, Bee curled up under her arm asleep with Button the frog as a pillow. There were spreadsheets open on one side of her laptop screen, a half-watched nature documentary on the other, and one of Bee’s plastic toy bulls standing solemnly in the middle of the table for reasons unknown.

He smiled.

God, he loved her.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Felicity glanced up. “Hey. Dinner’s in the oven. Bee passed out mid-pie crust.”

“Excellent,” Oscar said, dropping into the chair beside her. “Because I need carbs.”

She raised an eyebrow, equal parts amusement and curiosity. “Bad day?”

“No. Just... intellectually humbling.”

Felicity made a low amused noise and went back to her laptop. “Did Lando try to explain crypto again?”

Oscar snorted and reached over to carefully lift Bee into his lap, her curls warm against his hoodie. She barely stirred.

He could have let it sit. Saved it for later. But it was buzzing under his skin.

“Stella read your papers.”

That got her attention.

Felicity paused, her fingers stilled mid-scroll. “Which one?”

“All of them,” Oscar said. “Apparently it started with one of the engineers, who brought an article in from Race Systems & Applied Motion. Then he spiraled.”

“Ah,” Felicity murmured, unsurprised. “That one had a good diagram.”

“He found your thesis,” Oscar added.

This time she didn’t answer right away.

He reached for one of Bee’s crayons and twirled it idly in his fingers, watching her.

“He read the dedication,” he said, voice quieter now.

Felicity’s eyes softened in that way that always undid him a little. Always had.

“Did he say anything?” she asked.

Oscar smiled faintly. “He said you’re formidable.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Felicity laughed—not loud, not startled, just warm and wry and a little disbelieving.

“God help the man,” she said. “He must have hit the rebuttal piece from the Vehicle Design Journal. That one made a few engineers cry.”

Oscar grinned. “Yeah, well. He was halfway to building you a shrine by the end of the meeting. I also told him you got bored in Enstone and wrote your PhD while Bee was napping.”

Felicity gave him a look. “You make it sound like I was scrapbooking.”

“Weren’t you also doing that at the time?”

Felicity blinked. “...Okay, fair.”

Bee stirred slightly in his lap, a tiny sigh escaping her lips as she nuzzled deeper into his hoodie sleeve.

Oscar looked down at her—this tiny human they somehow made and raised—and then back at the woman across the table. 

Her hair was messier than usual, strands escaping her braid, and there was a faint flour smudge near her temple. She hadn’t bought herself a new pair of jeans in two years. She sometimes forgot to eat when she was buried in simulations. She once fixed the bathroom plumbing at midnight because she didn’t like how the guy from the hardware store spoke to her.

She was the smartest person he knew.

Oscar knew most people wouldn’t think it when they first met her. She smiled too easily. She didn’t correct anyone. She let others assume things—that she was just the girlfriend, just the wife, just the mother.

But she had a doctorate from Oxford, and more published academic papers than most career professors. She could hold court with race engineers and theoretical physicists in the same breath, then go home and teach Bee how to build a pulley system out of Lego and twine. She spoke in quiet, exact terms, and when she challenged people, she did it so gently they sometimes didn’t notice until it was too late.

He’d long since stopped being surprised by her. He’d just—normalized it. Integrated it. Felicity being a genius was like oxygen to him: invisible, essential, and easy to take for granted until someone else nearly passed out from the realization.

She was just Fliss to him. 

The woman who sold her designer bags to pay rent when her family cut her off. The mother of his child. His fiercest critic and his most devoted supporter. The one person he trusted without hesitation.

She didn’t want headlines or praise. She wanted quiet mornings and clever puzzles. She wanted Bee to grow up confident. She wanted Oscar to remember to eat something green.

She was the smartest person he knew — and she hated being called smart. So he didn’t. He just came home.

“He called you formidable,” he repeated. “And I agree. For what it’s worth.”

Felicity smiled then—slow and quiet, the kind that reached all the way to her eyes.

She leaned across the table and kissed his temple. “Thanks,” she said. “But if he asks me to consult, I’m charging him triple.”

Oscar laughed softly and ran a hand through Bee’s curls. “Deal.”

And he meant it. Because maybe it was easy for him to forget sometimes, tucked into the quiet rhythm of their life, that the world hadn’t caught up to how brilliant she was.

But he never stopped being proud of her.

Not for a second.

[nasa]

All-Star Moments in Space Communications and Navigation

How do we get information from missions exploring the cosmos back to humans on Earth? Our space communications and navigation networks – the Near Space Network and the Deep Space Network – bring back science and exploration data daily.

Here are a few of our favorite moments from 2024.

1. Hip-Hop to Deep Space

The stars above and on Earth aligned as lyrics from the song “The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)” by hip-hop artist Missy Elliott were beamed to Venus via NASA’s Deep Space Network. Using a 34-meter (112-foot) wide Deep Space Station 13 (DSS-13) radio dish antenna, located at the network’s Goldstone Deep Space Communications Complex in California, the song was sent at 10:05 a.m. PDT on Friday, July 12 and traveled about 158 million miles from Earth to Venus — the artist’s favorite planet. Coincidentally, the DSS-13 that sent the transmission is also nicknamed Venus!

NASA's PACE mission transmitting data to Earth through NASA's Near Space Network.

2. Lemme Upgrade You

Our Near Space Network, which supports communications for space-based missions within 1.2 million miles of Earth, is constantly enhancing its capabilities to support science and exploration missions. Last year, the network implemented DTN (Delay/Disruption Tolerant Networking), which provides robust protection of data traveling from extreme distances. NASA’s PACE (Plankton, Aerosol, Cloud, ocean Ecosystem) mission is the first operational science mission to leverage the network’s DTN capabilities. Since PACE’s launch, over 17 million bundles of data have been transmitted by the satellite and received by the network’s ground station.

A collage of the pet photos sent over laser links from Earth to LCRD and finally to ILLUMA-T (Integrated LCRD Low Earth Orbit User Modem and Amplifier Terminal) on the International Space Station. Animals submitted include cats, dogs, birds, chickens, cows, snakes, and pigs.

3. Who Doesn’t Love Pets?

Last year, we transmitted hundreds of pet photos and videos to the International Space Station, showcasing how laser communications can send more data at once than traditional methods. Imagery of cherished pets gathered from NASA astronauts and agency employees flowed from the mission ops center to the optical ground stations and then to the in-space Laser Communications Relay Demonstration (LCRD), which relayed the signal to a payload on the space station. This activity demonstrated how laser communications and high-rate DTN can benefit human spaceflight missions.

4K video footage was routed from the PC-12 aircraft to an optical ground station in Cleveland. From there, it was sent over an Earth-based network to NASA’s White Sands Test Facility in Las Cruces, New Mexico. The signals were then sent to NASA’s Laser Communications Relay Demonstration spacecraft and relayed to the ILLUMA-T payload on the International Space Station.

4. Now Streaming

A team of engineers transmitted 4K video footage from an aircraft to the International Space Station and back using laser communication signals. Historically, we have relied on radio waves to send information to and from space. Laser communications use infrared light to transmit 10 to 100 times more data than radio frequency systems. The flight tests were part of an agency initiative to stream high-bandwidth video and other data from deep space, enabling future human missions beyond low-Earth orbit.

The Near Space Network provides missions within 1.2 million miles of Earth with communications and navigation services.

5. New Year, New Relationships

At the very end of 2024, the Near Space Network announced multiple contract awards to enhance the network’s services portfolio. The network, which uses a blend of government and commercial assets to get data to and from spacecraft, will be able to support more missions observing our Earth and exploring the cosmos. These commercial assets, alongside the existing network, will also play a critical role in our Artemis campaign, which calls for long-term exploration of the Moon.

On Monday, Oct. 14, 2024, at 12:06 p.m. EDT, a SpaceX Falcon Heavy rocket carrying NASA’s Europa Clipper spacecraft lifts off from Launch Complex 39A at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center in Florida.

6. 3, 2, 1, Blast Off!

Together, the Near Space Network and the Deep Space Network supported the launch of Europa Clipper. The Near Space Network provided communications and navigation services to SpaceX’s Falcon Heavy rocket, which launched this Jupiter-bound mission into space! After vehicle separation, the Deep Space Network acquired Europa Clipper’s signal and began full mission support. This is another example of how these networks work together seamlessly to ensure critical mission success.

Engineer Adam Gannon works on the development of Cognitive Engine-1 in the Cognitive Communications Lab at NASA’s Glenn Research Center.

7. Make Way for Next-Gen Tech

Our Technology Education Satellite program organizes collaborative missions that pair university students with researchers to evaluate how new technologies work on small satellites, also known as CubeSats. In 2024, cognitive communications technology, designed to enable autonomous space communications systems, was successfully tested in space on the Technology Educational Satellite 11 mission. Autonomous systems use technology reactive to their environment to implement updates during a spaceflight mission without needing human interaction post-launch.

A first: All six radio frequency antennas at the Madrid Deep Space Communication Complex, part of NASA’s Deep Space Network (DSN), carried out a test to receive data from the agency’s Voyager 1 spacecraft at the same time.

8. Six Are Better Than One

On April 20, 2024, all six radio frequency antennas at the Madrid Deep Space Communication Complex, part of our Deep Space Network, carried out a test to receive data from the agency’s Voyager 1 spacecraft at the same time. Combining the antennas’ receiving power, or arraying, lets the network collect the very faint signals from faraway spacecraft.

Here’s to another year connecting Earth and space.  

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Nine

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, complex family dynamics, ableism.

Notes — This chapter has given me SUCH a hard time. Please enjoy it, I feel like I put my entire soul into it. Also… Fernando’s return is announced in the next chapter (everyone cheer).

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2020

Silverstone came around in the blink of an eye.

Amelia sat perched on the edge of the engineering desk, her legs swinging absently, trainers knocking gently against the metal drawer units below. Her gaze swept across Alex’s side of the garage, quick, focused, restless. She wasn’t here to be social. She was here to figure something out.

Something wasn’t right.

She’d been quietly monitoring it since Austria; since testing in Barcelona, even. The data, the footage, the telemetry. There were too many inconsistencies between Max’s car and Alex’s. And sure, she understood the baseline logic. Max was Max. His driving style demanded everything from the car and then some. His feedback loop with the team was honed to a science. But even so, there shouldn’t be this much of a disparity.

Not in identical machinery.

Not at this level.

Her brows pinched, eyes narrowing at the readout on the nearest screen. She hated the term “second driver” with a passion. It grated against every instinct she had. But watching Alex’s side of the garage felt like watching a different team operate altogether. Different priorities. Different urgency. It wasn’t malicious. Not outright. But it was subtle. It was systemic. And it was stupid.

A puff of frustration escaped her nose. She’d already brought up some of her theories to Adrian, offhanded and careful, like she was floating curiosities instead of suspicions. He hadn’t disagreed. Hadn’t confirmed anything either. But she could see it — how he was watching now, too.

Still, it was driving her crazy.

The way Max’s floor and rear suspension packages were being iterated on faster. The microscopic setup tweaks that were tailored to his style but never translated for Alex. The way team radio responses came faster, the tone of them just slightly more reactive. She could hear the difference because she listened for it. 

It wasn’t cheating. But it wasn’t fair either.

And it was messy. Amelia didn’t like messy.

A burst of compressed air hissed across the garage as a mechanic adjusted Alex’s front wing, and Amelia’s head jerked toward it instinctively, eyes narrowing again. Her fingers twitched against her tablet, the internal debate warring louder than the buzz of the pit crew.

She lifted her ear defenders from around her neck and settled them over her ears. All of the noise softened to a low hum.

She glanced over her shoulder and spotted Max on the far side of the pit lane, deep in conversation with Christian by the pit wall. Calm and focused. He always looked like that before qualifying. Grounded. Unshakable.

Alex, by contrast, looked tense. He stood near his engineer, shoulders drawn tight, brows pinched as he nodded along, but his eyes kept flicking to the floor. Amelia watched for a beat longer, her heart tugging faintly. She wanted to fix it, whatever it was, but there was only so much she could do.

She looked down at her trainers.

They were her usual white ones, a little scuffed from the garage floors, but dependable. Comfortable. Familiar. But now, right at the edge of the left sole, something new: a messy swipe of orange marker.

LN4.

Her chest did something funny when she saw it.

Lando had crashed in her hotel room again, something that had quietly become routine. He always had his own room, but more often than not, he ended up in her bed instead of his. She didn’t mind. Would never say a word about it.

He was a good hugger now. He’d figured it out, finally, exactly how she liked to be held. Firm and tight enough to feel anchored. He’d taken to wrapping around her like a human shield, heartbeat steady, breath soft against the back of her neck. She hadn’t slept so consistently well in years.

He was usually gone before she woke up.

That morning had been no different. She’d blinked awake to an empty bed, the faint smell of his cologne still clinging to the hotel bedsheets. But when she’d gone to pull her trainers on, there it was; bright orange ink catching her eye.

Initials. A number. A quiet claim.

She didn’t know whether to roll her eyes or smile.

So she did both.

— 

The McLaren garage had its usual pre-quali buzz. Max Fewtrell leaned against the back wall, wearing a team guest lanyard and a vaguely amused expression as he watched Lando loll around in his race suit. 

“Alright, you’re being weirdly calm,” Max said, eyeing him. “You’re never this chill before quali. What is this? Zen Norris?”

Lando didn’t even look up from the banana he was unwrapping. “Just had a good night’s sleep, mate.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Let me guess. In someone else’s hotel room?”

Lando gave him a slow, infuriating grin, then shrugged. “Maybe.”

Max stared at him. “No. Oh fucking hell. You’re not…?”

Lando just bit into the banana.

“You are,” Max said, half-laughing. “You’re back with her?”

Lando shrugged. “I wouldn’t say ‘back with’ like that, since we were never together in the first place, but yeah. We’re...talking.”

“Right,” Max said, drawing the word out. “Talking. In her bed. At night. Sounds familiar.”

Lando shot him a look. “Don’t start, mate. I’m still pissed at you for telling me to bin her off in the first place. Worst mistake of my life.”

“I stand by what I said then,” Max said, folding his arms. “And now she works for Red Bull. The actual enemy. She's probably hardwiring your secrets into Verstappen’s car while you’re asleep.” He said, eyes narrowed. 

Lando rolled his eyes. “She literally tells me nothing technical. I tried a few weeks ago, asked her what they changed on the rear wing. She said ‘carbon things’ and then threw a tortilla at my face.”

Max laughed. “Okay, yeah, that’s… okay, that’s funny.”

Lando looked a little too smug. “Exactly. Mate, I know what I’m doing. She’s worth it, you know? Just wish I’d realised it sooner.”

“Oh, you definitely don’t know what you’re doing,” Max scoffed. “You’re back in your feels, acting like it’s not completely mad that your maybe-girlfriend works for a team that would pay to see you finish outside the points every Sunday.”

“She’s not just some Red Bull lackey,” Lando said sharply, shoulders tensing. “She’s Amelia. She’s a fucking genius, Max. That car? It’s hers as much as it is Max’s or Alex’s.”

Max gave him a dry look. “You do realise how insane you sound?”

“I don’t care,” Lando said, straightening. “She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. Yeah, I screwed it up before. But I’m not walking away from her again. Not ever.”

Max blinked. “Bit dramatic, mate.”

“Whatever,” Lando said, smirking. “You’re just bitter because I’ve a hot, genius in my bed and you’ve got a Twitch stream and a meal deal.”

“I brought you that Pret,” Max muttered.

“And I’m grateful,” Lando said, clapping him on the shoulder like a smug little shit. “But I’m also head over fucking heels, mate. So.”

Max groaned. “Jesus Christ. You’re unbearable.”

“Yup.” Lando tossed his banana peel perfectly into the bin. “Get used to it.”

Across the garage, an engineer called Lando over for a final briefing. As he jogged off, Max shook his head. “Mad bastard,” he muttered. “Completely lost the plot.”

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on the floor of the Red Bull garage, the harsh overhead lights casting stark shadows across the slick concrete. Her tablet rested beside her, darkened screen still smudged with notes and numbers from the race. Her yellow golf ball rolled slowly between her hands, back and forth, back and forth; rhythmic and grounding.

Silverstone had always felt like a second home. Growing up watching races here, dreaming about being a part of it. Now she was properly in it. Deep in the heart of Red Bull Racing, elbows-deep in data, decisions, and disappointment.

Max had salvaged something, as he always did. P2 wasn’t nothing. But the numbers didn’t lie. Mercedes were still faster, smoother, untouchable on the straights. And the tire degradation? She closed her eyes, jaw clenching slightly. It didn’t make sense. 

She could feel the quiet frustration that had hung over the garage all weekend. Engineers working longer hours. Adrian pacing more. Alex struggling to connect the car to the track. And her, Amelia, trying to play translator between machine and man, and still somehow coming up short.

Her fingers tightened painfully around the golf ball.

It wasn’t failure, not really. But it wasn’t a win either. And that unsettled something in her. She wanted better. She wanted cleaner gains. More decisive margins. Less almost and more perfect.

Her thoughts drifted to Max, to the way he’d found her after the debrief and muttered, “We’ll get them next week,” like it was a promise more than reassurance.

She dropped her head, staring at the tablet, teeth digging into the inside of her cheek. There had to be something.

And then—

It hit her like a flash.

She blinked, straightened, then scrambled to unlock the screen, fingers flying. Rear aero wake management. Micro-channel re-shaping on the rear floor edge. She muttered to herself as she typed. “Shift the outer wake—no, no, narrow it, and bleed the turbulence—”

Her heart kicked up. Her breath got shallow. The pressure in her chest gave way to something electric. Her hands fluttered before she even realised, wrists snapping, fingers stimming with giddy, instinctive rhythm as the idea built in her head. She scribbled on the screen with her stylus like it was oxygen. She was grinning, properly grinning.

She barely registered the noise of the paddock returning to life behind her.

A Sky Sports camera had swung past, catching a glimpse of her in the garage, tucked between tool cabinets and telemetry units, flapping hands and bright yellow golf ball balanced in her lap. The presenter spoke softly over the shot. “And there’s Amelia Brown. A quiet presence in the paddock so far, but proving to be a very hard worker indeed.”

In the Red Bull hospitality suite, Christian Horner glanced up at the screen, watching the feed with his usual half-interested expression. “Ah, there she is. Our shining example of disability-positive hiring.” It was offhand. Meant as a joke, maybe. But it hung awkward in the air.

Adrian didn’t laugh.

He turned his head slowly toward Christian, expression unreadable. “She’s the most promising technical mind I’ve worked with in a decade. And she is working with me on merit alone.” He said mildly, eyes still on the screen.

Christian blinked. “Right. Of course.”

Adrian sipped his tea. Said nothing more. But when he looked back to the TV, his gaze was thoughtful.

And in the garage, Amelia kept working, entirely unaware of the camera, the commentary, or the conversation she’d just ignited. Her mind was moving too fast now to care about anything else.

She’d found something. Something big.

And she couldn’t wait to show Adrian.

— 

Max found her sitting alone on the pit wall. 

She had her yellow golf ball in one hand, thumb rolling over its surface absently. The other held her tablet, still filled with drawings and annotations, now marked with scribbled arrows and half-formed formulas.

Max climbed up next to her with the casual ease of someone who did it a hundred times a year. “You solved the issue,” he said, legs dangling over the edge.

Amelia blinked, as if pulled out of her own thoughts. “It’s not solved,” she said automatically. “It’s a direction.”

“A good one,” Max replied. “Adrian was very happy when you showed him. I saw it on his face.”

She smiled at that, a flicker of pride showing before she quickly tucked it away. One hand rolled the golf ball. The other hand jolted, maybe spurred on by a burst of excitement. She didn’t notice she was doing it.

Max did.

He watched it for a moment, then leaned back on his hands. “You were doing that earlier. With your hands. They showed it on the live feed.”

She froze, just for a second.

Max didn’t sound judgmental. Just curious. But still, something knotted tight in her chest. The instinct came fast, automatic; hide it, clench her fists, smooth out the edges. Pretend it hadn’t happened. Pretend she was just like everyone else.

But then she remembered what Adrian had told her, calm and firm that day in the design office, looking at her without even a flicker of doubt.

Why should you ever have to hide the manifestations of your greatness?

So, instead of retreating, she let her hands speak the language her brain needed. 

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “It’s called a stim.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “A what?”

“A… like, a repetitive movement. Helps regulate my focus. Or calm me down. Or… sometimes just helps me think,” she said, gesturing with the ball. “Ah, my hands flap on their own. And the golf ball’s got the right weight. Tactile enough to keep my hands busy while my brain does its thing. Means something to me.”

Max nodded slowly, eyes on the horizon. “You always do it when you're excited about something?”

“Sometimes. Or anxious. Or overstimulated.” She shrugged. “I mask a lot. Most people don’t notice the physical stuff. But the ball helps. I notice that I swing or bounce my leg a lot, too, but people don’t notice that as much.” 

He was quiet for a long moment. “So, it’s part of the autism?”

She turned her head toward him, eyes narrowing. Not angry, just curious. “You saw my Twitter?” She was very open about her diagnosis there, sharing informational and up-to-date medical journals. 

“I read part of your interview with RaceTech Weekly,” he admitted. “You said it’s not something you hide, but not something you announce either.”

“Yeah, well…” she exhaled. “Some people get weird. Or patronising. Or make jokes.”

“Christian,” Max said knowingly, a darker tone in his voice.

Amelia smiled, a bit twisted. “Adrian is nice about it, though.”

“Good.” Max looked at her again. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed.”

She stared at him. “I’m not—” And then paused. “Okay. I am. A little. But I’m trying not to be.”

Max just gave a half-nod, like that was fair enough. “You don’t need to explain it to me,” he said, kicking his foot gently out into the air. “I just wanted to know what it was. You looked happy.”

She blinked. “I was.”

He nodded again. “Good.”

Eventually, she bumped her shoulder against his. It was barely more than a nudge, but for Amelia, it was a big deal; intentional, physical contact she initiated. She didn’t do that often. Almost never. “Thanks for not being a dick about it,” she told him.

Max smirked, eyes flicking down to where their shoulders had touched before he leaned back. “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until I start asking to borrow the comfort golf ball during strategy meetings.”

“You’d lose it.” She sighed. 

“You’ll forgive me.” 

Amelia stared at him, dead serious. “No I wouldn’t.” 

—

It was late. Too late for anyone still at McLaren HQ except security and cleaning staff. 

Tracy stood across from him, arms folded, gaze cool and steady. She didn’t come to Woking often anymore, but something in Zak’s voice when he’d asked her to come by tonight had stopped her from saying no.

“You’re not sleeping,” Tracy said after a long beat. “You hardly even come home anymore.”

Zak rubbed both hands over his face, voice low. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Good,” she replied, sharp but not cruel. “She should be at the front of your mind. Just like she’s always at the front of mine.”

Zak let out a bitter laugh and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, head bowed. “It’s been five months, Trace. Five months of silence. She won’t reply to my texts. Doesn’t even open my emails. I tried to speak to her at Silverstone and she looked straight through me. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Tracy sighed and lowered herself into the seat across from him, her expression tight. “You didn’t lose her because of one bad conversation, Zak. You lost her because you took something from her; something you had no right to. You tried to control what wasn’t yours.”

He looked at her, pain written into the lines of his face.

“She could’ve sued you,” Tracy continued, quieter now but no less firm. “Do you even understand that? Millions, Zak. She would never do it, of course, because she’s still loyal, still stupidly kind when it comes to you, but that doesn’t make what you did any less wrong. You treated her brilliance like a family asset. Like it belonged to you because she’s your daughter.”Her voice cracked, not with emotion, but fury. “That’s not how this works. That’s not how she works.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Zak said hoarsely. “I didn’t realise—Christ, Trace.”

“You were blind to it,” Tracy said, her voice steady but cutting. “Everything she was doing to elevate that team; improving car performance, supporting the drivers, stabilising Lando’s garage dynamic. She wasn’t just useful, Zak. She was essential. And now you’ve lost her to Red Bull.”

Zak sneered, bitter. “God. I just—why them? I would’ve understood Mercedes, maybe. Even Ferrari.”

Tracy didn’t flinch. “She’s built her own space in that garage already. They obviously respect her there. She’s on her way to helping Max Verstappen fight for his first world title. She’s not just surviving, Zak. She’s thriving.”

“I know that,” Zak said, his voice small, still dark and bitter. “I’ve watched. I’ve seen the press. Adrian Newey can’t stop signing her praises. But, Trace, I wasn’t even proud. I was angry.” He paused. “I didn’t understand it. I don’t even recognise her anymore.”

Tracy sighed. “She spent years trying to get you to see her. Always trying to fit herself into a box, hoping that maybe things would finally change and you’d suddenly realise what was standing right in-front of you.” 

Zak looked down. His hands were clenched together, knuckles pale. “I miss her so much,” he whispered. “I miss her laugh. Her rants. Even that awful yellow water bottle.”

Tracy pursed her lips. “The water bottle is gone. She has a golf ball now. Still yellow.” 

He looked up at her quickly. “A golf ball?”

Tracy smiled sadly. Shrugged. “Probably from her and Lando’s first date. I’ve never asked, but…” 

Zak blinked. “He… They went on a date? He managed to get her to go to a golf course?” 

Tracy nodded. 

Zak closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tried to pull himself together. “I just want a chance. One chance to tell her that I was wrong. That I see her now. That I’m proud of her. That I—”

Tracy leaned forward, her voice gentle but firm. “You have to let her come to you. Not the other way around. When has she ever responded well to being chased, hm?”

Zak blinked, fighting back the sting in his eyes. “Do you think she ever will, though? Come to me?”

Tracy stood, brushing a hand over his shoulder as she walked past. “She’s her father’s daughter. Stubborn. But eventually, something will happen, and your name will be the first one on her mind. Just… be patient. And come home, Zak. You need a shower.”

He watched her walk out, the soft click of her heels echoing in the stillness of the room. Then he turned back toward the window, staring out over the empty car bays and spotless garage beyond. The place that, in so many ways, had become his refuge; and his prison.

He could be patient. He could.

He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and followed her out. 

— 

iMessage — 20:03pm

Amelia I think we should go on a date.

Lando Norris No, no, no. Babe, no. I’m supposed to be the one to ask you on a date, not the other way around.

Amelia Why? You haven’t asked. I want to go on a date with you, so I asked.

Lando Norris Ok. I’m still paying. Doesn’t matter if you asked or not. I’ll plan it too.

Amelia Of course you are paying. Women don’t pay on dates.

Lando Norris Some ppl think they should 

Amelia Oh. Should I bring money then? 

Lando Norris No babe. Never.

Amelia :)

— 

He’d hired out an entire restaurant.

Fully staffed. Every table other than theirs empty.

It was insane. Completely over the top.

And yet, she couldn’t help but feel… warm about it.

Amelia ran her fingers along the smooth edge of her wine glass, her gaze drifting out the window as the sky darkened into soft shades of twilight. Normally, a full restaurant would have her on edge; the constant hum of conversations, the clatter of plates, the shuffle of waiters, the occasional laughter ringing too loudly in her ears. It always felt like too much. Too many sensory inputs, all at once.

Tonight, it was just them.

She glanced across the table at Lando, who was looking at her with that mischievous, bright-eyed expression. But there was something softer there too. A warmth, a genuine care she had come to expect from him.

"This is much better than golf," she said, trying to ease the tightness she felt in her chest. Her fingers tightened slightly around her wine glass, a small manifestation of her nerves. 

Lando stared at her for a moment, then laughed; a loud, free sound that made her heart skip a beat. "Yeah? I’m sorry I dragged you there. I won’t ever do it again, I promise." He had that usual teasing grin on his face, but there was softness in the way his eyes lingered on her.

Amelia shifted in her seat, glancing down at the menu in front of her. There were so many choices, so many different things to try, and the overwhelming amount of options made her stomach twist. Her mind started to race, analysing every single dish on the list, the flavours, the textures. Would they be too spicy? Too sweet? Would she like them or regret the choice? It felt like too much.

"I like the beach," she muttered, trying to shift focus. "And I like boats." But her thoughts kept circling back to the food. The choices were suffocating.

Lando seemed to notice the change in her, the tension creeping into her shoulders. "Boats, huh? So you don’t get sea sickness, then?” he teased, leaning forward a little, trying to pull her out of her head.

Amelia nodded absentmindedly, her mind still too loud. “Boats are just… private. Calm.“

He paused, studying her for a moment, before his voice softened. “If the options are too much, we don’t have to pick anything just yet. You’re here with me, we can go slow. The restaurant is ours until midnight. No pressure.”

She sucked in a breath. “I— I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice small. “I’ve never been here before. It’s nice, I just... I don’t know what I’ll like.”

Lando reached across the table, taking her hand and giving it a firm squeeze. “Well, after the amount of room service we’ve eaten recently, I think know what you like, and what you don’t. Want me to just order for you?”

Amelia blinked, startled by his offer. “What?”

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze softening. Then, without warning, he stood and walked around the table. Before she could react, he pulled her chair back, coaxing her to her feet. He guided her back to his side and gently settled her onto his lap. His left arm wrapped around her waist, secure but not too tight, pulling her closer. Amelia felt the tension drain from her body as she sank into him, her back resting against his chest.

“We can share, yeah? I’ll pick a few things, and we can try them together,” he murmured, his voice low and warm.

Amelia hesitated, her voice barely a whisper. “They’ll stare.”

She could feel her cheeks warming, the faint pressure of being so close to him in a public space, even if the restaurant was empty. But despite her discomfort, she didn’t want to move. His arm around her felt right, comforting in a way she hadn’t expected. It was perfect.

Lando rolled his eyes, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Let them.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

[soarrenbluejay]

Supervillains for a community. (Well, except those jerks over in Gotham, insular lot, but they’re they’re one problem) Of course they do- supervillains are a group defined by strong opinions and a willingness to see them through, often with a healthy dash of societal failures and trauma as a catalyst.

The fentons, while not active even on the online message boards, are well known and explosive when they do show up, full of fascinating insights and hours long rants on mad science on hair pin turns courtesy of that ADHD attention span. Bit of the cryptids you feel honored to bump into kind of deal. Besides, like a good quarter of the community as it aged, they’d settled down and had kids (not necessarily in that order) and taken it very seriously! Out in the middle of nowhere, where even the most fearsome government outpost members, the local branch of the IRS, quake before them in fear. Out of the way.

Reveal gone okay-ish, Danny moves to Gotham still to get some air bc now things are Akward and he landed that engineering scholarship which is loads better than any other college would give him with his track record. So- the mysterious Fenton children are finally crawling out of hiding! Everyone is psyched! And roll in to Gotham en masse to witness the fireworks!

Except Danny is Determined To Be Normal. He’s had enough of the throwing himself into harms way shit for a lifetime- he wants to be free to peacefully built Rube Goldberg machines and unintentional increasingly complex bombs to his hearts content. JAZZ, on the other hand- the coveted token Normal One, has finally snapped! She’s watched her baby brother she practically raised throw himself into danger over and over and could do nothing, and now that she’s exposed to this whole network of superheroes outside of small town Amnity, some of those uglier emotions are coming out. And boy is she pissed! And can’t afford to show it much while filing the paperwork to have Arkham legally razed to the ground!

See I love this idea of like, niches in superhero society. A villain the heroes know they can plop their kiddo down with for an exciting afternoon brawl while they take care of a particularly grisly case and come back to a few hours later ranting about some new life lesson and a new move they really want to try. A villain who has a functioning moral compass despite their somewhat batshit long term goal and you can contact to fuck with another villains’s plan so they can laugh at them and you can have an easy afternoon. One who pries up hostile architecture and fills in pot holes, idk man. Get creative here, there’s such potential!

So Jazz becomes a Training villain- someone the heroes know their sidekicks will walk away from in a fight 100% of the time, usually with some new lesson to ponder and only a couple of bruises. Sometimes even snacks!

She also absolutely ambushes mentors to check that they’re worth the kiddo, which they appreciate once they get over being jumped in a dark alley by a 7 foot Amazon trained force of nature. They are not used to being on that side of the jumping, it’s a little unnerving.

(Yes, she low key adopts Shazam upon checking in with him on cursory ‘is the main hero of this city and asshole’ checkin. Yes, the super clones get yoinked out from under Superman’s negligent thumb to go have a blast with Ellie. What about it?)

This however only encourages more assorted weirdos to crawl out of the woodwork. It’s not often one of their own forfeits their potential spot for the running of the coveted Most Normal I Swear prize, but when they do it’s bound to be good! But jazz is off hounding various heroes and punching the faces in of pedophiles and shit whenever there’s no cape within easy reach, and so is a mite bit harder to contact than Danny, who has innocently gotten an apprenticeship under a clockworker for access to their workshop and is gleefully going about doing nerdy shit with great abandon.

Plus this is Gotham. No one gives a shit if someone in the Mad Alchemist uniform and still smoking from their latest experiment pokes their head in a window to bother the local shrimp teen- none of the usual social rules apply, everyone’s crazy here! So everyone drops any and all attempts at masking and just acts their genuine unhinged selves, much to the alarm of the Bats and frustration of Danny.

Bc he cannot get these mfers to go. Away. Even liberal use of the creep stick has little effect when the interloper is calibrated for an opponent with super speed or laser vision or whatever, and he’s trying to maintain his guise as a Normal College Student Do No Investigate.

So he calls in the big guns. He’s not super active in the supervillain kids group chat ever since things in amnity calmed the fuck down post becoming King and then immediately using a loophole that says he will not take the throne until he is grown, as defined by finishing learning his trade a la the medieval standards Pariah set up. So he can just take his sweet ass time with his graduate degree and out of inter dimensional bull shit that much longer! Point is, he hasn’t taken the chance to rant over there in a while, so his Crazy friends are getting a lil worried.

The change to come over and shout at their batshit crazy but (mostly) well meaning parent AND see Danny? Score!

The bats, however, are getting awfully suspicious about this one kid that villains from all over the country are flocking to, especially young and upcoming ones as of recently! And he’s acting his engineering course- all the worst rogues are known to have flown through their PhD studies prior to Cracking. They seem to have a real problem on their hands with this Fenton guy.

[briarrosesinthornes]

Okay, so imagine this:

Tim Drake never becomes Robin.

He doesn’t join the Batfam, doesn’t put on a cape, doesn’t swing across rooftops at thirteen.

Instead?

He grows up watching them. Documenting them.

Obsessed with the truth, with the people behind the masks—though, keeps it under wraps when he knows it's not in his place to expose such sensitive and private information.

( We love a reporter who knows what boundaries are )

So he becomes a reporter. Because of course he does.

And then his boss is like,

“Hey Tim. We’re sending you to Metropolis. Go write a feel-good piece about LexCorp’s new Superman.”

And Tim’s like: “Absolutely not.”

Also Tim: is on the train in 10 minutes with a bag full of sarcasm and trauma. “Cool. I’m gonna rip this entire operation apart.”

And THEN— Then he meets Conner Luthor / Superman 2.0

Like. The one that popped out of no where. The PR golden boy. The poster child.

This boy walks out of a press conference like a Disney prince.

Full sunshine smile. Messy black hair. Tight suit.

He’s been genetically engineered to be The Next Superman™.

He’s perfect. Like weirdly perfect. Too perfect.

And Tim IMMEDIATELY is like

“Fake. Corporate. Corperate-made boy scout.”

But then Conner looks at him and just goes:

“You’re the only person my age who hasn’t tried to ask me about my abs.”

AND TIM MALFUNCTIONS ON THE SPOT.

And then Tim asks him,

“What do you want to be?”

And Conner just stares at him and goes,

“I don’t know. No one’s ever asked me that before.”

LIKE—??!??!?! HELLO???

It’s so much worse because—

Conner? He’s not acting.

He’s sweet. Earnest. So painfully sincere it hurts.

He wants to help people. He wants to be good.

AND YET—he still gets flustered when Tim talks fast.

He still stares at him like he hangs the stars.

He flies Tim to the top of a radio tower just to watch the sunrise.

like sorry?? what do you MEAN the science experiment fell for the journalist with commitment issues and a hero complex

Cue rooftop talks.

Cue sneaking around LexCorp.

Cue Tim finding classified documents he was not supposed to see.

Cue Conner breaking through reinforced steel doors to save him.

And that’s when Tim Drake, journalist first and disaster gay second, realizes:

He’s not just in love with the story.

He’s not writing a story anymore.

He’s living one.

And the worst part?

He’s in love with the headline.

Inspired by multiple cliche love songs, love stories, and the dream I had months ago ( yes, I wrote it down )