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cazzyf1 · 6 months ago

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Some facts about Niki Lauda

Five years since he left us today 💔

As a kid, he was bullied for coming from a well-off family and for having an overbite. He and his brother would be chauffeured to school, and Niki would beg to be dropped off around the corner so the kids wouldn't see him arriving in the car.

Niki failed his school degree but forged the certificate so his parents wouldn't know he had failed.

Niki's first job was working at a garage, but he was demoted to 'food runner' when he accidentally broke part of an expensive car. All the mechanics would chuck things at him from then.

One of his first cars was a car his friend's dad owned that he went out joyriding in and then crashed. He knew he had to buy the car before his friend's dad found out so ran to his grandma and told her if she didn't give him the money, he would go to jail.

Niki was always at odds with his grandad as he felt his grandad was very hypocritical. His grandad didn't want Niki to be racing and actually stopped one of the banks giving Niki money for his racing career but Niki got around his grandad in the end. Sadly his grandad died before Niki achieved any big success in Formula One.

He met his girlfriend Mariella skiing, when he fell down a slope and ended up lying in a star fish position beside her. As soon as he got up he invited her to a dance. They arrived and found the dance rather boring and left not long after.

As soon as he could, he moved out of his parent's house, determined to try and make his way in life without their help. This meant going into debt to try and fund his racing career. He even took out life insurance on himself.

After driving for March, he was let go and he felt incredibly depressed because he was in a lot of debt with no seat. He knew of a dead end road with a brick wall near to where he was driving and he debated driving into the wall but quickly got rid of those thoughts. He thankfully got a seat with BRM.

Niki would joke with his receptionist, where he would ask if Ferrari had called. One day the receptionist told him they had.

Mariella was popular among the driver wives, and she got along with Helen Stewart and Bette Hill, though she never really liked the sport and believed once Niki had won his world championship, he should retire to focus on things that would actually bring in money. Niki had no intention of retiring. When Niki suddenly broke up with her, the other drivers' wives tried to conspire to get Mariella and Niki back together, though he was now dedicated to Marlene.

Niki got along really well with Luca Cordero di Montezemolo and even named his first son, Lukas, after Luca.

Niki was raised with manners which included kissing a ladies hand. When he won the Monaco gp for the first time he kissed Princess Grace's hand which wasn't allowed. He was very confused as to why everyone was making a fuss about it.

Niki was attempting to dig out ground with a tractor for his own swimming pool when he accidentally flipped it and got crushed under breaking three ribs. From this he was introduced to Willi Dungl who told Niki he would have to travel to Vienna to be treated by him. Willi didn't believe he would but when Niki did turn up he agreed to treat him, and there, their friendship started which would be useful for when Niki had his bad crash at the Nürburgring because Willi helped him recover quickly

Niki has no memory of the crash after he left the pits, but when he was being transported to hospital someone ran up to him with a phone and asked him to give an interview for a Brazilian show. He has no idea what he said.

Niki didn't like the fact that people kept staring at his scars rather than at himself when they spoke to him, and so Willi grabbed a hat and put it on Niki's head. Niki then realised he could earn money by getting sponsors to pay him to wear a hat with their logo.

After 1976, the Ferrari team were trying to push Niki out as they felt after the crash he wouldn't be as good. But he had already signed the contract and made sure he was going to race for 1977, won the world championship and then left as he didn't want to deal with Ferrari's politics. It would take a few years before he and Enzo Ferrari reconciled.

Niki Lauda and James Hunt were friends and had lots of fun together. Niki invited James to a party and then offered to fly James to the GP practise the next day. James almost missed Niki's flight as he was still up partying in the morning.

When Niki Lauda retired, Marlene was so happy that when she found out the first thing she did was call Niki's grandmother to tell her and then went to the local bar where they lived and paid for all drinks to celebrate.

Niki is one of the few drivers that read the new terms for the 1982 super licence and organised to go on strike. He was one of the main leaders and one of the older drivers reassuring everyone else.

He wasn't happy when John Watson was let go and Alain Prost came in for Mclaren. He was suspicious on how nice Alain was and how fast he was but eventually he warmed up to Alain taking a mentor role.

Willi Dungl put Niki on a strict diet for his racing and overall fitness which is where Niki's obsession with having strawberries and yogurt every morning. Niki would try and cheat the diet all the time though including running across fields to his neighbours house to have schnitzel.

Dr Sid Watkins once caught Niki cheating his diet by having an English breakfast. When he confronted Niki, Niki replied 'Do you want me to die hungry?'

It was a close battle between Niki and Alain Prost but eventually Niki won. Niki could see Alain was upset though and told him this was his year and next year would be Alain's year.

Niki didn't care for his trophies and gave them to his local garage for free car washes. He eventually got them back when the man passed away, and his son Lukas sold them on eBay to earn money to fund his younger brother Mathias racing career.

When he first started working at Mercedes, him and Toto Wolff did not get along as there was a power struggle. They were called in to talk to the Mercedes bosses about it, and before the meeting, Niki confronted Toto in the toilets, and they agreed to get along.

Asshole was Niki's favourite word. He became known around Mercedes for saying the catchphrase 'Give it assholes'

During Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg's rivalry, Niki invited them to his home in Ibiza and tried locking them in a room together to discuss their issues.

Niki once went to Toto when they were at a hotel complaing about the pay for view at the hotel not working. Toto had to show Niki how he could get 'action movies' on his phone.

A reporter once asked Niki how he prepared for the film 'Rush' he replied that he had prepared the barbecue.

On my Instagram account dedicated to Niki Lauda, @niki.lauda.tribute, today (20th), on my stories, I am hosting the opposite to submit anonymous messages about Niki Lauda. If you would like, you can send anything, like your thoughts on Niki, what he means to you, what an impact he has had on you, ect.

#classic f1 #niki lauda #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #rip niki lauda

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nexility-sims · 7 months ago

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𝐍𝐎. 𝟔 ❛ 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 ❜ | NAKAWE PALACE, AUGUST 1991

❧ 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 / 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 / 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 / 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

❛ In the premier’s sitting room, Beatriz’s memories transported her back to a formative childhood moment. Her education began early, as was customary, but the distance between Canarís and Nakawe in those days meant she didn’t shadow the king himself until later. She was instead inseparable from her father, observing the birthright governorship that the men of Uspana’s assembly would deny her some years later. Still, her memory of Fernando was strong—a perfect jester of a grandfather, energetic and jovial. He was unlike her father in many ways, but they had both been paternal men. Beatriz believed to this day that her papa was the best father in the world, and she regretted that he hadn’t lived to become a jovial grandfather, too. Of course, the most notable difference was her grandfather’s effectiveness. Liberal pens rewrote history in the succeeding decades, but Beatriz remembered that fact well.

❧ ran out of time but didn't want to postpone so i kinda totally 100% phoned this one in dsfsdfjk BUT nando cameo !!!!! grandpa !!!!! uses the phrase "people of means" unironically !!!!! love him, can't wait to go back to the 1930s someday

𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

The room belonged to Hernan Perdignon when Beatriz entered it for the first time. Fernando had disliked him on ideological grounds, and Alfonso respected him for his principles, but it had been neither that led to his being gunned down in a public market midway through his first term. The Depression ground down everyone. Even Beatriz recalled those as lean years—if, primarily, because her father’s guilt made him insist their household behave as if though its purse shrunk along with everyone else’s. It did, but not in a way they felt. Her mother’s ongoing spending, the very spectacle of it, proved as much. Meanwhile, Alfonso insisted they buy only food without import taxes and pay for cheap fabric at the market. It didn’t matter that the bolts went from the weaver’s mangled hands into those of better paid seamstresses and tailors. Her father reduced their estate’s livestock by half, but they didn’t have to take them out back and slaughter them to do it.

Before they departed for the meeting at Nakawe Palace, her grandfather had knelt down to give her instructions with uncharacteristic seriousness. Neither her grandparents nor her parents ever lived at Nakawe Palace itself. They rode over, whether in a carriage, a chauffeured town car, or one of her mother’s sleek, dangerous roadsters. When she could drive herself, Beatriz visited in a doorless military issue four-by-four. A black sedan was to Fernando’s back on this day as he explained that he wanted her to stand perfectly quiet and still, doll-like, while he talked to the premier. It wasn’t just a matter of being well-behaved. ‘Stare him down,’ Fernando intoned. ‘Don’t look away for a minute. If he looks at you, don’t back down. Keep him in a fixed gaze, and keep your ears open.’ She’d asked, confused, ‘Open?’ and prompted a laugh from him. ‘Listen to us, Bird. Listen like you listen to your papa.’ That, she knew could do.

Perdignon laughed, deep and good-natured, when he saw her stroll into the room ahead of the king. That was the desired effect, and Fernando assured him with a wink that six year old Beatriz could conduct a meeting with a politician just as well as anyone else. Indeed, the premier noted she was a somber child. She stood like a sentry at the edge of the king’s chosen sofa, her hands clasped, the maturity of her comportment undermined only by the girlish ribbons in her hair. Most of the conversation went over her head, and that was fine. She focused as best she could on what her grandfather had requested: although at times distracted by a bird in the window, a vase on a shelf, the movement of aides just beyond the room’s open door, she stared hard at Perdignon’s expressive face while the men conversed. Like their spirited debate about economics, the reason Fernando had asked this of her was beyond her grasp at the time. She only understood later what it accomplished—in the tense quiet between barbed words, when the king’s expectant challenges went unmet, when the premier fell silent in resignation. Perdignon found the attentive audience in miniature charming. As the meeting dragged on, though, he found it unsettling.

There was an art to it, to unsettling and intimidating and domination. It demanded subtlety. Although some pretended to forget, her ancestors had known that and passed the wisdom down. It was the warm bath that became a boiling pot. It was a gentle touch. It was an unexpectedly stifling room, an uninvited guest, inexplicable body language, threats delivered with luxurious kindness. Beatriz could browbeat and curse when it suited her. In fact, that’s what she loved. Neither her stature nor her pedigree suggested as much, which became its own kind of unsettling. Still, she approached her work more often as a strategist rather than with self-indulgence. She learned early and well that her claim to dominion—her queenhood, her king’s crown—rested on precision and finesse just as much as the very real force underwriting it.

Eladio Guillen’s sitting room was worlds away from the one that had belonged to Hernan Perdignon. Much of the decorations remained unchanged in the six intervening decades, but this was a different time and place. This was, too, a different premier. Unlike Perdignon, Guillen wouldn’t be lionized for his devotion to the nation. His aspirations were not grand; by Beatriz’s measure, they were small and petty, which made him more susceptible to precision, finesse, and force alike. It was her prerogative to choose a premier from among the winning coalition’s candidates, and she had chosen him for that very reason. Her mind wandered to a memory of instruction, but it was only because Guillen failed to maintain her attention. There was no real need for strategy today. He talked about nothing, meandering and wandering. Beatriz was a shepherd. He was a chicken, headless.

Beatriz refocused herself soon enough, crossing her ankles as she interrupted Guillen to state, “Arnaut was here yesterday. Was it productive?”

Guillen readjusted as well, leaning back into the cushion with a sigh. They regarded each other as he thought through his response. “Well,” he began, meeting Beatriz’s sharp eyes. “It’s a good kind of sentimental, what you all are trying to do for my late princess. Believe me.” The queen prompted him to continue with a raise of her eyebrows. “Still, I was skeptical when she was pitching it herself, and she was a much better communicator than my prince. He’s just all over the place and nowhere at the same time, I hear. Hard to find a mess he hasn’t stepped in.”

Beatriz’s expression remained unchanged as she listened. There were no surprises in Guillen’s report; his were words she could have just as easily said herself—and, whether casually or in frustration, likely had. Yet, it roiled her to hear them from him. She could imagine the meeting, and she could envision Guillen’s smirking face as Arnaut made a show of his inexperience. There was no trace of amusement as he sat before her now, but she found his apologetic demeanor just as rankling.

Maintaining an even tone, she followed up with, “What do you want, Guillen?”

“What?” He sounded surprised—or, she thought, feigned it.

“What do you want?” she repeated, leaning forward. “Do you have strong feelings about higher education? Do you want to humiliate my son? Is it completely irrelevant to you and just … 'weighing interests'?” That was Guillen’s terminology. He ferried it from his corporate background into the premiership, and now it cropped up time and time again in meetings Beatriz had to endure. This vague, euphemistic bandage encapsulated his politics well. Likewise, it had infected underlings, admirers, and enemies indiscriminately.

“It has nothing to do with him, my queen,” Guillen protested.

Beatriz shrugged. “Perhaps that’s how I heard it.”

However feebly, the premier was determined to defend himself. It seemed apparent to him that he had hit a nerve, even as the queen performed nonchalance. He hadn’t addressed her other suppositions. In a way, that didn’t matter. They both knew he had no abiding interest in this particular arena of policy. His mind, when it went into the weeds, entertained more attractive prospects like free trade and technological innovation. Even then, the name of the game was weighing interests. The outlier was pointed, almost as sharp as if she’d jabbed him with a pin: had he humiliated her son? It wasn’t his place to clarify that someone else had done it, actually, and he had only piled on by letting it happen in his presence. Perhaps that had been ill-advised, he wondered now. Still, it wasn’t often in the course of his business that someone’s mother checked their work. He was unsure how to handle it.

“That may be,” he conceded with a short sigh “But, I didn’t mean that.”

Beatriz sniffed. “You said what you said, and that tells me something.” She paused, and Guillen straightened in anticipation. “I don’t need you to respect my son. That’s his concern. What I need is for you to work with him. These are not playdates or sentiments. For this project, he is my emissary. His work is the Crown’s work. And, for the Crown to work with your work … Well. Do you understand me?”

This, Guillen understood all too well. It was almost all he understood.

TRANSCRIPT:

[Premier talking]

BEATRIZ | Arnaut was here yesterday. Was it productive? GUILLEN | It’s a good kind of sentimental, what you all are trying to do for my late princess. Believe me.

GUILLEN | Still, I was skeptical when she was pitching it herself, and she was a much better communicator than my prince. He’s just all over the place and nowhere at the same time, I hear. Hard to find a mess he hasn’t stepped in.

BEATRIZ | What do you want, Guillen? GUILLEN | What? BEATRIZ | What do you want? Do you have strong feelings about higher education? Do you want to humiliate my son? Is it completely irrelevant to you and just … "weighing interests"?

GUILLEN | It has nothing to do with him, my queen. BEATRIZ | Perhaps that's how I heard it. GUILLEN | That may be. But, I didn't mean that.

BEATRIZ | You said what you said, and that tells me something. I don’t need you to respect my son. That’s his concern. What I need is for you to work with him. These are not playdates or sentiments. For this project, he is my emissary. His work is the Crown’s work. And, for the Crown to work with your work … Well.

BEATRIZ | Do you understand me?

GUILLEN | Of course, my queen. I'll call him soon. Why don’t we return to the matter at hand? Pending bill forty-seven and excluding the Armorica provision, as you requested—

BRISIDA | The Canarís location? You’re sure? [Door opening]

??? | He requested the number. They do have a good auction there. We have a fax of the purchasing arrangement proposal, if you need it—company policy. It’ll be signed at the sale next week, I believe. BRISIDA | What day? ??? | Tuesday morning. Ten o’clock, if they’re punctual.

BRISIDA | Great. Nothing further; just let it proceed. Thank you. ??? | Our pleasure. Please give my queen our warmest wishes. BRISIDA | Uh huh. Goodbye.

BEATRIZ | The surveillance order? BRISIDA | Just needs those details and your signature. BEATRIZ | Always on top of things. Good.

#ts4 story #sims story #sims 4 story #royal sims #simblr #ts4 legacy #1992.story.post #1992.a1 #1992.e04

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ultragift · 11 months ago

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FROM: @scribby-wibby TO: @melancholystorms It's a real shame that philosophy and artistry had fallen out of sphere during the latter years of the Final War. Had the world been more receptive, they wouldn't have missed the philosophies of a certain Dr. Julia Ritzer who proudly proclaimed that all problems could be solved with a ladder. Need to reach a high shelf? Ladder. Need to pass a test? Take a ladder to your professors house, break in, and find the answers. Nations warring over land? Ladder, obviously.

The quintessential dilemma of this very philosophy was taking place long after Dr. Ritzer’s death, where a drone swore at it's swordmachine who was currently struggling to scramble up a steep jut of rock in Greed. Fun fact: drones are capable of complete speech, serving as messenger pigeons during the 22nd century, but have an abhorrent temper, therefore only speak in censored swears.

Enter stage right, our morally inept protagonist on sabbatical. V1 watches the two bicker from the velvety shadows, draped gracefully over the desiccated terrain. Thick cuts of building stick out of the sand like broken teeth. Why two machines sought to scale a lone pillar in the middle of perpetual midnight was beyond V1’s reasoning. Perhaps Dr. Ritzer’s ideology was not precisely about ladders, but just upwards movement previously unseen; a bush-beaten way of reaching upwards instead of pushing forward; To build bridges into the heavens.

V1, who was attempting with little success, to build bridges between its brethren, approaches the pair with outstretched arms in what was supposed to be a peace offering. Of course, when one of your arms is a also a gun, this offering is swiftly misinterpreted.

The swordmachine wheels around with it’s blade unsheathed, upheaving the sand around it into a dusty whirlwind. V1 dodges to the left, narrowly avoiding a shot from the drone locked onto it from above.

V1 in turn unsheathes a small flag, which used to be white but was stained a burnt red from… well, an inability to abide by what the white flag symbolizes.

Fun fact: swordmachines are colorblind. There’s no reason for this. It’s a learned behavior from dogs, supposedly.

The three come to a screeching halt, all with their weapons still raised. V1 wiggles the flag again. The other two machines relax marginally.

Peering up at the lip of the pillar, V1 sticks out a thumbs up in their direction with it’s arms akimbo.

It takes an exaggerated step towards the pillar, hunches down, and leaps up. it’s feet scrape against the side briefly before it jumps again. On the third meeting of V1s feet with the pillar, it realizes this method may be ineffective. Less than halfway to the top, V1 skids down the pillar like nails across chalkboard. It hits the ground rear first with the grace of a beached whale.

Despite not having eyes, the swordmachine looks unimpressed. The drone beeps once, low and drawling.

V1 gets back onto its feet and extends it’s finger as if to say wait. It reaches behind and pulls a small device from it’s wings, making a series of clicks.

The incredulous looks shared between the drone and swordmachine is cut short by a sharp brilliance of light cutting through the dark sweep of desert.

“Machine, I thought I had told you not to call on me unless it was a matter of utmost importance.”

V1 cocks its head in confusion. Apparently losing a game of checkers counts as a matter of utmost importance to the former judge of Hell, but assisting its denizens doesn’t.

V1 circles its finger between itself and the two other machines before pointing to the top of the pillar.

Gabriel sighs petulantly: “I am not a chauffeur, Machine.” He lies.

Regardless of Gabriel’s anti-chauffeur attitude, he grips V1 and the swordmachine’s head like ski poles, with the drone nestled in the swordmachine’s hands, and transports them to the top of the pillar. The view is staggering. Concrete strewn across the sand like crumbs, various twisting architecture catching the moonlight to create a field of glistening needles.

More perplexing that the view, is the circular table with two chair tucked beneath in the center of the platform. The swordmachine pulls out both the chair and sits in one, while the drone awkwardly hovers over the other.

“What.” Gabriel speaks, his voice creeping along the edge of anger, “why would you need help getting up here again if you already moved a whole furniture set here before?”

The swordsmachine and drone look between V1 and Gabriel as if to shoo them away. V1 pats its companion’s arm in condolence as his wings begin quivering in disbelief.

It takes a large step off the pillar, leaving Gabriel no choice but to follow.

#ultragift 2023 #ultragifts

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hapan-in-exile · 2 years ago

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Volume 2 - Post #1: Crystal Palace

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem Reader

Total word count: 1.5K (of 21K total in Volume 2)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

______________________________________________

I. “Oh, no, nothing like that,” you smirk. “I’m only passing through.”

Behind the placid smile, you’re a nervous wreck. Driven by compulsion, you inspect the glittering contours of polish painted over your nails and bite at the edges of your cuticles. It's hard to stop yourself from picking at the tiny gemstone sealed beneath the lacquer.

Stop that! It was such an obvious tell.

“Well, miss, you certainly look glamorous enough to be royalty,” the soothing, masculine tenor of the AI assures you.

It’s strange receiving compliments from a disembodied voice. Still, the automated chauffeur being piped into the solitary cabin of your hoverpod is the only company you’ve got while sitting here, stuck in the immovable event traffic.

And, hey, you’re pretty accustomed to flirting with faceless men at this point.

You chuckle, thinking about the Mandalorian's reaction when he sees you. Probably to balk at the ridiculous extravagance of your dress, the jewels, the makeup, everything.

“That’s kind of you to say,” you reply politely.

The palace sits atop the horizon like a second moon, the glow of twilight reflecting its silvery halo across the dancing ocean waters below. The Leefari Sea is truly gorgeous…and the palace? It was composed almost entirely of glimmering white crystal carved into the cliffside above the shore.

But it has only one thorofare leading up to the gates. An expansive tree-lined promenade that had transformed into a parking lot of automated transports.

“How many times will you have to wade through this tonight?” If droids were capable of road rage, this would do it. “Is the whole city going to make their way up to the palace?”

“Everything inside the walls is usually closed off to the public, you understand, so an open invitation onto the grounds…should be spectacular.”

“It's quite a celebration,” you muse, fidgeting with the strands of beads draped around your neck.

“Peace is something to celebrate. The quadrant has been at war since the Empire fell.”

It seems only fitting. Generous in victory, to match how unscrupulous the Nine Houses had been in their pursuit of power.

You check the time. Fucking farrik!

“Just drop me off here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

When you step out of the transport, your ankle wobbles precariously the moment your heel catches on the cobblestones. There’s an alarming minute or so before your body remembers how to walk this high off the ground. It’s a steady climb to the gates, but you’re practically carried there by the crowd of people being herded towards the palace grounds.

The gala within was an invitation-only affair, but out here in the royal parks and gardens, the party is open to all. Droids circle amongst the revelers, offering platters of treats and flutes of sparkling libations. No doubt the festivities would continue to grow as the night went on.

The main gate was flung open, silky blue carpet spilling like water down the stairs beneath a steady stream of guests waiting to be admitted. They practically glow in their jewel-tone gowns and dark, elegant suits. Lush cloaks spill over their shoulders, and gilded crowns shine in their hair.

Thankfully, you look ready to step out on the arm of any one of these polished courtiers or dashing captains in regalia. While spending the entire day at the salon probably wasn't necessary, you’re relieved to see it was time well spent. It’s been months since you’ve set foot on an inner rim planet. How would you have known tiaras are back in style?

What you’re most thankful for is the cape. This was described as a mild, sunny season here on Berchest, but perched atop a sea cliff meant the palace was shrouded in coastal fog as soon as the sun had set. A chill, damp breeze whips at your face, sending a shiver across your already tense shoulders.

One of the service droids is able to extricate itself from the boundless river of partygoers to offer you a glass of something rose colored. “Um, no. Thanks, I can’t consume another drop of liquid.” Your bladder is full to burst. “Is there a lobby, perhaps?”

The droid merely emits a series of beeps and whistles.

You see a low wall lined with boxy hedges surrounding the castle gardens. Hugging the edges of the stone perimeter, careful not to catch your gown on the shrubbery, you creep slowly towards a break in the landscaping. From here, you can sit on the ledge and swing your legs over into the private gardens surrounding the main hall.

Walking becomes even more difficult as you try to both tip-toe silently and squeeze your pelvic floor—all while keeping an eye out for anyone who might see you. When you’re far enough away from the hall for the sound of music and revelry to be carried off in the night air, you discover an enclosed pavilion framed by fragrant fruit trees that could provide just enough cover.

You manage the most graceful of positions in your dress—squatting with your heels pressing against the back of your thighs. The sweet release of urination cannot be overstated. It's an art holding your hem out of the frothing spray of piss, but fortunately, this isn’t your first clandestine micturition.

“Yeah, I’m checking it out.” A stern voice mutters close by. “Ahem…miss? I’m gonna need you to stand up, please.”

“Oh—oh shit! Shit, this is so embarrassing!”

“Are you aware that you’re trespassing? This area is not accessible to guests.”

“I’m so sorry.” You laugh, absolutely mortified. “The security line is just taking a million years to clear, and I was desperate.”

“Miss, you're not authorized to be in this area. I’ll need you to wait here with me until I can have someone escort you back to the entrance. May I see your invitation?”

“Please, I don’t want to cause a scene. I’ll be in so much trouble…I mean, you can see I'm clearly not a threat.” You toss the folds of your cape behind both shoulders so he can see your gown.

“What’s your status, Sector Nine?”

It's backless, cut down to your navel and up between your thighs, leaving no doubt that you are entirely naked beneath the whisper-thin fabric. “Where would I even hide something under this?”

“Sector Nine?”

“Maybe you should check?” You arch an eyebrow suggestively. “Just in case…”

The guard furtively looks over his shoulder at a perfectly round hole in the facade’s delicately carved rondels—exactly to where the security camera must be. Taking one, two steps forward, he moves out of range.

“Sector Nine is secure,” he says brusquely into the comlink strapped to his wrist.

“Got it!” Nito's voice rings in your earbud.

“Must be an animal,” the guard says flatly into the mic. “Trying to eat the sensors…” he sighs convincingly. “I’ll chase it off and reset the connection.”

Then, he steps entirely off-camera.

“Perfect,” Nito cheers.

Head tilting to take you in from every angle, the palace guard stops short a few feet from where you’re standing. “What brings you here tonight?”

“Work.” You say smoothly, letting him draw his own conclusions.

“There’s a way back into the palace through the kitchen cellars. I could take you.” Reaching out a hand, he beckons you towards him.

Your fingers slide into his gloved palm right before you trip on the uneven ground, pitching you forward. When the guard pulls you against him to stop your fall, you wrap an arm around the back of his neck to steady yourself.

That’s when you drop him unconscious.

He collapses to the ground like a sack of bricks. You crouch down, the fabric of your gown pooling around you. Reaching into his jacket, you pull out the transceiver he’s carrying in his pocket. In your clutch is a splicer to link Nito to the palace's communications network.

“I’m in,” the Ardennian says smugly. “Phase One is complete.”

You check the time again.

What to do with the body? You glance around stupidly for someone to tell you what to do. But this is your mission. You’re the one who has to decide what happens next. Nothing to do but drag the unconscious guard behind a bush and hope for the best. You tuck both of his feet under your arms and pull with every ounce of strength you possess—stumbling in your strappy sandals a few times.

Slipping off your cape, you drape it over the guard’s limp body in an arrangement that makes it seem like he could be passed out drunk, sleeping off the night’s excesses.

That’s when you hear the sound of gravel crunching under nearing footsteps.

Before you can draw in another breath, there’s a shift in the air, the susurration of movement from behind. You whip your head around, but a large, firm hand clamps down over your mouth.

His heavy body presses against the length of your spine. An elbow settles across your chest while another slides over your waist, hauling you backward into a trellis of cascading vines.

“Shhh,” he whispers against your ear in that rough, modulated voice. “It’s me.”

As though he might be some other man you know, wearing gauntlets and a Beskar helmet.

***********************

Read the next post: Post #2: Performance Art

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dallasblackcarserviceinliom · 6 months ago

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Taking Private City Tours with Dallas Limo and Black Car Service to See Dallas in Style

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Conclusion

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