#mutton chops and handlebars only

[detroit-grand-prix]

Wildest Dreams Chapter 27 - Wildest Dreams (Phoebe's Version)

Chapter summary: Everything has been leading up to this. It's not the last race of the season, but for Phoebe Stallard, it feels like the last, and best chance to make her goal. After all, what could be sweeter than taking her first podium at home? But in racing, just like in life, it's never quite that straightforward.

Content warning: N/A

Chapter word count: 7,100

Author's Notes: This is the end of the main story. When I finished this, though, this story couldn't let me go, and still really hasn't. I've been working on a bunch of side stories that I will get around to posting, and I'm planning on writing an epilogue that has snatches of the 2022-2024 seasons.

I'm really proud of this story, and I'm glad it's gotten a few dedicated fans along the way. I know OC-centered stories aren't popular in RPF fandoms, and that's fine, but I never feel like I am able to do the actual athletes justice, but the psyche of someone who competes in F1my original plan! Thonestly didn't even get through everything I'd wanted to. It was a challenge, too - writing race play-by-plays is really difficult, honestly! But, as far as the stuff I didn't want to get to, we'll see what I can come up with. Plejuest sprang to mind for me but allowed me to take the story in directions that I hadn't expected. Anyway, thank you again for sticking around until this point. I know this chapter was an absolute monster is still fascinating to explore. And I've really enjoyed being able to examine what it would mean to be the first woman in so long to make it that far. I hope someday that it's not just a work of fanfiction, and that it can be reality. The narrative took me by surprise, too. It's really amazing when the story couldn't let me go, and still really hasn't. I've been working on a bunch of side stories that I will get around to posting, and I'm planning on writing an epilogue that has snatches of the 2022-2024 seasons.

*also, I know the spelling is technically "kerbs" but I just cannot bring myself to spell that word that way. SORRY.

Circuit of the Americas, Austin, Travis County, Texas, United States of America

October 24th, 2021

Bee woke up well before her alarm on race day. Her entire body was thrumming with nervous energy, but at least for the time being, it wasn’t a bad kind of nervousness, at least not yet.

She took her time getting ready before she had to meet Emilia and her parents for breakfast, but time had a way of speeding up for her before something she was dreading. She did manage to eat a good breakfast, though, and Toto and Susie ended up meeting them all there - they were just in one of the hotel’s restaurants, but It was the first time she’d seen Toto since qualifying.

“You had an amazing qualifying yesterday, bienchen. I was very impressed. Your performance has definitely improved this year, and I think as long as you just go out there and have fun, you’ll be satisfied with your performance, no matter what.”

It was different advice than everyone else had given her, but it probably did the most to help relieve the pressure.

Eventually, it was time to head to the track for the pre-race festivities, and festivities they were. There was a drivers’ parade first - Bee and all of her gridmades were herded onto the back of a flatbed truck and were driven slowly around the track, while being interviewed for F1TV. She was amused by the sight of a lot of the other drivers wearing cowboy hats - it just didn’t suit most of them, being rich boys from Europe.

The exception, however, was Daniel Ricciardo - not only was he wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots, but he had shaved his beard into a handlebar mustache and mutton chops, and was wearing a University of Texas basketball jersey. He joked that he was an honorary American, and he certainly wasn’t wrong.

“You look more American than I have ever felt,” Bee told him as they climbed onto the trailer. “They should probably just give you a US passport right now.” He laughed at her. “I would love that, honestly.”

Bee was dreading the interviewer, Rosanna, coming around to her, but it seemed that she was first. At least she’d get it over with. The interviews were also projected over the loudspeakers in the grandstands.

“We’ll start with you, Phoebe. It’s your first race in the United States, you’re the first American on the grid in many years, there’s a lot of people in Williams blue with American flags - how are you feeling ahead of the race today?”

“I, uh… well, maybe a bit nervous, but it’s so nice to see so much home support -” Bee had to stop talking because of the cheer that rose up from the grandstand they were passing. “And I’m really hoping that I can run a good race today for everyone. I’m sure it will be fine once the helmet is on, though. This is an amazing track and I had a really great qualifying yesterday, and there’s so many people here today, it’s really incredible to see. When I started, all of the races were under lockdown and there was no audience, and it definitely makes a big difference.”

She spent the rest of the parade waving to the crowd and talking to George for a bit. The truck they were on was going slow enough that she could finally get a good look at a lot of the crowd - not only were there a ton of American flags, but it looked like someone had produced a “Super Bee” banner that had been widely adopted - she saw tons of them dotting the grandstands.

It was the first time she’d seen it, and it gave her a warm, fuzzy feeling. She’d spent so much of her racing career being somewhat of an outcast, an outsider, an oddity. She remembered showing up to testing for GP3 and getting stared at the entire time, like nobody there had ever seen a girl in their lives. They probably hadn’t ever seen one in a racing suit. She didn’t ever think motorsport fans would embrace her like this, especially when she’d reached Formula 1, the pinnacle of motorsport.

But then, she thought about Adelle and Olivia, and how Olivia had said that there wasn’t anyone she wanted to root for before she signed with Williams. Maybe she wasn’t the only one. Maybe it wasn’t the racing fandom embracing her, but her presence changing who the motorsport fandom was. No doubt that Netflix had helped with this, bringing Formula 1 to a broader audience, but how had she changed who racing appealed to by just being a woman on the grid? It was everything she’d been working for, it was everything Susie had been working for, before her.

All the more reason to try her best today, and hopefully climb the podium at last.

Once she was freed from the drivers’ parade, she headed to the Williams hospitality tent to get changed and get warmed up. Emilia was already waiting for her in her drivers’ room. She left briefly so Bee could slip out of the jeans and team shirt she was wearing and into her Nomex baselayers and racing suit.They did their warm up sequence as usual, and Bee hopped up on the massage table, ready for the rest of it. She froze for a moment, wondering if she should take her shirt off for the massage, remembering how warm, soft, and soothing Emilia’s hands were on her back yesterday.

Emilia didn’t even have to ask before Bee made her decision, tossing the undershirt onto the small futon in the room.

“Oh, okay! I wasn’t sure if you wanted to do that again. Did it feel better yesterday with -”

“Yes. It did. Thank you.” Bee said, quickly laying face-down on the table so Emilia wouldn’t notice the blush spreading down Bee’s face. Bee could feel the heat spreading down from her cheeks to her chest, and knew it didn’t have anything to do with the Texas sunshine.

“We’ll just do it this way from now on.” Emilia said quietly. “If you want.” Bee heard the click of the cap for the lotion bottle and felt her heart start to beat a little faster.

“...Yes. I… I’d like that.” It really was much more effective. Bee was almost so relaxed by the time she sat up for her breathing exercises that she felt like she could have fallen asleep. Emilia grasped her hands again and led her through a deep breathing progression, because Bee had told her that it helped ground her yesterday.

“Okay. Are you ready?” Emilia said, handing Bee her shirt and her drink bottle after they had finished. “Drink some more. It’s hot out there and I know you’ll need it.”

Before long, it was time to head out to the car to take her place on the grid. Before Bee went to head over to the garage, Emilia stopped her. She bent down to Bee’s height, wrapped her arms around her, and said, “Good luck today. Just go out and have fun. Don’t get your head so wrapped up in the result that you stand in your own way. I know this is an important race for you, but it’s not the last one this season. I’ll be here for you no matter what happens.”

Bee returned her embrace, closing her eyes, breathing in Emilia’s presence around her. “I know. But it feels like it’s a big one. And… Thank you. For everything you do. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” She meant it, too. She never dreamed she’d develop such a close relationship with her performance coach, but she was glad she had.

They walked over to the garage together.

Bee said hello to her parents. Josephine, once again, insisted on taking pictures. One of Emilia and Bee together, one of Susie with Bee, one with Bee and her dad, and one with Bee and Claire. She asked Susie to get a picture of the two of them together, after which Bee said “Mom, I have to go! I have to get on the grid!”. She sounded perhaps a little more whiny than was necessary.

“I know, honeybee, but how many times do you get to watch your daughter race in Formula 1 for the first time in your home country? I don’t think it’s a usual occurrence! I think I’m actually the first!”

Bee laughed. She wasn’t the first, technically, but she was the first in the US.

She hugged both of her parents, Susie, and Claire, and they all wished her luck.

She walked over to her car in its place on the grid, holding her helmet and gloves. Emilia had an umbrella to protect them from the hot, direct sunshine, but she was so much taller than Bee it almost wasn’t working. “Drink some more.” Emilia said. “I know you don’t like to use the drink system in your car, so you need to make sure to finish whatever’s in that bottle before we start.”

Bee rolled her eyes a little and took more sips on the long straw, but secretly, she was touched by Emilia’s concern. She was right, though - it was going to get incredibly hot in the cockpit, and she would be more dehydrated today than usual by the end of the race.

She clambered into the cockpit while the engineers and mechanics made their final adjustments. Emilia had set her umbrella down over her so Bee wouldn’t start baking while she was sitting there. Once all of the final checks were complete, Bee had to climb back out for the opening ceremonies.

The opening presentation was very American in every way - there was a marching band (the University of Texas marching band), a flyover by military helicopters, a giant American flag on the track held by various American military personnel, a giant flag carried across the sky by people with parachutes, the cheerleaders for the Dallas Cowboys NFL team, and a country singer Bee hadn’t ever heard of singing the national anthem.

Normally, she wasn’t particularly moved by “The Star Spangled Banner”. It was okay, but she’d heard so many national anthems by now that she’d grown to have opinions on them. She liked Germany’s “Deutschlandlied”, of course, and she had liked Austria’s “Land der Berge, Land am Strome” before she’d heard it so much this season because of Max’s victories. She disliked the Dutch anthem, but liked the bouncy, cheerful “Il Canto degli Italiani” because of her love for Monza. The UK’s anthem, “God Save the Queen”, always threw her off, because she’d learned the melody as a child as “My Country ‘Tis Of Thee”, an American patriotic tune.

But as the singer on the track hit the last note, a chill shot down Bee’s spine. It was moving this time, and she didn’t know why.

Finally, it was time to start. She was glad Emilia had left the umbrella over the opening of the cockpit, otherwise, her HANS device may have been too hot to pick up with her bare hands from sitting on her seat.

She climbed into her car, put on her radio headset, balaclava, helmet, and her gloves, and her focus narrowed to her steering wheel and the view out of her cockpit. She took a minute to focus on her breath, and focus on the racing line, as she always did. She snapped her visor closed, the mechanics all backed away from the cars for the start, and she was ready for the formation lap. She took off with the pack, weaving the car to get temperature into the tires and warm up the brakes, not that it would be difficult today.

“Radio check.” She heard Gaetan say.

“Loud and clear.”

“Okay, Phoebe. Let’s have a good race today. Keep an eye on your tires, the track is hot. Let me know right away if anything seems off. Remember it’s not very long into the first turn and it’s an uphill climb, so don’t be a hero. Good luck.”

“Copy. Thank you.”

It was strange to see the cars she was behind and next to at the start - she certainly wasn’t used to seeing a Mercedes in front of her or a Ferrari next to her, but she relished it. It felt like a challenge.

Her eyes locked on the starting lights, and she held her breath as all five disappeared.

Right away, she got an amazing start - she saw a gap between Leclerc and Bottas, and swept straight through it, immediately going up into 5th place. Miraculously, there wasn’t any silliness heading into turn 1, a climb steeper than Raidillon at Spa. She pressed in her throttle, and was right on Bottas’ back as they straddled the entry curb on the right.

The nice thing about the hill was that you could brake later and harder than normal without issue, but the apex was hard to spot over the blind crest. You also had to avoid the temptation to turn into the first apex early - the wider line was superior for the best exit.

She slammed into first gear to rotate the car quickly before a quick shift into second gear, making sure to avoid the sausage curb that would wreck her exit.

Turn 2 was flat, and really just a means of getting to turn 3 as soon as possible - that was where the real fun started. A mistake here could affect your drive all the way through turn 6, even as far as turn 11, so keeping a good rhythm and flow here was of the utmost importance. It was the same as Maggots and Becketts at Silverstone.

It didn’t take long to settle into her rhythm, thankfully - by the time they were on lap 4, she was still right on Bottas’s back end as they went into turns 9 and 10. She managed to tell herself to take 9 flat, but it looked like Valtteri had lifted a bit, and she was able to gain on him. If she could stay on him until turn 11, she’d be able to use her car’s Drag Reduction System on him. Formula 1 cars had a rear wing that had a panel that opened to reduce drag - it was like getting another 20 horsepower on your engine, but it could only be used in certain sections of the track, and only while you were a second or less behind the car in front of you.

“You have DRS on Bottas.” Gaetan confirmed as they flew around the hairpin.

“Copy, I’m after him.”

She pressed the DRS button on her steering wheel, and her rear wing snapped open, granting her an additional burst of speed. She slid out of his slipstream and flew around him. She thought he’d be putting up more of a fight, but it was a long race.

She also wondered what Toto was thinking, as he watched from his spot in the Mercedes garage. Would he have been proud of her for battling with, and overtaking, one of his works team drivers, or would he be disappointed that Valtteri didn’t fight more for his place? She hoped it would be the former more than the latter.

“Good job, Phoebe. Perez is next, but he’s about six seconds ahead, and he’s gaining on Hamilton. Just hang out here for now and watch your tires.”

“Copy, thank you.”

Her and Valtteri played leapfrog for a while, trading positions, almost like it was some sort of game. This went on for about ten laps, until she was on the long back straight again, with Valtteri in her crosshairs ahead of her.

She heard Gaetan say, “Box, box, Phoebe.”

“What?! Why? It’s so early!”

“Slow puncture, losing pressure on your front left.” She hadn’t even noticed yet, but the car had so much sensitive instrumentation that the pressures likely hadn’t gotten low enough to affect her driving. She must have developed it from the curbs she ran over while chasing Valtteri.

Images of Sakhir last year flashed through her mind, when George led most of the race while he was driving for Mercedes temporarily, until a tire mixup made him have to pit twice. He fought his way back through the pack, but a slow puncture made it so that he went from almost winning the race to almost not even finishing in the points. She remembered seeing the graphic of his nameplate sinking from the top of the rankings to almost the bottom, and was now envisioning it happening now, live, on television, with her blue “STA” nameplate instead.

She wanted to throw up - who knows how many positions she’d lose pitting this early? But, she had no choice. At least she’d have a tire advantage, but she’d have to pit again later on, surely.

As a mercy, she hadn’t gone all the way past the pitlane yet, so she didn’t have to do a full lap on a tire that was losing air. Since it was a slow puncture, she could still manage around the 12-19 complex if she was careful to avoid the curbs. Those would cause a blowout that would probably force a retirement. She made it - she pulled into the pitlane and felt the anxiety rising. The pit crew changed her tires, but just as she was pulling away -

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Stay here! Red flag!” Gaetan practically shouted through her headset. His voice was abrupt, urgent.

“What?! What happened?”

“Red flag! Latifi spun into the wall at turn 11 and took Alonso and Gasly with him. There’s debris to clear and they’ll need to repair a barrier.”

“Oh, shit! Is everyone alright?” She was trying not to sound too excited, just in case anyone was hurt.

“Yes, they’re all fine, they’re out, but the track is a mess. Red flag procedure, Phoebe.”

Her relief was almost palpable. It must have happened just before she pulled into the pitlane, and she was on the opposite end of the track from the Turn 11 hairpin, which explains why she had no idea.

“Okay, how many places did we lose? What’s our position?”

“Checking.” It was hard to say, as she was the only one pulling into the pit. Unfortunately, it meant that everyone would get a free tire change, and she wouldn’t have the advantage when she exited, but now everyone else would have to either use a harder tire or stop later on.

A moment later, he said, “We are P6, you will line up behind Leclerc.”

Okay, it wasn’t as bad as she thought, she’d only lost three places. That might not be so hard to make up. The other cars came into the pit lane, and she was able to stop the car and get out. There would be another standing start, and they had an hour.

She stripped off her headwear and walked back into the garage. Emilia was standing at the entrance again, as she had been at the Bahrain red flag. But this time, instead of immediately sweeping her back into the privacy of her drivers’ room, she said, “Are you okay? Do you need to take a minute to yourself? I know that was probably pretty stressful.”

Bee shook her head. “I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

She found it oddly touching that Emilia was just always right there, waiting for her in case she needed her. Sure, as her performance coach, she was more or less Bee’s assistant, but they’d never discussed things like that - their relationship, their routine just naturally developed that way.

Different drivers had different ways of staying alert and “in the zone” during red flag periods. She knew Daniel Ricciardo would put on his headphones and listen to music. Some just sat in their garages, or stood in the pitlane and watched. This past year, during the rain-induced red flag in Spa, she remembered actually deciding to take a quick nap, and she hadn’t been the only one to do so. She remembered watching Kimi Raikkonen on TV infamously eating ice cream during a race in Malaysia in 2009.

This time, though, she and Emilia sat in the garage, though still sitting apart from everyone, Emilia talking to Bee about everything and nothing, as a way of trying to keep her from overthinking and getting anxious again. They would go back to do warmups again before the restart, but for now, they just chatted in German together - at least it gave them some privacy. At first, Emilia strayed away from talking about anything to do with the race, but Bee eventually started talking about the race again.

“I felt like I was going to throw up when Gaetan told me I had a puncture. I didn’t even feel it yet.” Bee said. “All I could think about was George in Sakhir last year, but the red flag came in just in time.”

“You were doing so well, though. I think you’ll have no problem making up those places again. There’s still a lot of race left. And no offense, but I’d never thought I’d see you battling for position with Valtteri. At least you did it without crashing.”

Bee laughed. “Could you imagine? I’d probably just flee the country before I had to talk with Toto about it.”

Eventually, it was time to get warmed back up, but Emilia could tell Bee was starting to get nervous again. While Bee didn’t normally get very emotionally demonstrative around other people, Emilia had noticed that Bee’s body language would change considerably depending on how she felt. When she got nervous, her movements would get stiffer, she’d start to fidget and pace, and she’d start biting her lip, or her balaclava if she was wearing it.

“Well, let’s… go finish this, I guess.”

As Bee turned around to leave her drivers’ room, Emilia seized her by the shoulders, and pulled her in close, bending down until their foreheads were almost touching, looking right into her eyes.

“Phoebe, listen. Earlier was just a warm-up. You showed them what you can do. I know it feels like today is your last chance, but it’s not. We still have so many races together. And regardless of how today ends, regardless of your place, you’re going to be successful. You’ve put in the time, you’ve put in the effort, you’ve worked so hard - it’s all paying off. Those other guys might be in faster cars, but they haven’t had to climb half of the obstacles you’ve had to to get here, and you were fighting right up there at the front with them. You can do it again. I’ll be out there on the pit wall watching when you come across the line and cheering you on, no matter what.”

Emilia pulled her into a hug. Bee was a little surprised at first, but eventually, she returned Emilia’s embrace. She had to bury her face in Emilia’s shirt though, to hide the tears that had started to come into her eyes. Even in German, she felt what Emilia had said right down to her very core.

“Okay. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”

She put her balaclava and helmet back on before she left the room, wanting to stay focused and engaged, but she made sure to wave across the garage to where her parents and Susie were sitting. She saw They all called out to wish her luck as she went back out to her car and climbed back in. She and Georged walked out of the garage together, and he wished her luck as well. At least, that’s what she thought - he already had his helmet on as well, but he gave his head a clear nod and grasped Bee’s shoulder. They gave each other a quick hug.

Once again, the mechanics made their final adjustments, and Bee’s focus once again started to narrow. Gaetan did their regular radio check, and Bee’s car was moved back out onto the grid for the restart.

Once again, her focus narrowed into the view out of her cockpit, the sounds of her own breath, the racing line, and the five red lights in front of her.

As the lights went out, she got another decent getaway. Her eyes were wide open and focused, looking for gaps. She didn’t see any, but she was breathing down Charles’ neck from the start, at least. There were 42 laps left, so, as Crofty, the F1 commentator for Sky Sports in the UK, would always say, there was “all to play for”.

She stayed calm, and patient, and eventually, Charles faltered when she was able to use DRS on him, and was back up into 5th. A few laps later, she was hunting down Daniel. He locked up on turn 14 - it was crucial to be gentle on the pedal there, but he may have gotten unnerved by Bee’s presence in his mirrors. It opened the door for her to get around him, and she did.

“Good job, Phoebe. Perez is ahead by three seconds, but we have to start thinking about tires.” she heard.

“Copy. Just let me know. Going to try to build a gap with Daniel.”

As it turns out, she didn’t have to worry about tires - Ocon had a retirement that caused a safety car, which means that everyone got a free tire change. Sure, she was once again robbed of a tire advantage, but so was everyone else.

Verstappen was in first, so he controlled the pace of the pack behind him once the Safety Car period ended. Bee hated these rolling starts, because of how much control the pacesetter had - you had to have constant awareness of when the front of the pack would start to break away once overtakes were allowed again, lest you be overtaken from behind.

If you went too early, it would mean a penalty. Sometimes, the cars in the back could be caught out. In Mugello in 2020, there was an accident at the rear of the pack when they didn’t realize the cars ahead were not at full speed.

Verstapped broke away, and Bee managed to be quick enough on the throttle to end up wheel-to-wheel with Perez for a moment. She had to back off going into a corner to leave enough space, otherwise she would have ended up getting punted into the gravel trap.

She stayed on Perez for the next few laps, but she was focusing so hard she was losing the lap count.

Luckily, Gaetan was nothing if not reliable.

“Five laps, Phoebe. Push, push. Checo is 2.5 ahead, and has been talking about tire wear. Keep the pressure up and you’ll be in DRS range soon.”

It was getting down to the wire. Phoebe pushed through all of the turns, making sure to stay right on Perez’s shoulder, just to be able to take any opportunity he might have presented. She was so close.

“Three laps left, you’re 1.2 away. Almost in DRS.”

Her pace must have been mind-blowingly quick if she’d cut that much off of their gap in two laps. Maybe he was slowing down. Either way, she couldn’t let up now. One lap later, she heard Toto’s voice in her mind as they rounded the turn 9 chicane together.

“You have to squeeze your arse cheeks and commit.”

They were almost wheel-to-wheel again, and Bee wasn’t going to back off this time.

She was through.

But then… Perez had DRS on her. Bee cursed - she should have waited to overtake him until after the DRS zone. It was a stupid mistake, but she remembered what Natalie told her when she was so angry about her late pit exit during her last outing at Monza.

“Some drivers have even made mistakes that have destroyed their entire car. A few seconds on a pit exit seems like nothing in comparison, right?”

Right. It was a small error on an otherwise stellar performance so far. Nothing to lose her head over. She did her best to keep Perez in the dirty air of her car, to defend. The DRS zone would end soon anyway. She wasn’t going to let him take his position back that easily.

“Last lap, Phoebe. Good job keeping Perez behind you.”

It was now or never. She had to be absolutely dead-on for this last lap, Perez was still on her, and the endless defense she had to put up was starting to get exhausting. She could feel herself start to falter going into Turn 12, and she and Perez were wheel-to-wheel again in the 90-degree corner, but she didn’t let up. She couldn’t. Not now.

In her mind’s eye, she saw the faces of everyone who had supported her over the years - her parents, the Wolffs, Claire, Natalie, Emilia, George, Adelle and her daughter, the dozens of fans that she’d met just this weekend. She didn’t want this podium for herself, but she wanted it for them - a tangible marker to show how far she’d come because of them, a means of thanking them, and showing her how strong she’d become with their support. It urged her forward.

And then - she saw a flash of Helmut Marko’s face. She could see him so clearly - the round, balding head, the thin gray hair, and his small, beady blue eyes. His left eye was a prosthetic and his gaze was always a bit off-center. She saw the disdainful, sour look that he had whenever he talked to her towards the end of her time at Red Bull. She thought about how he’d look from his spot in Red Bull’s garage if she snatched this podium away from his own driver. She wanted, more than anything, to deny him a double podium today.

She also imagined the inevitably pissed-off look on Christian Horner’s pointy, freckled, ferret-like face - she didn’t know Christian that well, she’d avoided ever talking to him. But, it would be a bonus.

She kept her foot down through the turn 16/17/18 series, making sure to cling to the curbs to maintain the most speed. She could practically feel Perez right on her, but she stayed firm, steadfast - it was literally the meaning of her surname, after all.

Perez was practically next to her going through the home straight, but she held her breath and stomped the throttle coming out of turn 20.

Time froze, and then dilated as she crossed the line. It was a split-second that felt entirely too long. She felt like she could feel her pulse between the thin margins of seconds it had doubtlessly been.

She saw a spray of fireworks that shot off as soon as the race leader - Max, probably, crossed the line, and she followed a few seconds later. Did she make it? She couldn’t tell. She’d seen Perez inching up to her on her right side at the last minute, but she didn’t think he’d made it through.

“PHOEBE STALLARD! P3!” Gaetan shouted through the radio. She could hear the cheering from the Williams garage in the background. “THAT’S A PODIUM!”

A scream came from somewhere deep inside of her. She didn’t even feel it coming. She’d just run the race of her life. Even through her helmet and headphones, she could hear the roar of the crowd - it sounded like a prolonged, rolling thunderclap. She practically felt it in her chest, even over the hum of the engine behind her.

She looked up and ahead of her, onto the pit wall, and saw something incredible. The crew of practically every team was clinging to the pit wall fence over the home straight, cheering for her. So it seemed, at least. She saw the British racing green of Aston Martin, Ferrari red, Mercedes white and teal (she spotted Toto easily, as tall as he was), McLaren papaya, Alpine and Williams blues - at the last second, she caught a glimpse of a tall woman, in a blue shirt, with blonde hair, grasping the upper corners of an enormous American flag - Emilia.

She was on her cooldown lap, and was speechless. Normally, a driver would thank the team, depending on their mood, but Bee had felt herself start crying. She was grasping onto the bottom of her visor, trying to wipe her eyes through the gap.

She heard Claire through her radio.

“Phoebe, that was an absolutely incredible race. I’m so proud of you, and I’m so proud of how far you’ve come with this team. I know Dad is at home watching now, and I know he’s so excited and happy right now. It’s been a pleasure to be your team principal, and I’m going to miss you so much next year.”

Bee took a breath, and swallowed around the lump in her throat.

“Thank you, Claire, for believing in me. It’s been awesome working with you, and it’s not going to be the same without you. I wanted to get a podium before the end of this season to send you out on a high note and to thank you for bringing me onto this fantastic team - you’ve all been the best part of racing in Formula 1. The spirit and heart of everyone here and in Grove keeps me motivated, and this podium is for all of you - I couldn’t have done it without you.”

It sounded corny, but she’d meant every word of it. Williams had come so far in the last two years, even with the sale and the transition of leadership, but she loved it. She was proud to have been part of the small resurgence they were experiencing.

She waved out to the grandstands as she passed by them on the cooldown lap, and it was clear that people were absolutely losing it. She could have never imagined this. She almost didn’t want to pull into parc ferme - she was enjoying this particular moment - just her, her car, and the distant shouts of her fans - too much.

But, even so, she arrived and pulled up to the 3rd place bollard (another thing she’d never imagined doing) and saw that her team had gathered around the fence to wait for her.

She was 5’2”, not even 160cm, but she felt twice that height when she climbed out of the FW43B and stood on its nose. She tossed her head back and let out the same scream she’d felt tear itself from her chest earlier - of triumph. All of the tension and pressure of the weekend was gone. She jumped down and sprinted over to the crowd of Williams team members at the gate. She wasn’t quite tall enough to jump up and on top of the barriers like some drivers did, but they did their best to reach her, and she was caught in a hailstorm of hugs, cheering, and hearty slaps on her back and helmet.

It was so loud in that crowd of people. The atmosphere was electric.

Someone - probably Emilia - placed the corner of the American flag in her hands, and she gripped it fiercely.

She turned around to see Lewis waiting for her. He grabbed her into a tight hug that lifted her off her feet, which was not difficult. He set her down, and she stripped off her helmet and balaclava. He did the same, and took a moment to re-tie his braided hair back into a ponytail

“I can’t believe it, Phoebe - you’re the first woman ever on a Formula 1 podium!” Lewis shouted over the commotion around them.

Oh. She’d forgotten about that part. It wasn’t what she’d set out to do, necessarily.

He hugged her again, patting her back. “You must have run an incredible race. I can’t wait to watch it later. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Lewis, for everything. You’ve always been so kind to me, and it means a lot.”

At the other end of the parc ferme area, there were small stands for them to place their equipment, and a scale to be weighed right near the pit lane. There used to be cool-down rooms where they did this, but they got rid of them during the abridged COVID season to maintain team bubbles. She stepped on the scale after Lewis. Claire was in the garage outside of parc ferme, standing with Emilia. She went over to them, and they both pulled her into large hugs, telling her how proud they were of her, again.

She wasn’t sure where to go next, though. The podium was on the balcony above the FIA garage area they were in, which was where the medical car was parked. Emilia shoved Bee’s drink bottle into her hands while Bee was looking around, trying to take everything in.

“Here. Drink. It wouldn’t be a good look to pass out on the podium in front of your entire country, would it?” Bee shook her head, and drank greedily. She was only just now aware of how thirsty she was. The race she ran was intensely physical, and the fatigue was only now starting to set in.

She wasn’t sure what she should be doing next, though. She wasn’t sure where Lewis had disappeared to, but she heard some cheers outside that indicated he must have been outside.

She peeked around the door of the garage to see that he was doing an interview with Jenson Button, and just as she did, the F1 employee next to her said, “You’re next, Phoebe.”

She typically didn’t hang around after races to watch the podium ceremony these days, so she was happy for the direction - this was all new to her.

She walked over to take her place in front of the microphone, and Jenson asked her a few questions. The cheer she got when she stepped out of the garage was deafening, and a flurry of American flags unfurled in the crowd. She barely paid attention to whatever Jenson was asking her, but she got through it.

She walked back into the garage area, and stood next to Lewis for a few minutes, chatting companionably with him.

“Uh…” she said. “Where do we go now? Upstairs, or -”

Lewis laughed, and grabbed her by the elbow. “I forgot, this is new for you - come on, this way.”

He led her upstairs into a small waiting area that had an FIA official. It was the “backstage” behind the outdoor podium platform, which was set up on the balcony of one of the permanent buildings at the track. She was still gripping onto the flag she’d been handed. She draped it over her shoulders.

They were also joined by someone from Red Bull to accept the constructor’s trophy for the team. She was just glad it wasn’t Christian or Helmut, but that was apparently rare. The trophy presentation party came in - they were all various local officials that she didn’t know, and…

Shaquielle O’Neal? Bee never watched basketball, but knew the enormous man when she saw him.

“We’re just about ready to start, gentleme - I mean… sorry, ladies and gentlemen.” The FIA official said, looking directly at Bee. Bee waved it off. “It’s fine. I know, this is new for all of us.”

The presentation party all filed out. Bee laughed because Shaq had to duck out underneath the door frame. Certainly not a problem she’d ever have.

“Hey, good job.” Max Verstappen told her. “I heard you gave Checo a bit of a headache. That’s not easy to do.”

It was the first thing Max had ever said to her, that she could remember.

“Ah… thank you. I tried. Congratulations to you, as well.”

He nodded a quick nod at her. “Thank you.”

“And in third place…” she heard from around the temporary wall. “The first woman to ever stand on a Formula 1 podium as a driver… Phoebe Stallard, of the United States of America!”

She walked out from behind the barrier. If she thought the cheers were deafeningearlier, this was nothing. It was incredible. She could barely hear anything else, and it was coming from everywhere - from the audience below, from the people crowded onto the paddock club balconies on the left side of the stage area. She glanced at the LED screen behind her, which was playing a pre-filmed video loop of herself making various celebratory poses - she remembered when they filmed it during pre-season testing, and it felt silly then, because she didn’t think it would even be necessary. Well, she was wrong.

They introduced Lewis and Max next, and the Dutch and Austrian national anthems played. Shaquille O’Neal handed Max the first place trophy. She congratulated the Red Bull employee standing next to her on the constructor’s trophy. Lewis received his trophy, and finally, a man came over with the small statuette for her.

She raised it aloft, and it felt like she was lifting the weight of this season, the weight of her entire career - it was everything it represented. Her own expectations of herself, her desire to perform, her desire to show the people that supported her how much she appreciated it. It was all there now, in the form of a solid metallic statuette.

“And now… the champagne!”

She barely had time to react and put the trophy down and pick her victory bottle up. It didn’t matter anyway, Lewis and Max had done this dozens of times before and were far too quick on the draw. They had both set out to drench her, too. She thought she felt Lewis actually pouring the bottle down the back of her race suit. It was sticky and smelly, but it felt kind of good in the heat.

She did her best to return the spray, but it was too late. She showered the crowd below instead. From this vantage point, she could see the faces of everyone that was there for her. She could see her parents, she could see Emilia, she could see the Wolffs, she could see Claire. She smiled and waved to all of them as they smiled back up at her.

It was just like what she’d envisioned the night before, but it was even better, because it was real. It was her goal for the season, the line she’d been striving for, and she’d made it through it all - all of the terror, all of the beauty, both in equal measure.

Schönheit und Schrecken.

It was true that Rilke had said that no feeling was final, and this feeling wouldn’t be, either. She had a few races left for this season, and had already signed for another season. There would be terror. There would be triumph, so she hoped. There would be defeat. There would be anxiety and sadness.

But none of that was here, right now. All that was here, now, was a memory that she wanted to hold onto forever.

#series: wildest dreams #f1 fanfic #f1 oc fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #original character #female oc #female f1 driver #toto wolff #george russell #my fanfic #susie wolff

[pinerspan]

Mokey tail beard

Truly redefined "learn from your mistakes" #MonkeyTailBeard. But the smart one made a new fashion statement out of it. #MonkeyTailBeard."Ī third user said, "Quarantine is taking its toll." Yet another added, "I am sure this was a mistake of the stylist. One user said, "The Craziest thing ever lol." Another wrote, "2021 need to chill. What do people have to say about the monkey tail beard trend? While some have curled their hair into a spiral under their chin, others have added stripes for an even more authentic animal feel. Many men have put wilder spins on the style. However, the beard style has gained popularity on social media now. He had later revealed that he had trimmed his beard like that to make his teammates laugh. The quirky facial hair first garnered attention in September 2019 when American baseball player Mike Fiers showed off his monkey tail beard on the field during a match. The bizarre beard style is also known as the cattail beard. The primate-inspired look requires to groom the beard and mustache into a long tail-like shape that at one sideburn, runs down the jawline, along the chin, and then curls up around the side of the mouth, and then ends above the top lip. Now, a bizarre trend has taken the Internet by storm in which men have trimmed their beards in the shape of a monkey's tail. Haircuts and beard trimming have taken a backseat for many men amid the coronavirus pandemic as they are avoiding visiting the salon and trying DIY tricks and tips. Long live the cat tail beard.'Monkey Tail' beard. We only got to see two innings of its majesty, and we could barely even enjoy that amid worrying about the health of his arm, but that brief glimpse was still better than nothing. As noted by Slusser above, Fiers shaved it off after the game, spurred by the fact that he got hurt while wearing it. Trend-setter: MLB baseball player Mike Fiers. If he’d kept this for a while then maybe it could have been a thing.Īlas, the cat tail is already gone. A bizarre 'monkey tail beard' trend has taken the internet by storm, with dozens of men uploading photos of themselves modeling the funky facial hair. It’s perfectly Oakland in its weirdness, and between the thick fullness of his hair and the care and precision of the grooming, it looks as good and as intentional as this design ever possibly could. When it comes time to shave off a beard, I’m a big fan of making something goofy out of it before shearing the rest off, and this is better than anything I’ve ever thought to try. Fiers drew a lot of mockery for the unorthodox look, but I for one will stand in support. On top of the noggin, Coco Crisp had one of baseball’s all-time afros, and Sean Manaea is following in those footsteps.īut this cat tail is something else. Tim Hudson had his stinger, Josh Donaldson experimented with mutton chops when he first came up, and Mark Canha rocked Ace Ventura sideburns for years. They’ve had their share of bushy beards, including Josh Reddick and Sean Doolittle, and now broadcaster Dallas Braden. They were the original Mustache Gang back in the 70s, led by Rollie Fingers’ iconic handlebars. Of course, this is just the latest example in the A’s long history of memorable facial hair. “They didn’t think I’d go out there and pitch with it. He is clean shaven now because he got hurt wearing it.- Susan Slusser September 15, 2019 Fiers and some teammates googled the craziest facial hair they could and found the “cat tail” he wore tonight.

#Mokey tail beard

[acidbathpuppy]

Vincent Price as Verden Fell

The Tomb of Ligeia (1964)

#vincent price #the tomb of ligeia #verden fell #roger corman #poe #classic horror #horror #mine #i miss the tache :( #obviously not appropriate for victorian dress #mutton chops and handlebars only #he should have grown a handle bar what a coward

[nightingaletrash]

I was talking to my brother about video games today and I was complaining about the cheese demon door in brightwood.

"why are you dragging the cheese demon door specifically" he asks.

because I gave the fucker some cheese, then he told me to get dreadlocks and mutton chops. I do that, come back, and he's demanding cheese again! Coincidentally my dog found cheese buried nearby, so not only did he somehow bury the cheese I gave him, he tried to gaslight me into believing I'd never given it to him in the first place! And then he told me I needed a mullet and a handlebar moustache.

The most straightforward and inexpensive part of dealing with that demon door was getting the tart skirt... Because I went and played through the Cursed Snowglobe dlc quest to get it.

So yeah fuck that demon door in particular.

#nightingale rambles #fable 2 #that door really tried to gaslight gatekeep girlboss me #meanwhile the evil westcliff door opened up right away because I was completely corrupted by charging high rent on my properties #I. a general video game do-gooder. had an easier time with the evil door than the cheese door

[the-trans-otter33]

Sanders Sides The Martian AU

Note: I used canon information from the original The Martian characters so jobs, education levels, and other facts could be accurate to the story. It will remain this way just for the sake of accuracy. All original character info can be found on The Martian Wikia and all credit is due to Author Andy Weir, creator of The Martian

----------

Introduction Post

JULY 7TH, YEAR 2035

----------

Roles:

Commander: Thomas Sanders

Doctor: Patton McManus

Pilot: [Major] Roman Cone

Computer Specialist: Logan Locke

Navigator: [Dr.] Remus Cone

Botanist: [Dr.] Virgil AsheFord

EVA Specialist: D. Dain Dechard

----------

Character Info.

April 24th, 1993, 42, Thomas Sanders- Thomas was the first to be chosen for the Ares III mission. He graduated with honors from the US Naval Academy with a Doctorate in oceanography. After the navy, he entered into CalTech's Division of Geological and Planetary Sciences before joining NASA and taking trips to the SpaceX Station. He takes a lot of time to speak at public gatherings and conferences, encouraging others to achieve their dreams as he did and living life to the fullest. Thomas has dedicated his recent months as Commander to making sure his team bonds and remains safe, oftentimes treating them like family or adopted sons. Thomas is NASA’s first openly gay commander and is proud of it and his 22 year long marriage with his husband, Daniel.

Appearance: Thomas Sanders is 5' 10" with a healthy body. He is not lean nor pudgy, being in a somewhat perfect balance in-between. Sanders wears a classic brown undercut with no ability to grow facial hair, much like Patton. His eye color is brown and he enjoys staying in old and new uniforms more than regular clothing.

January 15th, 2001, 34, Patton McManus- The youngest member of the 7 person crew on Ares III, Patton McManus is not someone to be trifled with, especially when it comes to his intelligence. Due to his young age, he finds himself underestimated a lot of the time, and not listened to. It was no surprise to him and his parents though when he got accepted into the Yale School of Medicine, receiving the Norma Bailey Berniker Prize, and his extensive training in Aerospace Medicine as a Captain in the United States Air Force Reserves. He joined NASA in 2029, increasing his training with a Masters Degree in Biomedical Science and was the second person chosen for the Ares III mission. Kind, caring, and generally just a sweetheart, Patton hopes to lighten all spirits on the mission and hopes to bond closely with everyone on board. Dr. McManus hopes that one day his 4-year-old son [from a past relationship] will follow his views on the world and grow up to help people just as his father does.

Appearance: Patton McManus is a soft healthy, 6' teddy bear. Dr. McManus is ginger, his hair always messy with untamed short curls. Freckles spot his face around his nose and under his eyes. He's a bit pudgy around the middle, having close to a dad bod [even though he has no kids]. He cannot grow any facial hair and wears round glasses with thick light blue frames, matching the color of his eyes. Patton tends to wear light-colored polo's and khaki's if he can but jeans work out just fine too. He is also almost always seen with a grey jacket tied around his waist or his neck resting on his shoulders.

June 4th, 1995, 40, Roman Cone- Roman was the third person to join the Ares III Crew, immediately getting along with Commander Sanders and Dr. McManus. Before joining the crew, Roman spent eleven years in the United States Air Force. Originally trained as a fighter pilot, Major Cone worked his way up to the USAF Test Pilot School. Continuing to keep up high marks and great performance he quickly gained respect from his peers and commanders. From a young age, he knew he was destined for NASA so he gained a bachelor of science in astronautical engineering at USAF Academy. At NASA he also became an MDV/MAV Specialist. Witty and outgoing, Roman enjoys taking up all the attention in the room, often doing dramatics to do so.

Appearance: Roman Cone is a sight to see, standing at 5' 9". He is more on the muscular side, though nothing near Dain's level of muscle mass. Major Cone is dirty blond, sporting a magnificent pompadour, never seen without it perfectly done, he has long sideburns that transition from blond to brown the more he grows them out. Roman tries not to let them grow into mutton chops but sometimes finds them there anyway. Surprisingly Roman enjoys sweatpants and baggy shirts more than anything fancy or dramatic. Roman's eyes are light green.

November 3rd, 1998, 36, Logan Locke- Logan graduated at the young age of 16, winning in NASA's largest hackathon a year later. Afterward, Logan moved onto MIT for dual undergraduate degrees in math and computer science. While starting graduate school, Mr. Locke started a private software company in the hopes of becoming a software engineer and CEO. Though his plans changed suddenly when he came into contact with a SpaceX executive who was impressed by his work. His decision to join NASA was later founded when she helped develop software that would later become an integral part of the Hermes operating system. With that knowledge of the Hermes, he wiggled his way into the Ares III crew, being the fourth one to join as the System operator and Reactor Technician. Logan found himself seemingly alone among the crew due to his introverted lifestyle along with his inability to "take a joke" [said by Roman after joke about MIT]. His emotionally repressive behavior got especially worse when Remus joined a few days after, mocking Logan for his OCD. These habits and behaviors seemed to only start getting better after meeting Ares III Botanist Virgil AsheFord, who shared some of these traits. Locke never includes his thoughts though when anyone bring up parents or family back home, no one knows why.

Appearance: Logan Locke is a lanky 5' 8" nerd. Wearing rectangle-shaped glasses with white half frames. Logan has thin cheekbones with a thick chin strap beard connected with a black goatee. His hair is slicked back but not as tightly nor as long as Dain's and without curls in the back. Logan's eyes are dark blue shade, often matching his professional outfits. Mr. Locke often wears button-down shirts or polos with a blue or black tie running below his belly button. he usually tucks his shirts into his pants, which are almost always jeans held up with an always new looking leather belt. he also wears what Roman calls "old man shoes" though he is quite proud of their permanent shininess. Logan actively chooses to not work out, instead, he just makes sure to eat as healthily as he can.

June 5th, 1995, 40, Remus Cone- Remus was the fifth person to be chosen for Ares III. Remus was invited to join the crew through NASA and the European Space Agency after being located in Germany for several years. Holding two master's degrees in chemistry and astrophysics. Remus has also earned a doctorate in chemistry from spending six months on Antarctica. Remus has published dozens of papers in international journals to pass time. Dr. Cone felt the need to assert himself with the family name after his brother Roman upstaged him constantly in college. Remus is fluent in French and German, often using those languages to swear when visiting his brother in the USA. Remus has a knack for being a trouble-maker around almost everyone he meets, making messes mostly on accident due to his childish clumsy nature. Dr. Cone is only found being serious when there's work to be done, the dedication to his job is one of the only things bonding him with the rest of the Ares III crew.

Appearance: Remus us a 5' 10" pure blond man. he is often found wearing unmatched clothing that some would call ugly af [but he likes it that way]. Sporting a low hanging man bun, his hair just might be the most yellow thing at NASA HQ and on the Hermes, but it's completely natural! To go along with his man bun, Remus has a majestically neat handlebar mustache. Remus resembles his older twin brother Roman a lot with his light blue eyes and wide chin. Baring a bigger nose than Roman though. He also cannot grow any other facial hair. Remus isn't as muscled as Roman, being a bit round in the middle but tries his hardest to remain interested in working out. Nowadays his interest is kept by working out with his gym buddy, Dain.

December 19th, 1999, 34, Virgil Asheford- Virgil had spent eleven months already working at NASA when he was chosen for Ares III. Originally attending the University of Chicago, Doctor AsheFord moved to Northwestern University to earn his Ph.D. in Plant Biology and Conservation with an emphasis on hydropedalogy and environmental engineering. When joining NASA, his work focused on hydrologic flow paths and sustainable water resources management within Earth's Critical Zone. Virgil spent the next two years in the peace Corps engineering sustainable agriculture and water irrigation systems for developing nations. Afterward, Virgil applied to the NASA Astronaut Candidate Program and was ultimately selected. Throughout his life Virgil has had a constant battle with his depression and anxiety, growing more introverted over time. His interest in Botany helped him through the battle he has fought so hard to win. Despite over complicating many different thoughts, solutions, and ideas, Virgil often finds the outcome satisfying and without flaw. Emotional repression from before and after his little sister's death made him hesitant to accept his part in Ares III until he met Computer Specialist Logan Locke, who also dealt with emotional repression. The two instantly bonded due to being different from the rest of the team as well as their inexplicable ability to fall into intensely deep existential crises.

Appearance: Virgil is a 5' 6" pale, thin man. He is healthily thin despite eating a lot [his fast metabolism runs in the family]. Virgil's hair was dyed crow-black before being selected for Ares III but is naturally brown in a Faux hawk style. Virgil usually has short stubble lining the bottom half of his face, never letting it grow longer than 1-2.5 millimeters long. Virgil regularly applies eye shadow around his eyes, earning him the nickname Plant Raccoon from Remus. AsheFord can always be seen wearing dark if-not-black clothing, unless in his NASA jumpsuit or his Ares III Mars EVA suit [he hates that it's mainly white and orange]. Virgil also wears many different types of boots, specifically requesting some from NASA for the Ares III trip to Mars. he takes extra time to make sure they are neat, clean, and shiny each morning, something he now does with Logan.

[Deceit] February 3rd, 1996, 39, D. [Dain] Dechard- The last member to join the Ares III crew, yet welcomed with open arms. Dechard often says little white lies to the crew and others around him to rile them up when he's bored and wants some action. He has a severe disliking towards his first name, so he tells people to call him Dain. The crew is always theorizing what his real name is. Dain was first brought into NASA by his father, a Rocket Engineer, and was immediately interesting in becoming an EVA Specialist so he could travel into space for Ares III. Before specializing in EVA, Dain had been a NASA Mathematician with an associate's degree, bachelor's degree, master's degree, and Ph.D. in Mathematics. From the age of 18 to 34, Dain was in College constantly to earn these degrees and never gained any friends because of it. Dain promised before leaving for the Ares III, that he’d keep in contact with his 9-year-old niece.

Appearance: Dain is a 6' 4" lean [ripped] gym rat. He's got slicked back ink-black hair with lines of grey coming in at his temples due to years of work and school. The back of his head is riddled with curls coming from the ends of strands. Sporting a lighter coal-black Van Dyke goatee [and quite proud of it too] he also has scars riddled across the side of his face from chin to forehead. More scars can be found throughout his body in an inconsistent pattern but suspiciously only on the right side of him. Dain's eyes are dark green and he tends to wear joggers and shorts along with skin-tight shirts. While his gym buddy has an ugly sense of fashion, Dain has no fashion sense whatsoever.

----------

Not-the-boys cast:

The administrator of NASA: Teddy [Theodore] Sanders [No relation to Commander Thomas Sanders]

Director of NASA Media Relations: Annie Montrose

Director of NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory: Bruce Ng

Head of Mars Operations: Venkat Kapoor

Flight Director for Ares III: Mitch Henderson

NASA Analyst/Satellite Coverage: Mindy Park

Physicist: Rich Purnell

--------

TAG LIST

@ladylokilove

@girl-of-1000-fandoms

@thatswhat24

@ifrickenhatedeverythingaboutthis

@ahoskarose-76

@marshmallowmischief

@notyourbeesknees

@awkward-child-of-satan

@sanderssidesbuddybois

Feel free to request to be on the tag list and send asks about something you’re curious about within the story! Your asks will strive to be the main drive for the story!

#sanders sides #TheMartianAU #thomas sanders #Thomas is the only one with an unchanged last name #crazy right? #patton sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #remus sanders #virgil sanders #deceit sanders #intro post #future relationships #analogical

[dumbwaystodeviate]

Undercover work was rare for the DPD, only officers with special training could even be considered for such a task. So it was quite handy that androids could not only download the necessary information to be perfect operatives, but the newer models could also alter their appearance.

These facts in no way made Gavin sulk. He was an older model, his appearance was fixed and he didn't have the download speed or capacity to just access an information patch. If he wanted a new skill, he had to learn it manually the human way. However, his partner was Nines, a state of the art model who was built with infiltration in mind. To boot, he was a deviant already while no matter what Gavin tried, he couldn't break through the red wall that kept him an obedient little android.

Internally, Gavin was as deviant as they came. He felt everything keenly, retorted sharply in his mind but the words never made it to his mouth. All the same, he was still as individual as his programming would allow and made it his mission to express himself through being as un-android like as possible. They'd tried to wake him up or whatever they called it, but his processors couldn't cope with the data transfer and Connor had to break it off or break Gavin.

Still, when Nines was assigned an undercover case and Gavin was going to be without his partner for a few weeks, it smarted. He'd grown used to having Nines at his back, sarcastic, dry wit and all. And Gavin liked to think that Nines was equally fond of him too. It was a hope that was proven to be true when they interfaced over a case, exchanging ideas and information they'd gathered. Usually, Gavin was good at keeping to information only, but that afternoon he was distracted. His control slipped when Nines had smiled at him at a particularly curious idea involving clowns being the culprits. Despite himself, Gavin let slip a rush of fondness which was echoed back with a pleasant thrum of surprise. They took a detour from the case, tentatively sending blushing little blips of fondness and adoration. In the end, Gavin had to break away, systems overheating in excitement and happiness.

It was a start to something more than just a professional partnership and with the undercover work, Gavin realised that they were going to have to put a temporary stop to whatever it was building between them. He renewed his efforts to deviate, just so he could accompany Nines, have his back like a good partner. And maybe to steal kisses in dark corners. But that was a secondary mission, obviously. No matter how hard he tried though, the wall wouldn't budge.

The dreaded day arrived, Nines' final day to prepare and get ready before he left for at least a few weeks. He'd nodded at Gavin when he arrived at the precinct and was whisked away by the team in charge of the case. Gavin sat at his desk and pouted.

Only a couple of hours laters, Nines emerged from the meeting room. Gavin glanced his way and fully intended to not pay him ant attention - as punishment for leaving him behind. But he turned back with wide eyes and a snicker bubbled out of him without any control. The more he looked, the worse the giggles got, he held his stomach to try and sooth his thirium pump into a steady beat but all he achieved was to slide down his chair then plop onto the floor, gasping between bouts of full belly laughs.

Nines crouched down in front of him with an entertained grin. His hair was a lighter brow with frosted tips while he also sported an impeccably groomed handlebar moustache and mutton chops. Whoever designed his undercover look was high and watching ancient cop shows probably.

"I take it I have your approval," Nines smirked.

Gavin tried to wheeze out words but all they did was fizzle against the red wall which steamed with each attempted word. It began to bubble and Gavin gasped in breaths as it melted away and he lurched into freedom.

"You look like a prick," his first words ad a deviant weren't quite the ones he had planned. "But you're still my prick."

Not caring about who saw, he pulled Nines down for a kiss and frowned at the prickle of moustache.

"But you're going to have to lose that before I take you home again." He tapped the moustache and smiled when Nines let it melt away in order to kiss him properly again.

#reed900 #dbh gavin #dbh nines #gv200 #android gavin #dumb ways to deviate #sfw #leader of the rebellion

[bmacs001]

A ghost story about a pianist that may or may not be good

You’ve just taken up residence at 253 Serpent Avenue. It’s a fine house, built at the edge of the road in a time before the neighborhood was built up. There used to be a farm there, but once the land became more valuable as suburban sprawl, it quickly was turned into homes for the average citizen. And in this old house, you sit at an old piano, battering at notes you haven’t touched since you were a child. A stray diminished chord amongst a sea of major chords breaks the trudge of sound, and you slam your hands on the keys in frustration. In any case, you think, you should go to work. No use in dawdling over something so trivial. 

But as you walk down the street towards your office, you’ve felt something change after having tinkled those ivories. Perhaps a ream of memory that the winds have uncovered from the sands of time? Perhaps not. You continue on, but you think you should go explore some memories later. 

After a trudge back from the office, you see as you turn a corner a sign sat in front of a  handsome house, reading “Luthiers - Instrument Sales and Lessons”. You give it a second’s thought- there’s no use in having a piano sat unplayed in your house. But, you say, how could I afford something like this? My job is rocky as it is, I don’t have the time to invest in something like this. And so, you walk back home, but this time, the piano is left untouched. 

Three days pass as you go to and fro from the office. And on the third day, you see the shop another time. And you see the handsome little house with the handsome sign on the lawn. Somewhere from the back of your mind, a thought whispers to you: 

You know you want to give it a shot. 

Maybe it wasn’t memories that your mind uncovered. Well, maybe “uncovered” is the wrong word. No, you think. “Implanted”

No, you respond. We’re not wasting time on this stupid piano. 

The thought grows louder. It could be fun! Besides, you don’t know how much it would cost. It could be cheap for all you know!

No! Not today, not tomorrow, not for another year!

I will not ask kindly anymore. You will go into that shop, and you will learn how to play. 

You falter in your response. Forget it, ok? I-I-it’s my body, my mind, and I’ll learn some other time. 

DO WHAT I TELL YOU, YOU PATHETIC SACK OF MEAT, OR ELSE THERE WILL BE NOTHING POWERING YOUR USELESS BODY!

Fear has arrested your movement. It will be some time before you can even take another step, much less enter the shop. 

Fine, if you won’t do it if your own accord, then I’ll have to take control

The voice leaves your thoughts, but you feel it direct its attention down from your head. 

Step forward

Don’t listen to that, keep still or walk down the street, don’t step-

Step forward. 

You step forward. 

Step

Another step. 

And on. 

And on. 

And on. 

Until you reach the door. 

Open

A trembling hand takes hold of the knocker. It knocks twice. 

One, two seconds pass. 

A patter of feet approaches the door. 

The door opens, and a well kept man approaches the door. The first thing that strikes the gaze is a handlebar mustache and mutton chops, weathered and grayed by some years. He wears a striped button-up shirt, hardy pants, leather shoes, and an apron covered in wood shavings. He beams at you with kind eyes. He speaks first: “Well, what can I do for you today?”

Your mouth betrays you. “Well, I have a piano in my house, and it might be nice to have someone who knows how to play it. You know, give it some use”

“Well, then we should have someone over to play it for you!” The words linger in the air for a split second too long, before he lets out a booming laugh. “But of course, you’re looking to learn how to play, I suppose? Well, I can help you with that. Come on in.”

A thought comes to your mind, but this time perhaps your own. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad, you think. After all, it’ll only be a couple of weeks before you give it up, just like you’ve given up every other new years resolution

Fine. I’ll let you tell yourself that

The man sits you down in a chair that seems to have endured many years of hardships. “Mahogany. Crafted in 1768 by my predecessor. He worked many kinds of wood, but only the instruments have kept being made here. If I remember correctly, your piano was one of the first instruments made in this shop. It’s a miracle it’s survived this long.”

“Wait,” you blurt. “How do you know what piano is in my house? Have you...”

“Oh don’t worry about it!” he exclaims. “I know all of the keyboards in driving distance of the store, and the previous owner of yours passed recently. A terrible tragedy, he was one of my favorite customers. But we must move on! It’s a bit like reincarnation, you see. Where one player leaves the instrument, another takes their place in the cycle of life... Where was I? Ah, yes. We need to get you started playing beautiful music for the world to hear! So, before we start pumping knowledge into your brain, I need you to sign this contract”

He produces a scroll of parchment, seemingly out of thin air. On it is inscribed words you can’t make heads or tails of. The letters look angular and disjoint, as if the pen was wracked with seizures as it jolts left and right. 

And now, you wonder whether this is the right move. How do I know what I’m getting myself into? What will happen if I-

You look down to see you’re crossing the ‘t’s and dotting the ‘i’s. It’s already too late. Your mind cranks further into overdrive. Wh-wh-what is happening?!

Reach out and shake the luthier’s hand

Your hand extends to the luthier. Your mind reacts in shock as he takes it in a firm grasp and shakes it. “Now, I want you to come back in a week’s time to see what progress you’ve made today. Keep practicing like we’ve been doing today, and you’ll get the hang of the basics in no time!” 

You trod back to your home on 253 Serpent Avenue, and you sit at the piano again. Your hands feel comfortable on the keys, as if they’ve done this a hundred, maybe a thousand times before. You begin with simple things to warm up the hands- no use in overextending the muscles just yet. You run through the scales; majors, three minors, whole tone, diminished, chromatic. Then something simple from a Bach two-part exercise. You think to yourself, let’s go all the way today. 

You begin with a simple oscillation between two keys in the tenor register. You ascend to a high note as you shape the chords lazily beneath it. And then in comes a variation, then a modulation to a new key. It builds to a three octave hammering of the keys, and just as quickly as it came, it stops as your fingers playfully spell a new melody. A quick detour into a somber section, and then a rapid paced ascent into some bluesy changes. You ascend into the stratosphere with a few repetitions of the main melody, punctuated by a staccato bass melody to suggest something playing beneath. The keys gravitate towards the lower end as the structure turns to night. The notes become bold and dark for a second before it suddenly halts. A lilting melody continues in the right hand, and holds before beginning again lower down the keyboard, rising and becoming more discordant. Those bluesy descending changes return, and a last bass note is struck before both hands crescendo to a-

You stop. As the strings resonate unresolved, one thought comes to your mind: What is happening? After all, was it not this morning that you could barely play simple chord changes? Where was this sudden talent coming from? And what was it you were playing? You could barely recognize the tune to begin with, but you had just played it as if you had worked your entire life to mastering it. 

I can tell this is your first time. The piece is called “Rhapsody in Blue” by George Gershwin. Thanks for choosing this one, I quite like playing it. The name Gershwin sounds familiar, you think. I’ll have to look into it later. At least, you think, there’s one question that’s been answered. 

But now, you think, there’s more questions that need answering. What was in that contract? And why... 

You think back to the moment you signed the contract. He had said that you should continue practicing like you had been... I haven’t practiced in years! I don’t remember any of the exercises I had done! What did he mean by that?!

The thoughts linger, but are left unanswered. 

A week passes, and you return to the shop. The luthier beams as you walk in. You begin to open your mouth to speak, but he hustles you to the piano. “Go on”, he says. “Show me what you’ve been working on”

Almost 20 minutes later, the final chord rings out to a piece you’ve never played in its entirety before. It’s note perfect, the rendition is moving and beautiful, and you are left in tears. The luthier smiles as he lays a hand on your shoulder. “You’re ready”

Several weeks go by. You’re supporting your work in the office with a handsome pay playing gigs around town: some at bars, some in the concert hall, some in private settings. And all the while, the luthier has only made a couple of recommendations, but they pay off well, and you’re soon in the middle of a network of musicians, all spinning tales of the greatest musician to walk the earth. They begin to wonder when you’ll start writing music, but you shrug it off, saying it’ll wait until there’s enough money saved up to leave the office job and still have a cushion if things fall through. 

The truth is, even though you can play brilliantly, in you’re mind, you’re still a nobody who can’t play music. Sure, you can execute the things people want you to play, but the connection between the notes on the page and your hands seems to have bypassed your brain. When push comes to shove, you don’t know the difference between flat and a sharp, much less know how to write music. 

But you must keep telling people these lies. Besides, who would believe you if you told them the truth?

One night, you come home after a long rehearsal. You sit at the piano, just wanting to burn off steam from sitting and playing the same thing over and over again. You put your hands to the keys. It’s a familiar tune you’re playing, something you’ve found out was called “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair”. It’s simple, uncomplicated, and is relatively unchanging for the first bars. You build the chords only for them to sit on something that’ll resolve in due time, but first this melod-

You stop. You hadn’t given a second thought to the ivories. But now that you’ve played many keyboards in the last few months, the keys don’t feel right, don’t look right. A second later, it hits you- this isn’t the right colour, the right texture, the right weight. Some other material was used to make these keys than plastic or even ivory. 

Another thought hits you. You’ve tried to ask the luthier what’s happening, but never the voice that controlled you the first day. 

Hello? you think. Can I ask you a question?

No response. 

“Hey, if you’re out there, I have some questions I’d like to ask”

Have you not figured out I’m not a mind reader? You’ve got to speak up if you want to talk to me

You’re taken aback by this revelation. “Wha... wait, why can I hear you, but you can’t hear me?”

The only source of input I have is with what you play on me, or what you speak into me. My only sensory organs are the strings that vibrate. It’s a bit like the cochlea

And also your eyes, for some reason. I don’t know why

“So... wait, are you the piano that’s sat in front of me?”

Yes

Rage courses through your veins, but before you can so much as touch the piano, your limbs are seized. All motion is stopped, except for the place where all the anger rushes to: you scream so loudly and so long that the next things out of your mouth are barely whispers: “You... you have so much explaining to do, you motherfucker”

To your surprise, the piano only gives a slight chuckle

You puny human. You sad, sad sack of meat. I remember when I had a body once. It was a worthless, pitiful thing. Uncared for, unloved. It was right for the luthier to turn it into what I am now. Oh, I wanted to play music for the world. I had a song to sing, and I wanted to sing it for all of creation to hear. And so, the luthier gave me the tools to make it happen. I played for the great concert halls of the world, I played for stadiums, I was treated like a god. But I was young and foolish. I questioned the methods by which the luthier gave me unfathomable talent. But, in his infinite wisdom, he was kind unto me. He gave me the opportunity to live on, beyond the body, to become the ultimate instrument to create music. From that day, he knew that I would never question his majesty. I could play on, as I always had. The trouble is, he still wished to punish me. He gave me no method for me to sing my song, and he restricted me so that I could not employ even a pathetic human’s body to play me. And so I was destined to sit, unplayed, for ages and ages. The only time I could play was when I was blown by the wind, and my song would be mournful indeed. 

Until you came along. You, with your pathetic little meat body. I knew I had to act. I took your body, once you had put some of your soul into me. And even though I could not make your limbs move like I once had, I could still bring you to the luthier, to allow you to let me sing. And together, we sang beautifully! Every last emotion that man can feel, rising every time to a feeling of great release and satisfaction. I had been waiting for something like this for hundreds of years. 

We’ve had a good run. Don’t fuck this up. 

“I. Want. OUT!” you cry. “I had an ok life up to this point! None of this witchcraft nonsense! But now you had to rope me into all of this. I’m- no- I’m going to talk to the luthier.”

Fine. But don’t expect him to treat you as kindly as he has been

You storm down to the shop. The luthier greets you warmly, as if he had just seen an old friend of many years walk into the door. But before he gets a word out, you begin: “What. In the fuck. Is happening to me.”

“My dear friend, I have no idea what you’re-“

“You know very well what’s going on. I’ve been playing music I had never heard note perfect and you expect me to just be ok with that?! I’ve come to get some answers out of you.”

His face turns to concern. “I thought you wanted to learn how to play piano-“

“Well not like this!” you exclaim. “In fact, I didn’t even want to do this in the first place, but a piano forced me to do this! And that’s another thing, you turn people into pianos? What kind of psychotic fuck would do that?!”

Any semblance of levity has left the luthier’s face. “He had been disloyal to me. He deserved his punishment. He shall now and forevermore be Sisyphus pushing his rock”

“And you think that dismembering a human and turning their spare parts into musical instruments is a worthy pastime? And then, to top it all off, gaslight them into thinking that the punishment was worthy, and that it wasn’t just a fucked up power trip? 

“You’re being disloyal to me. Surely you of all people now know that disloyalty carries... a heavy price”

You examine the instruments on the walls. You may not know much about string instruments, but you know catgut isn’t used for the strings anymore. And the hair on the bows is all different colours; most dark coloured, some blond, a few with red hair. And it all fits together like a puzzle in your mind. “What kind of sick fuck... You’ve killed hundreds of people in the hair of these bows alone! How many have you murdered? Is there a problem with using animals to make them?! Come on, be rational! This must be exorbitant! You can’t go on doing things like this! The police are going to find out, it’s not going-”

“What do you take this for, some third rate shop that only sells Zildjians or Fenders?” The luthier’s face turns into a snarl, as sharp and deadly as his face could be warm and joyful. “No, my friend, I am a luthier by trade! I only make the finest instruments, crafted from the most exquisite of materials! And the price?” As the luthier chuckles lightly to himself, it’s suddenly as if God himself has damned your entire body to the fiery pits of hell. Sulfur and brimstone course through your veins. You lunge forward, but any control you have over his body leaves as pain, unimaginable pain, wreaks your body. The air leaves your lungs as your eyes roll back in their sockets. And as your body slows in its writhing, the luthier utters the last words you’ll ever hear: “I’ve already extracted the price”

No one knows who built the house at 253 Serpent Avenue. It has stood there for as long as anyone in the neighborhood can remember. The piano has rested unplayed in the house for those long years, but on cold wintry nights one can almost hear the piano strings moan in chorus with the wind howling upon the windowpanes. 

And in the luthier’s shop, children enter wide eyed at the hundreds of instruments they could set their minds to learning, to master the art of drawing emotion out of thin air with. Musicians who had been honing their craft for decades still make the rounds for giving their old standards tune ups. 

But nobody notices that the piano keys have a slightly different white than most keyboards

No one notices the pinkish tinge in the drum heads

No one notices that the catgut the luthier uses for strings tends to ring out richer than any synthetic string might

No one gives any of it a second glance. 

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Pandemic Life

Need to change things up. Don’t want life to grow stale. Thinking about a pencil thin moustache. Always admired the pencil thin. You don’t see many anymore. Always either a dashing character or absolute rogue in old black and white movies in which I tend to live my life in.  I imagine it takes quite the work to keep it just right, sort of like a bonsai hobby, need tiny clippers, the eye of an eagle and a steady hand.  None of which I actually possess.  In my detailed research on the pencil thin, I found there is an important choice to make.  The line of facial hair either breaks across the philtrum, or continues unbroken.  For those naïve among you which I suspect are many, the philtrum is the vertical groove between the base of the nose and the border of the upper lip.  In some versions, the line of hair extends vertically along the outside of the philtrum before stopping just below the nose, leaving the philtrum unbridged.   If the pencil thin doesn’t look so good on me, the public won’t see it anyway since I have to wear a mask outside.  The wife chimes in, and says what about her?  To which I say, she’s not public.

Speaking of facial hair, Mutton Chops, who thought they were a good idea?  In my assiduous research, scholarly study indicates the style going back to 100 BC.  Seems they would get downright messy from splash back at the Roman Vomitorium but that is only an uneducated guess.  They were quite fashionable in the mid to late 19th century and were signs of masculinity and intellect.   In the 1960’s and 70’s Elvis made them fashionable again and who could not resist jumping on the bandwagon from a fellow who wore white jumpsuits with rhinestones? Guessing most men looking back at photos of themselves from the era blame the drugs at the time, even if they never whiffed a drug, instead of their simple lack of taste.

(as a not so quick aside, I bet you have wondered where the term sideburns came from and here is the answer:  sideburns were named after a specific man in the late 19th century.

The man was a politician, businessman, and Union Army General, Ambrose Burnside.  Burnside sported a slightly unusual facial hair style with particularly prominent “mutton chop” sideburns connected to a moustache, while keeping his chin shaved perfectly clean.

While an extremely poor General, something he himself was well aware of, Burnside’s popularity as a General and later politician, in combination with the fairly unique formation of his whiskers, helped start something of a new facial hair trend.  Around the 1870s-1880s, this gave rise to this facial hair style being named “burnsides”.

Within a few years of this, the facial hair down the side of one’s cheeks, rather than being called “mutton chops” as it was at the time in some regions, began being called a modification of “burnsides”, “sideburns”, with the first documented instance of this being in 1887.  Presumably the shift was from the fact that this part of the “burnsides” facial hair style was on the sides of the face- and of course, leaving the “burns” part in in homage to the aforementioned style.)  

I’d do anything for a legacy or homage with a silent h for a facial style named after me.  Look at what it did for the careers of Fu Manchu, Dali, Van Dyke, Walruses, and Mr. Handlebar.  I got it, combine the pencil thin with the mutton chops.  Now, there is a style you never see.  Now, that’s a look!  Maybe add a Van Dyke and a shaved head.  Likely police profiling would ensue for crimes of vagrancy, loitering, animal cruelty, child endangerment, assault on the senses, reckless public display, and crimes against humanity.  Certainly, a look of grandeur in a mug shot.  Legacy guaranteed. Future generations will celebrate my bequest.

The eminent Abrose Burnside

#Pandemic Life