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dpr-stay · 1 year ago

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Cupid | LH44

Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, reader is a press officer, don't think gender is stated specifically, implied sexual content, second chance romance, she is not edited, zhou guanyu does not crash, and there are swears.

WC: ~7.7k (kill me now)

I literally hate this, im so sorry. I haven't edited it because it's late but I hope it's not bad. I'll edit it tomorrow. also how is it so longgg, it was supposed to be 5k at best. (why have i written two fics about exes having dinner?)

Being Valtteri Bottas’ PR Agent was a wild ride. From being hired by him in his early days at Williams, to his successful years at Mercedes, and now at Alfa Romeo, you’d gotten to know the man through all stages of his career. You’d been there to field off questions about his declining performance at Mercedes and had been the first one to slam open the door and start yelling at him after the ‘cheated-on-his-wife’ rumours started floating around.

However, the paycheck was good and, when he wasn’t causing you to spend many nights in meetings about his public image, you didn’t mind the guy, happy to have to follow him around the world for most of the year.

The whole Formula One thing was also a bonus, you having been hooked on the sport after your Dad introduced it to you at an early age. You’d spent countless hours watching your dad watch the car’s speed by on his tv set, finally deciding to pay attention to the race after a few years. And boy, did you love it.

You’d spent many an early birthday present forcing your parents to take you to the Grand Prix nearest to you, saving up for months to be able to afford the tickets and the travel. Something about the sport just intrigued pre-teen you, nothing to do with Michael Schumacher at all.

So, when the chance to be a F1 driver’s personal PR agent had landed on your advertisement agency’s desk, the place you had worked in the early days of your career, you had snatched it up quickly. The work started well before the start of the 2013 season, you having to meet the man himself and quickly getting adjusted to the many people you’d need to know to network for the guy.

You’d also met Maldonado’s PR agent, one from the Williams team, who quickly brought up the ideas of doing interviews and press releases between the two drivers. You were swept into the world of the sport, beginning to get into the swing of things.

Years passed, as did teammates, and Valtteri got signed to Mercedes alongside Lewis Hamilton. You didn’t know if your employment would carry over to Mercedes, but a team shirt and a letter letting you know about when Valtteri’s responsibilities started being mailed to your house confirmed it pretty quickly.

The atmosphere at Mercedes was more professional, though the team still treated each other as family. You’d often see engineers leaving together, going to go get drunk and celebrate Lewis�� common wins and Valtteri’s less common, but still happening, wins.

You’d often spend hours at a time bargaining for spots for Valtteri in interviews and in PR related spots, and it worked. He was a well-known man, your job was practically done. The bosses were (finally) appeased, Valtteri was happy, and you could finally relax after years straight of stressing about social media and whatever the hell a vine was and if that was still relevant.

And then you’d gone and got yourself trapped in an elevator with Lewis Hamilton.

Being a Mercedes employee, though only temporary, you’d met Lewis often during interviews and team meetings. However, you never really know a person until you spend five hours sitting opposite each other in a broken-down elevator, only being able to see each other by the light of your phone's flashlight, waiting for some sort of help as there was no signal.

Your conversation had started off hesitantly, you incredibly intimidated by the several-time world champion and him having a fleeting idea of who you were. The conversation had eventually fizzled out till the lift jolted, and a creaking sound echoed into the cavern of the contraption.

Your telling groan that you couldn’t hold back elicited a concerned “You alright?” from Lewis and then you eventually had to tell the professional F1 driver, who raced cars at over 200km/h every other weekend, about your fear of small spaces.

He hadn’t judged you for it, something which you thought was rather nice, and had even tried to adjust for you, moving to the very other side of the small box. Granted, your feet still touched, but you thought the sentiment was nice.

He was more down to earth than you expected, you knew he wasn’t a prick but you weren’t expecting him to be… kind. Soon enough, after a few more questions about why you were afraid of small spaces and other questions, you both had spiraled into boundless conversation.

You had talked about things you’d never talked about with someone, let alone a practical stranger, his soothing accent making it easier to open up to him. Things like the future and where it would take you, uncertainties about both your careers, even relationships, the type of conversations you only have trapped in a suspended metal box in the dark.

Lewis was a fantastic person to talk to. He’d listen when he needed to and returned your conversation with equal energy, as though he actually wanted to be part of the conversation. For some reason he had decided to trust you and had talked freely to you, showing you a side that you doubted many people had seen.

Maybe it was the fact he couldn’t see your face or maybe you just gave off a trustworthy vibe. You didn’t know. All you knew was that, all of a sudden, you were one of Lewis Hamilton’s most trusted confidants.

Even after someone had finally realised you were missing and exactly where you were, calling more firemen than necessary to bust open the lift though you supposed that’s what you were supposed to do when a ‘Sir’ was trapped in an elevator, Lewis had asked for your phone number and had continued to text you.

You’d met up a few times over the season, quickly becoming incredibly close friends who told each other everything. You’d had to deal with a few teases from Valtteri, who’d shut up when you reminded him who controlled the public’s opinion of him.

During the off-season Lewis had invited you to come to his house for dinner. You’d went, it was lovely, and then you’d unknowingly experienced the moment of truth in your weird friendship/developing relationship.

You’d been sitting at Lewis’s dinner table, eagerly chatting to the man about your family, leaning in closer and closer until the both of you were nearly leaning over the table. He’d cooked for you, an act you found incredibly sweet for the multi-millionaire who probably had ten private chefs on speed-dial, and you’d spent the evening wining and dining.

You had both finished your main courses, talking about everything and anything when a loud bang had come from the upstairs of the man’s house. He glossed right over it, ignoring the loud sound. You had been about to comment on it but, at his nonchalance, you deigned not to.

The conversation had continued, you both moving from his table to the couch he owned, which probably cost more than your salary earned you, when another loud sound, which sounded suspiciously like a bark, reverberated through his open-plan house.

He sighed loudly at your questioning look, deciding that he couldn’t ignore it this time. He opened his mouth to speak but, before he could utter a syllable, the tapping of claws sounded against the stairs located, conveniently, in view of his living room.

You looked up and there stood one of the largest Bulldogs you had ever seen. It was almost majestic, the way that he stood there on the steps, panting as though he’d just run a race. His brown coat was shining in the twilight glow, his muzzle a white colour in comparison to the rest of his body.

He took a few steps down the stairs, tripping on one before regaining his posture. You could only watch in wonder, mouth agape, as the beautiful beast padded down the steps and took a turn, approaching you head on.

The dog was a thing of beauty, his droopy face conveying no discernable emotion except from being tired. He slowly made his way to the couch, you doing nothing but watching as he trotted along the hardwood floors. You didn’t catch Lewis staring at you warily as you were only focused on the thing that younger you would’ve fought a clan of savage chipmunks in order to have.

The dog eventually made his way in front of you, plopping his behind down on the carpet and staring up at you questioningly. You didn’t know what emotion your face was conveying, you only knew it was very silent.

You cautiously reached a hand down to rub between his ears. After a second of your rubbing he made a gruff ‘woof’ sound and you couldn’t help it, an entranced whine releasing from your throat. Collapsing onto the floor beside the dog, you forgot about Lewis, focusing completely on the magnificent specimen of a dog.

Roscoe, as you’d soon come to know via a fond Lewis, took to you as soon as you took to him. Within a minute the dog was letting you handle him as much as you’d like, rolling over on his back to let you get his stomach and vigorously licking your arm as you pet him. Praises spilled from your lips abound, making sure to let the bulldog know just how much of a good boy he was.

At a cough you turned from your spot on the floor to face Lewis, the radiant grin he had on his face making you feel as though you’d passed a test of sorts. Roscoe also turned to look at Lewis before turning back to you and huffing.

He moved forward, stepping on your legs, trying to sit on you, before falling off the slope onto the carpet. You then picked him up and cuddled him, trying to keep eye-contact with Lewis as you did so. Lewis’ eyes had turned into half moons as he watched you love on his dog, his smile consuming his face.

“I’m glad he likes you, I don’t know what I would’ve done if he didn’t.” He admitted, placing his drink on a wooden table that stood beside the couch. He then slowly slid from the couch onto the floor beside you, leaning his body down till he was face-to-face with Roscoe and gave the dog a kiss.

“He’s got good taste.” You commented and Lewis released a laugh, glancing up at you.

“Me or the dog?” He asked after a second and you paused, overdramatically placing a finger on your chin and tilting your head as though you were thinking. You then shrugged and he laughed again, you not missing the incredibly familiar twinkle in his eye as he looked at you.

After that, you’d found that Lewis was a lot more eager to meet at his house. Roscoe, accompanied by the sheepish man, was bowling you over nearly every time the door was opened to you. Lewis had also made the trip to your house, though you doubted he’d seen a house as small as yours within the last ten years. He seemed to like it though, settling in quickly and even staying there when you were at work. The off-season had continued like that, casually building your relationship between his training and your many meetings with Alfa Romeo, trying to settle the discussions about your contract after Valtteri’s move.

You’d finally gotten somewhere just before the season started after having to plead to not be replaced by an inside hire, Valtteri backing you up and stating he wouldn’t race without you. Alfa Romeo had accepted and then you finally had the contract you’d wanted.

You’d left the meeting, Valtteri in tow, before turning around and hugging the man for having your back before you both said goodbye and made your way home and to the gym respectively.

The uber ride you’d hired was peaceful, the man staring straight ahead as you looked out the window, your small apartment building coming into your view. You smiled as you saw it, thinking of the Lewis you’d left in bed that morning, having to pull yourself out before him to go to your meeting.

The climb up the steps (the elevator didn’t work which Lewis hadn’t complained about when you’d explained it in embarrassment) had seemed to take forever no matter how fast you climbed. When you’d finally made it to your floor, you had to practically drag yourself across the hallway to your door, unlocking it with force after the lock had gotten stuck.

Immediately you could tell something was off, the place seemed colder than that morning and it didn;t have to do with the fact the thermostat had broken a few months ago. All the lights were off and there was no noise coming from within, a telltale sign that Lewis was somewhere within whether he was listening to music or talking to someone.

That was ok, though, he might’ve been at a meeting like the one you’d had, though you doubted there would be less than 7 zero’s on his contract. But that’s the difference between a big team and Alfa Romeo, you work with what you get.

You looked to the side table, placing your keys in the bowl, noticing the absence of Lewis’ keys. But that made sense if he was at a training session or a meeting, so you continued into the apartment, losing components of your outerwear as you went.

You’d lost your scarf and blazer as you’d made your way to your bedroom, prepared to change from your business outfit into one of Lewis’ many shirts when you opened your closet. A quick rummage and you couldn’t find any. Weird.

You checked again before moving to another part of your closet and noting the lack of his hoodies or jumpers, which was even weirder as you’d stolen a few of them last week. You turned and moved to your dresser, an old antique wooden piece you’d picked up from an op-shop a few years ago after seeing it and falling in love.

You’d opened your drawer specifically for pajamas and found everything you’d acquired through your time of living independently but Lewis’ shirts. Moving to the many drawers Lewis used specifically when he’d stay over, a small inkling of panic settled in your stomach however you ignored it and opened the drawer.

Nothing. There was nothing left in the drawer. You quickly opened all his other drawers, almost pulling them out of the dresser with the force you were applying. All of them were empty. This caused the inkling to grow to an uneasy pool. Maybe he’d taken them to wash them at his place?

You stepped back from the dressers, incredibly confused and vehemently denying the growing panic in you. You walked, not ran, into your bathroom. The lonely toothbrush sitting on the counter sent a strange feeling, almost like adrenaline, rushing through you. Opening the cupboards under the counter you noted the loss of his extra face wipes and the moisturizers he insisted on using.

You ran to your kitchen, not seeing anything off, before slamming into the back of the couch in your open plan apartment in your haste to get into the living room. The action caused pain to ring through your shins but you barely registered it, the missing cd’s that normally sat on the table your tv was balancing on that he had insisted were better than Spotify the only thing you were focused on.

A quick look down the hallway to the door of your apartment only furthered your dread, noticing details you hadn’t seen before. The missing stack of shoes that he normally toed-off at the door and the missing extra wallet he left on the side table in case someone broke in almost confirmed your fears.

But what really set in the fact that he’d packed up and left was the missing leash that normally hung from a hook you’d installed specifically on the back of your front door. The inscribed ‘Roscoe’ on the hook seemed almost mocking from your place on the couch, but you couldn’t really acknowledge it, the tears filling your eyes blurring your vision.

You stood up from the couch and stormed back into the bedroom, slamming the open drawers shut, not hearing the splintering of the vintage wood. You picked up your phone from your bed that you’d tossed earlier in your haste to become relaxed, and opened your messages.

He hadn’t sent anything to you explaining his leaving and when you went to send a text (‘??? Where are you’) the message that you’d been blocked popped up at the bottom of the screen. You could only stare at the screen for a second, the implications of what he’d done sending emotional shockwaves through you.

You barked out a sardonic laugh, your hand flopping from its position in front of you to be held uselessly at your side, your phone slipping from your grasp onto the floor. The world went still for a moment before you lifted a hand to cover your vision, the tears slipping from your eyes wetting your hand.

You sat alone on your bed that had, not even 24 hours ago, contained what you had thought was your future. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be angry at this point, the grief for something that was evidently never meant to be controlling your thoughts. A long deep sigh left you before it was interrupted by a sob. And then another sob.

You ended up falling asleep alone that night, still dressed in the smart pants and white shirt you’d worn to your meeting. Your only lullaby was your sobbing, not the sound of his gentle humming, something which you kept reminding yourself of.

Valtteri had commented that you’d seemed sad the next time he’d seen you but neither of you had addressed it past that, him knowing when to keep his mouth shut. He especially knew to shut up after the intense glare you had fixed him.

The season had started again and, while you were prepared for your duties as a PR agent, Valtteri’s full calendar being proof enough for that, you weren’t sure you were prepared to see Lewis again. Especially after the news that he was already seeing someone else had come out a week before the first race.

You’d returned Valtteri’s knowing glance with as much strength as you could muster and promptly ignored his further pitying look, choosing to feel sorry for yourself at home that night. You’d also ignored his attempts to try to get you to talk to Tiffany, you liked the woman but you didn’t think you should burden her with your ridiculous, because that’s what it was looking back, delusions that you could’ve been something more than just a summer fling to Lewis Hamilton.

You’d successfully managed to avoid Lewis the whole first couple of races, eventually beginning to see fleeting glances of him throughout the paddock. Seeing him for the first time with his partner had hurt but, looking at her, you couldn’t exactly blame him.

She was gorgeous and, after you’d done a bit of searching, was exactly his previous type. She was wealthy and had a respectable job, someone worthy of being with him. You’d made sure to avoid him after that.

You kept on at work though, determined to be the best goddamn PR Agent Alfa Romeo had ever seen. And you were succeeding. Valtteri was getting brand deals and after more positive press around him and his dedication to the sport regardless of his company, you were finally able to relax.

And by relaxing, you meant getting wasted at a bar. In fairness, last time you’d relaxed you’d ended up more broken hearted than you’d ever been, so releasing some steam at a bar had seemed an appropriate route.

And it was, being able to drink away your sorrows and spill your guts out to a bartender in a small rundown pub in the middle of Canada was the perfect way to unwind. You hadn’t told the whole story of course, you resented the guy for what he did to you but you didn’t want to tarnish his reputation, but it was nice to tell it to some random person who probably didn’t even understand the way you were switching between Swedish, English, and Finnish.

You’d woken up the next morning with a heavy weight off your shoulders and a nice Canadian man in your hotel bed, sending him off with a promise to call before promptly adding his phone number to your phone. Valtteri could tell something had changed when you’d walked into his driver’s room the next day, prepared to tell him about his schedule. You greeted his questioning look with a smirk and he shook his head, a disbelieving look on his face.

You’d found that you hadn’t thought about Lewis the whole day, when you’d settled into your hotel bed the night after the race. A warm feeling had spread through you at that, the knowledge that the man no longer consumed your thoughts making you feel good inside.

The next race weekend you were ready to go, the British GP making you pumped. You weren’t so pumped when Valtteri DNF’ed and were mentally preparing answers for the Finn as the race continued, briefing him on every response you could think of in relation to the gearbox issue. Zhou Guanyu did well in his race though, so the garage was quite excited for him, even though Valtteri hadn’t finished.

When the interviews had rolled around after all of the celebrations, you were following Valtteri on the walk to his first interview, eventually stopping to the side of him as a mic was held in front of him and the cameras had started rolling.

Typical questions such as if he was happy for his teammate and if he was happy with the car were asked, some weirder questions such as if he thought the car’s not-working had to do with some obscure political issue before eventually the interview was wrapped up and the Finn moved on to his next interview, you following him.

You could see other drivers beginning to arrive in the area, being interviewed before you quickly looked away, not wanting to see if he was close. You’d managed to avoid him thus far today, how hard could a few more hours be?

You’d thought that before you heard the faint but tell-tale bark of Roscoe and you had to force yourself not to turn around and run to the dog. Lewis had mentioned bringing the dog to his home race at some point while you were together, so you weren’t exactly surprised at Roscoe’s presence.

Valtteri’s interview was continuing in the background of your mind as you thought over the nights you’d spent cuddled with Roscoe and Lewis. Did you miss him or Lewis more? Did Lewis even miss you?

Valtteri nudged you in the side, his eyes wide and you snapped back to reality, staring at the interviewer.

“Pardon?” You asked, politely trying to make it seem as though you just hadn’t heard them and were paying attention.

“I just asked if Valtteri preferred Mercedes or Alfa Romeo.” The interviewer filled in and you turned to Valtteri, a questioning look on your face. Surely he could handle that question? He vehemently shook his head. Alrighty then.

You brought out both your hands in front of you, prepared to gesture out an answer for Valtteri to say. But before you could a large force had pounded into your back, knocking you to the floor and landing on top of you. The weight was heavy but it was warm and… was it licking you? “Roscoe! Oh my god, I am so sorry!” A voice came from behind you.

Oh no.

While you had been mentally preparing an answer for Valtteri, Lewis had been walking around the media area, Roscoe in tow on a leash. The dog had been restless ever since he’d entered the pen, Lewis echoing that sentiment as he saw a brief glimpse of you. He wanted nothing more than to run to you but he couldn’t with media responsibilities weighing him down.

Eventually the interviewer’s fill of Roscoe was full and he was able to do a little bit of wandering around the area. Lewis had handed the leash of the now-agitated Roscoe to Angela as he went to go answer some more questions, the press incredibly curious about the dynamics of the car.

Angela, bless her soul, had tried her best to wrangle the dog, but his continuous pulling and barking was beginning to annoy some of the media. Seeing this, Angela had decided to just let the dog pull her away, Roscoe almost dragging her as he went.

He had pulled her almost completely across the room before he got too violent and managed to rip the leash from her hands, leaving Angela stumbling in the dust as he began to run. Lewis had watched this happen, and continued to watch in horror as Roscoe ran up behind you.

One gigantic leap and you were pushed to the floor, the big bulldog nuzzling into your neck. The world seemed to almost go quiet before Angela ran over, trying to grab the collar of the rabid dog, asking if you were ok.

Lewis had started to move over, dismissing the reporter who he was talking to as he made his way to his dog and his ex-lover. He saw you roll over on the floor, a small sad smile on your face as the dog began slobbering over you. A few more steps and he was in front of you, scolding Roscoe and apologising as he effortlessly grabbed the dog’s collar and pulled him back.

You tried not to look in his eyes, knowing all your effort of trying to get over him would be null if you saw his face. You ignored the hand he extended, instead smoothing down your clothes as you sat on the floor, only pulling yourself up when he awkwardly lowered his hand, framing it as if you just didn’t see.

He knew though, he’d developed the unfortunate skill of reading you.

You didn’t look at him as you assured him you were fine and that he should continue with his interviews, only sparing a glance at Angela who looked at you with a regretful hint in her eyes. You didn’t want to think about that more than you had to, waving them off to more interviews.

You turned around before you could see Lewis leave, thankfully not seeing the longing he had displayed over his face as he turned away, back to his interviews.

Would you have been able to hold it together if you’d seen the look he’d shot you? No. Were you when you watched it back after the weekend? Also no.

You turned back to Valtteri, cracking a quick joke, before he got back to his interviews. You spent the rest of that day picking gravel out of your palms, trying to forget about the whole interaction. You wouldn’t let this break your progress, the handsome Canadian man in your contacts getting a ring that night as you tried to distract yourself.

After a few days of you cursing Roscoe for trying to see you while also feeling as though you should arrange some sort of custody agreement so you could see the beautiful beast, a notification had popped up on your phone. It was a recommended tweet, a news article about how Lewis had apparently split from his “new fling”.

That sent you spiraling, questioning why on earth the algorithm had thought to show you this and wondering what you’d done wrong in your past life in order for this to be what was happening to you.

You’d only become more confused a day later, when Angela had sent you an email, saying that Lewis would like to meet up and apologise because of the media backlash. The thing was you’d seen no media backlash, people just finding the dog's enthusiasm funny.

If there was any sort of trouble, you’d have seen it, it was your job after all, so you were left sitting on your couch, pondering what was the point of the meeting she was trying to set up.

You’d aired the email for a few days, wondering what you should do. You wanted to say yes, to talk to Lewis again and ask him what had happened, but you didn’t want to get hurt again. And you knew you’d be hurt when you saw him doing perfectly fine without you.

The fact that Angela was waiting for you to respond didn’t cross your mind till you received a text from an unknown number, politely asking you to respond. The older woman had waited till she knew you’d read the text, about five minutes, before sending a more desperate text. That had your eyebrows raising unwillingly, confused about why she had sent three “please”’s in one paragraph.

Regardless you fell victim to knowing how hard it was to try and manage a driver's personal and professional commitments and said yes. Only because you felt bad for Angela was what you kept telling yourself.

Eventually the day had come and you were dreading it, lying on your couch until the last second possible. The thought of canceling had popped through your head multiple times but it was too late now. The only way you could back out is if an emergency happened or you died on the way to the private restaurant Angela had insisted on booking, saying that even though the meeting was supposed to be platonic, it shouldn’t be aired to the public.

A deep sigh left you as you pulled yourself up and walked to your bedroom, dressing yourself in business clothes. You wanted to put effort in, but knowing that you’d definitely be embarrassed if you showed up glammed out and he showed up in a shirt and jeans, you decided against it. It was a business dinner anyway, simply to smooth over a wrong that had been committed against you.

But it wasn’t a wrong, it was Roscoe pushing you over, which could hardly be considered a wrong and was more the dog testing the things he could get away with.

The real wrong was what Lewis had done to you. You hoped that you could get through the ordeal without talking about it, showing up and then posting a picture to Lewis’s instagram or something about how it was all good to appease the critics.

Except there were no critics, it was just Lewis wanting to have dinner with you. Or maybe it was just Angela trying to meddle. Maybe he was going to try to apologise for him ghosting you? You didn’t know if you would accept it.

You might’ve been able to accept it if he’d been honest from the start, telling you that he wouldn’t want you past the end of the break so you could quickly shut down the relationship before it started and move on with your life.

A thought that’d you always try to flush from your mind sprung to the front of it as you wondered. Maybe you were being too harsh. You’d never explicitly expressed what you were, maybe you had just been overthinking it the whole time you were together. Or rather, not together.

But that would’ve been unfair to you anyways, you reassured yourself. Him letting you get a taste of his future before exempting you from it was a cruel thing to do to anyone.

A ring from your phone let you know that you should’ve been out the door at this point. You quickly cursed before grabbing your essentials and running to your entryway, pulling your shoes on, before grabbing your keys from the side table.

After locking your door, you ran down the stairs to your apartment building and hailed a taxi. Luckily traffic wasn’t too bad, so you were able to arrive at the restaurant on time, quickly hurrying inside and getting led to your table.

You never had to worry about being late though, as Lewis wasn’t there when you got to the private booth. It was fine, he came from the other side of town so he’d probably only be a few minutes late.

It was about twenty minutes later you’d sighed and decided to ring Angela. Ironically, she didn’t pick up. You couldn’t help the bark of a laugh that left your throat, shaking your head at the sad reality of your situation.

Ghosted by two members of Mercedes. Maybe it was a good idea for Valtteri to move when he had, otherwise they may have just stopped picking up the phone. You gave him ten more minutes before trying Angela again. The same response.

At this point you were sick of being made the fool of. Perhaps it was your fault for believing your dispute could be resolved, your fault for believing you were worth showing up for. You stood up with a pressure at the back of your eyes and began the walk from the private booth all the way at the back of the swanky restaurant to the exit.

Before you got even five meters from your table, the door to the restaurant slammed open. Everyone turned to stare at the heavily breathing world champion as he took a second to recoup himself. He didn’t let himself look at anyone in the restaurant as he straightened his suit and turned to the host, who looked a little shell shocked. A quick exchange later and the host stepped back from the little podium he was stood behind.

You quickly scampered back to your seat, making it just in time and plastering an unimpressed look over your face. Looking back up, you could see Lewis scanning all the patrons of the premises before his eyes paused and locked onto you.

The simple action of making eye-contact, a luxury which you had refused yourself during your bump with Roscoe, sent a lick of emotion down your spine. You couldn’t exactly read his face, you didn’t know what he was choosing to display or doing unwittingly after being played by him for months, but you believed he was relieved.

When he arrived at the table he waved off the host with a small ‘thanks’ before sitting down in the seat opposite to you. It was silent for a few seconds, you both continuing eye contact. You were trying to find anything you could recognise in his eyes while he was just looking at you, at your face.

“I’m sorry for being so late.” He spoke finally, a slight tilt growing at the corners of his lips. You didn’t respond and the awkwardness won him over after a few more seconds, something that was quite uncharacteristic of him. He coughed.

“The lift wouldn’t work, I’d left my keys, then no one would pull over. I tried to call you but my phone died, so I just ran trying to get here.” He said and averted his eyes, a mannerism you’d recognised as a nervous tick the couple of times you’d seen it. You didn’t know how to reply so you let your emotions take hold.

“Your call wouldn’t have gone through.” You said blankly and he looked back to you, before chuckling awkwardly. You didn’t find it funny.

“You would’ve had to unblock me first.” You needlessly elaborated, getting some sadistic enjoyment out of the way the man squirmed. He continued his awkward laughing, you joining in to laugh sardonically.

You didn’t know where this feeling, of needing him to a sliver of the uncomfortableness he’d caused you, had come from. The feeling you got from his discomfort wasn’t pleasure though, it felt empty as though it was pointless in the long run. You supposed it was, he wouldn’t remember you in a few years and your small petty actions wouldn’t even matter when he married the princess of some country.

He cleared his throat, drawing your attention from your musings to his face.

“I wanted to apologise.” He stated bluntly and you raised an eyebrow. Yeah, no shit. He caught your expression and winced.

“I should’ve had Roscoe on a tighter leash and not have given him to Angela. It was my fault-” You tuned him out as he continued, shaking your head in disbelief. Yeah sure, it was why the meeting had been arranged, but you’d genuinely thought he might’ve talked about the elephant in the room at some point. Maybe you were judging harshly though. Maybe after a few minutes he’d start talking about the model he’d piped the other day or the Albanian billionaire who wanted to be his sugar mommy.

You’d forgotten that he could read you like a book and had stopped when he realised you were no longer paying attention. He reached over the table to wave a hand in front of your eyes, an action that was very rude, and you reacted accordingly. You turned to face him, affronted, and he smiled at your expression before his face turned serious and he breathed a deep breath.

“I didn’t know if you’d want to talk about what had happened.” He said finally, staring down at the table, and you scoffed, crossing your arms in front of your buttons. You started to talk, the words leaving your mouth before you could properly think about them, hurt blurring your thoughts.

“Of course I would love to recount the time I came home and I found my place ransacked.” You said, the fakeness of your enthusiasm leaking into your words causing him to flinch.

“I’d love to talk about the messages I sent you before I realised I’d been blocked. Sure, let’s talk about how, not even two weeks after telling me you thought we’d have a future together, you’d completely left me, without a word of discussion.” You finally let out, almost strangling your throat closed so as to not let more of the hurt out. This was a work-related dinner after all and you didn’t want to draw more attention than Lewis already had.

His face had fallen, an incredibly unfamiliar look coating his face and you tried to stop yourself before you spoke, trying to tame the biting uncertainties in your head.

“Was it because I’d moved companies?” You questioned and he looked up. “Should I not have followed Valtteri?” Your question floated in the air and he shook his head, a sorrowful expression taking over his face.

“Then why?” You asked after a second and he paused, not responding. You, tired of his silence, thought about all the reasons you’d gone over in your head, and settled on the one that made the most sense to you. Looking back, it was probably the most unrealistic, but it made sense to the angry and sad mindset you had.

“Was it because I couldn’t afford everything?” His head snapped up, shock colouring his features. “I could’ve moved to a new apartment if it bothered you, having to stay over at my place. I knew you didn’t do a lot of things that break because I couldn’t pay, but you could’ve told me if you wanted to. I do have a savings account I could’ve dipped into.” You said quietly, looking down at the table, all the fight having been sapped from your body.

You were tired. You didn’t know what the time difference was between you and Canada, but you were sure that you could set an alarm and wake up to spill your guts to the stranger, it was better than telling anyone you knew.

Lewis called your name but you didn’t look up from the table, hoping to not see any form of confirmation in his eyes. He reached a hand over the table, this time to not be rude but to lift your chin up and look in your eyes. He contemplated for a second before speaking softly.

“I thought it was what you wanted.” He said and you reared back, completely shocked before he continued.

“You kept going to meetings with Alfa Romeo and I thought it was your subtle way of telling me to fuck off. You know, that you had more important things to worry about than a driver from your old company. We’d never talked about what we were and I just thought…” He paused for a second here, furrowing his eyebrows as he looked at the wall before looking back into your eyes.

“I thought I could bite the bullet, leave before you could tell me to go. And it worked in the end, you’ve been doing exceptionally well. I haven’t seen a bad story about Valtteri in months.” He said and withdrew his hand as he leaned back against the chair behind him. You processed his words for a moment before he cleared his throat, drawing you back to look at him.

“I would never, by the way.” He disclosed quietly and you tilted your head. He continued. “I don’t mind if you have the money or not, for that break your apartment was the best place for me.”

The use of the present tense threw you off for a second, leaving you to rearrange yourself in your seat and clear your throat as you thought of a response. You couldn’t, opening your mouth but no words coming out. He’d stunned you into silence. You finally found your voice after steeling yourself for a second. “W-what about umm… what was her name?” You asked, a stutter permeating your words. He just sighed, letting his head fall slack to stare at the table.

“It was a mistake.” He said quietly, and guilt for the poor girl rushed through you. “I thought that after I’d let you go I should at least try to find something as a replacement.” He looked up at you.

“I couldn’t though, no one could match to you. But I couldn’t leave her without a reason.”

He leaned further back in his seat, his voice terse as he spoke. “She gave me plenty of reason after I caught her in bed with her ex.” You winced at the tone of his voice and gave him a second to collect his thoughts. Even if he was trying to break it off, it’s never a good feeling to be cheated on.

You spoke up after a second, trying to clear the silence between you and deciding he should know about your fling after you’d ended if this dinner was going to way you thought it was.

“I met a man in Canada.” You said hesitantly and you saw his shoulders drop.

“Oh.” He said quietly, before shaking himself out as if he was a cat and plastering a smile on his face. Lewis made eye-contact and asked you a question.

“What’s his name?” Fake-enthusiasm permeated his question, as though he was trying to hide his disappointment.

You didn’t want to address that, though you knew you had to. Could you take him back? You didn’t know for sure if he would leave you again, which scared you. The whole idea of taking him back scared you, though the thought of more time with him that wasn’t spent trying to avoid looking his way made you hopeful. You tried not to feel that way, knowing that you shouldn’t base your happiness on the man.

But he had apologised and explained his reasoning. As much as you wanted to curse him out for not talking with you, it did make sense. Feelings of inadequacy were present in every person, no matter how remarkable they were.

Look at you, already being hypocritical over your own words. You’d said you didn’t know if you’d take him back, but now you were already planning it. Was that pathetic? You didn’t like to think it was, but maybe you were wrong, ignoring your dignity in favour of the man.

God, if only the world was more simple and less complicated. If only you hadn’t gotten locked in an elevator, if only Roscoe hadn’t been as adorable as he was, if only you’d said no to this dinner. If only you’d just talked about your feelings from the start instead, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

Too late now though, you supposed, snapping back to the present and leveling eye-contact with Lewis. You contemplated your words, knowing they’d probably either be the start or the end of your time with him.

“I don’t remember.” You said finally, staring at Lewis’ face as a smile that he tried to contain spread over it.

“You don’t remember his name?” He asked, almost trying to confirm his words and you shook your head. He couldn’t control his smile, trying to mask it behind a cough. You only started to grin in response, looking into his eyes as they slowly turned back into half-moons.

A cleared-throat startled you both out of your bubble and you turned to the waiter, who looked as if he had just watched a soap opera play out in front of him. He awkwardly held out menus to the both of you and you quickly accepted them, apologising for making him stand awkwardly for so long.

When he’d left you both had looked at each other and exchanged smiles. The dinner had continued and it was as lovely as Lewis himself. That is to say, very lovely.

After paying and making the walk to Lewis’ house, you both stumbled into Lewis’ abode, not able to keep your hands off of each other. However a large obstacle had stopped you from taking it further, namely the heavy weight of the british bulldog that decided to settle himself on top of you the second you’d walked through the door.

You could barely hear Lewis’s laughter over the sound of Roscoe licking the side of your face, you muffling your own laughter into the carpet.

When you’d next seen Valtteri, he’d only taken one glance at your neck before shooting you a smirk, the knowing glance he had on his face making you roll your eyes as you pushed him to his interviews.

i got stuck halfway through but i just wanted it overrrr. Hopefully it's not too bad, let me know in the comments.

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rickybabyboy · 2 years ago

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Just got hired as network engineer ^_^

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themirokai · 10 months ago

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now I wanna know- why isn't drinking water free in the US?

Hi there friend! Thanks very much for taking the bait from this post. Buckle up, this is a long one.

If you want to put out a cistern and collect rainwater and use that, congratulations! Your water is free! Plus the cost of maintaining your cistern and keeping it clean. If you’re lucky enough to live somewhere with a high enough water table to have a well, then your water is also free + the cost of the well and well maintenance.

But if you want water to come out of your tap on demand and you can’t or don’t want to maintain a cistern and you can’t or don’t want to have a well… you need public water!

How do we get public water? Well, a government entity (usually. there are some private utilities, but that’s a different post. I have strong feelings) has rights to take water out of a river or a lake, or they have a reservoir, or they have access to an aquifer. Then they have to transport the water out of the source. This generally requires aqueducts or massive pipes, which are expensive and need to be maintained, which is also expensive. The pipe leading out of one of my utility’s reservoirs is 12 feet in diameter.

Does the water go directly from the source to your home? Nope! It gets piped to a water filtration plant! The process of modern water filtration is complicated but it involves both physical and chemical treatment to make sure the water isn’t carrying any parasites, harmful bacteria, or pollutants and it has the right pH. Not only are these filtration plants extremely expensive to build and maintain but the process of operating them is extremely expensive, both in terms of hiring skilled staff and having appropriate materials for the filters and chemical treatment.

After the treated water (called “finished water” in the biz) is ready it does get piped to your house.

If you use public water, do you know where your local water filtration plant is? No? That probably means it’s not in your immediate neighborhood, which probably means it’s several miles or more away. To get to your house, the water needs to travel through an extensive pipe network. These pipes are smaller but they have to remain pressurized so that no contaminants can get into the water on its way to your house. But pipes break! Especially if you live somewhere with a freeze/thaw cycle. Maintaining this pipe network is, you guessed it, expensive! It requires materials and extremely skilled workers who perform in very very difficult conditions. Plus lots of engineering to keep the whole system pressurized even when one part of it breaks. Oh, and you know what lots of pipes were made out of in the early 20th century? Lead! So all around the country utilities need to make extensive and costly infrastructure upgrades because now we know lead pipes are really freaking bad.

Okay, so you get the basic picture. And I haven’t even gotten into Safe Drinking Water Act compliance, but most of that happens at the filtration plant. Oo! Or desalinization because some utilities pull their water from the sea and need to take the salt out. I know basically nothing about this except that it is likely complicated and expensive to do at scale.

This is essentially why I get frustrated by people who argue “why should we pay for something that falls out of the sky?” Because finished water doesn’t fall from the sky and it sure as hell doesn’t fall from the sky into your faucet. (Side note: as a public utility official I have been screamed at by the “it falls from the sky” people. A thing I like about the private sector is that people scream at me a lot less.)

Now, there is a very strong argument to be made that because water is necessary for human life, it should be provided by the government for free to everyone. And just like the costs of roads or public education, this should be part of the public budget and paid for by taxes and no one should have a water bill. I don’t disagree with this. I’m sure that’s how it’s done in some countries.

I don’t have a well-researched answer on the history of water utilities but I do have some facts and some (very) educated conjectures. Water rights in the US are complicated (another separate post!) but they’re based on private ownership. Ever since white people came to this country people have been claiming ownership over water and charging each other money for taking water out of rivers or lakes or the ground. You can measure how much of it someone uses and charge them for it. Water is treated like a commodity because unlike other public goods, it *can* be treated like a commodity and then, you know, capitalism. Again, I’m not saying that’s right.

But as a society, if we believe that no one should have a water bill, then we need to figure out how to pay for all the very expensive steps in the process I outlined at the top. Could that just be taxes? Sure, if you have a system that supports taxes at that level. Do I believe that public funding of water infrastructure would be a fuckton better than a lot of things we use taxes for now? Absolutely! But that requires massive institutional change and this isn’t generally an issue that people know enough about to demand change.

If you read this far, congratulations! You now know more stuff about drinking water!

#hey if you enjoyed reading this consider reblogging it #it took me a while to write up #and I love educating people about this stuff #also if you have follow up questions please send them along #miro does asks #miro irl #drinking water #public utilities #water utilities #public water #long post

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fatkish · 7 months ago

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Tamaki Amajiki x Reader: Fake Marriage

Tamaki and reader decided to get a marriage license for hero agency insurance purposes since their long time friends and so that should anything happen to Tamaki in the field, he can make sure that his agency is covered and that the reader would inherit it. The Hero Insurance companies can be extremely tricky to deal with so the reader poses as Tamaki’s spouse who is a non hero but works in the agency.

The reader’s quirk is called Archive. (If you’ve seen Fairy Tail, it’s the same as the blue Pegasus guy’s magic) Basically the reader’s quirk creates a vast information network that spans centuries into the past. This quirk is similar to Iida’s family’s engine quirk as it’s passed down through generations. Any information that has been learned throughout the reader’s blood relatives is automatically added to the archive.

Since the reader isn’t a fighter they work as a support for heroes. They help Tamaki by overseeing his patrols and helping guide him via their quirk’s communication link.

During the raid at the Gunga Mountain Villa and the Jaku Hospital, the reader was with All might inside the room with the attack coordinators. When Shigaraki took out communications via EMP, the reader was the only person who was able to still have any contact with the field.

Hado, Mirio and Tamaki all use the reader’s Archive quirk as network for information as well as communications since the reader doesn’t really have that many drawbacks. Tamaki is especially grateful for the reader since they’re always talking him through everything whenever his anxiety gets to him.

Since Tamaki is a naturally shy person, I personally headcannon that after highschool he decided to become an underground hero who specializes in steak outs, espionage, and any task with minimal interaction. Or at the very least, he’s a nighttime hero.

Reader handles the day to day stuff as well as hiring. The reader is the public face who handles the media as well as any publicity while Tamaki is the backbone. The reader has made sure that the entire staff from those who handle paperwork and manage menial and mundane tasks to even the sidekicks, all of them are aware of Amajiki’s shyness and most likely have their own social hang ups

Whenever there is a pro hero gala or event that they’re invited to, reader uses their marriage to keep fans from trying to get with Tamaki. The reader does a lot of the talking for him.

Whenever Tamaki has to talk to reporters, the reader is always telling him what to say and is telling him how good he’s doing and encourages him.

You always make sure to have Bento’s ready and prepared for Tamaki. You make sure that he has whatever food he needs and that his meals are both tasty and delicious as well as healthy and useful for his quirk.

For fun, and to tease him, you’ll write notes in his bentos for him to find. Often times the notes are the typical lovey dovey notes that a mother or girlfriend will write.

“Hey Honeybun,

Hope you have a great day out there. Keep your chin up and kick butt. I’m so proud of you💕💕 I made sure to pack your favorites this time so enjoy your lunch, love you<3 xoxo

Love,

(Y/n), your dutiful spouse”

He always blushes but loves the notes and secretly has a box full of them that he has kept since you started doing this is high school.

(I know it’s kinda short but I plan to add more as it comes to me)

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #tamaki amajiki x reader #tamaki amakiji #suneater #amajiki x reader #bnha amajiki #mha amajiki

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mostlysignssomeportents · 7 months ago

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Twinkfrump Linkdump

I'm touring my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in CHICAGO (Apr 17), Torino (Apr 21) Marin County (Apr 27), Winnipeg (May 2), Calgary (May 3), Vancouver (May 4), and beyond!

Welcome to the seventeenth Pluralistic linkdump, a collection of all the miscellany that didn't make it into the week's newsletter, cunningly wrought together in a single edition that ranges from the first ISP to AI nonsense to labor organizing victories to the obituary of a brilliant scientist you should know a lot more about! Here's the other 16 dumps:

https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/

If you're reading this (and you are!), it was delivered to you by an internet service provider. Today, the ISP industry is calcified, controlled by a handful of telcos and cable companies. But the idea of an "ISP" didn't come out of a giant telecommunications firm – it was created, in living memory, by excellent nerds who are still around.

Depending on how you reckon, The Little Garden was either the first or the second ISP in America. It was named after a Palo Alto Chinese restaurant frequented by its founders. To get a sense of that founding, read these excellent recollections by Tom Jennings, whose contributions include the seminal zine Homocore, the seminal networking protocol Fidonet, and the seminal third-party PC ROM, whence came Dell, Gateway, Compaq, and every other "PC clone" company.

The first installment describes how an informal co-op to network a few friends turned into a business almost by accident, with thousands of dollars flowing in and out of Jennings' bank account:

https://www.sensitiveresearch.com/Archive/TLG/TLG.html

And it describes how that ISP set a standard for neutrality, boldly declaring that "TLGnet exercises no control whatsoever over the content of the information." They introduced an idea of radical transparency, documenting their router configurations and other technical details and making them available to the public. They hired unskilled punk and queer kids from their communities and trained them to operate the network equipment they'd invented, customized or improvised.

In part two, Jennings talks about the evolution of TLG's radical business-plan: to offer unrestricted service, encouraging their customers to resell that service to people in their communities, having no lock-in, unbundling extra services including installation charges – the whole anti-enshittification enchilada:

https://www.sensitiveresearch.com/Archive/TLG/

I love Jennings and his work. I even gave him a little cameo in Picks and Shovels, the third Martin Hench novel, which will be out next winter. He's as lyrical a writer about technology as you could ask for, and he's also a brilliant engineer and thinker.

The Little Garden's founders and early power-users have all fleshed out Jennings' account of the birth of ISPs. Writing on his blog, David "DSHR" Rosenthal rounds up other histories from the likes of EFF co-founder John Gilmore and Tim Pozar:

https://blog.dshr.org/2024/04/the-little-garden.html

Rosenthal describes some of the more exotic shenanigans TLG got up to in order to do end-runs around the Bell system's onerous policies, hacking in the purest sense of the word, for example, by daisy-chaining together modems in regions with free local calling and then making "permanent local calls," with the modems staying online 24/7.

Enshittification came to the ISP business early and hit it hard. The cartel that controls your access to the internet today is a billion light-years away from the principled technologists who invented the industry with an ethos of care, access and fairness. Today's ISPs are bitterly opposed to Net Neutrality, the straightforward proposition that if you request some data, your ISP should send it to you as quickly and reliably as it can.

Instead, ISPs want to offer "slow-lanes" where they will relegate the whole internet, except for those companies that bribe the ISP to be delivered at normal speed. ISPs have a laughably transparent way of describing this: they say that they're allowing services to pay for "fast lanes" with priority access. This is the same as the giant grocery store that charges you extra unless you surrender your privacy with a "loyalty card" – and then says that they're offering a "discount" for loyal customers, rather than charging a premium to customers who don't want to be spied on.

The American business lobby loves this arrangement, and hates Net Neutrality. Having monopolized every sector of our economy, they are extremely fond of "winner take all" dynamics, and that's what a non-neutral ISP delivers: the biggest services with the deepest pockets get the most reliable delivery, which means that smaller services don't just have to be better than the big guys, they also have to be able to outbid them for "priority carriage."

If everything you get from your ISP is slow and janky, except for the dominant services, then the dominant services can skimp on quality and pocket the difference. That's the goal of every monopolist – not just to be too big to fail, but also too big to care.

Under the Trump administration, FCC chair Ajit Pai dismantled the Net Neutrality rule, colluding with American big business to rig the process. They accepted millions of obviously fake anti-Net Neutrality comments (one million identical comments from @pornhub.com addresses, comments from dead people, comments from sitting US Senators who support Net Neutrality) and declared open season on American internet users:

https://ag.ny.gov/press-release/2021/attorney-general-james-issues-report-detailing-millions-fake-comments-revealing

Now, Biden's FCC is set to reinstate Net Neutrality – but with a "compromise" that will make mobile internet (which nearly all of use sometimes, and the poorest of us are reliant on) a swamp of anticompetitive practices:

https://cyberlaw.stanford.edu/blog/2024/04/harmful-5g-fast-lanes-are-coming-fcc-needs-stop-them

Under the proposed rule, mobile carriers will be able to put traffic to and from apps in the slow lane, and then extort bribes from preferred apps for normal speed and delivery. They'll rely on parts of the 5G standard to pull off this trick.

The ISP cartel and the FCC insist that this is fine because web traffic won't be degraded, but of course, every service is hellbent on pushing you into using apps instead of the web. That's because the web is an open platform, which means you can install ad- and privacy-blockers. More than half of web users have installed a blocker, making it the largest boycott in human history:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

But reverse-engineering and modding an app is a legal minefield. Just removing the encryption from an app can trigger criminal penalties under Section 1201 of the DMCA, carrying a five-year prison sentence and a $500k fine. An app is just a web-page skinned in enough IP that it's a felony to mod it.

Apps are enshittification's vanguard, and the fact that the FCC has found a way to make them even worse is perversely impressive. They're voting on this on April 25, and they have until April 24 to fix this. They should. They really should:

https://docs.fcc.gov/public/attachments/DOC-401676A1.pdf

In a just world, cheating ripoff ISPs would the top tech policy story. The operational practices of ISPs effect every single one us. We literally can't talk about tech policy without ISPs in the middle. But Net Neutrality is an also-ran in tech policy discourse, while AI – ugh ugh ugh – is the thing none of us can shut up about.

This, despite the fact that the most consequential AI applications sum up to serving as a kind of moral crumple-zone for shitty business practices. The point of AI isn't to replace customer service and other low-paid workers who have taken to demanding higher wages and better conditions – it's to fire those workers and replace them with chatbots that can't do their jobs. An AI salesdroid can't sell your boss a bot that can replace you, but they don't need to. They only have to convince your boss that the bot can do your job, even if it can't.

SF writer Karl Schroeder is one of the rare sf practitioners who grapples seriously with the future, a "strategic foresight" guy who somehow skirts the bullshit that is the field's hallmark:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/07/the-gernsback-continuum/#wheres-my-jetpack

Writing on his blog, Schroeder describes the AI debates roiling the Association of Professional Futurists, and how it's sucking him into being an unwilling participant in the AI hype cycle:

https://kschroeder.substack.com/p/dragged-into-the-ai-hype-cycle

Schroeder's piece is a thoughtful meditation on the relationship of SF's thought-experiments and parables about AI to the promises of AI hucksters, who promise that a) "general artificial intelligence" is just around the corner and that b) it will be worth trillions of dollars.

Schroeder – like other sf writers including Ted Chiang and Charlie Stross (and me) – comes to the conclusion that AI panic isn't about AI, it's about power. The artificial life-form devouring the planet and murdering our species is the limited liability corporation, and its substrate isn't silicon, it's us, human bodies:

What’s lying underneath all our anxieties about AGI is an anxiety that has nothing to do with Artificial Intelligence. Instead, it’s a manifestation of our growing awareness that our world is being stolen from under us. Last year’s estimate put the amount of wealth currently being transferred from the people who made it to an idle billionaire class at $5.2 trillion. Artificial General Intelligence whose environment is the server farms and sweatshops of this class is frightening only because of its capacity to accelerate this greatest of all heists.

After all, the business-case for AI is so very thin that the industry can only survive on a torrent of hype and nonsense – like claims that Amazon's "Grab and Go" stores used "AI" to monitor shoppers and automatically bill them for their purchases. In reality, the stores used thousands of low-paid Indian workers to monitor cameras and manually charge your card. This happens so often that Indian technologists joke that "AI" stands for "absent Indians":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/29/pay-no-attention/#to-the-little-man-behind-the-curtain

Isn't it funny how all the really promising AI applications are in domains that most of us aren't qualified to assess? Like the claim that Google's AI was producing millions of novel materials that will shortly revolutionize all forms of production, from construction to electronics to medical implants:

https://deepmind.google/discover/blog/millions-of-new-materials-discovered-with-deep-learning/

That's what Google's press-release claimed, anyway. But when two groups of experts actually pulled a representative sample of these "new materials" from the Deep Mind database, they found that none of these materials qualified as "credible, useful and novel":

https://pubs.acs.org/doi/10.1021/acs.chemmater.4c00643

Writing about the researchers' findings for 404 Media, Jason Koebler cites Berkeley researchers who concluded that "no new materials have been discovered":

https://www.404media.co/google-says-it-discovered-millions-of-new-materials-with-ai-human-researchers/

The researchers say that AI data-mining for new materials is promising, but falls well short of Google's claim to be so transformative that it constitutes the "equivalent to nearly 800 years’ worth of knowledge" and "an order-of-magnitude expansion in stable materials known to humanity."

AI hype keeps the bubble inflating, and for so long as it keeps blowing up, all those investors who've sunk their money into AI can tell themselves that they're rich. This is the essence of "a bezzle": "The magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/03/09/autocomplete-worshippers/#the-real-ai-was-the-corporations-that-we-fought-along-the-way

Among the best debezzlers of AI are the Princeton Center for Information Technology Policy's Arvind Narayanan and Sayash Kapoor, who edit the "AI Snake Oil" blog. Now, they've sold a book with the same title:

https://www.aisnakeoil.com/p/ai-snake-oil-is-now-available-to

Obviously, books move a lot more slowly than blogs, and so Narayanan and Kapoor say their book will focus on the timeless elements of identifying and understanding AI snake oil:

In the book, we explain the crucial differences between types of AI, why people, companies, and governments are falling for AI snake oil, why AI can’t fix social media, and why we should be far more worried about what people will do with AI than about anything AI will do on its own. While generative AI is what drives press, predictive AI used in criminal justice, finance, healthcare, and other domains remains far more consequential in people’s lives. We discuss in depth how predictive AI can go wrong. We also warn of the dangers of a world where AI continues to be controlled by largely unaccountable big tech companies.

The book's out in September and it's up for pre-order now:

https://bookshop.org/p/books/ai-snake-oil-what-artificial-intelligence-can-do-what-it-can-t-and-how-to-tell-the-difference-arvind-narayanan/21324674

One of the weirder and worst side-effects of the AI hype bubble is that it has revived the belief that it's somehow possible for giant platforms to monitor all their users' speech and remove "harmful" speech. We've tried this for years, and when humans do it, it always ends with disfavored groups being censored, while dedicated trolls, harassers and monsters evade punishment:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/07/como-is-infosec/

AI hype has led policy-makers to believe that we can deputize online services to spy on all their customers and block the bad ones without falling into this trap. Canada is on the verge of adopting Bill C-63, a "harmful content" regulation modeled on examples from the UK and Australia.

Writing on his blog, Canadian lawyer/activist/journalist Dimitri Lascaris describes the dire speech implications for C-63:

https://dimitrilascaris.org/2024/04/08/trudeaus-online-harms-bill-threatens-free-speech/

It's an excellent legal breakdown of the bill's provisions, but also a excellent analysis of how those provisions are likely to play out in the lives of Canadians, especially those advocating against genocide and taking other positions the that oppose the agenda of the government of the day.

Even if you like the Trudeau government and its policies, these powers will accrue to every Canadian government, including the presumptive (and inevitably, totally unhinged) near-future Conservative majority government of Pierre Poilievre.

It's been ten years since Martin Gilens and Benjamin I Page published their paper that concluded that governments make policies that are popular among elites, no matter how unpopular they are among the public:

https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/perspectives-on-politics/article/testing-theories-of-american-politics-elites-interest-groups-and-average-citizens/62327F513959D0A304D4893B382B992B

Now, this is obviously depressing, but when you see it in action, it's kind of wild. The Biden administration has declared war on junk fees, from "resort fees" charged by hotels to the dozens of line-items added to your plane ticket, rental car, or even your rent check. In response, Republican politicians are climbing to their rear haunches and, using their actual human mouths, defending junk fees:

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-04-12-republicans-objectively-pro-junk-fee/

Congressional Republicans are hell-bent on destroying the Consumer Finance Protection Bureau's $8 cap on credit-card late-fees. Trump's presumptive running-mate Tim Scott is making this a campaign plank: "Vote for me and I will protect your credit-card company's right to screw you on fees!" He boasts about the lobbyists who asked him to take this position: champions of the public interest from the Consumer Bankers Association to the US Chamber of Commerce.

Banks stand to lose $10b/year from this rule (which means Americans stand to gain $10b/year from this rule). What's more, Scott's attempt to kill the rule is doomed to fail – there's just no procedural way it will fly. As David Dayen writes, "Not only does this vote put Republicans on the spot over junk fees, it’s a doomed vote, completely initiated by their own possible VP nominee."

This is an hilarious own-goal, one that only brings attention to a largely ignored – but extremely good – aspect of the Biden administration. As Adam Green of Bold Progressives told Dayen, "What’s been missing is opponents smoking themselves out and raising the volume of this fight so the public knows who is on their side."

The CFPB is a major bright spot in the Biden administration's record. They're doing all kind of innovative things, like making it easy for you to figure out which bank will give you the best deal and then letting you transfer your account and all its associated data, records and payments with a single click:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/let-my-dollars-go/#personal-financial-data-rights

And now, CFPB chair Rohit Chopra has given a speech laying out the agency's plan to outlaw data-brokers:

https://www.consumerfinance.gov/about-us/newsroom/prepared-remarks-of-cfpb-director-rohit-chopra-at-the-white-house-on-data-protection-and-national-security/

Yes, this is some good news! There is, in fact, good news in the world, bright spots amidst all the misery and terror. One of those bright spots? Labor.

Unions are back, baby. Not only do the vast majority of Americans favor unions, not only are new shops being unionized at rates not seen in generations, but also the largest unions are undergoing revolutions, with control being wrestled away from corrupt union bosses and given to the rank-and-file.

Many of us have heard about the high-profile victories to take back the UAW and Teamsters, but I hadn't heard about the internal struggles at the United Food and Commercial Workers, not until I read Hamilton Nolan's gripping account for In These Times:

https://inthesetimes.com/article/revolt-aisle-5-ufcw-grocery-workers-union

Nolan profiles Faye Guenther, president of UFCW Local 3000 and her successful and effective fight to bring a militant spirit back to the union, which represents a million grocery workers. Nolan describes the fight as "every bit as dramatic as any episode of Game of Thrones," and he's not wrong. This is an inspiring tale of working people taking power away from scumbag monopoly bosses and sellout fatcat leaders – and, in so doing, creating a institution that gets better wages, better working conditions, and a better economy, by helping to block giant grocery mergers like Kroger/Albertsons.

I like to end these linkdumps on an up note, so it feels weird to be closing out with an obituary, but I'd argue that any celebration of the long life and many accomplishments of my friend and mentor Anne Innis Dagg is an "up note."

I last wrote about Anne in 2020, on the release of a documentary about her work, "The Woman Who Loved Giraffes":

https://pluralistic.net/2020/02/19/pluralist-19-feb-2020/#annedagg

As you might have guessed from the title of that doc, Anne was a biologist. She was the first woman scientist to do field-work on giraffes, and that work was so brilliant and fascinating that it kicked off the modern field of giraffology, which remains a woman-dominated specialty thanks to her tireless mentoring and support for the scientists that followed her.

Anne was also the world's most fearsome slayer of junk-science "evolutionary psychology," in which "scientists" invent unfalsifiable just-so stories that prove that some odious human characteristic is actually "natural" because it can be found somewhere in the animal kingdom (i.e., "Darling, please, it's not my fault that I'm fucking my grad students, it's the bonobos!").

Anne wrote a classic – and sadly out of print – book about this that I absolutely adore, not least for having one of the best titles I've ever encountered: "Love of Shopping" Is Not a Gene:

https://memex.craphound.com/2009/11/04/love-of-shopping-is-not-a-gene-exposing-junk-science-and-ideology-in-darwinian-psychology/

Anne was my advisor at the University of Waterloo, an institution that denied her tenure for fifty years, despite a brilliant academic career that rivaled that of her storied father, Harold Innis ("the thinking person's Marshall McLuhan"). The fact that Waterloo never recognized Anne is doubly shameful when you consider that she was awarded the Order of Canada:

https://nationalpost.com/news/canada/queen-of-giraffes-among-new-order-of-canada-recipients-with-global-influence

Anne lived a brilliant live, struggling through adversity, never compromising on her principles, inspiring a vast number of students and colleagues. She lived to ninety one, and died earlier this month. Her ashes will be spread "on the breeding grounds of her beloved giraffes" in South Africa this summer:

https://obituaries.therecord.com/obituary/anne-innis-dagg-1089534658

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/13/goulash/#material-misstatement

Image: Valeva1010 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Hungarian_Goulash_Recipe.png

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

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cantsayidont · 11 months ago

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August 1984. This won't change anyone's feelings about cult movie perennial THE ADVENTURES OF BUCKAROO BANZAI: ACROSS THE EIGHTH DIMENSION one way or the other, but if you're wondering what the hell the deal is supposed to be with Buckaroo Banzai and his team, the answer is, "It's an obvious pastiche of the pulp hero Doc Savage."

Launched in 1933, Doc Savage was one of the leading adventure heroes of the pulp magazines. Doc (whose full name was Clark Savage Jr.) was scientifically trained from childhood to the peak of human perfection, singularly adept in everything from mechanical engineering to medicine to martial arts. He had a secret headquarters called the Fortress of Solitude and a whole array of specially designed vehicles and equipment, but he was also a public figure, with offices in the Empire State Building. Doc had a team of eccentric, highly specialized aides — Monk Mayfair, Ham Brooks, Renny Renwick, Long Tom Roberts, and Johnny Littlejohn — who each had a particular skill and a couple of distinctive personality traits (for instance, Monk was a skilled industrial chemist, but also an "ape-like" brute with a ferocious temper). They were sometimes aided by Doc's cousin, Pat Savage, who was almost as capable as Doc, although he tried to keep her out of the fray because she was (gasp) a girl.

This was a fairly common pattern for pulp heroes. For instance, the pulp version of the Shadow (who was distinctly different from the radio incarnation) relied on a whole network of agents, some appearing only once or twice, some recurring across many of his published adventures. From a narrative standpoint, the agents and assistants had two principal purposes: The first was to offset the rather overpowered heroes — pulp heroes didn't necessarily have superhuman powers, but even those who didn't tended to be preternaturally skilled at nearly everything, so it was convenient to limit their direct involvement in an adventure to crucial moments, and let the assistants (who could be much more fallible) do much of the legwork. The second object was to beef up the characterization. Doc Savage was morally irreproachable as well as absurdly multi-talented, so there wasn't a lot to be done with him character-wise, while maintaining the mystique of a character like the Shadow required him to remain a fairly closed book.

Although the pulp heroes were a huge influence on early comic book superheroes like Superman and Batman, some of these conventions didn't translate well to other media: In a 13-page comic book story or half-hour radio episode, having too many characters was cumbersome (and expensive, where it meant hiring extra actors), and comic book readers normally expected to follow their four-color heroes quite closely, even before the breathless internal monologue became a genre staple. So, Superman inherited Doc Savage's Fortress of Solitude, but not his "Fabulous Five" assistants, while heroes like Batman and Captain America generally stuck with a single sidekick rather than a team of aides. Even the late Doc Savage pulp adventures (which ended in 1949) de-emphasized the assistants to keep the focus more on Doc himself. Ultimately, the pulp heroes didn't really have the right narrative center of gravity for visual media, which is why they've become relatively obscure, despite repeated revival attempts. The 1975 Doc Savage movie with Ron Ely, for instance, was a notorious commercial flop, and elements like Doc's childishly bickering assistants seemed odd and dated, even taking into account the film's nostalgia-bait '30s period setting.

What BUCKAROO BANZAI tried to do was to bring that old pulp hero formula into the modern era with a big infusion of '80s style and humor. Like Doc Savage, Buckaroo is a wildly gifted polymath (in the opening scenes, he rushes from performing brain surgery to test-driving his Jet Car through a mountain), so famous and important a personage that he puts the president of the United States on hold, and he surrounds himself with an array of brilliant, eccentric aides with silly nicknames who play in his rock band when they're not fighting crime or doing advanced scientific experiments.

Alas, judging by the poor box office returns, general audiences were no more amenable to the '80s version of this formula than they had been to DOC SAVAGE: MAN OF BRONZE nine years earlier, even with the 1984 film's extraordinary cast and memorably witty dialogue. Granted, even many of the movie's most diehard fans are baffled by the convoluted plot — a crucial expository scene where the leader of the Black Lectroids (Rosalind Cash) explains much of what's going on is nigh-incomprehensible without subtitles or closed captioning — but beyond that, THE ADVENTURES OF BUCKAROO BANZAI is essentially an extended riff on a particular slice of pop culture that had long since dropped out of the public consciousness, which is both part of its charm and also its commercial undoing, at least as mainstream entertainment.

(Also, if you're wondering, yes, the TOM STRONG series by Alan Moore and Chris Sprouse is also an obvious Doc Savage pastiche, although at least some of its plot and character concepts were probably retoolings of unused ideas from Moore's earlier Maximum Press/Awesome Comics SUPREME series, which was an extended pastiche of the pre-Crisis Superman.)

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 9 months ago

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A Reunion to Remember (John Price x Nikolai x Reader)

Summary: It's a special day, not that John realises as he walks right into a set-up of his lovers’ making.

AN: This is part of @bunnyreaper's Valentine's Day Fic Swap for @bookobsessedram <3 I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Content warnings: Allusions to sex (18+ only, minors DNI), reader wears some lacy underwear (not specified), pronouns not used but John calls the reader "sweet girl".

Masterlist

It was once in a moon as crystal blue as his eyes that Captain John Price got the opportunity to collect on intel and deals for himself. After a month of Sundays was when he felt up to it. Usually there were officers undercover, various rats, CIA operatives who could handle that kind of thing – Kate having her own networks of underlings to seek out the truth.

Yet today John made sure that he was the person going to gather this and Kate allowed it. Both of these actions were made with the same reason in mind: it required an interaction with Nikolai. Neither John nor Kate told the brass that, of course. Fed into their paperwork was something about maintaining relationships with allies in important places across the world.

Three train rides, a red-eye flight and a hired car brought John to exactly where he wanted to be: a familiar hanger with an apartment built along the side, fit for the purpose of his visit, overcast clouds hiding their illicit rendezvous from the glare of the sun.

Nikolai spotted John before John spotted him, scaling down the plane and sauntering out the hanger. The two men engaged in a light jog. Delight burrowing in their cheeks and chests, they clapped hands, hugged, and – with the absence of the task force to observe – shared a whiskery kiss, engine oil mixing with cigar smoke in a bitter reunion.

“Glad to see you, Captain.”

“Been too long, Nik.”

“Good thing I coaxed you over, impeccable timing too.” Though his brow creased in curiosity, Price didn’t question – for now – what his boyfriend meant by that whilst following his lead back into the hanger. He spoke briefly about the state of his journey before Nikolai’s gloved hand grasped John’s jaw.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Fourteenth, why?”

“Anything springing to mind? Anything important?”

After a moment’s consideration, John shook his head slightly with a suspicious squint. Cocking his head over one shoulder, Nikolai let out a two note laugh and whistled sharply through his teeth.

Your arms popped out first through the open canopy, shortly followed by your head as you crowed, “Surprise!”

John’s hearty hoot echoed around the hanger as he removed his hat to clutch to his chest while catching his breath – the one that you took away from him every time he saw you. These occasions had grown more scarce nowadays. If two of your throuple meeting up was like finding a four leaf clover, then all three of you coming together was an entire landscape of the bastards.

Trying to work out what you being with them had to do with the date and felt a fleeting flash of fear at the impossibility of it being your anniversary. It wasn’t. So, while he watched you clamber down the steps with Nikolai holding your hand, John wracked his brain for the connection.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” John approached the foot of the steps.

Rolling your eyes, you pointed semi-accusingly at him, “You, Jonathan Price, are a difficult man to get a meeting with.”

“Kate knew?”

Nik kicked over a footstool, “She knows everything; I thought you understood that.”

“Enough about work.” You dragged the stool over with the tip of your foot, stepped up on it, grabbed John by the straps of his vest and tugged him to your level for a long-awaited kiss.

Sandwiched between the barrel chests of your two lovers was your new reality. Some idealist cell in your brain sparked in hope that it could be your permanent home with John on your lips and Nik on your neck – right where a crick was just emerging.

Forced to pull away, you stretched out the muscle on your neck, “Fuckin’ hell, I’ve been folded in that cockpit for half an hour waiting for you to show up.”

“Good thing today’s all about treating you,” Nik squeezed your shoulder and you prayed this was a precursor to a full back rub. Your Nik was very talented with his hands like that.

You cupped his cheek, swaying on the spot as he moved down to hold onto your hips, “Too right.”

Simultaneous to your affection exchange, John was frowning again. The date, the expectation of the day, the apparent arrangement that had gotten him and his two partners in the same place…

His eyebrows relaxed and his face cleared.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” He said quietly.

Locking onto John’s confounded expression – a rarity that you relished - you ribbed, “You’re just now getting that?”

John coughed a laugh out to cover his embarrassment, “I’m out of practice.”

Your eyes flashed in amusement and the recollection of rumours of Price being a bit of a bunny in his rookie days – rumours that probably had no foundation. Your source had been Soap while he’d been stirring for the circumstances of your relationship to his Captain.

“We’ll be sure to warm you up a bit first then,” You promised as you led John like a pleasant smell wafting from a kitchen, into Nikolai’s private apartment.

Familiar décor welcomed you in, plus the smell of candles that Nikolai was lighting. Apparently he was going all out with the classic stuff. John found himself not turning up his nose at them, nor at the idea of potentially being fed chocolate like in an advert he’d seen on plastered on the train. Once he’d locked the door behind him, John found himself faced with an outstretched rose from Nikolai. You were already beaming behind your own flower.

“Nik,” Price’s cheeks were determined to show him up, shifting in shade to match the roses. His eyes rolled but were clearly contradicted by his grin and how he was unable to hide it.

“What?” Nikolai replied innocently, “I can’t get my partners flowers on the most romantic day of the year?”

“But I didn’t get either of you anything.”

Rose tucked in the crook of your elbow, your thick jacket protecting you from the thorns, you took off John’s hat, tossing it off onto Nikolai’s desk. It clashed into the pencil pot and covered up the photograph taken of your throuple the last instance you’d been together (post-helicopter ride across Belarus). You didn’t acknowledge it, choosing instead to run your fingers through John’s cool cropped hair.

“You didn’t even know it was Valentine’s Day; no shit you got us nothing,” You ribbed before getting serious, “John, we’re just glad you’re here with us.”

His nose nudged down into the petals of his rose, and you scratched the back of his neck where his hair stubbled. Like a cat, he hummed in encouragement.

“I’ll make it up to you anyhow,” He whispered, “Sweet girl.”

“Yeah, there’s always next year,” You gave a playful little tug before releasing him. As if he didn’t know that there was nothing to forgive and you meant every word: you just wanted to be near him.

Nikolai swooped in to peck John on the lips. A peck turned into a more intoxicating kiss, one that shut up his boyfriend effectively.

John would’ve happily let Nikolai take all the kisses he wanted but he spotted you, in his peripherals, watching dreamily sat on the desk. Your legs swung back and forth gleefully. His hat was in your lap as you twisted the rose around by the stem. Nikolai drew away and in a deep breath at the hearts your pupils were shifting into.

“Get back over here,” He said with two fingers coaxing you over, “And take that jacket off.”

Dutifully, you followed his instructions. A gift from your previous engagement, your jacket was draped it where Nikolai had done the same to his signature tan leather jacket, leaving John feeling overdressed when he caught a hint at something lacy and meadow green peeking out where your skin showed, your shirt caught on your jacket removal. Greed suddenly sprouted from his blooming heart and latching onto you by your plush hips when you were within reach, hauling you close and murmuring how much he adored you while you twisted Nikolai’s chain between compliments and neck kisses as if idle. You were about to be anything but, in for one hell of a reunion.

-----------------

I made your love language physical touch because you’re away from your boys so much that you just wanna soak it up when you’re with them. Nikolai’s is gifts (like when he gives Price his favourite gun and his hostages <3) because he loves seeing how his partners react to something that made him think of them. Price’s is words of affirmation because he’s a man of his word and equally loves seeing how his partners are affected by them.

#John price x reader #Nikolai x reader #John price fanfic #Nikolai fanfic #John price x Nikolai x reader #cod fanfic #cod x reader #mw2 x reader #mw2 fanfic #my writing #wc: >1k #r: fem

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