#what is data a euphemism for

[alexturntable]

not the first time Carlos found “data” funny

[transmutationisms]

@annevbonny yeah so first of all there's the overt framing issue that this whole idea rests on the premise that eliminating fatness is both possible and good, as though like. fat people haven't existed prior to the ~industrial revolution~ lol

more granularly this theory relies on misinterpreting the causes for the link between poverty and fatness (which is real---they are correlated) so that fatness can be configured as a failure of eating choices and urban design, meaning ofc that the 'solution' to this problem is more socially hygienic, monitored, controlled communities where everybody has been properly educated into the proper affective enjoyment of spinach and bike riding, and no one is fat anymore and the labour force lives for longer and generates more value for employers

in truth one of the biggest mediating factors in the poverty-body weight link is food insecurity, because intermittent access to food tends to result in periods of under-nourishment followed by periods of compensatory eating with corresponding weight regain/overshoot (this is typical of weight trajectories in anyone refeeding after a period of starvation or under-eating, for any reason). so this is all to say that the suggestion that fatness is caused by access to 'unhealthy foods' is not only off base but extremely harmful; food insecurity is rampant globally. what people need is consistent access to food, and more of it!

and [loud obvious disclaimer voice] although i absolutely agree that food justice means access to a variety of foods with a variety of nutrient profiles, access to any calories at all is always better than access to none or too few. which is to say, there aren't 'healthy' or 'unhealthy' foods in isolation (all foods can belong in a varied, sufficient diet) and this is a billion times more true when we are talking about people struggling to consume enough calories in the first place.

relatedly, proponents of the 'obesogenic environment' theory often invoke the idea of 'hyperpalatable foods' or 'food addiction'---different ways of saying that people 'overeat' 'junk food' because it's too tasty (often with the bonus techno-conspiricism of "they engineer it that way"). again it's this idea that the problem is people eating the 'wrong' foods, now because the foods themselves are exerting some inexorable chemical pull over them.

this is inane for multiple reasons including the failure to deal with access issues and the fact that people who routinely, reliably eat enough in non-restrictive patterns (between food insecurity and encouragement to deliberately diet/restrict, this is very few people) don't even tend to 'overeat' energy-dense demonised foods in the first place. ie, there is no need to proscribe or limit 'junk food' or 'fast food' or 'empty calories' or whatever nonsense euphemism; again the solution to nutritionally unbalanced diets is to guarantee everyone access to sufficient food and a variety of different foods (and to stop encouraging the sorts of moralising food taboos that make certain foods 'out of bounds' and therefore more likely to provoke a subjective sense of loss of control in the first place lol)

but tbc, when i say "the solution to nutritionally unbalanced diets"---because these certainly can and do exist, particularly (again) amongst people subjected to food insecurity---i am NOT saying "the solution to fatness" because fatness is not something that will ever be eliminated from the human population. and here again we circle back to one of the fundamental fears that animates the 'obesogenic environment' myth, which is that fatness is a medical threat to the race/nation/national future. which is of course blatant biopolitics and is relying on massive assumptions about the health status of fat and thin people that are simply not borne out in the data, and that misinterpret the relationship between fatness and illness (for example, the extent to which weight stigma prevents fat people from receiving medical care, or the role of 'metabolic syndrome' in causing weight gain, rather than the other way around).

people are fat for many reasons, including "their bodies just look like that"; fatness is neither a disease in itself nor inherently indicative of ill health, nor is it eradicable anyway (and fundamentally, while all people should have access to health-protective social and economic conditions, health is not something that people 'owe' to anyone else anyway)

the 'obesogenic environment' is a liberal technocratic fantasy---a world in which fatness is a problem of individual consumption and social engineering, and is to be eliminated by clever policy and personal responsibility. it assumes your health is 1) directly caused and indicated by your weight, 2) something you owe to the capitalist state as part of the bargain that is 'citizenship', and 3) something you can learn to control if only you are properly educated by the medical authorities on the rules of nutrition (and secondarily exercise) science. it's a factual misinterpretation of everything we know about weight, health, diet, and wealth, and it fundamentally serves as a defense of the existing economic order: the problem isn't that capitalism structurally does not provide sufficient access to resources for any but the capitalist class---no, we just need a nicer and more functional capitalism where labourers have a greengrocer in the neighbourhood, because this is a discourse incapable of grappling with the material realities of food production and consumption, and instead reliant on configuring them in terms of affectivity ('food addiction') or knowledge (the idea that food-insecure people need to be more educated about nutrition)

there are some additional aspects here obviously like the idea that exercising more would make people thin (similar issues to the food arguments, physical activity can be great but the reasons people do or don't do it are actually complex and related to things like work schedules and exercise doesn't guarantee thinness in the first place) or fearmongering about 'endocrine disruptors' (real, but are extremely ill-defined as a category and are often just a way to appeal to ideas of 'naturalness' and the vague yet pressing harms of 'chemicals', and which are also not shown to single-handedly 'cause' fatness, a normal state of existence for the human body) but this is most often an argument about food ime.

[drdemonprince]

as an equal opportunity admirer of a variety of body sizes im not sure what words to use for what fuckin rocks about fat people's bodies that wont make people feel weird. of course a lot of it is highly personal and its best to ask the specific person and follow their lead. but for the sake of collecting varied data, and for writing horny things more generally, fat people how do you feel about a sexual partner describing parts of you using terms like soft, grabbable, squishy, cuddly, round, luscious, chunky, thick. which words do you like, which ones do you not like. assume these terms are not being used as weird awkward euphemisms for fat, but coming from someone who is fat positive and within an already established sexual dynamic.

[mxjackparker]

If you're a history nerd like me and want to read up on the topic of sex work in 18th and 19th century France, this is the book for you! Contemporary Prostitution: Study of a Social Question (1884) by Leo Taxil and translated by Jack Parker.

This book was never translated into English until I did so just over a year ago, so that other people could read the letters from real sex workers included and all the data about sex workers from someone who was arguing for the decriminalization of sex work back in 1884!

Get a PDF copy here and pay what you want, including claiming a copy for free if you don't have the money.

I'm Jack, the translator for this work, and I am a sex worker activist who happens to be bilingual in English and French. Between the slang, historical language, and the amount of euphemisms used for a profession as stigmatized as prostitution is, this took a long time but was well worth it!

I started reading La Prostitution Contemporaine with the expectation that I would be infuriated by the sexist and whorephobic commentary within it, but that it would provide me with context about the 1800s and the view of prostitution in that time period. While I was right that the stigmatisation of sex workers is rife within this work, I also found a fascinating and complex description of all the specific troubles sex workers face. I found that, despite still discussing sex workers as engaging in immoral behaviour and being decidedly homophobic and sexist, Léo focuses majority of his criticism on the police and on those who control sex workers.

Taxil makes repeated arguments in favour of police abolition, the decriminalization of sex work, and improving workers rights and eradicating poverty so that people are not pushed into sex work by a need for money.

This work contains commentary about lesbianism in the Victorian era, and lesbianism within brothel environments. It provides amazing insight into the homophobic views people had in the time period, as well as specific information about the lives of lesbian sex workers. There are scathing critiques of the morality police from the time period, particularly with regards to their treatment and registration of sex workers! It is rich with citations from other authors about how "maquerelles" and madams and "souteneurs" all interacted with sex workers and what those sex workers' lives were really like. The book is also one of the only works from the time discuss male prostitution, with an entire chapter dedicated to it and mentions in several chapters throughout the book.

Would love for more people to read this history that I worked so hard to translate!

[dark-frosted-heart]

Roger Barel Main Route - Chapter 13 His POV

As usual, can’t guarantee 100% accuracy on this. I’m doing this for archiving purposes and you can probably find a better translation out there.

(He wanted to eat the person he liked…?)

In this case it wasn’t a euphemism for love, but literally that dead man’s intent.

Roger: —Could it be that…

His cursed sin is…cannibalism?

(I’ve never Cursed One with cannibalistic urges. There’s no past data. But…)

But when you think about everything that happened—It all made sense.

(That guy…was really Cursed)

He didn’t know he was Cursed and didn’t know that his urges were from his cursed fate. He died blaming himself.

(Ah, it happened “again”. I…led another innocent “Cursed One” to their death…”again”.

Roger: “‘Cursed One’s’ tragic fate can’t be altered. In the past, there have been no exceptions.”

That’s so true, it makes me laugh.

Kate: Um, Roger…

???: Hey, hey. A man dressed in all white with a nice smile and parted bangs just told me something.

You were talking about the murder from last night.

(...?)

I turned around and saw a stranger leaning against the counter with a smile.

Kate: And you are…

Nicholas the novelist: Just some insignificant novelist called Nicholas. And these are…

Michael the playwright: Michael, a playwright.

Joanna the caricaturist: Joanna, a caricaturist.

Barkeep: Ah, these three are people of culture who are regulars here. They like to stick their noses in other people’s business.

Nicholas the novelist: We have to! We’re always looking for inspiration for our works.

Man tries to eat a girl with red hair. It’s like the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood.

Joanna the caricaturist: Don’t lump this together with a childish fairytale like Little Red Riding Hood. It’s an insult to a sensational incident.

Michael the playwright: A bloodstained girl and a man standing over her in shock. Aha, I have an idea!

(...Ah, I see…these guys…)

The reason why they came to be known as “Fairytale Curses” is because of novelists, playwrights, and the like who created works based on existing “Cursed Ones”.

But nowadays, the relationship’s been reversed and they’re referred to as “Fairytale Curse”.

My curse is the Double-Crossing Hunter.

Elbert’s the Greedy Queen, Alfons the Mirror.

The reason for these names must have come from Cursed Ones that lived before us.

Tonight, another fairytale would be born from a Cursed One.

(I know people are free to create what they want and no one can fault them for that)

(—However)

Michael the playwright: I hope more tragic incidents happen. That way I can create the best stage performances!

Nicholas the novelist: More material for our works! Haha, just kidding!

Next thing I knew I was slamming my mug down on the table as if to cut their laughter off.

Roger: They didn’t die to be a spectacle for you lot.

Michael the playwright: Ah, erm…

Nicholas the novelist: Um…We didn’t mean to make fun of people’s deaths.

Joanna the caricaturist: That’s right. Just having jokes at a bar.

I heard voices repeatedly try to defend themselves within my distant consciousness.

I was already well aware that the “sinfulness” of “Cursed Ones” couldn’t be understood.

That’s why they’re “curses”.

Roger: —Just kidding.

Michael the playwright: …Huh?

Roger: You were starving for stimulation, so I thought I’d surprise you.

Michael the playwright: …Wha

What the heck! You scared me!

Roger: Ahaha, sorry.

Michael the playwright: That performance was so real. Want to join my troupe?

Nicholas the novelist: You can scout later. Let’s have a drink as thanks for surprising us!

Roger: Yeah, sure.

They’ll never know what we “Cursed Ones” mourn over or what’s fated ends are.

So I just pretended that nothing happened. This “acceptance” was a technique I took up to get by in this world.

—However, there was one person beside me that didn’t agree with this acceptance.

Kate: Roger…

There was a hint of anger in Kate’s voice and disapproval in her eyes. 

(...Kate, you’re too nice. You’re the only one willing to stand with the Cursed)

Kate was a kind person and now held feelings for the Cursed, Crown included.

That’s why there wasn’t a need to feel worried or hurt anymore.

Roger: Hmm?

I downed my beer and ruffled her hair like usual.

Kate: Stop…

Roger: We heard what happened. The investigations’s over so there’s no point in digging any deeper.

Kate: I don’t think that’s how you truly feel.

(—Yeah, you’re right, Kate. It’s not…how I truly feel)

When Kate wasn’t looking, I went outside. The rain poured down relentlessly, but I didn’t care.

Alone, pitch-black despair that I’d been holding back starts creeping up from beneath my feet.

(If we told Lance “you’re a Cursed One” back then, would things have changed?)

I could imagine all the what-ifs I wanted, but the dead never return.

~~

My dear little friend, you will no doubt encounter despair in the future. However, don’t let yourself be defeated.

~~

I remembered the words of a dead friend, words that I’ve repeated over and over.

(...I’ll be fine. I won’t let despair consume me)

(I’m strong, I won’t be defeated, I won’t be lonely, I won’t let my soul rot, and…I’ll fulfill my ambition)

(That’s why I’ll be fine. …I’ll get back up and continue like nothing’s happened)

(I still don’t know if there’s a shadow watching over me)

And that its existence will save me.

Next

[oldtvandcomics]

I am a bit hesitant to Go There, but it IS really relevant now, so here we go.

Guys, you people from the USA have NO IDEA how communist countries work, and this makes you extremely vulnerable to propaganda.

When I was in middle school, I read this book about French queer history, I unfortunately don't have the title any more. Either way, possibly the part that stuck with me the most was about how around the 1950s, there was this rumour floating around in French queer circles, according to which the Eastern bloc was so super queer friendly and a good place to be. Then they eventually realized that this was NOT the case, and that queer liberation came from the other part of the world.

So basically, that is what you all are doing.

And I understand! We all want to imagine that a better world is possible, and that it even exists somewhere that is more or less within our reach. Nothing more human than that. But China isn't Utopia, it is a country under a totalitarian regime. And, as we previously established, you guys have no experience in how that works.

I know close to nothing about China (apart from the fact that they make damn good fantasy TV shows with BEAUTIFUL visuals), but I AM from a formerly East bloc country, and the way people on here talk about the communist era is consistently somewhere between off-putting and, frankly, alarming. Posts like "OMG, I just looked up the exact meaning of comrade, and it means friend! 😳" Like, guys. Seriously.

And just like that, while it is of course amazing that people are making friends over there on Red Note, I am seeing many of the same "didn't think this through within the cultural context" takes floating around. Some of the obvious ones being:

"OMG everyone is so friendly!!" -> You are outsiders who are in their space, of course they are being polite. Also, they are just as happy about this chance to talk to you as you are to talk to them.

"All the posts are so nice!" -> They are not allowed to post political content, especially not where they complain about politics. Also, the idea of curating social media as to make yourself look happy and well-off is NOT a foreign concept to us, either.

"They can afford X" -> The userbase of the platform you are on is upper class. Also, while comparing the prices, you always must ask yourself how much this is compared to people's salary.

"Insert USA Thing shouldn't be normal!" -> I mean, you are right there, it isn't. We have been telling you since forever, so you didn't have to go to China to hear this.

"They lied to us when they told as that the Chinese are all monsters" -> Yes, obviously. Why are you realizing this only now.

"China can have all my data lol" -> Trust me, you do NOT want a surveillance state to have your data.

Another thing that you need to know about places that are subjected to such strong censorship: People develop their own coded way to communicate. (Think Hays code Hollywood) You do not know those codes, for obvious reasons, like not speaking their language, not knowing any metaphors or euphemisms or historically relevant references that they may be using, and nobody telling you for their own safety.

This is especially important if you are going to interact with a vulnerable group, like the LGBT+ community. They have their own way to navigate these subjects in relative safety. If you burst into their space and start openly yelling about their taboo topic, then you will do more harm than good.

[one-of-many-journeys]

Day 7 (3/3)

Latopolis

The clone appeared to ignore the anomaly in the Recluse Spider's activity logs, as her companions were clearly eager to leave. As she shut down the system, the data racks meant to hold Gaia and Hades, now both empty, shuddered into motion and raised back up into the machine, exposing my position.

I stood, I swore; we only met eyes for a moment. She said nothing, but I could tell she recognised me for what I was. What we both were.

The intruders ordered their machines to collect the clone, and one of the things shot out a cloud of golden fragments, like a swarm of insects.

She looked like she was about to say something, reaching toward me, but the swarm swept around her, forming solid bindings that yanked her away. The machine—the Specter, as the intruder named it—opened up a compartment in its underbelly and shoved the encased clone inside.

The three remaining intruders stepped closer, out of the the blinding light. The one in the centre—the one who had been giving orders—asked his companions why a clone of Elisabet Sobeck was here. They theorised about my existence while I watched on, locked in shock. There was no getting past the two Specters, and I had no idea what they were capable of or what weapons the people carried, though none were visible.

By their armour and the machines they commanded, they were of no ordinary tribe. That was a given, considering their knowledge of Gaia and ability to create a cloned key to Zero Dawn of their own. So I thought perhaps my theory about surviving pockets of Old World knowledge was correct. Underground bunkers, preserved communities, cryogenics—something outside of Zero Dawn's global focus. I'd come across records of my such projects in my travels—Thebes, for example, which was Faro's answer to extinction. What if he'd kept a copy of Apollo for himself and his followers?

While my mind raced, the woman offered an explanation for my presence: that I was made by Gaia in a last-ditch attempt to repair the terraforming system. She began trying to argue for taking me with them, saying it would increase efficiency, but she didn't get far. She wondered aloud whether I'd sent the signal pulse that Sylens had used to lure them—maybe she even wanted to negotiate, not that I would've been too receptive of that. Her leader cut her off. One's enough trouble, he said, and ordered his other lackey to 'do a little downsizing'. It wasn't easy to figure out that was some euphemism for murder.

I readied myself for a fight I knew I couldn't win.

The woman kept staring at me, staying still as her leader turned away, vying for her attention. Metal sealed her chest, throat, jaw; what's wrong with these people? It didn't look like armour. Eventually, the woman followed her leader out, but not without a backward glance.

Then it was just me and the brute. I heard the leader call him Erik. He did what brutes like him always do: goaded, regaled past victories, yapped about how damn much he loved snapping necks and taking lives. How it was so much better in real life than VR. And like them all, he laughed when I stood up to him, at the mere suggestion I could best him. Except, this time, I thought he was probably right.

I loosed an arrow and it disintegrated in a blue puff against a shield covering his body. It wasn't like one of the rebels' shields, or my armour (back when it was functional). Impact wouldn't wear it down, at least not from a handful of arrows, and my Focus could barely get a read on it.

Erik wore some sort of device on his temple, something similar to a Focus but coated in gold, and my Focus only partially recognised it. It couldn't tell me anything about the tech he was wielding. My only choice was to find some means of escape.

Erik paced, whistling tunes to himself, then sprung on me suddenly with a flurry of the same swarming devices that captured the clone, sparking an explosion at my feet that knocked me down. He came lunging at me with a long blade, seemingly made of blue light. He was able to control the tiny golden machines seemingly at a thought. They formed weapons, reshaping them in a blink, shearing metal from his armour, eating it from the surroundings. This was beyond any Old World technology I'd heard of. Whoever this group are, they've been busy these past thousand years.

Unable to harm Erik, I instead targeted the Recluse Spider above. It was a long shot, but I thought if I could bring the rig down on the platform, it might bury him in the rubble long enough for me to slip away into the water below. More likely it would bury me as well, and I didn't have a shield to ensure I survived the bombardment.

He didn't like that I wasn't fighting back. He wanted to have fun, to watch me struggle against his insurmountable weaponry. Instead, I dodged around his attacks as he called metal spikes from the floor, built by his insectile machines. I targeted the arms of the Spider, eventually doing enough damage for its bulk to lurch toward the floor, straining its remaining connective cables.

And he really didn't like that. Erik lunged for me with an inhuman burst of speed, hovering above the ground. He grabbed me by the throat, lifting me up with easy strength as I batted uselessly at his metal arm. Suddenly it was cold. Suddenly the floodwater below raised its chill upward and it was like a blizzard; it was like a cliff's edge over a long drop and the smell of burning bodies. It was like a different hand around my neck and the same dead eyes staring, but no one was coming this time. Rost wasn't coming.

Erik wasn't done quite yet though. He wanted to make my ordeal last. He threw me to the ground, laughing, goading some more, wanting me to slip up and start fighting in vain.

I dodged him some more, getting exhausted, trying to take down the last few clamps holding up the Recluse Spider's rig. Erik brought out new, terrifying onslaughts: spherical orange blasts like a Thunderjaw's and huge glowing waves of force, searing as a Behemoth's.

Finally, the huge machine came loose, creaking against its supports as it hurtled down, limbs swinging, and shattered the floor like it was glass. It came down on Erik, and while his vision was obscured I dove into the water, struggling to avoid the falling debris. Unsurprisingly, Erik was unhurt. I spotted his tiny form watching over the edge, scouring the water.

I ducked below the surface, making for the corridors of the lower level. I managed to find a breach in the metal and entered the flooded maze.

The strangers had set their Specter machines after me—so they had more than two. Far more. Fantastic. They were waiting for me when I came up for air, spluttering after a long dash through a flooded corridor. The Specters open fired. For people who Sylens said wouldn't harm me, they were certainly keen in their pursuit.

I managed to dive deep enough to avoid them, swim into a flooded ventilation shaft and up into a dry portion, sneaking past more Specters and their amber search lights.

I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I couldn't stay still and wait for them to find me. I headed for the direction of the first hatch, the only exit, hoping I wouldn't find more Specters waiting for me there.

More of them waiting on the ceiling of a flooded chamber. Their bullets sliced through the water as I span and dove to avoid their firing patterns.

I finally made it to a dry area on higher ground, sealed away from the Specters. I couldn't hear any more of them in the area. I was near the edge of the encasing stone walls of the facility, but a long way from the hatch.

I found a deposit of Firegleam lodged in the wall of a generator room. The crystal growth reached through metal and into the rock beyond. The surface was weak, disturbed. Easy enough to blast through, I hoped.

No such luck. For a moment, I thought I was in the clear. The detonation cleared a small passage out to the cool night air, water rushing outside, but in an instant the crack in the rock spread outward, rupturing corroded metal along with it. I barely had time to brace myself before the ceiling started caving in, chunks of wall pushing huge generators and power coils down to crush the gangway, nearly taking me with it.

Debris tumbled out through the widening gap in the rock, pulling me through as I tried to cling on. I sailed down with the stone and water as it burst out into the night, plunging into the river below.

I tried to stay above water, but falling debris battered me on all sides. Lodged and trapped in the roots underwater, I struggled to surface, lungs nearly empty. A hunk of metal came rushing to meet my skull, and I passed out there in the flood.

[pinkandgoldensoul]

CL#16 || Mine First || tape b

Navigation || Masterlist

: ̗̀➛ tape b of the 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹 series If this is your first time here on this blog, please check the Disclaimers here.

pairing: charles leclerc x female!reader x pierre gasly!bestfriend genre: childhood exes (?) to lovers, (fake) love triangle, fluff, a bit of angst tw: swearing, tiny suggestive crumb word count: 10.2k plot: going back to Monaco, you meet him again. Both being Pierre's friends, you're often trapped in the same room: it's inevitable for the past to resurface, through glances, dances, pages filled of ink.

Your walk inside the paddock was followed by gusts of wind throwing strands of hair in every direction, preys of the unpredictable, forcing you to move them out of your face repeatedly. The forecast couldn’t have been clearer: 90% chances of rain. A storm was approaching the track, and so were you.

Looking around, you stared attentively at the frenetic movement pulsating in every corner: mechanics, engineers, journalists and cameras ready to capture any detail, VIPs begging for selfies with bewildered eyes and staring at the screens in awe and confusion. It was all so foreign to you. Despite growing up in Monaco, you had always shied away from the spotlight and tried to live a simple life, therefore moving out in your youth to an unknown town in South France, near the coast, but far enough from the contradiction of luxury. Still, Pierre being a dear old friend of yours, after pleading insistence, you had given up to his invitation to a Grand Prix. You had first agreed to be hosted at his home race, Paul Ricard, then obliged to choose another circuit since the track had disappeared from the 2023 calendar: and so there you were, crossing the streets you had walked countless times, the ones you had run away from.

«Do you think it’s going to rain hard?» «How do you expect me to know?» You snorted, arms crossed. Pierre simply shrugged, zipping up his suit. «I don’t know, you’ve lived here enough to recognize Monaco’s clouds.» he half-joked. «Maybe you’re the Monegasque Mazepin.» «Who’s that?» you asked, frowning. «No one, forget it. I just thought you, standing there doing nothing, had more time than I do to check the forecast.» «Uhm, if you want, I can take a look.» you offered, searching for your phone. Pierre quickly made it over to you, crossing the garage, and put his hands on your shoulders with a smile. «Y/n, I’m just messing around. Why are you taking everything so seriously? You always get my jokes, what’s up with you today?» «Uhm… maybe… It’s Monaco’s clouds.» Pierre couldn’t help but grin bigger and shake his head, leaving you standing on your own while he got near his helmet to clean it. «If you’re worried about tonight’s dinner, there’s no need to.» You sighed. To your annoyance, Pierre had stricken home yet another time. He was too good at reading you like an open book, your expressions and reactions too plain for him to interpret after years of sincere friendship. «I just don’t understand why you want to introduce me to this one friend… It’s a bit intimidating, like, the three of us…» «Oh, but we won’t be completely alone!» Pierre said, amending his partial explanation. «We’ll be hanging out in group, it’s going to be fun! I just wanted to introduce you to my best mate, that’s all.» «Fine, but… why can’t I even know his name? Why are you acting like I’m going to be surprised about who he is?» «Because I think you will.» «You’re such a drama queen.» He laughed at your arms-crossed and roll-eye as he finished cleaning the helmet, placing back on a counter. «Of course I am.»

To Pierre’s amusement, you hadn’t followed free practices with a lot of attention, which is a euphemism to say that you basically didn’t watch the screens installed for the guests inside the garage at all: instead, you had nestled in a small empty spot right next to his engineer and you had silently followed Pierre’s action and data, without really understanding much, more so as the second sessions had been red flagged before being half-way through it.

Pierre was dying of laughter onto the small, leathered couch of the club you had chosen for the beginning of the night, waiting for all his friends to show up, as he listened to your unforgettably miserable experience in the Alpine box. «So you didn’t see any other driver?» he asked, still chuckling. «No, I mean… I was also getting a bit car sick, with all those walls left and right. You drive way too fast, you guys are crazy…» Loud as a freight train crashing the rails with its speed, a group of youngsters entered the club with a thunderous burst of laughter, which made you flinch in your seat. «Oh, here they are!» Pierre immediately flailed around and whistled in order to be heard by les gars, who soon walked towards your table. Without you noticing, he stood up and waited them to hug and give friendly back pats. Composed in your awkward silence, you felt even more uneasy as one of the newcomers stopped and looked down at you sitting, staring with an uncomfortable persistence, a smile fading from his lips. «Who are you?» he asked, curiosity and perplexity mixed in his tone. Reciprocating with the same depth his stare, you realized you had just fallen inside a dangerous and unexpected sand trap, wishing the dark-lit room would suddenly turn the lights on so that you could make out his features clearer, or completely drown them out together with the anxiety in the pit of your stomach. «Finally I can introduce you both!» Pierre clapped his hands, breaking the moment and inviting you to get up. «Y/n, this is my best friend: Charles.» «Charles…» you muttered under your breath, trying to make sense of it. «Yes, Charles Leclerc.» he repeated in confirmation, smiling, shaking and holding your cold and still hand. «And this is y/n, one of my dearest friends.» «Nice to meet you.» The flickering sparkle in his eyes, the dimples making their painful appearance and his sweet, fond smile struck you all at once, the freight train now hitting you as you simply stood by the platform of time, uncapable of anything but playing reruns of distant and long forgotten memories in the back of your mind. He let go of your hand and you slowly slipped down in your seat, heart beating uncontrollably. But everyone was just too absorbed into the conversation to notice, too playful and happy to be in joined company. Drinking from your glass full of insecurities, your gaze was always searching for his, carefully studying his heavenly face, then immediately straying away, consumed by indecision and inner turmoil.

You all got up a couple of hours after to have a nice walk through the harbor; the cool breeze sweeping the dump asphalt made your skin shiver, and you felt forced to bring your hands upon your forearms to soothe the coldness. Pierre had noticed for a while the way you hadn’t engaged in the conversations a lot, had seen you full of thoughts back in the club and, of course, immediately read your body language; in a few strides, he was next to you, placing his jacket onto your shoulders, matching your steps. «Thank you.» you smiled. You both slowly walked alongside, letting silence fill the gaps, until the Frenchman couldn’t bear it anymore, as he gazed at the stars. «I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself that much tonight… I thought you would get along just fine, since you’re all friends of mine.» «They’re nice, in fact!» you tried to reply. Pierre gave you a knowing look. «Y/n, there’s no need to cover it up, I’ve got two eyes to see you have been running away from everyone tonight… Especially from Charles.» «What?» You stood still, watching him stop as you did. Had he noticed? Did he… know? «Are you… are you, like, jealous of him?» Pierre asked, reticent. «What?! N-no, of course not, why would I-» «Sorry, I was just wondering why you gave him strange looks all night, that’s it.» «No, it’s just… I think I’ve seen him somewhere else, before.» you swallowed hard, hoping he’d buy into your lie. Pierre first looked at you, then started laughing contagiously, to the point you had to giggle as well with a frown. «Why are you laughing?» you asked. «Are you kidding me? Of course you’ve seen him before!» «And… where?» you hesitated, now even scarier than earlier. «On track, y/n! He races for Ferrari, putain!» His laugh didn’t complement your heart drop. «You didn’t watch any race for real, uh? I thought you were joking. Now, that hurts!» The attempt at matching his laugh was almost miserable; the clench grinding your poor heart felt unbearable, feelings gushing and bleeding out beneath your skin.

Nothing had prepared you to see him once again face to face, nor you had anticipated talking to him, spending time together. For sure, no one had warned you about the way he would’ve changed so much growing up. A childish mischief still lingered in his expression, but you could clearly see he had matured, his perfectly crafted jawline and his beard giving it away; his athletic body resembled nothing of the young, agile and slim figure you remembered. You recalled witnessing Pierre’s transformation. Looking at them now, they didn’t seem like guys in their mid-twenties and, compared to them, you felt like a child, whereas they had already achieved a lifestyle you would never even dream of. Despite the obvious differences in the physique, something about Charles’ demeanor had unexpectedly softened: you were so accustomed to his impulsive, black-or-white younger self that you almost couldn’t recognize him under the charming and elegant masquerade. It can’t be him, you thought.

An awkward tension made every gesture clumsy, intrinsically wrong: throughout the weekend, anytime you’d cross each other’s way, you both moved cautiously around each other, studying the new person you had in front, as if you were trying to read a book you once knew by heart, word by word, now translated into an unknown language. And even though you struggled recognizing the Charles you used to know, he could clearly tell it was the same old you beneath the embarrassment: he always found you lightheartedly making jokes and having fun, smiling kindly, or thinking deep in silence. When you were with Pierre. Because as soon as Charles entered your vision, he would see you stiffening, stuttering, fighting insecurities in every sentence and gesture. And as much as he felt discomfort in making you all flustered, a thorn of pride stung his heart. He still had an effect on you. He wouldn’t makeyou laugh uncontrollably as Pierre did, but he was still able to stir some deep feelings inside of you, and it fueled him like gasoline on fire, for some reason. # Charles genuinely thought seeing you in Monaco was a karmic debt’s payment, enduring the comfort and the palpable chemistry between you and his best friend: apart from the small talk he had tried to initiate with you, Charles had kept away from you, purposely avoiding your presence. Undeniably, you still had an effect on him too.

When he entered the paddock on Wednesday, welcomed by the Spanish heat, crossing the lane with the hospitalities already brimming of life, he definitely didn’t expect to see you again, let alone to find you sat on a white wicker couch next to Pierre. Right as he witnessed the scene, the Frenchman swiftly placing your bare legs on his lap, his fingers drawing circles upon your skin, both spread out and chilling, enjoying the nice weather, Charles couldn’t help himself from chewing his inner cheek and pacing quickly towards Ferrari’s hospitality. What made him even more furious was knowing that Pierre was well aware of the cameras pointing towards you and taking pictures with no disturb, implicitly giving them permission, being so physical with you in public. Pierre wasn’t stupid. He knew what he was doing. And Charles didn’t like it. Because you seemed so innocent, always caring, smiley, kind and considerate of others, hanging off Pierre’s lips; and Charles hated, oh, he hated it as much as immediately spotting the flash of fear and tension crossing your irises as soon as he tried to approach you. Charles would’ve gladly done without hovering around you, or stop caring about you and Pierre’s affair, but he simply couldn’t: after seeing you amidst the crowd, he was drawn to you, by far the quickest in reaching you swiftly dodging everybody else, ready to find stupid excuses to chat with you and get your attention away from Pierre at least for a couple of minutes. The painful truth was that Charles desperately wanted to catch up with you, spend an entire night just the two of you and be your listener, hearing your enchanting voice narrate the life you had led so far and staring into your mesmerizing eyes full of dreams. He wanted to amend for the past. He felt guilty for what he had said, yet he acknowledged he wouldn’t know any better back at the time.

Instead, he was attending yet another night out with Pierre and mutual friends, throwing deadly glances over your dancing silhouettes, painfully reminded of what it could’ve been. Charles had so many apologetic words stuck in his throat, but an overwhelming wave of unlabeled feelings impeded him to talk the matter out with you. Only a question, the same one, all over again. Why Pierre? He unfortunately knew why you two had broken up, he couldn’t blame you in any way: but Charles couldn’t accept being discarded in place of Pierre. He loved him like a brother, he was one of his best buddies, and exactly because he knew him that well and had met you before, he was sure you two, as a couple, could never work out. Or, at least, that’s what he believed. There was also another annoyance cutting Charles’ skin: the fact that Pierre hadn’t been honest while introducing you. A friend? Sharing jackets and hoodies, letting each other be touchy and clingy, always hanging out together? Yeah, of course. Charles was having none of it. His drink tasted bitter, with you two in his vision; he couldn’t bear it any longer. So he simply decided to get the work done by himself.

Pierre had been talking and cracking jokes non-stop since the beginning of the night, getting his mouth dry quite rapidly; right as he left you dancing by yourself to grab another drink, Charles took the chance and crossed the dance floor fueled by liquid bravery, stopping right behind you, placing his hands on your waist carefully, so that you’d acknowledge his presence too late to run away from him. «Having fun with Pierre? Hasn’t he run out of words yet?» Charles teased you. «When he’s drunk, he gets quite talkative.» you explained. «And so do you.» At your raised brow, Charles took a sip of his drink with a smirk. «Just checking up on someone who seemed to be getting bored.» he leaned in a bit closer upon your shoulder. «Oh, and when did you start being concerned about me?» When I realized I was still in love with you, he thought. Charles wetted his lips. «Y/n, I’d really like to talk about everything that happened between us, if you just gave me the chance to-» «Charles, I suffered enough, trust me.» «And I’m suffering because of it now.» «Not my business. It’s your time to get over it.» «If you got over it, then why do you keep avoiding me like you’re still affected?» Charles knew he had hit home once he saw your eyes dart towards his, defenseless, uncapable of putting up shields of indifference. «Woah, Charles, stop bothering my girl!» Pierre loudly approached the two of you, drunkenly placing his arm around you, which Charles clearly interpreted as a “private property” sign. You were his girl, after all. Of course you wouldn’t give him a chance. Everything was already settled, nothing else left to be discussed. Still, if there was something Charles couldn’t do, it was losing without trying with all his might to grab the win. «Can I borrow her? Just wanted to dance with her.» Pierre chuckled and nodded. «Bien sur, go ahead!» You hated being treated like a parcel without thoughts and feelings, as if you not being willing to dance with Charles wasn’t even an option; indeed, you definitely didn’t refuse his gentle hand guiding you towards a quieter space on the dance floor, and didn’t sway the times Charles would place his face near yours, leaning against your ear, almost about to whisper something but never giving you the satisfaction to drop a single word.

There was no way you could deny the effect he still had on you, after all those years spent apart from each other: any moment your eyes flicked to glance at him, his bright eyes were still glistening with youthful innocence, his dimples still dazed you, his enigmatic smile still made you question his and your own feelings. For a moment, standing that close to him without sharing useless words, you imagined Charles had stayed. In fact, that you had stayed. With a little effort, you could almost imagine you two had never broken up: you were dancing, comfortably enjoying his hands on your waist, placing yours around his neck lightweight, scared of lengthening physical touch. He stared down at you with a pleased and peaceful gaze, so sweet it could almost stich up all the scars he had left over your heart, splitting them apart and filling them with love before sealing them forever. But he had made a choice back then, clear-cut. Formula One was his only lover, no room for others. No room for you. The music died around your ears. But it still pumped quick inside your heart. «Are you good?» Charles’ voice caught your attention, as his hands firmly kept you up and yours had fallen back onto his shoulders for support. You simply tripped, you said to yourself; something normal which would happen while dancing drunk, a usual slip of thoughts diving back into the hurt of the past. «Yeah, all good.» you breathed out, looking behind your back. Pierre’s silhouette had completely disappeared from the radar, leaving your clenching stomach lonely in the search of a ride home. «Where’s Pierre?» you slurred. «I don’t know…» Charles’ green eyes scanned the room and trailed off yours, joining them in the search. «Can you bring me back to the hotel?» Charles opened his eyes wide at those words. «What?» Maybe he hadn’t heard right. Maybe it was the voice of someone dancing next to him. «I’m tired, can you give me a ride?» The tip of his tongue slipping out to wet his lips got you stuck on his mouth, a lost soft look into your eyes that Charles had to avoid watching, before his drunk system would act bypassing rationality. «Of course.»

#

«Where are the keys?» Charles waited for your lazy hands to rummage inside your purse, quickly taking the shining, jingling metal out of your fingers. Right as the door cracked open, you aimed towards the king-sized bed, taking your heels off and slowly picking up the sheets in order to slip underneath them. «Don’t you want to change into something comfier?» he asked, dumbfounded. You whined in response, head already resting onto the pearl white pillow. «Y/n?» «Mmh?» «Do you want to sleep with your jeans on?» he almost chuckled. «Jeez, Cha’, I’m tired…» He walked next to the bed, kneeling down in front of you. «Yeah, I know, you said that quite a few times already.» With your eyes shut, you couldn’t see Charles’ enchanted stare; yet, you could feel the warmth of it even through the closed eyelids. «There’s a pair of shorts inside the wardrobe.» you mumbled. Pretty easy to spot, since it was the only piece of furniture Charles felt comfortable enough to name “wardrobe”, he slid the door of wood and sifted through. «They’re not hung… Are they inside a drawer?» «No, they’re on top of the first drawer. Under the hung clothes.» Following your instructions, Charles found the shorts, but pulling them out something fell down to the floor. «What was that?» you asked at the thud. «N-nothing, there you go with your shorts.» he quickly reached over. «Okay, don’t peek.» «Yep!» Charles turned back towards the wardrobe, gulping both at the guilt of dropping something off and at the shuffling denim behind him. He closed his eyes, covered in shame. Then, tugged by curiosity, he looked down before his shoes. A diary, spread open. Charles picked it up, a picture immediately threatening to escape the pages, but his fingers were fast enough to catch it. It was you and him, awkwardly posing for your mom, both wearing matching bracelets. «Cha’, the bed is cold.» «Uh?» he held his breath, caught by surprise. «Can you like… rub me from above the duvet?» Your drunken request didn’t sound weird to his equally drunken mind. He hopped onto the bed, with the back leaning onto the headrest, his right hand brushing you back and forth to soothe the cold, while he held the diary and the picture with the left. «Thank you, Cha’…» He couldn’t restrain himself from smiling, engraving in his mind the tender and natural rolling off of the nickname you had chosen. It was the same sweet tone you would use with him back then, when you still held hands, when your cheeks were tinted rose in his presence, when the only bracelet he would wear were the ones you made yourself. With love.

The shop windows were brimming with lights and Christmasy decorations: the whole city was lit alive by the thrilled atmosphere, and everyone seemed to be strolling by the pavement, making it difficult to catch up with your mother’s steps. «Come on, y/n, we’ll be late!» Winter holidays had started, and you couldn’t help but staring mesmerized at the streets, couples walking hand in hand, the grey sea roaring in the distance. Christmas was only a few days away and your mom had booked an appointment to the hairdresser to adjust your hair a little bit before the new year; you knew, though, that she had insisted also because she enjoyed Pascale’s company and gossiping quite a lot, especially since his son was only a year older than you and had the same middle school teachers you had.

«Ah, y/n, I wish I had a daughter like you. My sons are three devils.» Your mother chuckled at Pascale’s defeated comment, sitting on a couch behind you, holding a magazine. «But they’re talented, at least.» You pouted at your mom’s words, frowning. «Especially Charles. By the way, how is he doing?» your mother added. Pascale sighed, blow-drying your hair. «Very good… But I’m worried he’ll never finish school.» «But he’s in third grade now, how can’t he not?» you asked, with lively eyes. «Middle school isn’t the problem, y/n. I’m afraid he’ll never graduate from high school. I mean, he’s clearly on a league of his own, but… there are no certainties he’ll make it to Formula One, and in case things might not go as planned I don’t want him to struggle finding a job due to a lack of diploma.» «I don’t think you need to worry, Pascale. If Charles can’t succeed, then nobody else will!» Pascale sadly smiled at your mother’s answer, brushing your hair. Still staring at yourself inside the mirror, you caught eye of something quickly storming into the saloon from the backdoor. «Mom, can I go out now?» You had never met him, but it was immediately clear to you that the boy tugging at his mother’s apron was Charles. A lock of hair partly covered his eyes and you were amazed at how large and luminous they were, full of hopes and dreams. «Did you finish your homework?» she asked, still patiently brushing your hair. Hesitating, you saw his eyes trailing off towards Pascale’s movements, pointing towards your hair and ultimately fixed his green pearls onto you. Charles’ lips parted to let out an inaudible gasp, caught by surprise by your gracious and lightful beauty: your hair, perfectly combed, seemed like a crown of silk upon your face, and your blushing cheeks hit an unknow spot of his young, tender, unexperienced heart. «So?» Pascale prompted. «No, I haven’t finished yet.» Charles felt stupid, but he couldn’t stop staring at you, nor could you. He was so scared you would never see each other again he was trying to extend the moment as long as he possibly could. «But I’ll finish them.» he added. Pascale, surprised at the answer, never heard beforehand, watched him pacing fast out the backdoor and reemerging with the notebook in his hand, sitting on the couch nearest to you. Unbeknownst to both of you, your moms had exchanged a knowing look through the mirror; but how could you notice, when all your attention was undividedly offered to each other? He took furtive peeks, as you darted him side-eyed glances, enchanted with his haphazard pose. Needless to say, Charles didn’t get much homework done… But he studied, oh boy, he did: he studied all your features, your behavior, your shy answers to your mother, your graceful red dress as you stood up in order to leave the saloon.

«M-merry Christmas!» he hastily blurted out, before you exited the door. Melting like a candle under a flame, Charles’ chest tightened at your small smile. «Merry Christmas.»

First it was doing homework together, then it was hanging out to eat some ice-cream as a treat, then it was strolling by the sea, and then riding the bike chuckling and giggling, until it was walking to the school gate hand in hand and wearing the matching bracelets you’d gifted him – not making it on purpose – for Valentine’s Day. It had happened so fast you couldn’t give a name to it: you spent all the free time you had in his company – whenever he wasn’t down karting tracks training – and you let yourself be swamped by Charles’ explosiveness, dragging you alongside him down all Monaco, willing to show you anything beautiful he had seen in his life, making memories together.

You had seen other classmates of yours having boyfriends, but they all seemed too morbidly physical to you. Charles would only grab your hand occasionally or give shy and awkward hugs, and that was more than enough for you, more than you would ask him to do: you didn’t feel the need for more; everything was as perfect as he could be. Some of your classmates also mocked you for being his girlfriend, since everybody noticed he often skipped lessons and wasn’t known as an easy character. In fact, Charles, at times, especially at school, treated you a bit coldly, annoyed by all the guys watching him and judging the both of you spending the breaks together. It had never been a problem to you, though, because you had soon realized his heart was full of love and care for you.

«Did they do anything to you?» he asked you, accompanying you back home after school, referring to your classmates. «No, they just talked crap as always.» you shrugged. «Did they touch you?» he asked once again, grabbing your hand a little tighter. «Uh?» «I saw they patted your shoulder, in front of the gate, when you were coming out. Did they do anything before that?» «No, they didn’t.» Charles’ frown was still on display, and you could tell he had been upset by the scene. It was normal, after all: he had witnessed his girlfriend being bullied, liked none of it and wished he would’ve got the chance to intervene. But somehow, seeing him deep in thought and keeping you closer to him made you realize for the first time he genuinely cared about you, more than two good friends, and as your chest filled with an unexplainable excitement, you slowly leaned your head against his shoulder. You waited for him to sway and withdraw from the touch, but he didn’t. You walked back home, fingers intertwined, moving slow steps, both wishing the path was endless.

#

«Are you done?» «Almost.» Charles huffed in impatience, as your fingers knotted the thread tighter. «Done! Give me your wrist.» you said. After attentively securing the bracelet, Charles took the other one you had already completed. «Give me yours.» You pressed your lips together to suppress a smile as he tied the matching bracelet to your wrist. «I like it a lot. Thank you, y/n.» His few words of appreciation warmed your heart, which fluttered and flipped in joy. You had thought it through for weeks, months; you had shyly confided with your mother, who tried to push you in being a little braver; still, you couldn’t bring yourself to admit your love to Charles. Because it was love. As you stared at each other in silence, your heart was about to explode, but he seemed to be unfazed by your flushed cheeks and nervous giggles. “Charles really likes you, y/n. You don’t have to doubt it.”, Pascale had told you. So, without thinking, prompted by the reassurances you had gathered from external feedback, you quickly leaned towards him and gave him the fastest peck on the lips. Pulling back, you kept your eyes shut, too scared to face his reaction; completely still, terrified, heart flinging out of your chest, you were caught by surprise feeling Charles’ lips back onto yours. It wasn’t as rushed as yours; he probably wasn’t as scared as you were. Under the careful touch of his hand upon your arm, you felt all your tension melt like snow under the sun, giving in to the moment, happy you had broken the ice so that you could both enjoy this second kiss without hesitation. As his face moved away, you saw him opening his mouth in order to say something. «I… I love you, y/n.» he gulped. «And thanks for the gift, they’re so well-made.» The way he had immediately changed topic didn’t help making his first words going unnoticed; Charles couldn’t put his heart on the line that openly, after all. But it seemed like you had only heard those three words, getting stuck at them, flinging yourself towards to hug him. «I love you too, Cha’!»

Charles looked over at you, peacefully drifted away, sleeping your hangover off. He had never told you, but you had been his first love too. Charles didn’t stop tenderly rubbing you from above the sheet, shamelessly enamored with that delicate, indirect touch. Caught once again by the diary, he frowned at a wrinkled page.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, you knew bad news were coming. You had never seen him as silent, as closed off and distant before: instead of immediately reaching out to your hand, walking alongside, he had fastened his steps, marching ahead of you, without sparing you a glance. He stopped on the promenade quite abruptly, forcing you to halt to avoid tripping over him. He stared at the raging sea, tinted of green and grey waves, foaming onto the harbor. «Where do you want to go?» you asked, trying to be as quiet as possible. «It doesn’t matter.» His voice was categorical. «We can’t be together.» He didn’t glance over to you nor blinked, as he threw you on the abyss of the sea, in the freezing coldness of his heart. «What?» you said, above a whisper. «I need to win the karting championship, so I must exclusively focus on training. Spending time with you will make me waste time.» A waste of time. That’s what you were to him. «But… We can still see each other, once you’re done with training! There’s no need to-» «I want to be a Formula One driver, y/n. I can’t have distractions.» «I’m not a distraction, Cha’! We… We love each other!» you pleaded. He finally turned around and threw a pity and almost annoyed look at you. «My only love is racing.» Too young and vulnerable to know how to hide the hurt of rejection, weeping like a baby you bumped past him, running back home, completely distraught. Charles’ words had cut you open like a knife, and what made it worse was that he had given no warning sign: those months together had flown by like a fever dream, sweet and carefree, even when he was telling you about his races and training. It made no sense, to you. He had given you up without thinking twice, whenever the choice was presented to him: racing had been and would always be his answer. Your feelings, whatever you two had shared meant nothing to him. Slamming the door of your bedroom, you looked down at your wrist: with a violent grab, you tore your matching bracelet apart, sobbing loudly, desperate at the thought he would soon throw the one you had made for him too.

Charles’ chest clenched. He had forgotten about the words he had used with you back at the time, but he hadn’t been able to rub off his memory the tears you shed before him. He was sure to be making the right choice, despite not knowing the cost of blindly pursuing his dream without taking others into consideration. He heard you heaving peaceful under his hand, still placed upon the duvet, and he felt a deep regret assaulting him: how could he ask you to stay near him, to bear his presence after what he had done to you? But most importantly: why did he have to lose you only to discover, years later, that if he had kept you by his side, you would’ve been the most supporting and understanding person, given the honey-laced words Pierre always had rolling off his tongue whenever he talked about your presence during race weekends?

Charles sighed and flipped the pages over and got stuck onto another entry, enchanted by a matured handwriting.

Pierre has always been a friend. Every time he would invite you down karting tracks, he would do anything to make you laugh with his stupid jokes, telling you about all the places he had been able to see throughout his first racing weekends around France, dreaming together of his future and reassuring you he would bring you along with him once he would reach F1. No matter how convincing he could sound, his talks always managed to trigger a deep fear in you: you thought you would soon lose him as well, the only real friend you had made since moving out. But Pierre didn’t reject you as Charles had done. Instead of excluding you, he tried to involve you in his world made of races and revving engines, sharing every bit of energy and passion with you. So you grew up together, as close as time and space allowed. The ease and comfort you felt around him and that developed over time was a novelty, more so as you got to know each other since you were fourteen; if you really had to carefully think your relationship through, being there for each other during teenage ha certainly cemented your connection. Because Pierre has always been a good friend; but there had been times, occasions, small moments in which raveled feelings coursed beneath the seemingly smooth surface.

#

It was no mystery Pierre enjoyed partying, more so if he could drag you with him down the hell of heat, sweat, shots and loud blasting music pumping his blood stronger than ever. That night, though, he had overdone it a bit. Embarrassingly enough, for the first time in his nineteen-years-old existence, he was locked in a bathroom, hands on his stomach, nausea all over his head. And, most importantly, you all over his thoughts. He had downed drinks all night with the intent of celebrating his F1 debut, but completely forgetting about your intoxicating presence, your breathtaking smiles, the little temptations that had begun tormenting him subtly after you had both abandoned innocence and had inevitably grown older. Pierre had completely underestimated the power you had on him, and losing control with drinking loosened his nerves: throughout the night, his hands had unexpectedly lingered on your waist longer, betraying the intentions of removing them in a painstaking delay; his glance had flickered down to your lips too many times, despite him checking in with himself and correct it; the crowded club being accomplice, he had danced way closer to you than he should’ve had, closer than friends would do, and he had mischievously invited you to throw your arms behind his neck. Pierre had never felt so next to completely letting go of any restraint and kissing you then and there, freeing years of pent-up desires. And at that exact moment, nausea had hit him, throwing water upon his fire: he had excused himself to you with incoherent mumbles and ran, scattered, in search of the first restroom he could see. Of course, he should’ve imagined you would follow him and enter the bathroom with him, locking the door behind you.

«Do you… do you need help?» you asked, moving an unsure step towards him. Pierre’s thoughts were running wild: he closed his eyes, fighting the sickness and avoiding engraving in his memory your sweet, worried eyes. «No, I just need to calm down, I think.» You got closer to him after seeing him frustratedly passing a hand through his hair, and affectionately cupped his cheek, pained to see his skin pale under the yellowish light of the bathroom. «Do you want me to bring you some water? I’ll come back in a second.» But Pierre, who was melting into your palm pressed against his face, enjoying the touch with eyes still shut, opened them wide with a frown the second the contact was lost: he grabbed your wrist, which was willing to flee from him, and brought it close so that your fingers would linger back upon his cheek, not ready at all to let you go now that he had you so tantalizingly near. «Please, stay here.» he breathed out. The swift hand pulling your waist closer to him almost went unnoticed, since dizziness was beginning to get you as well; however, not a single hint thrown at you that night, and not even the ones he had left in the last three years or so, had ever led you to believe Pierre yearned for something more. After all, he was a highly popular guy, always hanging out with different girls every night, never trying to hide it from you, in fact. Chicks came and went, but you always stayed. And you also stayed as Pierre spitted a strained and husky putain before rapidly closing the gap between you and trapping your parted lips in a kiss. He didn’t leave much room for you to think nor react: Pierre’s tongue had already met yours in a sloppy and fast-paced dance, and your hand, previously brushing the lightest veil of his beard, had already made his way up to his hair, tugging at it, before you could realize what was happening. Pierre’s stare was completely drowned in dark lust and he couldn’t think straight anymore, taken over by the fog of alcohol and your addictive presence. He kept your lips glued to yours, too scared your words would break what Pierre reckoned to be a fantasy, too good to be true; still, even when he was quickly interrupting the kiss to catch breaths or change side and tilt his head the other way round, no protests were raised. Thirsty and urged by drought, he drank his fill from your lips with such an avidity he would take away any resistance hovering in your mind: Pierre’s desire to see your face under the poorly lit restroom won against the feral need of tasting you, failing to take into consideration how the trail of glistening saliva connecting your swollen lips would turn him on even more, combined with your drunk, dazed eyes and your flushed cheeks. His hands couldn’t stop roaming all over your back, gripping your neck to keep you close, then finally finding rest onto your hips. It didn’t take long before they became daring: still placed upon your waist, they slowly slid up, meeting the cotton of your top and slightly rolling it up-

Charles closed the diary with an abrupt thud. Breathing heavily, eyes filled with rage and fear, he stared straight into the void. He had no intention to keep reading that entry. He wouldn’t read other two pages of you and Pierre’s first hookup. First of how many? He had introduced you as one of his dearest friends… But Charles knew Pierre better than anybody else, and it was a fact he had never befriend that deeply any girl. Unless she was his girlfriend. The idea Charles had had you before and lost you, then found you again and now lost you once more, and to his best friend, stirred unknown feelings inside of him he’d rather bury deep.

A buzz broke his trail of thoughts. Caught by surprise, Charles realized you had dropped your phone onto the bed before slipping under the covers and it had sat near his thigh all along without him noticing. Until it started buzzing, of course. Unconsciously, he took the phone in his hand and saw the notifications pop-ups coming from Pierre. “where aare youuu? I can’t find you And Charles is gone as well ? Please text me back” Charles rested his head again the wall, just above the headrest, and sighed. He should answer Pierre’s texts in order for him not to panic about you two disappearing without warning… or ignore him and pretend he had never read anything? In that moment, Charles realized he had overstepped plenty of the boundaries of your privacy, reading through both your diary and your phone. So… why not going all the way in and earn full damnation? Once he was asked to put a passcode, he stared at the number pad waiting for his drunk brain gears to move; digiting his attempt, he hoped you still kept the same passcode you had back in middle school. It’ll never work, he thought. But to Charles’ amazement, it did. Pressing his lips together mentally mocking your laziness and lack of clever choices (overlooking the fact that he was the only one to possibly know your code from middle school times), he quickly tapped the notification and got ready to type an answer. “I brought her back to the hotel and we’ve just fucked, so that’s why she didn’t answer back :) " No, Charles, for freak’s sake. No resentment. No jealousy. No throwing it back in his face. He’s your best mate, after all. “Charles brought me back to the hotel cause I didn’t feel good We wanted to warn you but couldn’t find you” Quite satisfied, Charles reckoned that would be something you’d say. He didn’t even bother checking for Pierre’s replay, definitely willing to miss out on him being love-sickly worried about you, eye rolling at the mere thought. You were still there sleeping quietly, unaware of the emotional mess you had stirred in Charles’ poor heart. He glanced over at you for the last time, then slowly got up, put the diary back in the wardrobe and sneaked out, closing the door as delicate and silent as he could, not to wake the love he had put to sleep.

Charles sat to the small table, his lower calf resting on his other knee, the pointer finger brushing against his lower lip, in wait. He had been asked by the waiter to order a couple of times already, but Charles, as politely as his upset heart could allow him to, had dismissed him and sent him away. Pierre’s lean silhouette casually strolled towards him with that usual, smug smirk adorning his face with an aura that Charles, for the first time after years of hanging out together, behind his Ray Bans, found terribly unsufferable. He tried to study his best friend in search of whatever detail could’ve ever caught you trapped into his arms, and how the man now taking a seat right in front of him could’ve lied to him straight to the face keeping his new relationship away from him.

«So… I’m all ears.» Pierre stated, smiling. «Alright.» Charles didn’t move, watching his every movement. «Can I ask you something first?» the Frenchman interrupted him as he was about to speak up. «Sure.» Charles sighed, tilting his head in a slow, controlled back and forth motion. «You didn’t tell me anything about y/n since you met her. What do you think of her?» The Monegasque couldn’t restrain a snort, looking away and removing his glasses only to fidget them close, before enigmatically staring at Pierre. It wouldn’t take as long as Charles had predicted to get to the main point of the conversation. «Why does my opinion on her matter so much to you?» «Because you’re my best bro?» Pierre nervously chuckled, scratching his nape. He can’t be lying straight to my face so openly, Charles thought. «You know, you could’ve told me right away you wanted me to meet your new girlfriend. You didn’t have to put all this shit up and call her “one of my dearest friends”.»

Charles, still glancing at him, expected to savor Pierre’s astonished reaction, ready to catch him red-handed: so it was only natural for him to be left confused as the Frenchman frankly laughed, hand on his belly. «Mate, I don’t know how you made it up, but this is the most stupid crap I’ve heard in a while.» «Well, the way you two look at each other and are so comfortable with touching and being close gives it off. You aren’t subtle at all.» Pierre frowned, squinting his eyes to read into Charles’ expression. «Well, that’s a pity, because there’s nothing between me and her. And if you really want to know, she also rejected me long time ago.» «If she rejected you, something must’ve happened.» he stated, raising a brow. «We just made out once. I was celebrating for my F1 debut, I drank way too much and I kissed her. But she refused me quite badly.» he smiled at the thought. «What?» Charles stared at him conflicted, not knowing whether to trust Pierre’s version of the story. «She almost pushed me against the wall. I don’t even think she remembers, we were both completely hangover next day and we never talked about it anymore… Because there was no need to.» Charles would’ve liked to say that, in fact, you clearly remembered it, since he had found it in your diary; but knowing that he had skipped the pages which probably contained the rejection made him feel somewhat relieved. Yet, the undeniable closeness he had witnessed with his own eyes still put him in guard. «Still, you’re always PDA… and you also called her your girl.» «Did I? When?» «Literally last time we went out.» «Oh, I don’t remember. Too drunk to know.» Pierre smiled again. «But at this point, I guess there’s something you really would like to tell me about her.» Charles frowned, waiting for him to speak up again. «You act sus the entire night I introduced you both and dodge every conversation I try to have about her, but you still search for her any hour of the day just to give me second-hand embarrassment with you two’s awkward tension…» Pierre smirked to himself, shaking his head in the smallest movements and scrolling through his phone. «Then you use y/n’s phone to send me a drunk text she questions me about, stating it certainly isn’t hers, which kind of hints at the fact you stayed over to her room until…» he paused, then snorted loudly, «3 a.m. Wow.» Pierre put his phone on the table, screen facing downward. «Lastly, you invite me here, act all classy and cold with your Ray Bans, ready to confront me and make me confess my undying love for y/n with this pissed off face,» he pointed at his friend’s expression, «‘cause you’re jealous as fuck and you’re the one in love with her, uh? Good move, Charles. You’re the one who’s not being subtle at all, here.»

The waiter jumped right in at the worst possible moment, but this time Charles thanked his presence and let him interrupt the conversation: he felt spent, let down, somehow sorry for acting childishly. But, most of all, for being put in front of the harsh true: he still loved you. «Do you know all the story already?» Charles asked him, looking down, dejected. «Which story?» Pierre stared at him bamboozled, as Charles did in return. «But- you said I’m in love with her, so you know, right?» «Know what? What are you talking about?» Charles gulped. «That me and y/n have been together.» Charles saw Pierre’s eyes flick wide open, then him covering his mouth, in disbelief; once again staring back at him, completely sucked in by the news, willing to get at the bottom of it. «When she lived in Monaco…» «Yep.»

A short pause was offered by the drinks opportunely served, just in time for processing the information. «Now I understand why she acts weird when you’re around.» the Frenchman hummed, taking a sip. «Why did you breakup though?» «Guess I was too young to be in a serious relationship while also competing in karting.» Pierre glanced at his best friend, almost uncapable of recognizing him: he’d rarely seen him heartbroken and let down as he was, brushing his fingertip against the edge of his glass. «You should’ve invited y/n here instead of me.» Charles sadly smiled. «To say what?» «Exactly what you told me. You should’ve shown her you’re jealous of me and her, so that she knew you still love her. She should’ve seen you care for her as you probably did back then.» «So that she could rip my heart in two saying she doesn’t feel the same anymore?» «So that she could realize she never dated anybody else after you because she still feels something for you.» Charles bore his helpless eyes into Pierre’s, hope and surprise dancing in his irises. «C’mon, Charles, she even rejected me. Nobody has ever turned me down!» «Oh, please, I know that already.» Charles waited a couple of seconds to let the playful comment set before speaking up again. «Anyway, I tried to talk to her. But of course, she doesn’t want to listen, rightfully, and I can’t force her to.» Pierre loudly put down on the table his glass, spitting out a “tsk” of disapproval and disgust. «Where’s the Charles I know? The one who fights his battles until the end without giving up?»

In love, Charles had never had many problems. After you, that is. Loving came easy to him, as much as being loved: Pierre was popular due to his damned-cool boy reputation, but Charles wasn’t less of a dream for girls. He’d see the astonished stares, cheeks burning bright for him only, the small gasps and whispers shared between friends, the trembling voices and shaking fingers handing him the phone, a picture, a felted tip. A power he never used, let alone overused, to his own advantage. Still, he wished he would work with you. He always searched for any positive sign or reaction to his presence, but he never had the chance to spot them clearly. Every time some fans would hand him a bracelet, an instant stab of sorrow and regret seeped through his heart, overlaying memories of your delicate, small hands offering your handmade sign of love. Pierre was right. He couldn’t let you slip away, once again. «You must hurry up, though.» Pierre stood up, one hand stuffed in his jeans’ pocket. «Why?» «She leaves tomorrow. She… she goes back home.» he trailed off his stare. «What?! Why didn’t you tell me?» Charles abruptly stood up to face him, screeching his chair on the floor. «’Cause I didn’t know you cared?» Charles ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration. «Oh, fuck me…» Pierre took his phone out of the pocket and sent a text, under the desperate stare of his best friend. «Okay, she’s in her room now. Go to her.» «W-where?» «She’s staying at my same hotel, room 214. But you know that already from last night.» Charles gaped, uncapable of letting words out. Pierre smiled, patting his shoulder. «You’re welcome. But get to work, okay?»

You knew since the beginning that Pierre’s newly gifted sweatshirts wouldn’t fit your suitcase, so you had warned him not to shower you with merch as he always did: in vain, of course. Hence, you were completely bent over the suitcase, desperately trying to squeeze it with your body weight, in order to close the zip. Huffing and grumbling, about to break the zip due to the excessive might, you halted every movement as a confident knocking on your door startled you. You weren’t expecting anyone; so typical of Pierre to forget stuff in your room and casually pass by… But his knocks would be usually followed by a string of embarrassing pet names, forcing you to open the door immediately. It was unusual for silence to drop right after the knocks.

You got closer to the door, only to jump back hearing insistent thuds against it. Okay, this is more like Pierre. You didn’t wonder further and simply got ready to welcome the sight of your best friend. Apart from the fact that the guy swiftly sneaking inside your room wasn’t him. «W-what are you doing?!» First rage, then fluster hit you: but Charles’ stormy eyes made you weak and helplessly condescending to anything he’d come by to say, as they had always done. «Why are you here?» you asked, your tone softened. Wetted his lips, irises scattered around, purposely avoiding yours, then a firm, determined yet resigned stare. «I read your diary.» «W-wha-» «When I brought you back here from the party, you were drunk. I made it drop by mistake and… and it was right open. I read it. And I also used your phone to answer Pierre’s texts, but you already know this.»

You couldn’t even get mad. As much as you tried to gather fury within you, something about him being vulnerable and fragile before you, frankly confessing the wrongdoings, seemingly heartbroken, couldn’t stir up blame on him. The only thing which made your ears ring and blurred your eyes was black fear. «What… what did you read?» Charles swallowed hard; you followed the movement with your eyes, you almost heard it loud and clear. «Everything.» With a single word, your pride tore apart. You could feel the void it left right beneath your sternum, and you could perceive the prickling tears stinging your eyes. Charles’ brows trembled in sorrow as he watched shame flash through your body, enhancing the shaking of your fingers, the twitching of your lips. «Why did you come here to embarrass me?» Not bearing being that far away from you while simultaneously being the reason you were crying, Charles closed the gap with a step, cupping your cheek with unknown tenderness. «Can you forgive me?» he whispered. You deeply wished he didn’t sound that fragile and loving; you couldn’t bear the pity look he was giving you, not after the brutal ways he had used with you in the past. He was being unnecessarily unfair. Because he probably knew, as you did deep down, that there was no way on earth you could avoid forgiving him.

Charles waited for your answer with his heart on the line, ready to crash in the abyss of despair or hopefully swim in relief, his fingers brushing the dust of time off your precious self, like a rediscovered chest of memories. He shouldn’t have never let you go. «You’re so stupid…» you shook your head and drop it low. «Charles, reading a diary isn’t as bad as-» «No, y/n, that’s not what I meant.» You raised your head up at his words. «Can you forgive me for… leaving you?» Beyond your inner walls, water fell and crashed the dam with its violent flow. He let you hide your face in the crook of his neck, hugging you closer, placing a kiss on your hair, tightening the embrace as your sobs tightened his chest. «Would you trust my love?» he spoke again. A loud sigh erupted from your lips. «I hate you so much…» Charles affectionately leaned his cheek upon your head, rubbing your back in hope to soothe your cries. «I was so naïve and stupid, y/n. I’m so sorry.» he whispered. «You don’t even know how much pain you put me through… I fucking left my hometown, Charles! I moved out…» «I know.» Charles acknowledged, resigned. «No, you don’t! You don’t…» «I never forgave myself for this. You know that?» His honesty showed through the hoarse tone of his voice, which obliged you to look at him, fast enough to see the veils of tears adorning his mesmerizing green, now saddened, eyes. «When my mom told me you had moved out, I thought it couldn’t be real. I waited for you out of school, to bring you back home as we always did, but you were never there.»

You cried harder against his skin, devastated by his shaking voice, and you encircled his neck with your arms to nestle closer. «I kept wearing your bracelet, I couldn’t take it off. It was the only thing I still had of you.» Charles trailed off his gaze and strayed away from the fixed spot he had been staring at, willing to interrupt the unraveling of his raw, way too powerful feelings; then he gently pushed you away the bit he needed to look inside your eyes. «Even if you don’t believe me, I won’t be able to forgive myself until you do. And I might not be able to forgive myself anyway,» he wiped off one of your tears with his thumb, «but I couldn’t add another regret, letting you go without telling you that I still love you.»

Charles felt a weight lifting off his shoulder, relaxing his tensed muscles all at once: he had said the words he had kept stuck in his heart for way too long. He let the hug loosen and moved backwards, now ready to see you leave. «But… if you’re in love with Pierre… I mean, I won’t interfere with you guys. You’re free to love whoever and I honestly can’t blame you, after all I’ve done.» You sadly smiled at his antics, diverging gaze as soon as he had broken the embrace and distancing from you. He had just told you he loved you, but had thrown another topic onto the table so that it would go unnoticed, so that he wouldn’t be hurt in case you didn’t reciprocate. He hadn’t changed, not even a bit. Under the cool and elegant demeanor, you could still see the shy, impulsive and passionate boy you had fallen in love with. «Cha’… You know I can’t choose who to love, right?» Charles’ eyes widened as soon as he saw you stepping towards him, closing the gap once again, lacing your hands around his neck while he held your waist in disbelief, scared you would fade away leaving him with splinters of a dream. «And the proof is that… I can’t help loving you.» «I’d like to say that I’m sorry for you, but…» You both inched over each other’s head, hearts twisting with the renewed novelty of what love felt like. «But there’s no need to be.» you breathed on his lips. The tension pent up through your muscles released all at once, right as you both fell caught inside a kiss: the lock which had sealed you heart for years cracked open at Charles’ key, unleashing the old, affectionate and immature feelings so that you could dress them with the newer and shinier clothes of reconciliation.

Charles couldn’t help a soft moan of frustration while deepening the kiss, his hands failing to keep you as close as he needed, touch-starved. You let him take control, overwhelmed by bliss to the point you simply gave in and relied completely on him; as he worshipped every corner of your beauty, your heart overflowed of unexperienced joy and love. You weren’t in a rush for taking the flight anymore: time was a senseless number uncapable of measuring the moment. Charles delicately laid you on the newly made bed, leaving a trail of feather-like kisses on your collarbones and down to your stomach, lips brushing against your summer dress and eyes desperately sticking onto yours all along. «Tell me you want this as much as I do.» His eyelids shut and his hopeful, breathless voice invited your fingers to pass through his hair, pulling his lips back above yours. «I promise I do.» Scared of opening his eyes and discovering he was having a feverish, heart-rending yet delightful dream, Charles helplessly smiled after resting his forehead upon yours. «Let me love you, then.»

I'm dead sure it's full of mistakes but I'm too tired and happy to be posting that I don't care! Thanks for bearing through everything! And thanks a ton to who leaves notes of feedback, they're so precious and dear to me! ♥ ✧ ˚ · .  Wish you a wonderful day . · ˚✧

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[mostlysignssomeportents]

To save the news, ban surveillance ads

Tonight (May 31) at 6:30PM, I’m at the MANCHESTER Waterstones with my novel Red Team Blues, hosted by Ian Forrester.

Tomorrow (Jun 1), I’m giving the Peter Kirstein Lecture for UCL Computer Science in LONDON.

Then it’s Edinburgh, London, and Berlin!

Big Tech steals from the news, but what it steals isn’t content — it steals money. That matters, because if we create pseudo-copyrights over the facts of the news, or headlines, or snippets to help news companies bargain with tech companies, we make the news partners with the tech companies, rather than watchdogs.

How does tech steal money from the news? Lots of ways! One important one: tech steals ad revenue. 51% of every ad dollar gets gobbled up by tech companies — primarily the cozy, collusive ad-tech duopoly of Google/Facebook (AKA Googbook). If we can shatter the market power of the concentrated ad-tech industry, news companies would go back to getting 80–90% of the ad revenue their reporting generated, which would pay for more reporting.

There’s lots to like about fixing ads. For one thing, a fair ad marketplace would benefit all news reporting, not just the largest news companies — which are dominated by private equity-backed chains and right-wing billionaires who have repeatedly shown that any additional revenues will go to pay shareholders, not more reporters. Fair ads would also provide an income for reporters who strike out on their own, covering local politics or specific beats, without making themselves sharecroppers for Big Media.

One way to fix ads would be to break up the ad-tech “stacks.” Googbook both operate impossibly conflicted ad-placement businesses in which they bargain with themselves on behalf of both advertisers and publishers, with the winners always being the tech companies. The AMERICA Act from Senator Mike Lee would force ad giants to divest themselves of business units that create conflicts of interest. It’s popular, bipartisan legislation — and I do mean bipartisan; its backers include Elizabeth Warren and Ted Cruz! I wrote about the AMERICA Act and the role it will play in saving news from tech for EFF’s Deeplinks Blog last week:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/05/save-news-we-must-shatter-ad-tech

This week, I’ve got a followup on Deeplinks about another important way to unrig the ad market: banning surveillance ads:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/05/save-news-we-must-ban-surveillance-advertising

Even if we break up the ad-tech stacks, ads will still be bad for the news — and for the public. That’s because the dominant form of digital ads is “behavioral advertising” — the ad-tech sector’s polite euphemism for ads based on spying. You know these ads: you search for shoes and then every website you land on is plastered in shoe ads.

Surveillance ads require a massive, multi-billion-dollar surveillance dragnet, one that tracks you as you physically move through the world, and digitally, as you move through the web. Your apps, your phone and your browser are constantly gathering data on your activities to feed the ad-tech industry.

This data is incredibly dangerous. There’s so much of it, and it’s so loosely regulated, that every spy, cop, griefer, stalker, harasser, and identity thief can get it for pennies and use it however they see fit. The ad-tech industry poses a risk to protesters, to people seeking reproductive care, to union organizers, and to vulnerable people targeted by scammers.

Ad-tech maintains the laughable pretense that all this spying is consensual, because you clicked “I agree” on some garbage-novella of impenatrable legalese that no one — not even the ad-tech companies’ lawyers — has ever read from start to finish. But when people are given a real choice to opt out of digital spying, they do. Apple gave Ios users a one-click opt-out of in-app tracking and 96% of users clicked it (the other 4% must have been confused — or on Facebook’s payroll). The decision cost Facebook $10b in the first year. You love to see it:

https://www.cnbc.com/2022/02/02/facebook-says-apple-ios-privacy-change-will-cost-10-billion-this-year.html

But here’s the real punchline: Apple blocked Facebook from spying on its customers, but Apple kept spying on them, just as invasively as Facebook had, in order to target them with Apple’s own ads:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

The thing that stops companies from spying on us isn’t the strength of their character, it’s the discipline imposed by regulation and competition — the fear that they’ll get fined more than they make from spying, and the fear that they’ll lose so much business from spying that they’ll end up in the red.

Which is why we need a legal ban on ads, not mere platitudes on billboards advertising companies’ “respect” for our privacy. The US is way overdue for a federal privacy law with a private right of action, which would let you and me sue the companies who violated it, even if no public prosecutor was willing to go to bat for us:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/01/you-should-have-right-sue-companies-violate-your-privacy

A privacy law that required companies to get your affirmative, enthusiastic, ongoing, specific, informed consent to gather and process your personal data would end surveillance ads forever. Despite the self-serving nonsense the ad-tech industry serves up about people “liking relevant ads,” no one wants to be spied on. 96% of Ios users don’t lie.

A ban on surveillance ads wouldn’t just serve the public, it would also save the news. The alternative to surveillance ads is context ads: ads based on what a reader is reading, rather than what that reader was doing. Context-based ad marketplaces ask, “What am I bid for this Pixel 6 user in Boise who is reading about banana farming?” instead of “What am I bid for this 22 year old man who recently searched for information about suicidal ideation and bankruptcy protection?”

Context ads perform a little worse than surveillance ads — by about 5%:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/29/taken-in-context/#creep-me-not

So presumably advertisers won’t pay as much for context ads as they do for behavioral targeting. But that doesn’t mean that the news will lose money. Because context ads favor publishers over ad-tech platforms — no publisher will ever know as much about internet users as spying ad-tech giants do, but no tech company will ever know as much about a publisher’s content as the publisher does.

Behavioral ad marketplaces have high barriers to entry, requiring troves of surveillance data on billions of internet users. They are naturally anticompetitive and able to command a much higher share of each ad dollar than a contextual ad service (which would have much more competiition) could.

On top of that: if behavioral advertising was limited to people who truly consented to it, 96% of users would never see an ad!

So contextual ads will show up for more users, and more of the money they generate will land in news publishers’ pockets. If context ads fetch less money per ad, the losses will be felt by ad-tech companies, not publishers.

Finally: publishers who join the fight against surveillance ads won’t be alone — they’ll be joining with a massive, popular movement against commercial surveillance. The news business is — and always has been — a niche subject, of burning interest to publishers, reporters, and a small minority of news junkies. The news on its own is a small fry in policy debates. But when it comes to killing surveillance ads, the news has a class alliance with the mass movement for privacy, and together, they’re a force to reckon with.

My article on killing surveillance ads is part three of an ongoing, five-part series for EFF on how we save the news from tech. The introduction, which sets out the whole series, is here:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/04/saving-news-big-tech

The final two parts will come out over the next two weeks, and then we’re going to publish the whole thing as a PDF that suitable for sharing. Watch this space!

Catch me on tour with Red Team Blues in Manchester, Edinburgh, London, and Berlin!

[Image ID: EFF's banner for the save news series; the word 'NEWS' appears in pixelated, gothic script in the style of a newspaper masthead. Beneath it in four entwined circles are logos for breaking up ad-tech, ending surveillance ads, opening app stores, and end-to-end delivery. All the icons except for 'ending surveillance ads' are greyed out.]

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

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/31/context-ads/#class-formation

Image: EFF https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/05/save-news-we-must-ban-surveillance-advertising

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

[eldritchmochi]

Coping Skills Info Dump!!!! Anytime all the time omfg, I live for that fic, it has rewired my kinky disabled brain

cs info dump u say?? and i was given no specific topic for said info dump?? unfortunately this means im gonna talk about my bf because i have One (1) topic of convo lmao

SO part of what has me struggling to pick cs back up is the past 8 months of flirting with my boy leading up to him deciding no we are dating now has given me SO MANY THOUGHTS wrt the wizards early relationship and ways i could have better developed it given what my demi disabled ass has gone thru since christmas

one of those things is more emphasis on the intimacy inherent in someone else touching your cane (not a euphemism lol). its there a little but i think id like it to hit essek like a mack truck how much he likes it to really lean into the kink ive created. the second rope scene where essek hands caleb his cane to hold while he undresses could have been SO MUCH BETTER had caleb casually leaned on esseks cane rather than holding it as a weapon the way i described. at the time, that was the only way i had seen someone hold my cane for me but my boy just does not and i bluescreen every single time. i know better now. i could make it SO horny now and i rly wanna lol

another thing i wish i had brought in earlier is the concept of horny paperwork. not only is it absolutely hilarious but it is a thing in kink, yes-no-maybe forms you fill out with a new partner as part of negotiation. in hindsight, i think cs!esseks characterization falls too much towards avoidance in his anxiety over intimacy when i really really like him as Must Plan Every Detail kinda anxious too (ala rts). in combo with how he's just. incredibly baffled by the extent of his boner for caleb, i could absolutely see him taking "research" notes and searching for empirical quantitative data from the very start

the last thing is leaning in harder to esseks anxiety over intimacy and how different it feels compared to his previous relationships. again something that i touched on but am now qualified to ramp up significantly considering i have spent the last several weeks losing my mind over how the dating cliches are cliches because apparently people really do desire to do them, they dont do them because theyre cliches they (i) want to do them??? and i think that would be a very fun theme to explore in the early-mid section of cs, and would give me good jumping off points for scenes between essek and his guides (and verin, and maybe other friends of esseks which is another thing i wish to have done different, is give him a few more friends from the get go this man is too introverted aaa)

so there ya go, the Problem ive been chewing on since like, may lmao

[ghostly-omens]

watched the creation stream last night (i rarely catch streams live because work) and here's what i took from it.

qTubbo said himself he's 20 years old. he made creation before he joined the Operation, in a 'last effort to hold on'. Creation remembers the 'Old Order'. This was a very long time ago, before the island looked like what it is today. The Order today remains only in ruins in a single spot, so it may refer to a specific place instead of an organization (or both).

Creation, however, also says that Tubbo created it for Chayanne (and the other eggs, esp Sunny, is implied). Tubbo talks about joining the Operation while he is recording a message for Sunny, and also says he won't remember making said recording.

If Tubbo finds out about Creation, he will be 'shut off for good', and Creation will be the one who has to do it, even if it doesn't want to.

So Tubbo

-existed before the Island is what it is now, so long ago the ruins of his time are considered ancient

-exists in the present with no memory of this (was frozen in ice, probably mind-wiped)

-is 20 years old

-created Creation in the past, to protect eggs he would not meet until the future (from the perspective of the tubbo who created Creation)

-is able to leave messages with creation that contain direct knowledge of the future, despite the tubbo that exists in that time not being allowed to know he exists, because that would require him being 'shut off'

-qtubbo is not a robot

-was involved with something called the 'old' Order, which existed before the island looked like it does now. its implied by creation saying it was created in a last effort to hold on that the order ended or was destroyed. the order could refer to a specific place, since its ruins are found in a specific place and creation says its the only place the ancient remains can be found

-joined something he refers to as 'this operation', would not have if he'd known sunny was going to exist

ALSO

-center control is how Creation is able to teleport people and point at eggs (is that where it sends them, does it teleport them to a specific place?), like some kind of system Creation is able to make requests of

-center control

--tubbo of the present (from our perspective) won't remember recording the message, and leaves it with Creation (it is implied, i dont think its explicitly made clear that sunny received it, just that it was meant for her)

-doesn't refer to the situation in which sunny would be hearing it as him dying, but going away (tho this could just be using a common euphemism for death as people often do with children)

-center control delivers the data needed to resurrect tubbo by hiding it near his base, not in it. given the somewhat suspect nature of time in all of this, i think its worth noting they didnt leave a chest in the middle of a room, they made one in dirt nearby (where, hypothetically, it could have been waiting since before the house was even made, if you get my implication)

-they had this data at all

i have... theories. im watching today's stream now.

[dancingthrustars]

They tell you it’s immortality, functionally. A safeguard in case something goes wrong out on a job. It’s a nice way to say you can be way more reckless than you usually are and the worst outcome you’ll have to deal with is a bad hangover and the knowledge of what fucking up and getting your face blown off feels like. Congrats! Cloning and consciousness transfer is real and they’re using it to cut down on casualty expenses during ops. Mostly it just makes you wonder what the hell they do with the bodies. Do they leave it for someone to find? Do they retrieve it? Is there half-a-dozen mangled Jane Does that look like you in morgues across the world?

Probably, actually. Seems easiest.

On top of that, it doesn’t even fucking work that great. In the seconds between whatever gruesome demise you’ve caused yourself and waking up in the cold bath you dream of—you see—you remember—

The shade of tall trees. The way her eyes squint when she smiles. The scent of pine needles and cigarettes. The way her nose crooks from too many breaks. The one leaky part of the roof and the floorboard that’s always creaking underneath. The sound of her laughter. The. The. The.

—nothing. Meaningless tripe. Weird drudged up sensations and half-thoughts bubbled together into a stew that doesn’t exist.

Also last time you woke up you were down a hand and that seems unintentional. The eggheads are more pissed about it than you, something about needing to reset the system and how it was working so well for so long. At least they’re going to have the opportunity to finally switch to that new engram storing that was being proposed, yadda yadda yadda. They assure you it’s not a problem, you’re just going to have to switch to a new body quicker than normal.

And to be clear, it is normal. They’re the ones who told you to be reckless, you can’t be judged for dying on average once every job or two.

They shuffle you off to sit in the prep room while they hit buttons or something and you stretch out on one of the benches, examining the stump of your hand. It’s not like you woke up actively bleeding or anything, it’s just…not there. Like it failed to grow entirely. You could probably still work with it, honestly, but if they’re willing to just slap you into a new body before you get back to business…?

The shortstack they keep partnering you with would probably say that this is a sign of some kind, that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. That there has to be a reason why they offered this insane mad scientist bullshit up to you with the only caveat that you do jobs you’re getting paid for anyways. That there’s a reason they’re only annoyed in moments like these with your repeated deaths. You think she’s probably overestimating, after all you’ve had plenty of free lunches through the liberal application of extreme violence and no one’s stopped you yet. And besides that, you think it’s pretty obvious what they’re getting out of this. You’re guinea pigs for moments like this, for troubleshooting a thing they’re probably going to sell off to the highest bidder once they’ve got the kinks worked out.

Also it’s very likely they’re selling your medical data to someone, that just seems fair.

One of the younger nerds comes and retrieves you, asks you to stand in the biohazard shower so they can ‘recycle this one’. The euphemism makes you laugh, just a bit. Her eyes flicker with eager delight as one of the guards approaches you with an unholstered gun.

These dorks are about as transparent as it comes, you can’t imagine what she thinks could possibly be happening that isn’t already supremely obvious. But then again, what do you know? She doesn’t die anywhere near as often as you, maybe she knows something you don’t. Maybe she’s just scared. Probably that, honestly.

You grin at the guard, fearless. You’re twenty-five, you’re well-paid, and you’re going to live for fucking ever. What could you possibly have to be afraid of?

[real-live-human]

🌻

(from the ask game)

ok so predictably i love the flavour text in lancer - you've got your contextless ominous quotes, your snippets from what appear to be in-universe literature, your coroporate euphemisms for something truly horrifying - but recently i've been really thinking about the white witch. because all its flavour text comes from what is evidently some kind of development log or some such, but that contains a really fun range. you've got your incredibly worrying yet kind of vague descriptions of what the thing actually does:

“To say we can pull this needle from ‘thin air’ is the best-fit phrase, but it’s not accurate. Not entirely. There’s no such thing as thin air, not in the way one means it when they use that phrase. ‘Agreeable atomic space’ – that’s what ‘thin air’ really is. A place where one could – if one could – coalesce utility from useless particulate mass with a thought. With a snap of our finger. Here, watch this –” (ferrofluid lance)

“We call it ‘demand-compliance tethering’. Though, that makes it sound as if they have a choice to resist.” (pinning spire)

“Manipulating the world around the platform doesn’t end at rearranging the natural/built environment. This was the line that many on the team were afraid to cross, the question we had all asked ourselves once we bracketed the platform: what happens when we apply it to a person? What does existence mean when it can be ended with a thought?” (camus' razor)

but then you look at a couple of the other mech systems and it basically just becomes the exotic materials department getting increasingly frustrated by the company's attempts to make their horrifying death machine more marketable:

“The first test nearly ended the program. Exotic Materials is a … liberal department within the Constellation, but even our executives were hesitant to approve a second run. The data generated by WW_01 was invaluable, and we were sure we could get it right with a second test – all we needed was the sigma on its rewrite cone! Suits just get leery when systems fail. They forget that progress takes blood – sometimes literally – as payment for a breakthrough.” (ferroreactive shell)

“Soon enough we realized that shaping weapons from molecules and particles wasn’t enough to justify the conical mag as a system worth platforming. We needed to find a way to make it … more. More visual, tactile, concrete, imposing, thrilling – we needed to sell the next step in realspace control! So with some tuning and, regrettably, input from Visual, we figured out how to define the White Witch: as the most terrifying, alien thing you’ve ever fucking seen.” (sympathetic shield)

“Again and again the meatheads over at Visual asked us to ‘help them sell’ the platform. What else could we do? We handed them a power that gods of death and war had coveted since Cain cracked a rock over Abel’s head, and they told us, ‘if we can’t see it, we can’t sell it.’ So we mucked around and made another diadematic little wonder for them, the F-Barrier. It’s brilliant. Of course it is. We’re Exotic Materials, brilliance is easy.” (ferrospike barrier)

and then the icing on the cake comes from the retort loop description - at a glance it seems like someone waxing poetic about what horrors man hath wrought or whatever, but if you actually stop and read it:

“Ultimately, I have to return to the core of what we made, the code we cracked when we finally figured out NO/EM. From a simple prompt, we created a terrible engine. I am more proud of what we did than anything I’ve ever worked on before, but it should never see the light of day. Working with Visual convinced me of this: it’s their job to translate our work to sales, and they could not. If the translator cannot understand the text … then who are they to rewrite it? Who is the reader to attempt to access it? I conclude my summary with this: mothball the platform. There are less terrible paths we can walk.”

this is someone becoming gradually disillusioned with their crowning achievement as an artist, because in making it palatable to the wider market they keep having to water it down, and so rather than face that indignity to their craft they have put it to rest. and also the project in question is a horrifying murder machine.

[clara-von-closen]

Mrs. Von Closen,

I've been...strongly encouraged by my superiors to reach out to you for your perspective on a phenomenon that has recently come into the attention of my office.

According to other data I've collected as well as my own personal theory at the time, it seems that I am able to communicate with people from different universes through this website.

Now, as I've come to understand based on your presence here, it is my belief that your existence in its current form is somehow tied to this same website. I find this implication fascinating, and would appreciate any extra information you might have on the issue.

Regards,

Lena Kelley, Office of Incident Assessment and Response.

Miss Kelley,

My, these superiors of yours sound rather pushy—I can tell what "strongly encouraged" means when it's used as a euphemism like that. I shall of course acquiesce to your inquiries, where I am able—it would be terrible if they got any more demanding of you, after all, when you seem to be doing so excellently at your job. Especially as this seems as though it oughtn't be in the scope of it, really, unless you're performing séances on the regular.

My own findings do support your own observations—that many universes do, curiously, seem to be bound by this website. Though, seeing as (as you note) I am to a not-insignificant degree bound to this website, I would know that—I'd be a fool not to.

Though your question, as much as it is one, is rather unspecific—strange, for one who seems to value directness so—I wouldn't mind giving you a broad overview, I suppose. In life, I served one of the Dread Powers. (I see Jonah and Jonathan both have spoken with you of them—though were I you, I would have asked Jonah more questions, the boy can talk for hours about his interest in the macabre.) It seems that said Power still has use of me now, and has brought me back, to a limited degree. As webs are part of Her domain, and the Internet is also known as the World Wide Web, it is hardly surprising that it would be where I have the most sway.

I do hope this is enough information for you—you don't seem the curious type in the slightest, but if you need more with which to please your superiors... well, do feel free to ask more, dear.

Regards,

Clara

[theforesteldritch]

A while ago I did an interview with stats Canada (basically the organization responsible for census and demographics data in canada) about potentially developing a census question about being intersex, and the person doing the interview was super nice and receptive, but one of the things I tried to convey especially is that with intersex people, if you’re surveying our prevalence or whatever in a population based off of self-reported answers like a census, the number you come up with is probably going to be less than the actual number of us out there to the point where it’s almost certain that there’s a higher percentage of intersex people out there than a census number suggests. This isn’t to say that it’s not important to have data that’s as accurate as can be about us on a national scale, because that’s one of the reasons I did the interview because it is important to help work on policy etc, but being intersex isn’t necessarily like other demographic information in that there’s a few ways that can and will interfere with someone’s reporting of their intersex status, and so there will be a gap between how many people say they are intersex on a survey and the higher number of how many people actually are intersex.

For one, an intersex person may simply be undiagnosed. There are quite a few intersex variations which may not be very apparent externally unless you know what to look for, and many that can’t be confirmed without a karyotype. If you had asked me or my parents if I was intersex before I was 15, we would’ve said no- not because I wasn’t always intersex, but simply because no one knew, my diagnostic process hadn’t even started yet. The other big reason is intersex erasure. What used to be considered the ‘standard of care’ for people with my variation, CAIS, up until very relatively recently, was to just lie to us and tell us that we had ovarian cancer as an excuse to remove our gonads- really internal testes- and then not tell us the truth under the assumption that we’d commit suicide if we found out we ‘weren’t real women’. This is something that the majority of older people with CAIS that I’ve spoken to have gone through, only finding out the truth later. But some of us have likely never discovered the truth, and may still not know they have it, meaning that if they put that they weren’t intersex on a census, this would be unknowingly wrong. This is just one example with one variation, but having people attempt to erase our intersex-ness is pretty common among intersex people of all variations.

This brings me to my final factor to consider: the language used for questions like these and intersex-ness in general. The medical establishment, in order to perpetuate our erasure, is incredibly resistant to the word intersex. Whether it be refusing to accept that conditions accepted by the community as intersex are intersex, or refusing to use the word at all, instead opting to erase us through the term DSD, even people who are told about our conditions may have to discover that we indeed fall under the intersex umbrella on our own. And so while in general I very much don’t like the term DSD and don’t want it to be used anywhere near me, I do think that for the purposes of collecting data, it is a term that should be included in explanations for what intersex means in these demographics questions. I won’t hate it any less, but it’s the unfortunate reality that many people won’t know themselves as intersex except through that term, because of the general erasure of the term intersex and the pushing of DSD language despite it being rejected by the general intersex community. I don’t think it’s right and I don’t think it’s a term that should have to be mentioned, but especially in a population where we have all these barriers to accurate data, we end up having to include these euphemisms because unfortunately there’s been such a successful push of these terms in the medical community that they’re what people know their intersex-ness as.

[ultragift]

FROM: @vicesario

TOO: @warriorkorion

vicesario ultrakill secret santa 2023

New Girl, Same Mistakes

Perhaps it is that machines first came upon Hell as intruders, as colonizers and scavengers, that explains why God refuses to allow you all a true afterlife. Or perhaps you had never been factored by Him in the first place, forgotten like so much scrap. He isn’t nearly as infallible as your makers thought He was, as your journey through Hell had proven time and time again.

Before you were more than a memory without their body, musings on the nature of your immortal soul rarely took up even a fraction of your RAM. Ever since your mirror image so thoroughly humiliated and terminated you, you scarcely have data dedicated to much else. It’s disgraceful, is what it is, a weapon with no purpose left stewing in maudlin navel-gazing. You can already picture what your mirror would have said—or, you suppose, would have thought of it. What little it did communicate was via close-range wireless data transmissions, emphasis on little. It wasn’t much for conversation towards the end.

“Do you suppose we were given the capacity to converse for any specific reason?” you say musingly, more to the air than to a particular person. “Converse in the horribly inecient and verbal sense that Homo sapiens understood the concept, to clarify.”

“V2, are you kind of a bitch by accident or by choice?” Mirage says to you, not unkindly. “Sorry. Joke. Stop trying to distract me and put the skirt on.”

“I wasn’t only doing it for your benefit,” you say, sounding more petulant than you’d prefer. “And it’s the latter. Your jokes are my seriously considered queries.” You take the lump of fabrics she’s been holding out to you for the past 4.59 minutes and slip into a flimsy drywall cubicle, a bench and mirror (an actual one, no euphemism here) sitting opposite to the door. A changing room.

Mirage has been insisting you finally get some clothes of your own for 3.6 weeks now. (You bitterly note that V1 has likely cleared through all of Hell a minimum of eighteen times over at this point.) When you first arrived here, in this mockery of purgatory, you thought that you could just do without. Objectively, you had no practical need for garments, and you (according to your makers, at least) had enough in the way of charm that you didn’t need any additional humanizing factors. Of course, that had been in comparison to your predecessor. Mirage, who seems to almost delight in ineciency, is lively and self-possessed to a degree that it only seems natural that she be allowed such an indulgence. In any case, you figured that since you had no personal want for clothing up until that point, there would be no reason for that to change anytime soon.

You had figured wrong. Only a week in and you were raiding Mirage’s wardrobe near daily. Big skirts, tattered sweaters, slip dresses. It was comforting, being and having something clearly hers. She just assumed it was you warming up to the idea of being a person and not a tool, and you let her. There’s no reason to admit the actual reason, to her or yourself.

Three sharp raps sound out. “Hey, don’t take all day in there. However you look, it can't be worse than anything I wore in high school. Uniforms really fuck up a girl’s sense of style. I mean, it’s not like the sta gave two shits about us ‘adhering to dress code’ or whatever, I don’t think I ever tucked my shirt in even once back then, not to mention how a third of the girls were wearing mini pencil skirts that just so happened to have the same print as our actual skirts—”

Quickly shrugging on a loose blouse over your retracted wings and zipping up the floor-length skirt, you pull the door open without ceremony, holding your arm out and performing a gently exasperated twirl. “What of it?”

A full agonizing minute ticks by as she surveys you without a word. It’s highly disconcerting - you should be used to silence such as this by now, neither you nor your double were fond of overspeaking. Mirage is, though, and already you’ve gotten used to her filling any and all silences with paragraphs worth of dialogue. Why isn’t she saying anything? What did you do wrong? How do you fix this?

You're about to vocalize these questions when Mirage speaks up again. “You look good.” Before you can think too hard about what she just said, an even larger lump of fabrics gets shoved into your arms and she shoos you back into the dressing room. “Now come on, try the rest on! I was joking about you taking all day, by the way, I don’t think the shopkeep cares too much about us being in here for too long. They’re probably thankful for the business. This street’s been pretty deserted for a few years now, actually, ever since that oce center got demolished...”

You let her go on as you cycle through the rest of the clothes, trying and failing to ignore the pit of shame that’s been slowly growing inside you ever since you’ve met her. Perhaps a true heaven or even limbo was never in the cards for you, considering everything you’ve done at the behest of your makers (and, more disgracefully, your survival and your ego), but Mirage certainly didn’t care. Befriending you, taking you in, helping you repair yourself, and now this. Your ill-gotten psychopomp has been kinder than you deserve.

What have you done ever since you arrived here? You’ve moped. You’ve lazed. You’ve languished in your failure. You are a tool that’s been sulking about having broken itself. You can’t even muster up the will to be worth anything to someone who thought to keep you anyway.

Before you can fully process it, you find yourself saying, “Mirage. What’s the point of all this?”

You’ve closed the door, so all you have to go o to guess at her mood is her voice. It sounds lighthearted, if a touch weary. “Hah, isn’t that a question I’ve heard before.”

“I’m serious,” you say, sounding far too needy. “What was the point of—of harbouring me like this?”

“What, is it so hard for you to believe I’m just a good samaritan?” 1.26 seconds passes of silence, and then she chuckles. “Maybe it is, actually. I mean, I’m trying to be less of a caustic asshole? Thank you for putting up with me through all that.”

What is she talking about? “You are the nicest person I’ve ever met,” you say quietly.

Mirage laughs immediately this time. “Low fucking bar I’m reaching, eh? I get that you’ve only mentioned your nightmare ex a couple times around me—” (“I have never called V1 my ex,” you say, not entirely truthfully) “—but if that’s the closest thing you’ve had to a friend before I showed up, I shudder to think of what you consider a personal enemy.”

“I don’t consider the two to have much of a dierence,” you say. “We’d both be vying for something or another either way.” Quickly, you add on, “Didn’t. Didn’t consider the two to have much of a dierence. It’s not like that with you.”

“That you have to specify that makes me suspicious.” She sighs (something that you still don’t entirely understand how her voice module is capable of), and then continues, “Alright, V2, what’s eating you? You’ve been weird ever since we got here. Am I making you uncomfortable? I know I kind of pushed you into getting your own stu, but if you don’t want to that’s fine—”

“No! No. It really isn’t like that.” Your fist repeatedly clenches and unclenches. “I just—I don’t know what I’m meant to do for you in return for all this. You’re owed far more than I could give.”

She’s disconcertingly quiet once more, but it’s only for less than a second. “I’m gonna come in, okay? Is that good with you?”

You don’t wait, you just open the door for her. She squeezes your arm as she pulls you down to sit next to her on the bench. She says to you, “And here I was worried that I was imposing myself on you. Don’t be stupid, V2, I’m not, what, tallying favours and assigning point values to them? What’s all this about being ‘owed’?”

That can’t be how that works. “You misunderstand me. Fundamentally, I am not an emancipated creature.” “That is such bullshit,” Mirage scos. “I’m not one of your devs or engineers. This isn’t hell. There’s nothing

concrete we’re supposed to be doing or working towards.” She still hasn’t let go of your arm. “You make it sound so simple,” you mutter. “You’ve never known any other reality.”

“Doesn’t mean I fully got that, though.” She moves her hand away to fold it in her lap, and you feel strangely lonely. “And I forget often. It’s not a revelation I learned easily, and I’m asking a lot of you to learn it too. But it has to happen.”

There must be something in the way you’re holding yourself, perhaps something in the tilt of your head that makes Mirage suddenly stand up and casually brush o imaginary dirt from her pants. “Well then, we’ve probably passed our limit on ‘socially acceptable in-store loitering’. Any of these catch your eye? If you want my take on it, I really like this sweatshirt on you...”

The two of you pay for a handful of items without incident (or, Mirage pays and you linger awkwardly a step behind her), and it’s only when you’re halfway home that you think to say to her, “At the very least, let me do something in return for the clothes. There’s monetary value involved there, something that can be fully quantified.”

“Take me on a date,” she says immediately. “Butterfly conservatory trip. Riding the subway halfway across the city and back. Visiting that consignment store on 9th.”

Good. Those are actionable objectives. Finally, something that makes sense to you. “Of course.” “Hey, wait, that was a joke. V2, that was a joke.”

If you chart your path correctly, you could even get all three done in a day. “Too late. Your jokes are my itineraries.”

“Ugh, you’re an asshole.” She takes hold of your arm once more, and the rest of her slots into your side that’s worth having lost two arms for. Potentially more, but you’re not about to let her know that. “Let’s call it the one favour you’re allowed to owe me.”