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totowlff · 2 years ago

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beware the trap

➝ request: could you right a short fic of toto telling the reader everything will be okay and it will all work out, don’t beat yourself down?

➝ word count: 3,6k

➝ warnings: mental breakdown

➝ author’s notes: i haven't written a one-shot for a long time and i was particularly inspired this week. the poem toto is referring to is called beware the trap by kelly mistry. I read it this week and it touched me deeply. finally, remember: do not fall into the trap.

As you stretched after hours of being slouched in front of the computer, your eyes found the clock in the corner of the screen. You ran a hand over your face and rubbed your eyes a bit, because you were sure you weren’t reading it correctly. It was not possible that it was already this late. A second look was enough for you to make sure you weren’t seeing things.

It was past midnight.

You pressed your palms into your eyes and took a deep breath. You were supposed to have left hours ago, when the rest of your team left. But, there you were, sitting at your workstation in your cubicle in the wind tunnel building, which was part of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 Team complex. You’d stayed late, but hadn’t meant to stay quite this late. No reason to leave now, though — it didn’t make any sense, with all of the work you had to do.

“You made us throw a whole year in the bin”, you remembered Mike, your boss, telling you that morning. You leaned back in your office chair as his voice echoed in your head. On the monitor in front of you, the dorsal view of a 3D car model made something feel tight in your chest.

When the new set of technical regulations hit your desk, you, as the chief aerodynamicist, made a point of studying them closely, along with Jordan and Giorgio, two of the best aerodynamicists on your team. Soon, you began to draft concepts, and eventually, your team narrowed it down to two radically different interpretations of the regulations. From the readings you were doing, it seemed that both of them had great potential.

After running models through the CFD software and running numerous simulations, everything pointed to the idea that you had — the concept of a low, flat sidepod, nicknamed the ‘zeropod’ — being the most efficient from an aerodynamic point of view. It was something definitely different than expected by John Owen, the chief designer, who believed that the car would follow a similar concept to that envisioned by the FIA.

However, the idea you ended up pushing was a bold choice. Your idea of placing the air intakes vertically and more or less glued to the cockpit, with the upper area of the floor designed to direct airflow to the rear wing. In all of the modeling, simulations, and wind tunnel testing, it generated the ideal amount of downforce.

The presentation of the concept was a success. You remembered James Allison smiling as you explained the design, along with all of the calculations and results of the testing that you and your team had done. Aerodynamically, it was your best work, the fruit of many long hours in front of the computer, many cups of coffee, and even the occasional cans of energy drinks that you usually preferred to avoid.

On the day of the W13 presentation, you were sure that you’d delivered your master work, that you would finally be able to make your mark on the team’s history.

But then, reality came crashing down.

During the shakedown, it was clear that something was wrong. The car was unstable, bouncing wildly and unpredictably. It was something that hadn’t shown up in wind tunnel testing and simulations.

You had it wrong. Your concept required the car to be run as low to the ground as possible, which caused the floor to scrape and bounce over every miniscule bump on the track, because the suspension also had to be incredibly stiff. The issue could be alleviated by raising the ride height, but that caused the car to run with far too much drag, eliminating its straight-line speed.

Your masterpiece had turned into a monster.

Every race weekend was torture. The questions, doubts, and stares from your team made you feel like you were in a court of law, going through the longest trial of your life. It was your decision that put the team on the back foot. As much as Toto liked to tell the press that everyone in Brackley and Brixworth was working “flat-out” to unlock the car’s performance, you could tell that your coworkers were losing motivation. Lewis was suffering, George was suffering.

It was your fault. Only you could fix it.

You started working on the W14 by yourself, almost in complete secrecy. You would come home from work and sit in your office at home, doing calculations and making models for hours. You wanted to fix things, you wanted to offer the team a better car. You wanted to make your idea work.

When you pitched the project to Mike Elliott, he was skeptical. He didn't believe the concept was a good one, it hadn't worked up to that point in the season. You argued, you presented the differences, you showed the points you had reworked, especially on the floor. After reviewing the data and the simulations your had run with Frederik, he seemed more interested.

The presentation of the W14, with the sidepod design you had in mind, was an indication that the technical and sporting team still trusted you to create a car capable of winning championships. You had done it before, and you were sure that this time you had hit the nail on the head with the floor design.

And then, it all came crashing down again.

You took another deep breath and looked at your clock again, clenching your jaw. You hadn't eaten anything since lunch. In your mind, every minute of work counted, especially after what Mike told you that morning. At the same time, your body was begging for something, your stomach rumbling loudly.

You stood up from your chair, stretched your back and shoulders a bit, grabbed your phone and your work badge, and walked out of the aerodynamics offices, and out of the wind tunnel building. You were hoping the cool night air would refresh you, but as you walked slowly to the main building, you felt completely absent from your body. Your mind was too distracted, a swirling maelstrom of numbers from the simulation results of the new design. Your team had affectionately nicknamed the concept ‘WNewey’, as it took cues from the concept used by Red Bull’s car the year before.

Entering the main building, you nodded as you were greeted by the receptionist, and made your way towards the cafeteria, which was strangely empty. You approached the counter, where an employee was sitting, fiddling with her cell phone.

— Hi — you murmured. She stood up and slipped her phone into the pocket of her apron.

— Good evening. What can I get for you?

You looked around, trying to take in what was on offer to eat. Despite how hungry you were, everything just looked like blobs of colors to your tired eyes, and your stomach was churning too much to eat anything.

— Do you have any Monster, or any other energy drinks? — you asked quietly.

— We do. What flavor do you want?

— Dealer’s choice.

The woman went to the refrigerator on the back counter, took out a black can, and placed it on the counter. After scanning your badge and the payment terminal beeping to confirm your payment, you went to one of the tables and sat down. After opening the can and taking a sip of the sugary, syrupy drink, your gaze was lost on the table in front of you.

After a few minutes, you heard someone else walk into the canteen area, but didn’t look up until you heard a familiar voice.

— Good evening, Poppy. Could you make me an espresso, please?

You lifted your head and saw Toto Wolff, the team principal and CEO of the company, standing in front of the counter. He was holding his cell phone, in its fluro yellow case, in one hand, and his badge in another. His posture indicated that he had to be tired, too. His shoulders looked tense under the white dress shirt he was wearing. His sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, as they usually were.

— Of course, Mr. Wolff. You’re here late. Did you want that with milk?

— No, just sugar, thank you. And you know how it is, remote meetings with Crowdstrike executives in Texas — Toto replied. He turned his head slightly to the side, which allowed you to see his face. He was scratching his forehead with one hand, and scrolling through something on his phone with the other. He seemed tired. Poppy had just set his coffee cup down on the counter as he sighed deeply.

“Another year in the bin”, you thought, as you heard the sound of his badge scanning on the payment terminal. Then, you watched as he took his coffee and turned toward you with a small smile on his lips.

— Ah, good evening, Y/N — he said, his smile fading as he looked more closely at your face — Is everything okay?

You blinked, as you snapped out of your cycle of mental self-flagellation.

— Yeah, everything is… Fine.

He approached you, seeming to study your expression. His appraising look made you feel somewhat exposed, as if Toto was able to know exactly what you were thinking and feeling at that moment.

— What are you doing here at this hour?

You stayed silent for a few seconds.

— Working. Well, I came to get something to drink, but I'll be heading back to my office in a bit.

— Wait, weren’t you here this — he hesitated, glancing at the black and teal watch on his wrist — I suppose, yesterday morning?

— Yes.

— What are you still doing here? Aren’t you normally finished at five?

You sighed, pursing your lips.

— I'm working on the car.

— You can do that during the day. You don’t have to stay past midnight, you know.

You looked down at the floor.

— Yes, I do.

— Why?

— Because I — you started to say, but your voice cracked. You took a deep breath to try and compose yourself before continuing. — I need to save our year.

Toto put down his coffee cup and phone next to your drink can and pulled up a chair, sitting next to you. You felt a bit sheepish as you glanced up at him, noticing the concern in his expression.

— Y/N, you're not going to save our year — he said, in a low voice — Simply because there's nothing that needs saving.

You lifted your head, feeling your throat tighten.

— But the car…

— Of course, we're facing difficulties with the car, but it's not going to be one single individual that will solve all of its problems, especially working such long hours by yourself.

You let silence hang between the two of you. You could feel the misery welling up inside you, anger and anguish filling your chest. You felt like you were a ticking time bomb.

— It's all my fault — you stammered, your voice low, your eyes brimming with tears, and your lower lip trembling. He stared at you intently, seemingly trying to process what you'd just said.

— What?

— It's my fault — you repeated, before burying your face in your hands and starting to sob. The anger you felt at yourself for screwing up was painful. It felt like hot, acidic bile in your throat. All you wanted to do was prove yourself, but you threw away all of your team’s hard work, eight years of constructor’s victories, and seven years of driver’s championships, all because you were too invested in the idea of making your damn sidepod concept work, when every race on every circuit across the world was proof that it didn’t.

You were so deep in your misery that you didn't notice the moment when you were wrapped in a pair of arms, nor when a gentle hand came to the back of your head, pressing it into a broad, firm shoulder. You were surprised when you realized that Toto had pulled you into a hug, but it felt like a lifeline, something you needed. You’d been drowning in the feeling that you’d failed for far too long.

After a few more minutes of Toto letting you cry on his shoulder, in the most literal sense, you managed to pull yourself together enough to lift your face and look at Toto again. There was concern in his dark eyes as he gently brushed a strand of hair away from your eyes

— Feeling better? — he asked. His voice was gentle and quiet.

— A little — you replied, swiping the back of your hand across your nose as you sniffled.

— Do you want to talk about it?

— About what?

— Whatever is making you cry in the factory canteen past midnight.

Your throat tightened again, but you resisted the urge to cry. “Breathe”, you told yourself, as you struggled to get air into your lungs. After some time, you managed to find your voice steady enough to start talking.

— Well, for starters, the zeropod concept was my idea. I was the one who invested all of my time and energy into it, and convinced everyone to get behind it. Worse than that, I was the one who insisted that we continue working with this concept in the W14, even though it didn't work out — you said, looking at your hands — In the end, I guess Mike is right. I threw this year into the bin.

— What? Mike said that to you?

You looked up at Toto. His expression changed from concern to what looked like irritation. It was unexpected, especially in reference to someone he worked with so closely.

— Yeah, this morning. We were talking about Bahrain and Saudi Arabia, and he said that the results were disappointing, and that he doesn't understand my insistence on this zeropod concept. I explained that the problem wasn’t the sidepods anymore, but the rear downforce — you hesitated for a moment — He wouldn't listen. He said I threw the team's year in the bin with this and that I should start thinking about doing something different next year.

Silence hung between you again. Toto flexed his jaw, looking thoughtful. It felt a little wrong to sell your boss out to the CEO of the company like that, but your frustration and tiredness was overriding your desire to avoid further conflict with Mike.

— Well, one thing I can tell you definitively is that Mike is wrong, Y/N.

— Toto...

— I understand his frustration, as he is the technical director and everything related to the design of the car comes down on his head. But, our performance this year and last year isn't anyone's fault in particular — he continued, grasping your hands in his — We're a team, Y/N. Everything we do, we do as a team. You came up with the idea of zeropods and presented them well. We couldn’t predict the issues with suspension and ride height, which did not help.

— But if we had…

— It's no use thinking about what could have been, Y/N. Of course, we would like to be further ahead in the development of the car this year, but we made a mistake. It’s okay to make mistakes, and it’s okay to admit you’ve made mistakes. The problem is not learning from it. And clearly you've learned, so much so that you're trying to make it right in the worst way possible.

— The… worst?

— Staying so late, especially when you arrive so early, is not the way to go about this. You think you have more time, but you will just end up burning yourself out, which will cause you to make even more mistakes. No mind, no matter how brilliant, is immune to weariness.

You took a few seconds to absorb what you’d heard, like you couldn’t believe it. Toto Wolff had just called you brilliant.

But why wasn’t it making you feel any better?

— I just wanted to stop feeling like this…

— Like what?

— Guilty — you whispered, ducking your head — I feel so guilty, all the time.

He sighed, bringing his fingers to your chin and gently lifting your face to look back up at him.

— A while ago, I read a very interesting poem. I can’t remember who wrote it or what it was called, but it struck me because it was all about how guilt implies that you have the power to change the course of things when, in fact, you may not actually have the power to do so. This ends up making the emotion of guilt somewhat of a trap. It tricks you into believing that you are always in control, when in reality, you are not.

You blinked, listening to his words and the way he was talking to you. It was strangely soothing.

— What I mean, is that no one has control over the consequences or impacts of their actions. What we can control, though, is our actions and intentions. And you had the best of intentions, Y/N. You thought outside the box, came up with an innovative solution and even gave us a win last year.

— One win out of twenty-two races, after eight winning seasons. It feels like nothing.

— It’s not nothing, Y/N. It’s proof that, working together, we can achieve our goals. It makes me very proud, not only of you, but of the entire team. At the beginning of last season, nobody would have expected us to get a 1-2. We worked as a team and proved everybody wrong.

His words immediately brought tears back to your eyes, and it wasn’t long before you started to cry in earnest again. Toto just pulled you back into hug, your head nestled on his shoulder.

You had always admired him, for his own resilience and mental strength. The way Toto always saw difficulties as a comfort zone made him an inspiration. You wanted to be like him, to become an even better person under adverse conditions, like graphite under pressure becomes a diamond.

Pulling away again, you ran your hand over your face, trying to dry the last of your tears. Then, you noticed that his shirt was wet from where you’d been crying onto it.

— Sorry — you said quietly, feeling your cheeks heat up.

— For what? — he asked, raising an eyebrow. As you pointed to the shoulder of his shirt, Toto smirked — No need to apologize, Y/N. I have a five-year old son, I've dealt with worse than a few tears on my clothes. Far worse.

His comment brought a small smile to your face.

— I can imagine — you murmured.

— Now, I want you to go to your office, get your things, and go home. And I don’t want to see you tomorrow… I mean, later today, at the office. You need to rest.

— Toto — you started, but he cut you off.

— Smashing your head against your keyboard is not the solution to our problems, Y/N. I insist. You will stay at home, off duty. If you think about showing up, you'll be stopped at the gates.

— You know that I can just work from home…

— Don't make me have IT revoke your access, Y/N.

— You wouldn't do that — you said, in a slightly indignant tone.

— Are you going to challenge me on that? — he asked, his voice teasing.

— No, Mr Wolff.

A satisfied smile appeared on Toto's face.

— Good — he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear — Oh, and one more thing. If Mike starts again with this talk about you ‘throwing our year into the bin’, come talk to me, please.

His request made your stomach lurch. You liked Mike. He didn't seem as open to your ideas as James was when he was the team's technical director, but he had his own vision, which you respected. The relationship between you and Mike was always cordial, and he was willing to challenge you on your ideas, but it never had been so acrimonious as it had gotten that morning.

— I don't want to hurt Mike.

— You will not hurt him. He will be hurting himself if he continues with this behavior. He knows we have a zero-blame culture here, and why, and how seriously I take it. Please let me know if this happens again.

You nodded.

After a good-natured comment about his coffee, which, by that point, must have gone cold, you got up from your table and returned to the office, downing what was left of your energy drink on your way back to the wind tunnel building, feeling relieved, and strangely light.

You turned off your computer and left the factory for your flat, which wasn't far away. After taking a shower and changing into your pajamas, you laid down on your bed and became acutely aware of how tired you were. It was as if every part of your body was screaming at you to take a break, and you finally got a chance to do so.

After sleeping a good part of the next day, you took the afternoon to clean up your flat, relax, and cooked yourself a nice meal instead of getting takeaway or heating a frozen dinner. You avoided picking up your phone to even look at it, as Toto had sent you a message on the company Slack telling that he would confiscate it if he saw you online.

You felt much better the day after. You felt rested, and felt better about yourself and your work. You had hope for things to get better, for you to get more confident. You were trying your hardest, and it was being noticed. There was nothing better than that.

So you thought.

When you arrived at your desk, you noticed a cardboard to-go cup sitting in front of your keyboard. The coffee inside was still hot. There was a blue Post-It note stuck to the lid, the handwriting on it familiar to you.

“Beware the trap of believing you always have control - TW”.

You smiled as you stuck the note to the bottom edge of your computer monitor.

You would not fall into that trap again.

#toto wolff #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x you #toto wolff fluff #f1 one shot #formula 1 one shot #formula one one shot #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 fic #f1 fic #formula one fic #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #wlffog #oneshotwlff

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diabolus1exmachina · 2 years ago

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TVR Sagaris

The most outlandish of TVR’s late cars, the Sagaris was the first new TVR to be launched under the company’s ownership by elusive Russian oligarch Nikolai Smolensky. And then, in 2007, the company ground to a halt.A year later, the cash-strapped fragments of TVR were partly bought back by Smolensky and new plans were made to restart production. That’s when the mildly facelifted Sagaris 2 appeared, but in truth no industry pundit believed the rebirth would actually happen. It didn’t, of course; and now the Sagaris stands as a monument to all that was good, bad and mad about TVR and its turbulent history.Actually, there’s little bad about the Sagaris. To own one of the few cars made – production was in the low hundreds – is to own possibly the most bombastic pleasure machine you can buy for the money. When new in 2005 it cost £49,995, or less than a third of the cost of a new Aston Martin Vanquish – a car it would leave far behind on any challenging road. Under the Sagaris’s extraordinary skin are, broadly, the structure and mechanicals of a Tamora or T350, including TVR’s own 4-litre straight-six engine, here uprated to 400 precisely metered bhp. A low-slung racing version of the T350 sowed the Sagaris seed, which is why the Sagaris really does look like a racing car for the road. You can even see the depressions in the tops of the front wings where a race car would have air vents to relieve front-end lift, but to open the holes on a road car is to find your windscreen in the firing line of all sorts of road debris.

Then there’s the front splitter lurking just above the road surface (beware of kerbs and speed bumps), the transparent rear spoiler supported on machined-aluminium posts, the bulge in the roof to clear a crash helmet… and a mad pair of tailpipes each exiting directly sideways so pedestrians get the maximum aural benefit.

What they hear is a rumble somewhere between Jaguar D-type and racing biplane, morphing to a crackling howl as the revs rocket. The Sagaris scorches to 60mph in well under four seconds, sears past 180mph, and steers with an ultra-quick, meaty precision far removed from the other-worldly lightness that could make earlier TVRs scary. Your mind is in a state of heightened awareness within 100 yards, such is the intensity of sound and feeling, and it’s fabulous fun. Reliable fun, too, reckon the specialists.

#TVR Sagaris #Sagaris 2 #Aston Martin Vanquish #Tamora #T350 #Jaguar D-type

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theracingsports · 9 months ago

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The W15 is a break with the past, it presents nothing of its predecessors. - The chassis is entirely new, it seems clear that the driver was moved to the rear to redistribute the weight, but some even talk about ten centimeters; - The gearbox was shortened by 30mm, Mercedes adopts a push rod scheme that moves the internal kinematics of the suspension to the top, releasing the flows destined for the bottom; - The engine and gearbox have been moved back; - The rear wing is new, indicating the improvement in final speed. The new configuration, on the other hand, should ensure a clear trend.

The W15, with its significant design changes, marks a departure from the previous models and introduces several noteworthy features. Mercedes has made substantial modifications to the chassis, repositioning the driver further towards the rear. This adjustment is believed to have been made to redistribute the weight more efficiently, potentially improving overall balance and performance on the track. Some reports even suggest that the repositioning might have affected the driver's seating position by about ten centimeters.

Another notable aspect of the W15 is the shortened gearbox, reduced by 30mm. Furthermore, Mercedes has implemented a push rod suspension system that moves the internal kinematics of the suspension to the top, freeing up space at the bottom. This alteration is expected to enhance the airflow under the car, possibly increasing its downforce and overall aerodynamic performance.

In terms of the drivetrain, both the engine and gearbox have been moved further back in the chassis. This adjustment might have multiple benefits, such as optimizing weight distribution and improving handling characteristics. By shifting the weight distribution towards the rear, the W15 could potentially offer better traction, stability, and maneuverability.

Moreover, the rear wing of the W15 has been redesigned, indicating an endeavor to improve the car's top speed capabilities. A refined aerodynamic configuration can contribute to a more streamlined design, reducing drag and allowing for higher straight-line speeds.

While these changes in design and configuration suggest Mercedes' clear ambition for progress, it's important to note that these observations are based on available information and speculation. However, based on the reported modifications, it seems that Mercedes aims to establish a discernible trend of performance improvement with the W15. The upcoming races and competitions will provide a clearer picture of the car's capabilities and its impact on Mercedes' performance in the future.

Furthermore, the W15 showcases Mercedes' dedication to pushing the boundaries of innovation in Formula 1. By introducing a completely new chassis, the team demonstrates their commitment to exploring novel design concepts and finding ways to extract maximum performance from their car.

The decision to move the driver towards the rear of the car is an intriguing one. While the exact reasons for this adjustment are not explicitly stated, it is possible that Mercedes sought to achieve better weight distribution and optimize the car's balance. This repositioning could potentially enhance the car's overall handling, responsiveness, and cornering capabilities by placing more weight over the rear wheels, thus improving traction and stability.

In addition, the shortened gearbox with the adoption of a push rod suspension system presents an interesting engineering choice. By reducing the length of the gearbox, Mercedes aims to enhance the car's agility and responsiveness, allowing for quicker gear changes and improved acceleration. The implementation of a push rod suspension takes the kinematics of the suspension system to the top, which can free up space underneath the car, enabling better airflow management and potentially increasing downforce.

Moving both the engine and gearbox towards the back of the car has its advantages. This adjustment can contribute to improved weight distribution, as well as lowering the car's center of gravity. These factors can positively impact the car's handling characteristics, making it more nimble and stable through corners.

The introduction of a new rear wing design signifies Mercedes' focus on achieving higher top speeds. By improving the aerodynamic efficiency of the rear wing, the team aims to reduce drag and maximize straight-line speed. This alteration can be crucial for overtaking opportunities and gaining an advantage on high-speed sections of the track.

While the true performance and impact of these changes remain to be seen on the race track, the W15 suggests that Mercedes' aim is to establish a clear upward trajectory in their performances and solidify their position as one of the leading teams in Formula 1. The team's dedication to continuous improvement and innovation is evident in the substantial modifications made to the car's design and configuration. Formula 1 enthusiasts eagerly await the upcoming races to witness the W15's performance and assess its potential to redefine the standards of automotive engineering excellence.

#formula1 #formula 1 #sports cars #f1

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skelly3d · 1 year ago

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Chapter 1

In a dimly lit corridor þat seemed to continue on to þe point of infinity, red lights lined þe corridor providing a faint glimpse of þe surrounding walls and launch track. A countdown timer had appeared on his head-up display showing a countdown till launch start, not þat he needed it. 2m 30s till launch, 30s from here to þe end of þe launch tube.

3m till þe distress signal.

Þe tunnel suddenly had an end in sight with blues, red and gold flashing up þe tunnel, screeching towards þe pilot.

1m till launch.

Þe lights showed him how close he was to þe battle. He did a quick systems check and a test of þe engines. þis time would be different.

20s till launch.

It had to be different. Once launch was established, he would have to make it to þe battle area wið in 30s.

Þe pilot's adrenaline started to spike. þis was it, þe start of combat. A calm before a storm whirled in chaos. He had run þis simulation far too many times before.

L A U N C H

Þe pilot slammed þe accelerator forward causing þe entire ship to rock violently and pull forwards forcing him into his chair. Þe sled þat sat underneað his ship shot forwards, grabbing his ship and increasing its speed 3 fold, propelling him towards þe exit. Þe red glow from þe small tunnel lights seemed to increase in intensity and flickered on and off, faster and faster until þey reached an equal point, lighting þe pilot's cabin up wið a red glow.

5s was all it took to clear þe launch tube, he would have to keep þe accelerator pushed to maximum and redirect þe sheild power to his þrusters. He knew þat if he let off for even a second he wouldn't make it. Þe last time he tried he got close and tried to fire off several stinger missiles but þey weren't fast enough and Damien was run through. Some of þe worst enemies for a pilot to face were spear drones. Incredible long range fighters using a single charged shot weapon. Þey could charge you down and with terrifying speeds, pierce straight þrough you wið þeir hard light shields. One would have to know where þey were coming from in order to focus all shield energy in þat one point to have any hope of surviving.

Þis time felt different, þis time he could do it. All he had to do was get to him fast enough and he could be þe shield. He had to know it was possible. Þe pilot switched to L A N C E M O D E. His ship's wings flew forwards, slamming into þe sides of his ship. Hard light shields shifted towards þe front of þe ship forming into a lethal point þat could pierce þrough even þe toughest of cruisers. By removing all shields from þe rear of þe ship and pushing þat energy into þe ship's þrusters, he gained a tremendous boost in speed at þe loss of defence and maneuverability.

Þe difficulty came in at 2m when Damian took it upon himself to move þe battle furðer away from þe civilian vessel he was protecting. He had figured þat he could still take þem all and þat þe ship heading towards him was there to back up þe civilian and merely to rescue him. A well placed shot from one of þe drones knocked out all of his coms and had left him in þe dark.

Þe pilot knew what was coming and pushed against þe already locked out accelerator, muttering under his breað, it was now or never. He flicked a small red cover switch on his right hand side and engaged L A N C E M O D E U L T I M A.

He was slammed into his seat and felt a sharp pain burst þrough þe nape of his neck as his neural link connected him to his ship. Now þe real flying could begin.

Þe neural link allowed for humanity to better interact wið machines. Raðer þan leaving it to AI to perform perfectly calculated actions, þey gave humans þe ability to perform perfectly uncalculated actions. þe human instinct and spirit turned out far superior to þæt which calculates. Making þe machines an extension of oneself was not an easy task. Most pilots pass out wiðin þe first few seconds of þis mergance and even after five years of academy training, þe best can only hold it together for 30 seconds. Þe toll it takes on þe human body, some have argued, is why AI should take over þis roll but time and time again þe chaos of man's actions proves unsurpassable.

Þe pilot would feel everyðing at a higher level. A single twitch or misðought could þrow him off. He needed speed and so he removed þe fuel injector limiters and redirected more power to þe engines and þe lance's shield. One of þe drones had got in þe way and was immediately shattered by þe ship's hardlight lance. þis meant he was close now. Þe ultima mode was wearing on him and he could feel his consciousness fading.

Þere it was, þe civilian vessel was in sight and so was Damian's ship. He did it þis time, he really did it he knew it was possible to have got here in time. þe pilot released ultima mode and þe ship dropped out of its high speed and engaged its reverse stabilising þrust, helping to bring its velocity down. þe wings which had been spun to þe front had slammed back to þeir combat position and its shields had returned to a normal state. þere was a wave of relief þæt washed over his body. He felt like he could æþm again. He set his eyes on drones þæt were still about ready to engage þem. Even þough he felt exhausted, þe ultima mode really drained him but he had no time to sit about and recover, þere was still one more þing to happen. It was still coming. He started to bring þe ship around to target one of þe drones when it started. It had arrived.

He checked þe mission clock and realised þæt he was out of time. þis caused þe panic to set in, he was out of time again. He wasn't fast enough again. No matter how many times he repeated this mission, he could never be fast enough. After all, he wasn't fast enough in real life when þe sim was first recorded.

Þe niose was inhuman and unanamalistic. It was þe scratching of metal and hate, þe screaching of gears and abandonment, þe wailing of old machinery and loss. It was þe end of everything þæt got in its way. It could devour whole fleets like a snack, planets like a meal fed to a starving dog and moons like dessert to a pompous king. It was glutinous, it was unbridled indignation, it was nightmare incarnate.

It was simply titled Jörmungandr, þe World Eater.

#scifi series #sci fi #scifi #ProjectGraveRobbers #writers on tumblr #new to writing #writing #authors #fantasy #literature #pagan #Jörmungandr

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regard-luxury · 2 years ago

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The 2022 Lamborghini Countach Lpi 800-4 Arrives Within The U S

Of course, it’s blessed with all-wheel drive, accelerating from km/h in just 2.8 seconds, km/h in 8.6 seconds and attaining a prime speed of 355 km/h. The last define is pure and uncluttered, with references to the primary LP 500 and LP 400 production model. The sharp inclination of the greenhouse adopts the straight strains redolent of the original Countach, adjoining the highly effective, clear front-to-rear line. There isn't any fastened rear wing outdoors the pure strains, and the airscoops are built-in fluidly in the sturdy shoulders of the automobile, embellished with the distinctive Countach slatted ‘gills'. Priced at roughly $2.64 million USD each, considerably more than the Aventador S’ $400,000 USD price tag, many rich collectors were drawn to the supercar‘s 50th-anniversary standing and comparatively low manufacturing numbers.

The new Countach could be one of two special editions of the V-12 to be launched in 2021, both primarily based on the Aventador and presumably using expertise from the Lamborghini Sián. So, it’s only acceptable that the latest rendition of probably the greatest cars in the world finds its way onto the Stelvio Pass. Today, Larson’s thought appears to help explain why so many new fanatic automobiles stay deeply rooted prior to now – and sure will for some time to come back.

The interior additionally flaunts a devoted “Stile” button that explains the design philosophy of Lamborghini Countach. Other interior features embody Apple CarPlay, a number of driving modes, and climate control. The company claims that because of this impressive powertrain, the Lamborghini Countach 0-60 is 2.7 seconds. Moreover, Lamborghini has made carbon fiber body new lamborghini countach panels and monocoque chassis, and the new Countach weighs three,516 lb only. The reincarnated Lamborghini Countach was recalled last week for a problem referring to the vehicle’s glass engine cover, a National Highway Traffic Safety Administration filing said.

A dual-compound tread and asymmetric design deliver the right steadiness to realize excessive speeds on track in addition to generating the required amount of grip and traction. On prime of that, the P Zero Corsa provides resistance to the excessive thermodynamic stresses created by the vehicles that they are fitted to, Pirelli mentioned. Like the originals, the new Countach also has four tailpipes which would possibly be, in this model, linked to a carbon rear diffuser. “Because we have never accomplished these tailpipes , and to mix it with a diffuser to help the discount of backpressure, that was one of the largest challenges from an engineering perspective,” Reggiani mentioned. The powertrain is based on the hybrid V12 used in the Aventador Ultimae but with the hybrid motor similar to the one it packs on the Sián hybrid. The exterior seems much like those vehicles too, with a lot of cues from the original Countach, including the wedge-shaped front, long seamless roofline, angular silhouette and outstanding air intakes on the doors.

We knew from the beginning that 2021 was going to take some surprising twists, but we by no means thought we might be writing about the return of the Lamborghini Countach. But the supercar great that widened eyes and hastened heartbeats of children and wealthy businessmen all through the Eighties is again, and never in a restored or restomodded way. The all-new Countach LPI debuts at The Quail as a Countach reimagined for 2021, with modernized styling and a supercapacitor-driven V12 hybrid four-wheel drive. The 2022 Lamborghini Countach LPI captures the essence of this audacious automotive icon in a car that claims as a lot concerning the Italian automaker’s future as it does about its past. Even the designation tells us a lot about the automobile, the LP refers to the longitudinal positioning of the drivetrain. The I is for the Italian word for hybrid, 800 is near its horsepower, and the 4 refers to its all-wheel-drive configuration.

With a small cameo look in the Furious 7 and a quick look through the Superbowl, the Arab world’s first supercar firm wasn’t holding again with getting some good press coverage. If you weren’t positive simply how costly it is, remember this automotive costs greater than LaFerrari and McLaren P1 put together. It has a six-speed guide gearbox, a small, highly effective, and naturally-aspirated V-12 engine, and a standard three-seat structure. The Gordon Murray T.50 has an impressive prime speed of 220 mph (354 km/h). The Jesko Absolut reaches a high velocity of 330 mph (or 531 km/h); as of now, we’re still left to surprise in regards to the breathtaking acceleration stats this highly effective automobile must produce.

The vented intake is most reminiscent of the 1971 idea automobile and not the production Countach that followed three years later, which changed these vents with a bigger, boxy intake. But the model new automotive does also have a squared-off consumption too, and we are able to additionally see a fuel cap -- or maybe it is a cost port. The improvements in engine and transmission placement labored, with the first-generation Countach making 325 bhp @ 7,500 rpm and 260 ft lbs @ 5,500 rpm, resulting new lamborghini countach in a really fast zero to 60 mph in round 5.9 seconds and high speed of 181 mph. The whole cockpit and roof panels, central transmission tunnel, door sills and the entrance and rear have been made in a single piece of composite. Between 1980 and 1983, Formula One employed the Countach as its Safety Car in the course of the Monaco Grand Prix. We definitely think all safety cars should look as cool as this Countach should have during the early 1980s.

Well, it is nice that you're undoubtedly hyped now, as a end result of there is additionally the RLCS Winter Major! By the way, Lamborghini is the official sponsor of this multi-day occasion in sunny Los Angeles... Oh yeah, Rocket League and Lamborghini, a better new lamborghini countach love story than Twilight. The Winter Major will take place from March 23 to 27, and we have already coated which groups are competing in a separate article. Stay in the know with our newsletters that comprise all the most recent information, tales and occasion info.

That motor runs off a supercapicitor, which may recharge sooner by way of regenerative braking and dump its power more quickly than a regular battery. In addition to a slight boost in energy, the electrical motor creates sooner and smoother acceleration. The Countach will go from 0-62 in 2.eight seconds, get to 124 mph in eight.6 seconds and hit a top speed of 221 mph. Using a naturally aspirated 6.5-litre V12 engine mixed with Lamborghini’s hybrid technology developed for the Sián, the Countach LPI produces as much as 803 complete horsepower.

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maranello · 3 years ago

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FORMU1A.UNO | Ferrari turned up the engine power in Australia while in Imola

by Giuliano Duchessa & Piergiuseppe Donadoni

Charles Leclerc celebrated his second win of the season in Melbourne today. Max Verstappen retired due to an engine failure. Carlos Sainz and Sebastian Vettel also retired.

After his second position in Saudi Arabia, Charles Leclerc drove a flawless race at Albert Park, starting from pole position. After holding his position at the start, his F1-75 immediately pulled away from the rest of the pack, crossing the finish line an impressive 20.5 seconds ahead of Checo Perez.

Entering the weekend, Ferrari expected Red Bull favorite

Leclerc showed how to take the F1-75 to a different level. Although in qualifying the fight with the Red Bulls was very close (read more), at least until the penultimate attempt, in the race the Ferrari was absolutely uncatchable. The umpteenth family breakdown between the Milton Keynes and Faenza teams, rather worrying in terms of reliability, hid the real gap that would have been over 25 seconds, without the safety car and the retirement.

Charles Leclerc and the Maranello car, in projection, would have given an average gap of 6 tenths and a half per lap to Max and his RB18. Hardly predictable on the eve of the race, at least in these terms. A perfect pairing. "We were all surprised by our pace," admitted the Monegasque at the end of the race, who expected at least "on paper" going into the weekend to be behind Red Bull. "So it was a nice surprise," he then concluded.

But at Maranello they developed the car well in view of the race. What was missing in Arabia. The weekend started rather well, thanks to good work done at the simulator in Maranello. Ferrari started with a set-up that would mainly protect the rear tyres, then the FP2 long runs showed a possible graining on the front tyres, more accentuated on the Medium ones.

Ferrari: for Australia, a deliberate increase in engine performance estimated at 5 bhp

For this reason, two fundamental things were decided between Friday and Saturday. The first was to increase the front load in order to limit the onset of graining. The most loaded front wing of the two brought to Australia was chosen, the one with the last upper flap straight and not slightly cut. The Albert Park track was not only revised in terms of its layout but also in terms of its surface; Pirelli itself, through the mouth of boss Mario Isola, had warned since Friday that the sliding, despite the increase in grip, could have continued during the race, given the lack of high-pressure treatment of the asphalt to eliminate excess bitumen. In fact, the bituminous alloy continues to re-emerge in the newly laid asphalts, taking away grip from the cars, the 2022s, which intrinsically already suffer from understeer that needs to be adequately compensated for. Ferrari has played the card of increased downforce, despite the fact that on Friday it was already set up with a less efficient aerodynamic configuration than Red Bull.

The second is a technical consequence of the first choice, made possible by the results - so far positive - in terms of Power Unit reliability in the first two events. A small power increase of 5 HP has been deliberated in order to counter the better efficiency of Red Bull in Australia, which thus manages to generate more speed in the straights. It is not a foregone conclusion that this small gain will also be used at Imola, as Ferrari is also working hard on reliability with the first unit. "We are more interested in finishing the data collection program on reliability, at least until race 5 [Miami]" they had in fact let us know, before introducing a more aggressive and especially durable use of the Italian engine.

The small increase in performance, assessable around a little more than a tenth of a second, allowed to fight for Pole position with a better chance, as well as to generate more important speeds to defend themselves, in case, from Verstappen in the race. Moreover, indirectly it could have helped Carlos Sainz in his comeback, through a strategy that would have certainly paid off without the Spaniard's mistake.

The engineers agreed with the drivers to produce more porpoising.

As an engineer confirmed, the bouncing, as well as creating physical discomfort, creates an imbalance that can tend to generate greater degradation of the rear tires, reducing the stint. In this sense, Ferrari's decision to leave itself two sets of medium tires is clear, unlike Red Bull. If the degradation had been higher, Leclerc would have done two qualifying runs, however this was not the case.

"I don't know why, but I'm not very sensitive to porpoising," Leclerc said after his win. "If you look at it from the outside, it looks bad. However, in the car it doesn't bother me too much in terms of performance. Only on the entry to Turn 9," he continued, also stating that he couldn't have gone any faster without the bounce. "Of course, it's definitely something we want to eliminate, to avoid bouncing in the corners which can be a problem" concluded the Monegasque.

The F1-75 also went beyond expectations when it came to compound usage. "We were stronger than we expected," said Leclerc in the post race, who then continued, "We were extremely strong on the medium especially towards the end of the stint." The pace was "very strong" and there was very little graining. A phenomenon that had repeatedly slowed down the Ferrari of last season, unable to generate the right grip on the front.

It is quite evident that the aerodynamics of the F1-75 protects and never heats up the tires too much, especially the rear ones, in short, it has a wider window of use when it brings them to the right temperature. On the other hand, there is more difficulty in getting temperature into the tyres compared to the RB18, something we have seen with the double lap preparation in qualifying and restarts after the safety car.

Speaking in general, the tires offered a fascinating consistency. One stop, two or three has no importance in the economy of the race when there are competitive cars between them, indeed the mandatory stop could be eliminated if the prescriptions allowed it. Albon, in a Williams more than acceptable even after 57 laps on Hard, would have deserved P7.

#scuderia ferrari #australian gp 2022 #2022 #article #f1 #*article #*translation #source: formu1a.uno #author: giuliano duchessa #author: piergiuseppe donadoni #f1-75 #tech #info #analysis #fio.report

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wingsofanillyrian · 4 years ago

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F1 Glossary

For anyone that is new to F1 and/or is reading my ACOTAR fic and might be interested in learning! If anyone would like to see any terms added just let me know. I am by no means an expert but I will try my best to answer any questions!

Apex - The middle point of the inside line around a corner at which drivers aim their cars.

Black Flag - Used to signal to a driver and team that a penalty has been incurred or that the car has a mechanical problem that the race stewards feel needs investigating immediately. Drivers must pull into the pits when shown a black flag.

Blistering - The consequence of a tyre, or part of a tyre, overheating. Excess heat can cause rubber to soften and break away in chunks from the body of the tyre. See below.

Bottoming - When a car's chassis hits the track surface as it runs through a sharp compression and reaches the bottom of its suspension travel.

Camber - The angle at which a tyre leans into or away from the car relative to the vertical axis. Engineers will vary camber to improve a car's handling characteristics.

Chicane - A tight sequence of corners in alternate directions. Usually inserted into a circuit to slow the cars, often just before what had been a high-speed corner. See below.

Clean air - Air that isn't turbulent, and offers optimum aerodynamic conditions, as experienced by a car at the head of the field.

Dirty air - As air passes over a Formula 1 car's surfaces it produces a wake of turbulent air that hampers the aerodynamic flow of cars directly behind it. This wake can be of benefit to a following car on the straight, as the car in front is effectively punching a hole in the air and doing more work.

Downforce - The aerodynamic force that is applied in a downwards direction as a car travels forwards. This is harnessed to improve a car's traction and its handling through corners.

Drive through penalty - One of two penalties that can be handed out at the discretion of the Stewards whilst the race is still running. Drivers must enter the pit lane, drive through it complying with the speed limit, and re-join the race without stopping.

Driver’s Championship - The driver with the most points at the end of the season under the championship rules and based on the F1 points system for that year is the F1 world champion.

DRS (Drag Reduction System) - also known as adjustable rear wings. Activating this system assists with overtaking when certain conditions are met on track. See below.

Energy Recovery System (ERS) - A system that captures waste heat from the turbocharger and energy from braking to propel the car.

FIA - Initialism of Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile, an international association for motoring and motor racing.

Flat spot - The term given to the area of a tyre that is worn heavily on one spot after a moment of extreme braking or in the course of a spin. This ruins its handling, often causing severe vibration, and may force a driver to pit for a replacement set of tyres.

Gravel trap - A bed of gravel on the outside of corners designed with the aim of bringing cars that fall off the circuit to a halt.

Grid - The area where cars are set into a grid formation in order to start the race.

Halo - a driver crash-protection system used in open-wheel racing series, which consists of a curved bar placed to protect the driver's head. See below.

Hot Laps - a lap of the circuit in which the driver does a complete circuit of the track in free practice or qualifying. Typically used to refer to a driver pushing the car to 100% for a lap in order to set the fastest possible lap time.

Oversteer - When a car's rear end doesn't want to go around a corner and tries to overtake the front end as the driver turns in towards the apex. This often requires opposite-lock to correct, whereby the driver turns the front wheels into the skid.

Overtaking - When one driver passes another and gains a position in the race.

Paddock - An enclosed area behind the pits in which the teams keep their transporters and motor homes. There is no admission to the public.

Parc Ferme - A fenced-off area into which cars are driven after qualifying and the race, where no team members are allowed to touch them except under the strict supervision of race stewards.

Pit - An area of track separated from the start/finish straight by a wall, where the cars are brought for new tyres and fuel during the race, or for set-up changes in practice, each stopping at their respective pit garages. See below for a view of a pit area.

Pit wall - Where the team owner, managers and engineers spend the race, usually under an awning to keep sun and rain off their monitors. Monitors show race data such as tire wear, weather conditions, and sensor outputs.

Points - Points are awarded to the top 10 finishing drivers in a race. First place receives 25 points, second place receives 18 points, third place receives 12, ect.

Pole (Pole position) - The first place on the starting grid, as awarded to the driver who recorded the fastest lap time in qualifying.

Powertrain - The term used to describe the entire system providing an F1 car's power. The powertrain (or power unit as it is sometimes known) comprises of the engine, two Energy Recovery Systems (ERS) and an Energy Store.

Qualifying - The knock-out session on Saturday in which the drivers compete to set the best time they can in order to determine the starting grid for the race.

Red Flag - This flag stops the race when weather makes it impossible to continue or there is a safety situation such as a bad crash.

Retirement - When a car has to drop out of the race because of an accident or mechanical failure.

Safety car - The course vehicle that is called from the pits to run in front of the leading car in the race in the event of a problem that requires the cars to be slowed.

Stop-go penalty - A penalty given that involves the driver calling at his pit and stopping for 10 seconds - with no refuelling or tyre-changing allowed.

Race incident - A racing incident is an accident that is a clear and inevitable consequence of racing itself. i.e. an accident that results from the fact that neither cars nor drivers can ever be 100% perfect.

Racing Line - In motorsport, the racing line or simply "the line" is the optimal path around a race course.

Understeer - Where the front end of the car doesn't want to turn into a corner and slides wide as the driver tries to turn in towards the apex.

Yellow flag - his is held out when there is a slight hazard in the area, such as a car parked just off the track that has not yet been fully removed. No overtaking is allowed under a yellow flag.

Most of the above terms can be found on the official Formula1 website.

#formula 1 #f1 #f1 terms #f1 beginners guide #f1 beginner

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charles-leclerc-official · 8 months ago

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Australia 2024 qualifying analysis

I'm not going to waste time with an intro, let's get into what happened. Won't be covering everyone but will be going over the big things of note.

Max P1 Carlos P2 and Lando P3 are the top three in qualifying.

Charles: So what happened to Charles?

Charles is good at qualifying and he's been flying around this track, so for him not to be in the top 3 that is a sign something went wrong.

And yes conditions with the car and I suspect the track were not ideal for him during quali.

Rear wing - Ferrari went with a single bar rear wing for FP3 and quali, this changed the balance and thus some other set up elements needed to be changed to compensate. I suspect they did this change because they are trying to create less drag for the race. Possibly in anticipation of not getting a lot of DRS

Front wing shift: Change the balance if the rear you have to change the front. Charles apparently requested a very aggressive front(makes sense) but it seems that was an over correction and that led to the car being less predictable. A less aggressive approach would probably have been more suited to the quali conditions.

Track conditions: wind and temperature differences in addition to the tyre wear and the change in tyre pressure all are contributing factors for why he might have lost grip on certain corners. With low drag and low traction that easily could create the conditions Charles described as being both oversteer and understeer. Like once a slide happens the car can easily do this.

Driver error: also have to acknowledge that Charles isn't perfect and he didn't have time to do the best he was capable of yesterday. It happens.

All this being said, the Ferrari and Charles had the best race pace during free practice, and that rear wing change might pay off for the race.

Charles qualified P5 but will be starting P4 due to Sergio's grid penalty

Carlos: He put in some good laps. Lost a good chunk of time on turn 10 to Max. But I will say I am impressed with his performance given he is still recovering from surgery.

Sergio: Sergio qualified P3 but took a 3 place grid penalty for impeding Hulkenberg's flying lap during quali. It seems this was more a failure of his team to inform him that a car was coming up behind. He will be starting P6.

Lewis and Yuki: The big upset of quali was Yuki knocking Lewis out of Q3. Very exciting for Yuki, and damning for Mercedes. Because that is Lewis Hamilton in that car, the Mercedes has not had the setup this weekend, and they have been struggling for any real straight line pace all season.

Yuki really is proving he is the top driver at VCARB and that was an impressive lap from him.

I also don't think Mercedes thought they needed to worry and possibly didn't push too hard. That yes they were low but the chances of a mid field car knocking them out was not high. Well Yuki proved them wrong. Some of this comes from underestimating Yuki(never underestimate Yuki).

Esteban: Esteban really surprised us all getting that Alpine into Q2. Given how many problems with pace and weight the Alpine has had that is just some solid driving from him.

Alex: Alex did put in a good performance for qualifying being the only Williams on the field. He got the car pretty close to the points and was competitive with the rest of the midfield. Hopefully this translates to good results for the race. So far it looks like he is delivering for Williams this weekend.

Mercedes: Mercedes was shockingly bad. There is something fundamentally wrong not just with the setup but the entire design philosophy. They have two talented drivers who are simply not able to compete because the car does not have the straight line speed. It struggled a lot during free practice, so it isn't surprising that both Mercs are so low, but it is not a promising look for the car as a whole.

Zhou: Zhou had probably the hardest quali. He damaged his front wing on the curb of turn 10 and that really cost him any hope of having a good time. Stake also did not have a spare front wing for him, so he will have to start from the pitlane and run with a damaged front wing. Not only was his quali compromised his race will be as well.

#quali analysis #australia gp 2024 #f1 #lucis quali analysis

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four-loose-screws · 3 years ago

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FE8 Novelization Translation - Chapter 10, Section 2

If you would like to start from the beginning, read a missed part, etc., click here!

FE Game Script Translations - FE Novel Translations - Original FE Support Conversations

If you are interested in donating to support my work, please check out my Ko-fi here. Thank you!

———————————

I call this a “section” because it is not a separate part of the chapter in the book, but divided from the rest of the chapter by a scene break.

———————————

Chapter 10: The Secluded Sage (con’t)

Everyone pulled out torches from within the convoy.

Because they did not want to have too much luggage, they’d prepared as few supplies as possible. Their thought was that it would be best to stock up on what they lacked in towns along the way, but that plan had now backfired.

Still, a little was better than nothing. A few soldiers grabbed the torches they had, and were tasked with maintaining a consistent field of vision.

The dim light shone throughout the fort and revealed the disgusting sight of vines snaking up its crumbling walls.

‘If only we had just a few more torches….’ As if someone had read Eirika’s thoughts, a bright light suddenly shone from behind her.

She whirled around in surprise, and was blinded. When she raised a hand over her eyes, she was able to confirm that the light was shining from the tip of Natasha’s staff.

“I apologize for surprising you…”

“Natasha, what is that staff…?”

“I thought maybe it might be helpful… Um, is it perhaps bothering you?”

“No, on the contrary, it’s very useful!”

It was a much appreciated staff that made up completely for their lack of torches. Because Natasha couldn’t go out on the front, it was decided that she would light up the rear line, and the army ventured inside of the fort.

The inside looked exactly as they’d predicted. While it had been originally built to fight against monsters, ironically, now it was a monster den.

Ewan darted around while shouting, “Whoa… it wasn’t like this in here when I explored it at all! It was totally empty and abandoned… How could this have happened in so little time!?”

“Ewan!” Tethys had heard what he was saying and ran up to him. She looked terrified, and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing!? You know it's dangerous to be out this far on the front, right!? Stay with me on the rear line…"

"I’m going to fight! I want to show everyone the magic my teacher taught me!”

“You can’t! It’s still too dangerous!”

“No it’s not! Just watch me, Big Sister!”

“Can’t you hear what I’m telling you? When did you turn into such a bad child? If anything ever happened to you, I…”

Tethys buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders started shaking. Any observer would know that she was faking it, but Ewan took her very seriously.

He was horrified, and hugged her tightly. “I’m sorry, Big Sister! I understand. I’ll do as you say. I’ll stay on the rear line with you.”

Ewan guarded Tethys, who was still pretending to cry, as they retreated to the rear line.

Eirika was surprised at this unexpected side of Tethys. When she was with Gerik, she seemed so carefree. She didn’t seem like the type to be so concerned about family, but she completely spoiled her little brother.

Gerik saw her expression, and laughed. “You look surprised. Didn’t think she was so kind… did ya?”

“No, that’s not it…”

“You don’t have to be polite. I was taken aback the first time I saw her like this, too. It felt like the woman I’d seen dancing at the bar was a different person. It seems that they lost both of their parents very suddenly, and were living all on their own. Ewan’s all the family she has left.”

“Really?”

The young sister and brother, surviving by protecting one another, had no doubt struggled through a lot together. She must have worked so hard to develop her exceptional dancing skills so that she could raise him. And perhaps he’d decided to study magic at such a young age because he wanted, from the very bottom of his heart, to help out his sister however he could.

Eirika was silent, so Gerik worriedly whispered to her, “Hey, don’t look so sad! Tethys’ll rip me a new one if she figures out that I blabbed about her tragic past! She hates it most of all when people pity her.”

“I understand. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear anything.”

The battle had already begun on the front line. The nauseating and rotten smell of the monsters was all around them, and the monsters’ shrieking cries of death pierced their ears. Eirika and Gerik both withdrew their swords and started slicing up the monsters coming towards them.

The group nesting here at this fort was far stronger than that in the Za’ha Forest.

This time, even Gargoyles, a pure black, winged creature, was among them. They wielded iron weapons likely stolen from people they’d previously fought with, and attacked at terrifying speeds.

As Eirika had expected, both Lute and Artur played a huge role in this battle. They rushed around to back up all the soldiers who were having difficulty fighting. The effects of Artur’s light magic were particularly great. He defeated almost all of the monsters he fought with one spell.

“Lady Eirika, I have troubling news!” Franz, who'd been fighting on the front line, rushed up to her in a panic.

'No… is someone injured?' Eirika wondered, but that was not it.

“There appear to be people inside of this building!”

“People…?”

"Yes. They are blocked off from us by monsters and we cannot get close, but we can hear their voices. They seem to be travelers who lost their way and were then attacked...”

"Understood. Let's make saving them our top priority."

When Eirika went in the direction Franz had told her, she also heard voices.

"Aaaaargh! There's no end to these monsters! What in the world happened to this fort!?"

“Please rest, Lady L’Arachel! I’ll take care of them from here!”

“No, Dozla. I will not be the only one to save myself from this danger! This is yet another trial sent to me by the gods!”

The voices were ones that Eirika did not expect, but remembered hearing before, causing her to stop in her tracks.

They belonged to a very odd lady and her retainer.

‘That’s right, she said she was going to take the land route to Rausten.’ She must have chosen to take the same route through the mountains as Eirika’s army.

L’Arachel sounded annoyed, but also like she still had strength to spare. Eirika and her army followed their voices as they cut down the monsters.

L’Arachel and Dozla were fighting in a small room, though it was more accurate to say that Dozla was the only one in direct combat with the monsters. L’Arachel rushed around behind him, waving her staff around. She seemed to be the same as Natasha, a healer who only knew how to wield staves.

They were one person short, so Eirika couldn’t help but wonder if Rennac had been killed. This made her even more worried, and she shouted out, “Miss L’Arachel! Are you alright!?”

“Oh my, that voice…? Aren’t you the person from the other day? So we meet again! We seem to be bound by fate!”

“Please retreat to a safe place! We’ll take it from here…!”

“Oh, you have no reason to be that worried! We are still on our journey to cast judgement upon all monsters! This lot is no trouble at all! Now see how magnificently we fight!”

“Miss L’Arachel, there are injured people on the rear line. If possible, I’d like you to please use your staff to heal them. They need you.”

Eirika’s plea immediately got through to L’Arachel. She cheered up and rushed straight to the back line, allowing Eirika to fight without worry.

L’Arachel’s companion Dozla was exactly as strong as one would imagine he was at the sight of his hulking body. He swung around a huge battle axe that any normal person would have trouble lifting with ease, and sliced through each and every monster with all his strength. He could even shrug off minor attacks with his muscles of steel, and took little damage from them. He was truly a warrior to be feared.

The fog slowly thinned out as they fought, so the battle did not go on for long.

L’Arachel played a huge role in caring for the injured. She was a bit rough compared to Natasha, and even yelled at them a few times, but aside from that, her healing abilities were the real deal.

When the battle was over, Eirika sheathed her sword and called over to L’Arachel. “Thank you, Miss L’Arachel.”

“You can just call me L’Arachel… Um…” She tried to call Eirika by name, but cut her words short and tilted her head to the side. “Oh dear, now that I think about it, I haven’t asked you for your name yet. What is it?”

Eirika laughed. It already seemed like L’Arachel was an acquaintance, so it was strange that she didn’t even know her name yet.

In a case like this, Eirika always used the alias “Eilis the Mercenary,” but she didn’t want to lie to these two, so she didn��t feel the need to do that. “My name is Eirika.”

Seth looked like he wanted to say something, but Eirika cut him off. “It’s okay, Seth. These two aren’t bad people. I don’t think we have to hide anything from them.”

L’Arachel stared straight at Eirika for a moment, then whispered, “I’ve been told that the princess of Renais’ name is Eirika! And that after the palace fell, she fled to Frelia, has been fighting ever since, and…”

“Yes. That is me.”

“Oh my, you’re the princess of Renais!? That is only logical. I knew all along that you were someone very refined. Didn’t you think so too, Dozla?”

“I did indeed think the exact same thing, Lady L’Arachel!”

“It is an honor to meet you! When I heard of another princess like I, traveling to each country while battling the evil rampaging the world, I wanted to meet her at least once!” L’Arachel took Eirika’s hands in her own, and squeezed them tightly.

“N-Not at all. I didn’t necessarily start traveling for that reason…”

“And we even got lost on the same rugged mountain, bringing us even closer together!"

It seemed that L'Arachel hadn't planned to climb the mountain, rather, she'd simply gotten lost. No ordinary person would climb such a steep mountain simply because they'd gone the wrong way.

"No, we didn't get lost. Actually…"

Eirika told her everything that had happened since they split up in Carcino, including Carcino’s betrayal, Pablo's surprise attack, the battle at the previous fort, and the village Ewan had told them about, Caer Pelyn.

L'Arachel was deeply interested in the story from start to finish, and when Eirika was done talking, she said with conviction, "We were guided to meet here by fate! Please let us go with you, Eirika."

"Huh…?" Eirika had no idea what to say to the enthusiastic L'Arachel, and simply stared at her.

She'd seen L'Arachel and Dozla's abilities in action firsthand during the last battle, leading Eirika to very much want them to lend her their strength. However, they had no connection to neither Renais nor Frelia, and did not seem to be victims of Grado's violence, either. They were different from Eirika and her army, and had no reason to go on a dangerous journey.

L'Arachel noticed Eirika’s sigh, then pleaded passionately, "Please consider it! We're on completely different journeys, yet have met three times already! It is no coincidence! It is our fate to fight together!"

“But as I just explained to you, Miss L’Arachel, we are being pursued by both the Grado Army, and now Pablo’s men. If you travel with us, I can’t even imagine just how much danger you’ll be put in…”

“Ha, do you think I fear danger? Since the day I decided to devote myself to the extermination of all monsters, I have been ready for anything! No matter how dangerous it is, everything is a trial sent to me by the gods. Helping you is a duty they have bestowed upon me!”

“I… I see…”

As someone who was not a very devout religious believer, she couldn’t understand what L’Arachel’s excitement was about at all, but it moved Dozla to tears, which he wiped away with his giant fists.

And that is how it was decided that L’Arachel and Dozla would travel with Eirika’s army.

Eirika then asked about something that had concerned her since she first saw them in the fort.

“There was someone else traveling with you, correct? I believe you called him Rennac…”

“Yes. We lost him.” L’Arachel shook her head in disappointment. “He has no sense of direction, so he must have gone down the wrong path. It’s such a shame…”

She was completely blind to the fact that she herself had gotten lost. But knowing that he hadn’t been killed by a monster gave Eirika a sense of relief. “I hope you’ll be able to meet back up with him soon.”

“I really hope so too! It’s very inconvenient not to have him with us. He may be lazy, but because he’s greedy, if there’s a reward in it for him, then he’s excited to do anything. He’s as adept with his hands and as cunning as a thief, so he’s been very helpful to me…”

L’Arachel clearly had no qualms about speaking her mind. Although Eirika felt bad for Rennac, she didn’t feel that L’Arachel meant any harm, so it made her smile. “How do you three all know each other? Dozla seems to be devoted to serving you, but…”

“Yes, you are right. I am actually…”

“Lady L’Arachel!” Dozla placed one of his short fingers on his lips, signaling to her not to tell.

“But I’ve already become allies with Eirika! She is a kindred spirit, fighting to rid the world of evil, and bring peace! I’m sure everything will be fine if I tell her…”

“Do you forget what the bard Saga said? According to him…” Dozla whispered something in her ear.

L’Arachel nodded deeply in agreement. “You’re right. The truth is a secret that I cannot speak of casually, even to my allies… And that is much sweeter in times such as these! Thank you for reminding me, Dozla!”

“‘Tis nothing, Milady!”

“And that’s the situation, Eirika. I am an envoy of justice sent by the gods to exterminate evil, Dozla is my faithful servant, and.... Rennac is a lazy, greedy employee of mine… please accept that for now.”

“I will… I suppose…” She was probably in a position where she did not want to tell anyone. Eirika decided not to question L’Arachel any further.

Eirika’s army quickly left the fort, and headed for the sage Saleh’s house.

The remaining path was as steep as it had been the entire way up, but the fog had cleared. They no longer had to worry about not knowing what might be under their feet, so they were able to climb faster than before.

They arrived at Ewan's teacher's house before sunset. It was a simple house hidden among the trees on the mountainside.

Ewan ran in excitedly and slammed the door open without knocking. “Good afternoon, Teacher!” He seemed to always be this energetic, no matter the situation. However, no one answered.

Eirika peeked in from behind him. The only furniture inside was a small desk and a bed. His teacher seemed to live a simple life.

And, as far as she could tell, he had left without locking the door. It was unlikely that any thieves were ever in the area, and even if a bandit did get in, there wasn't a single thing they could take, so there was really no need to do so.

Ewan turned around with a disappointed look on his face. "I think he's out."

"Perhaps he's close by? We can wait here, in case he might come back soon…"

"Hmmmmm… I dunno. He travels a lot."

"He travels a lot!?" Colm exclaimed so loudly that his voice echoed through the house. He continued on, shouting at Ewan, who drooped his head, “We worked our butts off climbing all the way up here, and he’s out on a trip!? Give me a break! You can lead us the rest of the way on your own, right!?”

“I do know the road, but… I won’t be able to convince the people of the village on my own…”

“So we won’t be able to get through to them? Then what are we gonna do? Come back the way we came?”

“I’m sorry…”

“You sure talked big, but you just made a fool of us all! Seriously, after all this, he’s not here…!?”

“Colm!” Neimi nudged him.

While it got him to stop yelling, he still looked very displeased.

Ewan was so sad and dejected that it was nearly impossible not to feel pity for him.

Tethys said kindly to Colm, “I’m so sorry. He was just trying his hardest to help everyone… He’s always been treated like a child, so he wanted to do something all by himself, but instead, he made things more difficult for everyone. I don’t know what to say…”

“No… it’s okay. I didn’t really mean to attack him… Not even a little! I swear! I-I mean, it’s nice to go mountain climbing every once in a while, right?” When the bewitching Tethys apologized to him, Colm completely lost the last of his composure, even forcing a smile that was entirely unlike him.

Neimi still looked sad, so she didn’t seem to notice at all.

Eirika comforted the disheartened Ewan. “It’s too bad, but there’s nothing we can do about it. It wasn’t your fault, so please don’t look so sad. For now, let’s talk to everyone about what we’re going to do next…”

He looked up at her, tears in his eyes. But when his eyes darted past her, he gasped. “Teacher! Yay, you came back!”

“I told you not to come here, remember? I’m usually out.” A man appeared and scolded him in a harsh tone.

Eirika turned around and was so surprised that she couldn’t respond immediately, because she had seen Ewan’s teacher before.

The man did not notice her, instead trying to go around Ewan and enter his house. “I will leave again soon. If you want to master magic, then please find another teacher.”

“Um…”

When Eirika started to talk to him, he turned around with a stern look still on his face. He seemed to remember her as well, as he looked like he was trying to remember something.

“We met before. In the border town Serafew… You were looking for a lost child, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes.”

He seemed to remember now, as he was nodding his head. She wanted to ask him if he’d found the child, but he didn’t seem to be in the mood for casual conversation.

He was probably still very young, but had a calm composure that did not fit someone of that age. To Eirika’s eyes, used to seeing unusual mages like Lute, he seemed to have a much more mysterious aura, one that most anyone would expect from a mage.

‘So this is the sage Saleh.’ For Innes to have known his name, he must possess such great power that even Frelia’s spies could not ignore gathering intel on him.

But Ewan clung to his teacher. He completely disobeyed what Saleh had told him to do, and said in his same tone as always, “So, uh, um, Teacher! All of these people want to cross the mountain to reach the country on the other side. So I decided to take them to Caer Pelyn! I can get there okay on my own, but I think it would be even better if you were with us!”

Judging by how disappointed Ewan had been before, it hadn’t seemed that he was confident he would be able to guide them the rest of the way. But now, he sounded completely confident in himself.

Eirika thought that Saleh’s response would confirm he was a grouchy person, but contrary to her expectations, he nodded immediately. “That should be fine. I was about to return there myself. You can all come with me.”

“Really? It’s okay!?” Ewan asked without thinking.

Saleh replied bluntly, “We do not aim to keep outsiders from getting in. People simply do not try to interact with us. However, the sun is already setting. Let’s rest here for the night, then depart once it is light out.”

“He’s right.” Innes nodded. “Everyone is tired. And if a large horde of monsters like the one we just fought appeared, then there would be nothing we could do. It would be best for us to rest and focus on keeping our morale up.”

Everyone followed his suggestion, and it was decided that the soldiers would camp around Saleh’s house for the night.

While the soldiers were setting up their tents, Ewan said, "Should I go ahead and explain everything to the elder? If we suddenly show up with a group this big, we'll probably surprise everyone in the village."

"But it's already getting dark, Ewan…” Eirika tried to stop him, however, the speedy boy had already run off. He turned around once, said, "I'll be fine!" with a wave, and soon disappeared between the trees.

"Grrr, he's so naughty.. !" Tethys was worried, and tried to run after him.

But Saleh said, "Ewan knows these roads very well. You should let him go."

Tethys still looked concerned, so Innes said, "It’s not that I don't understand how much he wants to help. He cannot fight so well on the battlefield yet, so he wants to make up for it in other ways."

Ewan had teased him the entire way up the mountain, putting him in a bad mood the whole time. For him to say that he understood how Ewan felt was unexpected.

But Eirika put herself in Prince Innes shoes and imagined how he felt. He was proud enough for two people, and hated losing. He probably hated the memories of whenever someone took him lightly as a child.

The soldiers had removed their armor, and quickly set up camp. Now, those on cooking duty were making a hot meal, and those who were hungry hovered around the pot. Their grueling climb up the mountain became a funny story, and the entire area was filled with cheerful laughter.

When it came time to sit in a circle around the campfire, as they always did after dinner, everyone was far too tired. They all decided to quickly retire for the night.

Eirika’s army set out early the next morning. At almost the exact moment that the sun began to rise, Saleh came out of his house, ready to start moving.

When he saw Eirika's army was still fast asleep, he frowned. The soldiers on guard duty all shook everyone awake in a panic. The commotion also caused Eirika, sleeping in the same tent as Tana, to awaken.

"Wow, mages sure get up really early. Oh, but Lute usually sleeps in. I guess that means there's mages of all types?" Tana grumbled, still sleepy.

Because Saleh was the one who would guide them to their next destination, they had no choice but to go with him. Everyone was still rubbing sleep out of their eyes when they started following Saleh further up the mountain.

Before they had even made any progress, Colm suddenly yelled, "Hey, something's coming this way! But it's not a pegasus. Its wings sound much stronger than that."

Eirika looked up. She saw three shadows in the sky. "Are they…?"

The shadows gradually became larger and larger, until everyone could tell what they were.

Seth whispered, "Dragons! I can't believe it… They’re imperial dragon knights…”

The knights atop the dragons were undoubtedly dressed in the empire’s colors. They were both more powerful than pegasus knights, and harder to damage. It was likely that they had been flying around the area to search for Eirika’s army.

They’d decided to climb the mountain to avoid any enemies, but had been found even in a place like this.

The group only seemed to consist of the three knights. No matter how strong they were, it was far too reckless for just three knights alone to take on Eirika’s entire army. It was too difficult for her to judge what their true intentions were, so all she could do was stare at them as they approached her.

The dragons quickly descended. Seth stood in front of Eirika to guard her.

The knight leading the other two jumped down from his mount, then glared at Seth with a stern look on his face.

He was a young man with bright blond hair and a strong, masculine face.

The moment she could make out his face clearly, Eirika gasped. “General Glen? It is you, isn’t it!? Everyone, I’ve met him in the Grado capital before…!”

The young man nodded lightly, the stern expression still on his face.

She had met him before, however, it was only once during a trip to Grado’s capital city. He sometimes passed by when Eirika and Ephraim were chatting with Prince Lyon, but one day, Lyon called him over, and introduced him to the twins.

Glen had a very serious personality, and it showed in his greeting to them. Ephraim tried to joke with him, but Glen, standing at attention, did not even smile. That amused Ephraim all the more, etching the event into Eirika's memory.

He wasn’t very sociable, but politely answered a few questions she had about dragons. His manner of speaking was very boorish, but within his voice seemed to be hiding a very kind personality, so Eirika liked him.

When Glen left, Lyon whispered a secret to Eirika and Ephraim. “He’s really strong, and works very hard. If I was as tough as him, I’m sure I would enjoy combat training too, but...”

When Eirika remembered how Lyon felt about his frail body, she still didn’t know what to say.

Ephraim’s teacher General Duessel had also considered Glen like a son, and praised him as one of the youths who were Grado’s future. At that time, Ephraim was bitter that General Duessel would tell him his spearmanship couldn’t yet compete with Glen’s, and declared Glen his rival. When Ephraim told them he would kill Glen one day in a fit of rage, both Lyon and Eirika found it amusing, and looked at each other and laughed.

When Ephraim said “kill,” he of course actually meant that he would defeat Glen in a duel with set rules. None of them thought that a day would ever come where they must go to war and divide people into allies and enemies.

The feelings of nostalgia were still warm in Eirika’s heart as she looked up at Glen. “I never thought I would meet you here like this...”

“I didn’t want our second meeting to be like this, either. However, His Majesty has ordered it. Eirika, for the crime of massacring Carcino citizens, I must punish you.”

“What…!?” The next words to come out of Glen’s mouth were the last she ever would have expected from him. “I massacred…? What do you mean, I…”

“If you can explain yourself, then I will listen. However, your actions were unjustifiably cruel. You suddenly attacked the port town of Kiris, and slaughtered a great number of the citizens who were desperately trying to escape. You and your army were supposed to be Frelia’s allies! How could you unleash such cruelty upon the people of Carcino, who trusted you!?”

Eirika stared at him, mouth wide open. She didn’t know how to respond to a story that was so completely different from the truth. And he was not making false accusations against her. He really seemed to believe that Eirika’s army had committed a massacre. His chiseled face was twisted in a look of anger and hatred.

The one who answered for the bewildered Eirika was Innes. He chuckled and said, “Don’t be stupid. I thought you were General Glen, one of Grado’s famed Three Imperial Generals. You cannot be this foolish.”

“...What?” Glen furrowed his eyebrows.

Innes’ tone became even more and more scathing as he continued, “We were the ones betrayed by Carcino. They hired mercenaries to attack us, so we had no choice but to fight back. None of the ordinary citizens should have been harmed. Try investigating on your own before you open your mouth next time! How dare you say something so foolish as Eirika committing a massacre! This was all orchestrated by the Grado Empire, was it not?”

“What did you just say!?”

“Amazing! So you did really believe those idiotic lies! I'm amazed you managed to become one of the Three Imperial Generals…"

“Stop it, Innes!” Eirika finally regained her ability to speak, and scolded him for provoking Glen. She then looked back at Glen, who seemed to be understandably offended. “Sir Glen, what Prince Innes just said is correct. We did not harm the villagers. But if you believe the emperor’s words over ours, then there is nothing we can do. I don’t want to fight because of a misunderstanding like this, however…”

Confusion appeared in Glen’s eyes. His intent to fight vanished entirely, and he became lost in thought.

Eirika waited. Glen was a smart person. She believed that he would surely reconsider everything.

Finally, he opened his mouth. His voice was much softer now. “I understand. You’re right. I don’t know anything about the damage in Carcino. I will come again after I have confirmed what happened. If what you are saying is correct… then what His Majesty told me is a lie. I must ask him what his true motives are.”

“So you believe us?” Eirika breathed a sigh of relief.

Glen looked at her again. He still had a harsh look on his face, but the anger he’d originally showed was gone. “No, this doesn’t mean I believe you. I will simply withhold judgement until I can confirm the truth. If I find out that what you told me is the lie, then prepare yourselves.”

“We will.”

“Sorry for bothering you.” Glen climbed back atop his dragon.

The other two dragons following behind him also softly spread their wings and flew upwards. Their powerful wings sliced through the sky, and in the blink of an eye, they became tiny specks.

“I can’t believe the emperor would tell such a lie…”

Eirika heard a voice say from beside her. She looked to see who it was, and saw Amelia staring up at the dragons. On her innocent face was an expression full of regret. “Maybe… Pablo was the one who spread the lie, and tricked His Majesty… Yeah! I’m sure that’s what happened!” Amelia said to convince herself, then nodded.

Seeing Amelia like this hurt Eirika’s heart. She may be a member of their army, but she was originally from Grado. Her respect for the emperor was likely to still be very strong. Eirika understood her desire to think there was some sort of misunderstanding.

But Eirika was sure that this wasn’t some plot of Pablo’s, but a path the emperor had chosen for himself. He was the one who’d ordered the sudden invasion of Renais. No matter how horrible his methods became, nothing would surprise Eirika any more.

“Amelia, this actually gives me a sense of relief.” Eirika said.

Amelia looked at her with her mouth wide open. “What… do you mean?”

“General Glen said that he was going to go confirm the truth. So long as there are people like him, then there’s still a possibility that we can talk this through. There’s also the rumor going around that General Duessel is against this war, correct? They’re both central figures to the empire, so everything can still be okay.”

Because the emperor had planned his strategy poorly, he may have actually dug his own grave. Anyone who investigated into the truth could quickly figure out that Eirika and her army had not committed a massacre. Glen was unlikely to trust an emperor that lied to him. If they were able to convince someone like him, who had such a huge influence over the military, there was even a chance that it would mean the beginning of the end of the war.

Amelia’s expression also brightened.

And so, Eirika’s army continued to follow Saleh, beginning to walk even higher up the mountain.

#fire emblem #fe #fe8 #sacred stones #nintendo #gba #game boy advance #japan #japanese #translation #novel #light novel #eirika #fe8 novelization translation

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ewrthings-race-repair-repeat · 4 years ago

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We normally re-write or heavily edit press releases to make them more truthful, relevant and less corporate but this release is so good and informative we've left it whole. Enjoy reading about a new lap record round the Nürburgring by a stunningly fast Mercedes-Benz!

How close the new Mercedes-AMG GT Black Series (fuel consumption combined: 12.8 l/100 km; CO2 emissions combined: 292 g/km)[1] actually is to motorsport has now been impressively demonstrated by GT3 racer Maro Engel on the Nordschleife of the Nürburgring. With an officially measured and notarized certified time of 6:43,616 min for the 20,6 kilometre-long track (measured without the straight at track section T13) and 6:48,047 min for the 20,832 kilometre-long total track (measured with the straight at track section T13), the new V8 meteor is placed in the top group of the street-legal “sports cars” category and number one among the fully standard, unmodified models.

Maro Engel made full use of all the possibilities offered by the new Mercedes-AMG GT Black Series as standard: such as the most powerful AMG V8 series engine ever with 537 kW (730 hp), the sophisticated aerodynamics and extensive suspension adjustment options. For example, the front splitter made of visible carbon fibre was extended to the “Race” position, and the lower and upper wing blades of the rear spoiler were each adjusted in the middle position. The adjustable AMG coilover suspension with adaptive adjustment damping was lowered by five millimetres at the front and three millimetres at the rear to further enhance the venturi effect of the front diffuser. The camber was adjusted to the maximum possible values of negative 3.8 degrees at the front axle and negative 3.0 degrees at the rear. In the case of the adjustable anti-roll bars, racing professional Engel opted for the hardest of the three possible settings, and the 35-year-old adjusted the nine-stage AMG traction control between positions six and seven -depending on the section of the track. AMG GT Black Series customers can also take advantage of all these settings and variations.

This also applies to the MICHELIN Pilot Sport Cup 2 R MO tyres with “soft compound,” which are completely standard equipment and were developed in collaboration with development partner Michelin especially for the top sports car in the AMG GT series. The highest possible level of safety was ensured not only by the standard AMG ceramic high-performance composite brake system, but also by the Track Package with rollover protection system and four-point safety belts offered as standard equipment.

“That was a really impressive ride,” said Maro Engel after completing the record lap. “With speeds of up to almost 270 km/h in the Kesselchen section of the track or well over 300 km/h on the long Döttinger Höhe straight, the AMG GT Black Series is significantly faster than my GT3 race car. To finally drive around the Nordschleife in 6:48.047 minutes with a production road car in these track conditions is really awesome. Like my GT3 race car, the AMG GT Black Series offers a lot of adjustment possibilities, all of which enabled me to create a setup that was tailor-made for me.”

Also in terms of aerodynamic efficiency, the Mercedes-AMG GT Black Series takes a great deal from the race car. A direct derivation from motorsport, for example, is the carbon-fibre hood with two large exhaust outlets. These specifically guide the warm air that flows from the slanted radiator setup out of the engine compartment. This increases overall downforce, as does the sophisticated rear wing concept and the largely enclosed underbody.

“It's really impressive how much downforce the Black Series generates and how confident and reliable it can be driven, even at the absolute limit. My hat is off to the developers from Affalterbach for what they have put on wheels here. And I'm very pleased that I was able to demonstrate these fascinating engineering skills with this great lap time,” said Engel.

Just as they were for AMG development engineer Demian Schaffert, who set a new lap record with the Mercedes-AMG GT 63 S 4MATIC+ (fuel consumption combined: 12.5 l/100 km; CO2 emissions combined: 286 g/km)1 on the same day, the conditions were not quite ideal for Maro Engel either. Because when the GT3 professional drove through the light gate of the timing system on November 4, 2020 at 5:02 p.m., not only were 20.832 kilometres of Green Hell behind him in the dim light – the GT3 professional also set the fastest time at an outside temperature of seven degrees Celsius and ten degrees Celsius on the asphalt. In addition, some passages of the extremely demanding track were not yet totally dry.

The fast lap times were precisely measured by neutral experts from “wige SOLUTIONS”. An independent notary also certified the condition of the vehicle as well as the measurements. The spectacular drive can be watched on a video here:

http://amg4.me/GT_BS_ring_lap

Background: Why there are two differently timed laps on the Nürburgring-Nordschleife

The Nürburgring-Nordschleife is regarded as the most difficult racetrack in the world and is included in every new development by Mercedes-AMG. A record lap is therefore the most demanding test of the qualities of a sports car. The times are determined for two track alternatives – 20.6 and 20.832 kilometres long.

Since 1997, the 20.6-kilometre circuit has been the measure of all things. The specialist magazine sport auto from the Motor Presse Stuttgart publishing house drives this circuit as part of their so-called “Supertest”. For historical reasons, the short straight at the T13 grandstand – from the turnoff from the Nordschleife to the Grand Prix circuit to the exit of the Grand Prix circuit onto the Nordschleife – was not included in the timing. The starting line is therefore at the end of the T13 grandstand in a northerly direction and the finish line is at the beginning of the T13 grandstand in a southerly direction. Therefore, no complete lap is measured after the flying start. The total length of the course is exactly 20.6 kilometres.

In 2019 the official Nürburgring lap was added. It was organised by the operating company “Nürburgring 1927 GmbH & Co. KG” and is 232 metres longer, because the start and finish line are identical here, also on the T13 section, so a full Nordschleife lap of 20.832 kilometres is driven and measured with a flying start.

Numerous conditions must be met for both record times to be recognised: In addition to timekeeping with calibrated photoelectric sensor technology, official record attempts and attempts to achieve a lap time are always accompanied by a notary. In addition to monitoring the timekeeping, the vehicles and the tires are also inspected and approved by the notary. The classification of the vehicle classes is based on the official categories of the German Federal Motor Transport Authority (“Kraftfahrtbundesamt” KBA).

The data at a glance

Mercedes-AMG GT Black Series

Engine

4.0L V8 biturbo

Displacement

3,982 cm3

Power

537 kW (730 PS) at 6,700-6,900/min

Max. torque

800 Nm at 2,000-6,000/min

Drive system

Rear-wheel drive

Transmission

AMG SPEEDSHIFT DCT 7G

Fuel consumption combined

12.8 l/100 km*

CO2 emissions combined

292 g/km

Efficiency class

Acceleration 0-100 km/h

3.2 s

Top speed

325 km/h

*The stated values were determined according to the prescribed measuring method. These are the NEDC CO2 values as defined by Art. 2 No. 1 of the Implementing Regulation (EU) 2017/1153. The fuel consumption values were calculated on the basis of these values.

#mercedes-amg gt black series #AMG #nürburgring #nordschleife

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professional-dum-dum · 3 years ago

Text

Deciding to throw abother fanfic snippet in the mix because it's one I wrote on the spot and I enjoyed writing it. This time it comes from Remnant's Fastest an F1 Drivers AU

Ruby closed her mind to all the outside moments around her as she started the final lap, sealing the deal on the number sixty-four Schnee car which had piles of white smoke emitting from its tail end. As unfortunate as it was that Winter had to retire just two laps from the flag, she pushed onward and flicked tge nose of tge car hard to the right for the fast Abbey turn heading into Farm, its following sweeping left hander.

The tail of the other car had the same sponsorships as the car she was driving, so the pass into Village and the Loop was an easy move to make as she slowed herself down massively for the tight-angled turns, holding the inner line through it. The following turn, Osma, was an easy turn for her to make with her team-mate, Oscar Pine, behind her, safe in the knowledge that he would provide her a safety margin. As she entered the Academy Straight, she pressed the rose petal-adorned button, opening her rear wing to increase her acceleration down the straight, a benefit of being close enough behind Oscar before entering Village. Entering the following turn, she held the brake where she needed it to slow down and clip the apex before gradually slowing to a safe speed for the Calavera hairpin. Once out, she fed the throttle in, pressing the upshift paddle each time she heard the engine screaming over a beep in her headset, carrying her over the old start-finish line. A voice chimed in as she passed it.

"Half a lap, Ruby." Jaune had reminded her that she was so close to victory, yet still so far away.

As she approached Copse, her rear-view mirrors filled with the crowds behibd her standing and celebrating, possibly prematurely, to her impending race win. Flicking the car hard to the right, she sweeped through it, scrubbing off a little speed as she navigated the corner before approaching the world-famous Summer Rose Complex, named after her late mother, the only other rookie to win the Patch Grand Prix. Flicking left and imnediately right as she carried high speeds through it, she applied the brakes to scrub some speed from the car as she flicked back left and slowed for the final right of the circuit. Once she was clear, she planted her right foot to the floor, lighting the rear tyres momentarily as it gathered speed and onto the Beacon Straight.

Unlike last time, she didn't have the luxury of pressing the button to gain more speed, however, she still got to its top end quickly before slowing for the Ironwood sweeper, brushing the apex with her right wheels as she nailed the exit and slowed heavily for Vale and Nightclub, the last two turns. Once she was clear, in her peripheral the crowd was up on their feet and cheering for the newest name to return to the top step. She hadn't clicked the checkered flag and accelerated back into Village vefore letting off, seeing marshals waving various flags. In her haste, however, she didn't realise she won the race.

"RUBY, YOU DID IT! YOU'VE JUST WON THE PATCH GRAND PRIX AS A ROOKIE!" Jaune screamed into her headset.

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bcdrawsandwrites · 5 years ago

Photo

Fandom: Coco

Rating: K+

Genre: Drama, Angst

Characters: Héctor, Ernesto

Warnings: [Spoilers??? But nothing we don’t see in the movie...]

Description: Twenty one years after his death, Héctor finds that his photo has finally been placed on an ofrenda. Ecstatic, he hurries across the marigold bridge... and finds himself in a hauntingly familiar city that is not Santa Cecilia, in a place that is not a home.

Something strange is going on.

Beta Readers: @jaywings, @tomato-bitch, and @uncuentofriki

Notes: Here’s a fic I started like... two years ago, and finally brushed the dust off of and finished. Hope you guys enjoy!

—

It was going to work this time. It hadn’t worked last year, when he’d worn a skirt, or the year before, when he’d worn a blouse, but it would work this year—he was certain. This year, he wore a wig, and a dress, and had Tía Yolanda help him out with some makeup.

He had to look like somebody.

Surely.

But as Héctor got closer and closer to the check-in gate, he felt a nervous fluttering where his stomach used to be. He’d waited all year for this. What if it didn’t work, again? What if he had to go another year without seeing his Imelda? His Coco? She was an adult now, older than he’d been when he’d married Imelda. Was she married now? Engaged? He didn’t know—he had no way of knowing.

It had been twenty-one years since he’d died.

Twenty-one years since he’d last seen his family.

He couldn’t bear going another year without catching so much as a glimpse of them.

“Next!”

Héctor gave a start, then shook himself bodily. Basta, that was enough of that. As Ernesto would say, it was showtime.

Putting on a calm expression, Héctor strode up to the counter and smoothed out his dress. “¡Hola, señor!” he said, using the same falsetto voice he’d learned to fake in previous years. “You don’t have to worry about my photo. My family always—”

“Er, wait—Héctor? Héctor Rivera?”

Immediately his non-existent stomach gave a jolt. The border agent, who had been shuffling through a massive stack of files containing names, copies of photos, and who-knows-what-else, was now adjusting his glasses as he stared at him.

“You are Señor Rivera, sí?” the agent repeated.

Quickly feigning outrage, Héctor put a hand to his chest and reared back. “Ex-cuse-me, señor! I am the very honorable Señorita—ah—” And immediately he faltered, blanking on the false name he’d chosen earlier.

But the agent only waved him off. “You can drop the act now, Señor Rivera. Listen—”

“No, you are mistaken!” Héctor cried, hoping the way his voice shook passed for outrage rather than desperation. “My name is not—”

“Señor, please, we have people waiting—”

No, no, he’d waited too long for this, he wasn’t going to back down now! “So why won’t you let me—”

“SEÑOR! You have a photo at another gate!”

Héctor opened his mouth to reply, only to freeze as the words sank in. “...¿Qué?” he managed to squeak.

The agent, while clearly relieved he’d gotten through to Héctor, still looked annoyed. “You’re lucky I’m used to dealing with you, or you may have been thrown out of line.” He shook his head, rubbing his face. “But I’ve been informed that you have a photo on an ofrenda in another city. So, por favor, take that disguise off and get to the gate!”

Héctor could barely hear him. “Another… city? My photo?” he murmured, dropping the fake voice. “I-I had wondered if they’d moved, or lost my photo, but I’d never thought—!”

“There will be more information when you get there. We have an alebrije ready to take you to the proper destination. Now por favor, Héctor, get going!”

While Héctor was still in a dazed fog, something blunt struck him from behind, and he found himself falling onto the back of a bat-winged, purple-and-red goat alebrije. It bleated as it carried him away from the gate, and flew him off the nearby ledge.

“Feliz Dia de los Muertos, Héctor!” the agent called after him, and it finally sunk in.

Whipping off his dress and swapping his wigs in record speed, Héctor sat up as straight as he could, throwing his arms out and belting out the loudest, most triumphant grito he’d called out in years.

The alebrije, to Héctor’s delight, took him to the very front of the line at an enormous gate with an equally enormous bridge—even bigger than the one to Santa Cecilia. At first the people in line were quite angry to see him cutting in front of them, but the crossing agent was quick to let them know that this was supposed to happen.

Wiping away the remains of his makeup, Héctor stepped off the alebrije, which trotted up to a blanket off to the side of the counter and curled up. “Gracias,” he said to it, adjusting his goatee and faded neckcloth as he stepped up to the counter. “I-I believe you were expecting me?”

For the briefest of moments his breath caught in his chest—what if this had just been a fluke? What if this was just a big mistake, and Imelda or Coco hadn’t really found his photo? What if this was just another rotten twist of fate, like that rotten chorizo—

“Héctor Rivera, yes?” the agent said, glancing quickly between him and the folder in front of her. She then did a double-take, her tired eyes widening in shock as she stared at something in the file that Héctor could not see. Terror rattled in his ribs before the agent breathed out, “Oh, wow.”

“Is—is there a problem?” he asked, tugging at the tattered pink sleeve of his charro suit.

“No, señor, I just had no idea you had a connection with—” She shook her head, clearing her throat. “Well, you’re clear to go. Your photo is on your… friend’s ofrenda.”

Héctor’s stomach dropped. Not “your wife’s ofrenda” or “your daughter’s ofrenda.”

“Wait, wait, wait, my friend’s—?”

“Sí,” the agent affirmed, stacking the papers together and setting the folder onto a teetering stack to her right. “The ofrenda of Señor Ernesto de la Cruz.”

Immediately the people behind him began to murmur: “Ernesto?” “That singer?” “The famous songwriter? But how?” “This guy’s clothes are so ragged, it can’t be—”

Before Héctor could respond, the agent ushered him forward, and he stumbled out to the platform before the bridge.

This was a lot to take in.

Not Imelda, not Coco. Ernesto had put him on his ofrenda. Why now, though? Why in a totally different place from Santa Cecilia? Was he traveling still? Did he move? Why was Ernesto putting his photo on an ofrenda before his family did?

Another skeleton nearly bumped into him, and he placed a hand to his head, idly letting his legs carry himself forward as he tried to piece this together.

Had something… happened to Imelda and Coco? No—no, that couldn't be right. He would know if that was the case—he’d be alerted right away. Had they moved? He supposed that was possible—it was strange to imagine Imelda going anywhere else, but perhaps she had moved the zapateria she’d mentioned in her letters to another town. A larger city, with better business. She did have to take care of the family on her own, so… yes, that made sense.

But still, why was Ernesto the one putting up the photo? Sure, he was his friend—his hermano, even—but…

Wait, what if Imelda and Coco had moved in with Ernesto? Wait, wait, no, that was ridiculous. While Imelda never hated Ernesto, the two hadn’t exactly gotten along perfectly. So perhaps Ernesto was visiting Imelda and Coco? Maybe he’d somehow found the photo he’d thought he’d lost, and brought it over to their house, and set up an ofrenda?

Héctor’s non-existent heart leapt at the thought. Yes, yes! That had to be it! He’d find his way to Imelda’s house, and finally get to see her, and Coco, and Ernesto!

But then the murmurs he’d heard behind him came back to him.

Ernesto… he’d been singing Héctor’s songs for all these years—become a household name by this point. All the newly-dead were talking about him, and his music had spread like wildfire across the Land of the Dead. It hurt to hear those songs played everywhere, especially that one, but… Imelda had to know, didn’t she? Ernesto had to have told her that he’d died—she’d let him play his songs, for some reason…

Ay, it was too much to take in. He’d have to sort through it when he got there.

Speaking of—where was he now?

Shaking his head to bring himself back to the present, Héctor glanced around, and gave a start at seeing himself standing atop a floor of cempasúchil petals, with an enormous drop off to his right side. With a yelp he jumped to his left, bumping into a young woman. “¡Lo siento!” he cried, holding up his hands defensively and glancing warily back at the edge of the bridge. Right, watch where you’re going.

As he continued to move forward, he looked down at his bare feet (he’d lost his left shoe back in February, and there was no point in wearing just one), amazed to see the petals easily supporting them. He looked up at the people around him, and back down at the bridge, and at the border in the distance behind him, and—

Dios, he was crossing the bridge!

The joy of it hit him even harder than the initial excitement had, and he didn’t realize until his vision began to swim that he was crying. Frantically he wiped at his eye sockets, scrubbing at them with a frayed sleeve, trying in vain to steady his breathing. He was aware that people were probably staring at him, but he still gave a stuttering gasp when someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay, amigo?” one man asked, looking at him in concern.

For a moment Héctor couldn’t quite remember how to talk, but even if he could, the joy seemed to be drowning him. After taking a few deep breaths, he finally managed to gasp out: “I—I’m going to see my wife.”

Immediately the man smiled in understanding. “Aaaah. First time crossing, eh?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak again.

“It’s always a hard wait, but you’ll get to see her now, and every year from now on.” Giving his shoulder a friendly shake, the man stepped away. “Have a good time!”

Swallowing, he nodded again and scrubbed at his eye sockets. Briefly he thought that he should be careful to look nice for Imelda and Coco, but they probably wouldn’t be able to see him, would they? No, of course not, idiota. You didn’t see the dead come to life every Dia de Muertos, did you?

The thought made him laugh, which made him nearly start crying again. Ay, he was a mess. A very, very happy mess.

As he reached the highest point of the bridge, he could see an enormous graveyard stretched out before him, and a huge city beyond that. It seemed vaguely familiar, but then, he’d traveled so much before he died, every place felt familiar to him. Every place felt the same.

He felt a pang in his chest as he realized he wouldn’t get to see Santa Cecilia, but then, that was a small sacrifice to make to get to see his family again.

Looking out over the graveyard, which was bathed in a welcoming orange light, he had to wonder what city he’d been led to. The crossing agent had neglected to say—he probably should have, but maybe Héctor had thrown him off with his antics. (He supposed he probably deserved that one.) Regardless, he was going to have a time finding Imelda, Coco, and Ernesto in a place like this.

...How was he supposed to find them?

It struck him with a burst of anxiety and fear. How on earth was he supposed to find his family in a city this huge?

All around him, people were confidently walking one way or another as they reached the end of the bridge—had they lived here? Was he going to have to ask around?

Looking around him frantically, he scrubbed his face of the remaining tears and tried to focus. “D-disculpe, anyone, I—h-how do I—how am I supposed to—”

A man turned back toward him, and he recognized him as the man who had been friendly to him a few minutes ago. “How are you supposed to find your family?” he asked, and Héctor responded with a nod and a hopeful smile. “Easy, amigo, just follow the petals.”

“Petals?” Héctor looked down at the petals beneath his feet, but the man shook his head.

“No, no, at the end of the bridge.” He pointed to where the bridge met the ground. “Do you see a trail of petals?”

Sure enough, there was a narrow trail of petals starting at the foot of the bridge and leading through the graveyard. “Sí, I do, but—”

“You can only see the petals that lead you home. Follow them, and you’ll be fine.”

Héctor heaved a sigh of relief. “Gracias. I was worried for a moment there.”

“It’s all right, amigo. Everyone’s new to death at some point.” With that, the man hurried ahead before Héctor could correct him.

It bothered him for a moment, but he shook himself. What did it matter if he’d been dead for twenty years or a hundred? He was going home!

As he approached the foot of the bridge, he stopped when he saw what appeared to be a barrier of some sort. Yet other skeletons were walking right on through as though it hadn’t been there at all. Watching in curiosity, he found that as people stepped off the bridge, they became vaguely translucent and tinted an orange shade—the same shade as the cempasúchil petals he’d been walking on.

Héctor looked back at the barrier, feeling a familiar twist in his gut. Even though he’d passed the border, even though he’d crossed the bridge, a part of him still wondered if there had still been some mistake—if he wouldn’t be able to pass through this barrier. But, taking a deep and completely unnecessary breath, he stepped through it, blinking as an orange glow enveloped him.

He’d… he’d made it!

Letting out a wild cheer that startled several people around him, he bolted down the narrow marigold path as fast as his feet would allow. Unfortunately the graveyard was exceedingly crowded, and he had to force himself to slow down before he bumped into anyone or anything.

All around him were families, both living and dead, gathering around graves, talking, laughing, and carrying offerings. Not long ago, Héctor would listen to the Remembered with barely-concealed envy as they talked about how wonderful it was to catch up with their families. But now things were different—tomorrow, he’d be right there with them, sharing new stories about his daughter and his wife, for once.

But he had to focus on the petals. Keeping his eyes to the ground, he continued following the narrow trail as it finally took him out of the cramped graveyard and into the city.

The city was big. He’d seen it from a distance, but now that he was actually walking down its streets, it felt even more enormous.

And familiar.

He'd traveled to many cities during his last fateful tour with Ernesto, though. Perhaps this was just one of them, and he couldn’t fully recognize it because it had been two decades. A lot could change in that amount of time. But not too much. He knew this place. He knew it—!

As he continued following the petals down the street, he barely noticed the sound of something loud and rumbling until some massive vehicle was barreling toward him. With a frantic yell, Héctor dove out of the street, breathing heavily as he watched the thing swerve down the road and turn a corner. Right, cars. Hadn’t seen one of those in a while.

If he’d still had a heart, it would have been hammering in his chest, but any residual fear was quickly washed out by annoyance at the sound of laughter. A few skeletons stood nearby, giggling at him, and he gave them a frown as he stood up and brushed himself off. “I’m fine, I know what I’m doing,” he muttered, and looked back for the petal trail, which was, fortunately, unaffected by the passing vehicle.

“Newly dead?” one woman said with a laugh, and he looked away from her. “You know those things can’t hurt you, right?”

“They go right through you!” the other woman called out.

Well… that would’ve been good to know before. Héctor gave a tight nod. “Gracias,” he said, only to pause, turning to face them fully. They were both dressed in fancy clothing, carrying baskets full of bottles and pan dulce. “Perdoname, señoras—could you tell me what city this is?”

That only caused them to break out into another fit of giggles, and briefly he wondered how much of the contents of those bottles they’d already consumed. “This is Mexico City!”

The name hit him like a bolt of lightning.

But the women took no notice, stumbling down the street in the opposite direction, and leaving Héctor standing there in horror.

It took him a moment to realize he was reaching for something in an inner coat pocket—one of the two things he’d had on him when he died, and that he fought to protect from the elements at all times. One was his photo.

The other was a train ticket out of Mexico City.

Forcing himself to draw his hand back to his side, he shook himself bodily. No, he didn’t need to look at that again. He knew where he was. He knew the ticket was still in his pocket. He knew the train station was somewhere in this hellishly massive city with too many people and fondas that sold rotten food—

Basta—STOP IT!

Héctor ignored the phantom pains that were building in his nonexistent abdomen, swallowing as he forced his legs to move forward, continuing to follow the petals.

Of course, Ernesto would wind up moving here. He’d always talked about how much he loved this city. Héctor just… wished it hadn’t been the city that he’d wound up… where he…

Drawing in as deep a breath as he could, he held it until his ribs hurt, then breathed out slowly. You’ll have to get used to it, then, amigo, he thought, focusing on the petals again. If you want to see Imelda and Coco and Ernesto again, you’ll have to get used to coming here.

Or hope they move elsewhere.

It didn’t matter, anyway—he was already dead. Wishing he’d died elsewhere, or that his familia had moved elsewhere, wouldn’t change anything. What mattered was that he’d be seeing them again. That was all that mattered.

Even so, he wished these awful petals would lead him out of these terrible streets soon.

—-~~~—-

“There, Héctor, do you see it?!”

“No, Ernesto, I can’t see the building we’re standing directly in front of.” The comment earned him a playful shove, and he grinned. “Is that where we’ll be performing?”

“Of course! ...Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

“Sí. Tonight we’re performing at the cantina next to our hotel on the other side of town.”

Héctor sputtered, resting his guitar and suitcase on the street. “Wh—?! Then—then what was the point of dragging our stuff out here?!”

Ernesto smiled, wrapping an arm around Héctor’s shoulders. “Because one day, hermanito—one day we’ll be so famous this theater will be begging—begging!—for us to play there! Can’t you see it? Ernesto y Héctor, performing for one night only—”

“Okay, okay, hermano.” Héctor returned the gesture, wrapping his arm around Ernesto’s shoulders with a half-smile. “But let’s save the daydreaming for after we’ve dropped our luggage off at the hotel.”

“These are not daydreams, Héctor.” And Ernesto gave him a look—one Héctor could never forget. It was a look of such determination, it was vaguely frightening. “Soon, very soon now, they will be reality.”

“...Sí, Ernesto. I’m sure they will be.”

Héctor absently rubbed his shoulder as he stared up at the theater, then down at the thin trail of cempasúchil leading up to its doors.

“You were right, hermano,” he breathed. “It wasn’t all daydreams… You did it.”

With my music, a bitter part of him added, but he swallowed it down.

It really shouldn’t have come as such a surprise, given how he’d heard of Ernesto’s success even in the Land of the Dead. But standing where he’d stood all those years ago and looking up at the theater they’d only dreamed of performing in—that Ernesto was now actually performing in—was something else entirely. It left him with a pang of nostalgia in his chest, not to mention no small amount of confusion.

The petals were supposed to lead him home. These led to the theater.

A strange place for an ofrenda.

Perhaps Ernesto was celebrating the holiday in private here with Imelda and Coco, in some back room. Knowing Ernesto, his schedule was probably packed, and he’d be performing even on the holiday, so this was probably the only place where he was able to celebrate without being late for a performance.

So long as Imelda and Coco were there as well, Héctor didn’t care.

Ignoring the oddity of the situation, ignoring the increasingly likely idea that his family may not actually be here, ignoring the feeling in his gut that told him that something was very strange about setting up an ofrenda in a theater, he stepped through the doors.

Quite literally—his translucent body phased through them as though they weren’t there at all, leaving him with an oddly cold feeling in his bones.

The theater was massive, luxurious, and already crowded; there were people everywhere in the foyer, excitedly chattering about Ernesto de la Cruz and his special Dia de los Muertos concert. So that much was true—he had a performance today, and was probably having a quiet celebration to himself in a private room in the back beforehand.

Part of him wanted to stay in the foyer for a moment, to look to see if Imelda and Coco were there (what did Coco look like? How tall had she gotten? Would there be a man by her side, now?), but something within him told him that he needed to follow the petal trail, and quickly.

The petals led around the foyer and through a door marked no entry. On the other side of the door was a long, curved hallway, built to wrap around the main part of the theater. The trail led him further and further down, past frantic stagehands that were shouting to each other about last minute adjustments to the set. Héctor paid them no mind, barely noticing when he phased through a performer that suddenly stepped out of a nearby door. His eyes were on the trail of petals, his mind already at the end of it and trying to picture what he would find.

Just as he was starting to wonder if the hallway was endless, the trail of petals curved to the left, and under a door emblazoned with a star, and a sign reading “de la Cruz.”

Well, this was it.

Drawing in a deep breath, Héctor stepped through the door.

To his confusion, there was no ofrenda immediately in sight. Instead, he was greeted with a large vanity, a mirror that did not show his reflection, a rack of flashy, beautiful outfits that would have probably cost him several months’ wages each, a table covered in letters and gifts, a guitar case, and, finally, a curtain that blocked off a corner of the room.

Had there been a mistake? Could this really have been some cruel joke the universe was playing on him, letting him through security, across the bridge, back into the Land of the Living, and all across a far-too-large city, only to lead him to an empty dressing room?

Looking back toward the door, he gave a start—no, the petals were still leading further inside… and behind the curtain.

Héctor crept forward, holding in his breath as he stepped through the curtain to find…

...a pitifully small table, upon which sat a bottle of tequila, two shot glasses, a single candle, half a dozen orange petals, and, in the center, a simple photo lying flat on the table.

The breath held in his chest cavity burst out of him in the form of unexpected laughter. All of that agony waiting in line, fearing he’d have to go another year without seeing his family, worrying that the fact that he’d gotten through was a mistake, following an endless petal trail halfway across an enormous city, and this was what he got?

Ernesto was famous—the most famous singer in all of Mexico, and had more wealth than Héctor had ever known in his life and death—and all he had to give Héctor was this pitiful excuse of an ofrenda, set up two decades after his death? To top it off, Ernesto wasn’t even here.

And neither were Imelda and Coco.

It wasn’t until the makeshift ofrenda in front of him began to blur that he realized his laughter had turned to tears.

Dios, what kind of cruel joke was this? Was this his punishment for not trying to return home sooner—for leaving home at all? For dying away from his family? For trying to run off on Ernesto? To finally give him a scrap of hope that maybe something—something would go right for once in his miserable, lonely afterlife, and then—?!

Basta, ungrateful cabrón, he thought, scrubbing his face with his sleeve. This is better than what you’ve gotten every other year. Your tíos and primos don’t even get to have this. At least you can bring something to share with them.

But… ay, he would trade the finest wine, the sweetest pan dulce, the most extravagant offering just for a glimpse of his family again. Or even if Ernesto would just—

The door swung open.

Abruptly Héctor stopped crying, spinning around as a familiar voice snarled at someone in the hallway: “I don’t care! I don’t care, señor, so long as it’s set up before I walk out on stage! And don’t you dare step foot into this room again unless it’s a real emergency!”

SLAM.

“...Neto?” Héctor breathed, shakily stepping past the curtain.

The charro suit was such a clean, bright, glittery blue it nearly blinded him. Ernesto’s head dipped as he ran his hand over his hair and heaved a sigh. “Sorry, old friend,” he said, and turned around to face him. “I hope you’ll forgive that rude interruption.”

Héctor staggered backward, clutching at his chest in shock. Could Ernesto actually—?!

And Ernesto immediately stepped through Héctor and up to his vanity.

Héctor shuddered at the feeling of wrongness that rushed through his bones at the—well, not touch, but the sensation of being passed through. Well, that answered that question.

Given he was intangible, he had to wonder what it was, then, that made Ernesto pause and look over his shoulder. Whatever it was seemed to pass, however, and Ernesto plucked up a comb.

Taking a few steps closer to Ernesto, Héctor watched as he fixed himself up. He’d lost the more youthful look Héctor had known when they were still alive, but was still very much in his prime. If his face bore any wrinkles or blemishes, they were likely covered with some of the makeup that was scattered about the vanity. He did, however, have gray hairs gracing his sideburns.

Héctor ran a skeletal hand through his own youthful wig.

“Now that that’s taken care of…”

Ernesto stepped behind the curtain, stood before the little ofrenda, and stared at the photo.

Curious and mildly numb, Héctor watched as Ernesto then picked up the bottle of tequila, stared at it for a long moment, then filled the two shot glasses sitting on the table. When Ernesto picked up one glass, Héctor reached out to pick up the other, finding it solid beneath his phalanges. When he lifted it off the table, the original glass did not move, but a spirit copy of it appeared in his hand, and he stared at it, turning it this way and that. Huh. He'd always wondered how that worked.

It was a moment before he realized Ernesto was completely silent, staring down at Héctor's photo on the table. He took the time to examine it: a faded photograph of... himself, of course, as well as Ernesto, the two of them side-by-side and posing with their guitars. In a flash the memory returned of when they'd had the photo taken—it had been done so they could use it for promotional posters in the future, for when they became famous.

Heh. When they became famous.

"We... would have made such a team, hermanito," Ernesto said, and Héctor gave a start, facing him again. Ernesto reached down to pick up the photo, and only now did it strike Héctor that he was being mourned, even as he stood beside his friend.

It was a bizarre disconnect, unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

"You could have been here beside me, you know, on that stage."

The pang of nostalgia hit his chest, and he swallowed. While he missed his Imelda and Coco most of all, a smaller part of him did miss performing alongside his best friend... albeit, more in the days when they still played in Santa Cecilia, not the tour. Compared to everything else, the tour felt like a long, repetitive haze.

"If you only hadn't..." Ernesto trailed off, his voice choked.

"...hadn't eaten that rotten chorizo," Héctor finished, and barely resisted the urge to knock back his shot. He would wait, though; he may as well, until Ernesto offered the toast.

As he watched Ernesto, waiting for him to continue, he couldn't help but wonder what was going through his friend's mind. He was standing rigidly still, and if Héctor hadn't known better, he would have thought he was just nervous about the upcoming performance. But Ernesto had never feared those... no, he was still staring into that photo, and... his face was growing pale, his hands shaking.

Taking a step back, Héctor glanced around the room again—they were standing in a corner, blocked off from the rest of the room by a curtain. He could understand the need for a private moment, but...

The thick curtain, the hastily-assembled ofrenda, the look on Ernesto's face...

Something was wrong.

Ernesto wasn't choked up out of grief, Héctor realized, a strange emotion welling up within his chest.

He was working up the will to confess something.

Knock knock knock.

Both Héctor and Ernesto jumped, nearly dropping their respective glasses as the door creaked open. "Señor?" a voice called urgently. "You have five minutes until showtime." The speaker then ducked back out of the room, and the door closed again.

All at once Ernesto seemed to regain his composure, even as Héctor felt his phantom heart still pounding, and for a moment he worried that Ernesto would step out without saying... whatever he'd meant to say. The man set the photo down and sighed, smoothing a hand through his hair, banishing all traces of his anxiety from before.

"Well, you heard the man," he said, holding up the glass. "I suppose I'll make it quick."

Ernesto faced to the side, and it almost seemed as though he could see Héctor standing before him. Yet Héctor could see that his friend's gaze was unfocused—he was clearly imagining Héctor being there, not truly aware of his presence.

Sighing, Héctor copied Ernesto and held out his glass. No harm in pretending as well, though he couldn't hide his disappointment that this meeting with his friend was already being cut short.

"To our friendship," Ernesto murmured. "I truly would have moved heaven and earth for you, mi amigo. Salud."

They moved their glasses forward in time, though there was no satisfying clink. Instead, the spirit copy briefly clipped through the physical glass before they both knocked back their shots.

Héctor was taken aback by the strength of the flavor, like nothing the Land of the Dead had to offer him. His eyes watered, and he coughed, choking down the tequila and striking his sternum. The last time he'd tasted something this strong was when he'd been alive, and he'd had that final toast with that awful, bitter tequila Ernesto had offered him. He was so distracted by the taste and burn of the alcohol that he nearly missed what Ernesto said next.

"Heh. Not to worry, there's... no poison this time, my friend."

Rolling his eyes, Héctor wiped at his mouth. It may as well have been poison, for how...

He ran through the words in his mind again, suddenly feeling strangely hollow.

What did he mean, this time?

Héctor looked up, hoping to see a familiar smile creasing Ernesto's face—the same he would get whenever he told a really terrible or offensive joke—but instead he was staring down at the glass seriously, intensely, his chest heaving, hands trembling.

The shot glass slipped out of Héctor's hand, shattering against the floor, but all he could hear was the argument they'd had that night—one of many, when the homesickness gripped him so strongly that he couldn't stand it, but Ernesto's grip on "their" dream had been stronger. Except that night, Héctor's will had finally won over, and Ernesto had been so angry... until he wasn't.

He'd been angry before. Even violent, once. Yet it had never struck Héctor as strange that suddenly Ernesto was neither—suddenly perfectly happy to let him leave, to end with a toast (with terrible, bitter tequila, so much more bitter than normal), to walk him to the train station. He'd been too happy that their friendship had not ended to notice.

Too happy, until his stomach wrenched in agony, the blood filled his throat, the darkness engulfed him.

A sharp shatter of glass cut through his numb shock, and he was back in the dressing room, Ernesto glaring down at the glass he'd smashed against the floor, his teeth bared, eyes wide.

"You brought it on yourself," he snarled, and stepped through the curtain. There he drew in a deep breath, let it out, lifted up the guitar case, and walked calmly out the door as though nothing had happened.

As though he hadn't just admitted to...

Héctor's mind spun, trying to reconcile it, but suddenly it made sense, it all made sense, why Ernesto had sung his songs, why he'd never given him credit, why Imelda and Coco never put up his photo, why he'd never gotten to see his wife or his daughter because of course Ernesto would never tell them that he'd... that he'd...!

He found a glowing bottle of tequila in his hand, and smashed it against the table with a wild yell.

Yet even the sight of the shattered glass, the dripping alcohol drenching the spirit copy of the photo, couldn't calm the agonized rage that engulfed his soul, that filled him from the inside out, overflowing in the form of a blazing heat and agonized tears.

Before he realized it he was charging through the curtain, the door, and down the curved hallway that Ernesto was calmly walking down, not a trace of shame in his posture. Without another thought, Héctor let loose a wild snarl and lunged at him, his hands aiming for his throat and grasping nothing, phasing through Ernesto's pristine collar as Héctor crashed to the ground. Every vile curse he could think of came spilling out of his mouth, his voice both shrill and hoarse with anger as he tried desperately to grasp at some part of him, only clawing at the carpet and punching the floor.

"YOU POISONED ME!" he shrieked, praying with all he had that his voice would carry through to the living world. "I TRUSTED YOU! YOU WERE MY FRIEND!"

While his hands never reached Ernesto, while the living could not hear the dead... Ernesto stopped in the hallway, suddenly looking back, his eyes wide. Yet his fearful gaze never met Héctor's narrowed, reddened one, and he resumed walking ahead, toward the backstage. But the confidence had gone from his posture, instead replaced with a prickling paranoia.

If that's how it would be, Héctor would take what he could get.

Scrambling back up to his feet, he bolted in front of Ernesto, walking backwards to keep ahead of him, reaching out as though to clutch his friend's collar. "How could you do this to me?! I just wanted to go home! I just wanted to see my family! I would have written you all the songs in the world! All of them, Ernesto, hermano—" His voice cracked, and Ernesto pushed ahead, ducking through the doors as he was surrounded by people, one man handing him a hat, one woman making a last-minute adjustment to his outfit, another asking him if he was feeling well.

Héctor could have charged after him, continued to haunt him throughout that wretched performance as he sang that warped version of Coco's song, but instead the weight of it all finally dragged him down to his knees. He tugged at his hair, as though he could tear it out. He felt like he could scream, but he didn't, for fear he would never stop. Some distant part of him recalled how he felt when he'd walked down that marigold bridge, which couldn't have been more than an hour earlier, but it felt like a lifetime ago. His world had seemed so much happier, so much brighter then, and now...

He wished he'd never crossed the bridge. He should have kept trying to cross over into Santa Cecilia, never gotten on that alebrije, should have turned right around the second he realized he was in this wretched city, he should have never gone on the tour—

Thunderous applause erupted from the theater, music blared, and Héctor clamped his hands over his head.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't stay here. But he couldn't cross the bridge—he couldn't face anyone else, not yet. He was afraid of what he would do if he did. The thought of seeing other souls milling about the graveyard, laughing, collecting gifts, watching their families, while he had been saddled with the revelation that his best friend, his brother, had become the reason he hadn't seen his family in twenty years—

It crashed over him all over again, and he couldn't hold back the scream this time, only covering his mouth to muffle it. If there was another soul in the theater, they never heard him over the music and applause.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, but it was long enough for his voice to give out, for any spirit left in him to evaporate. The emptiness in him was neither gnawing nor numbing—it was simply nothing, like he truly was a ghost drifting aimlessly in the mortal plane.

Not knowing what else he could possibly do at this point and not finding it in him to care either way, he rose to his feet, and phased through the wall, stepping into the theater. Whether he did it for a last glance at his friend, or a last chance at haunting him, he didn't know. He never got the chance to find it out.

Before he could take in the spectacle of the theater, before he could register just how truly grand the stage was, or just what song Ernesto was singing (mangling, bastardizing), there were two sounds in short succession:

Snap.

CRASH.

The theater, so thunderously loud moments before, was utterly silent save for the faint ringing from the giant bell that had crashed on the top of the stage. This silence lasted until the curtain fell, and the theater exploded into chaos.

In the cacophony of screams, shouts, and hurried conversations that followed, Héctor found himself breathing, his legs moving, carrying him up to the stage and past the dense curtain. Women in elaborate dresses were hurrying away from the wreckage while the stage crew were trying to lift the bell. Several were screaming out a name.

"Ernesto?" Héctor breathed, scrambling up the stage as the efforts of the stage crew grew more frantic. On the opposite side of the bell, some of them managed to pry part of it upward, while another man peered underneath and shone a light. Only seconds later, he cried out, his face growing pale, the flashlight clattering to the ground.

Héctor bolted up towards the bell, tempted to phase through it to see for himself, but stopped himself; if the stagehand's reaction was anything to go by, he probably shouldn't take a glance. But then... was it really...?

"Señor!" someone cried in despair. "Señor de la Cruz...!"

"He's dead, isn't he," another murmured, voice wavering. "El Señor de la Cruz is dead."

"N-no, he can't... we have to get him out—!"

Unlike the others who were losing themselves from the shocking turn of events, Héctor found himself regaining his senses. Distantly, his heart ached at the thought of what had happened—at the thought that something this horrific could happen to Ernesto—but before the grief could fully register, another thought struck him.

If Ernesto had been killed... if he was truly dead... then...

Héctor looked back toward the closed stage curtain, out in the direction of the graveyard he'd come from, then looked back to look at the bell.

Ernesto was no longer there, but Héctor knew exactly where he would be.

Before he had time to question himself, he was already bolting past the curtain, off the stage, and out of the theater, charging back down the path of petals from whence he'd come. He was no longer sure what emotion he was feeling, but one thing he knew for certain:

Ernesto had some answers to give him.

#hector rivera #ernesto de la cruz #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #my art #my writing #fanfic #WOOO NEW FIC #also I'm going to be including the names of my beta readers when I post here #I have no idea why I wasn't doing that all along

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ansgar-martinsson · 4 years ago

Text

The Best Intentions - Part 6

Ansgar clicked the button on the car-shaped keyfob, and his cherry red car chirped and the boot schussed open in response.

“Ooh, a Tesla,” Joline intoned. “Nice car.”

“I know,” Ansgar quipped. “Ever been in one?”

She shook her head. “Nuh uh. Heard a lot about them, though.”

He strode to the rear of the car, and bent over the boot. He took out his helmet, a matte-carbon and mirrored AGV, and laid that on the tarmac beside him. “Well,” he said, smiling to himself, “maybe after we take your ride for a spin, we can take mine.” He straightened up, and dangled the fob in front of her, just as she did him. “You can even drive it.”

Her eyes blew wide and she clasped her hands together close to her heart, like a child waiting for a bag of candy from her grandmama. She fist pumped, her face squinching with unabashed glee. “Yes!”

The sight of her, earnest as she was, lifted Ansgar’s spirit, just that little bit.

He laughed and turned his attention back to the boot of his car. He retrieved and shook out a black leather motorcycle jacket - a Switchback jacket, emblazoned with “Harley Davidson” in shades of grey across the back. Various patches decorated the sleeves and the breast – a Swedish flag, an American flag, a massive roaring lion’s head, a Sturgis patch with crossed pistols, an ascending eagle, and a straight razor that read simply, “Revenge”.

“Where’d you get that?” Jo stepped forward and reached her hand toward the jacket. “May I? Is this yours?”

“Of course it’s mine.” He chucked it to her, and she caught it deftly. “I bought it in Sturgis, South Dakota. In America.”

“I know where Sturgis is. What were you doing there?”

He chuckled as he continued to rummage through the trunk. “I went there for the rally, of course.”

“You… you ride?” she blinked and clutched the jacket to her breast.

“Why do you think I keep my gear in my car? I didn’t just pack this up this morning, you know.” He winked.

“I… I can’t believe you ride.”

“What’s so hard to believe?” He laughed as he toed off his loafers and stepped into a low slung pair of black Ariat boots, talking as he set his shoes in the trunk, as he took his jacket back from her and shimmied into it, as he fitted a pair of black leather gloves over his hands. “I have a Triumph of my own. A 1972 TR6. Not to mention I spent quite a bit of time on the back of a 2015 Harley Softail in the US a while ago.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Sturgis,” she whispered.

“Perhaps some day you can.” He bent and picked up his helmet, tucking it under his arm. “It’s that dream thing again, Joline. You can do whatever you set your mind to.” He smiled and held up his hand. “And don’t worry. I’m not going to go lecturing you or flapping my gums again.”

She cringed. “Er…maybe I shouldn’t have said –”

“No! I’m glad you did,” he smiled, gesturing for her to walk before him. “Few people would dare speak to me like that. I don’t believe I’ve had anyone tell me that I’m flapping my gums, with the distinct exceptions of my twin brother and my wi–” He stopped and swallowed hard. He looked away, feigning a check of the crossing traffic as he brought his facial features back under control. “Well, just know that I appreciate your candor, and I expect more of it from you from here on out.”

He shifted his helmet from one arm to the other as they approached the bike. He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the piece of machinery before him from top to tail. He rest his gloved hand on the gas tank and glided it back over the seat. He whistled appreciatively. “She’s a beauty, Joline,” he said. “Great condition. Absolutely cherry. You must take meticulous care of her.” He crouched down and set his hand on the rear tire. “She has Marchesini wheels as well. Impressive.” Looking up at her, he asked, “Did you put those on yourself?”

“Joline?”

The portrait of a man in leather beside her bike was nearly her undoing. When she offered Ansgar her ride, she assumed a quick spin around the city center. But the man, as he proved from the first moment they met, didn’t do anything by half. Go big, go strong or fuck right off. The smell of leather, male pheromone and wheat rolled off him in a steady current making her lightheaded and woozy with attraction.

Ansgar tried again when she didn’t respond, “Joline?”

“Hmm…” she hummed, her head in a cloud of lust.

“The Marchesini wheels? Did you put those on?”

Joline snapped to, rejoining the conversation, “Oh, I-I-I did,” she bragged over her most prized possession. Looking chuffed to bits that he noticed, she pressed on, “My… uh, my, my dad was a J&P man- all the way, but those were rough as fuck. The handling felt as smooth as rocks in a blender. Riding from Stockholm to Vaxholm was an exercise in masochism. I swiped ‘em out, replaced the spring forks,” she pointed to the part near the front wheel, “and the rear shock absorber. Now Nightingale, she flies.”

He didn’t fully commit to a grin, but admired her work. He picked up on the nickname for her ride. “Nightingale?”

Jo beamed, affectionately patting the leather seat with a flat slap. “Nightingale. Dad named her, and it stuck.”

“Matches your art,” he nodded at the inside of her arm where he spotted her tattoo.

She dropped her gaze to the sidewalk, a lump of sadness forming in her throat. She swallowed it, pushed it aside for the sake of conversation. She took a breath and shed her leather jacket off her left shoulder. “I got it on the one year anniversary of dad’s death.”

A small blue outline of a nightingale bird sat on the inside of her arm, under the bend of her elbow, wings in flight, no more than three inches long. Underneath a Florence Nightingale quote graced her flesh: Live life when you have it.

“Dad used to tell me that all the time.” She nodded at the text. “I honored him that way, I missed his reminders.” Tears filled her eyes, but she managed to blink them away. A weak smile broke the moment and she recovered smoothly with a shrug. “Still raw from it, I guess.”

Ansgar softened his gaze and gave a sympathetic apology, “A touching tribute. I’m sure he’d be proud.”

“Thank you. Now… uh…” she threw her jacket back on her shoulder, “let’s ride!” She replied with a bit more gusto than completely genuine.

He seated his helmet it place upon his head, adjusting the visor in place and nodded for her to do the same. One long leg swung over the top of her bike, and his hips settled into the seat, hand poised on the clutch.

Jo’s eyes went a little wonky witnessing his mount, but she reeled in the hormone show before he noticed. She watched in further appreciation as he righted the bike and started it like the expert rider he claimed to be.

“Get on! Hold onto me!” he ordered through the helmet.

She jumped perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, her waist in line with his, her legs outlining his, her hands gripping the leather of his belt. He was solid and firm and so warm, she felt another rush of blood to her head.

Ansgar eased into traffic fully in control of the bike beneath him, and possibly the woman clutching at his waist. Her grip tightened at intervals depending on the speed they traveled or how close other vehicles got to them. But there was underlying trust in the hold on him, she didn’t fear for her safety, it was more a show of confidence in his skill.

He drove out onto Strombron, past the ships on the water on Skeppsbron, passing by Fotografiska, another Martinsson Construction account. He navigated his way through traffic, the odometer pushing the legal limit just enough for the thrill of riding, but under the traffic camera radar. He signaled where appropriate, but also maintained this air of wild freedom, a flirt of recklessness, but never too much.

Jo didn’t know where he was headed, but she couldn’t find it in her to care.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Did you… did you say twin brother?” Joline wasn’t sure she’d heard right. Her blood soared and her ears rang on the riding high. It had also been the better part of an hour ago. Ansgar pulled off and parked in one of the famed observatory parks that he’d had his hand in at the beginning. He sat in a bench along the edge watching with little interest as joggers, parents and tourists go about their way. But he lorded over the place as if he owned it. His legs sprawled to the width of his elbows hiked upon the wooden slats of the bench back. Joline restrained herself from hopping in the middle of those impressively muscled legs by forcing herself to sit on her own hands. She hadn’t the first inkling how she’d held onto to him while they rode without embarrassing herself. She’d the opportunity to take advantage and yet, somehow, maintained her dignity. Ansgar only seemed to be testing the boundaries of her restraint. You can’t have him, Jo. Pull yourself together! Ansgar laughed at her very delayed question, turning an eye to her. “Yes. Twin. I have a twin.” There are two of you sexy motherfuckers walking around?! “Congrats!” She said outloud. “For what?” She suddenly blurted a tiny snippet of some of the cleaner ideas running about her head at the speed of light. “The genes… impressive fucking genes in your family.” And that was the clean version. “Your family’s been blessed, with not one, but two sexy men.” He delighted in the freedom of her tongue and the way she said it, without a trace of embarrassment or terror; she owned it. “Do you find me sexy, Joline?” She propped her elbow on the park bench’s back, rotated in his direction and stared at him. “You don’t need me to stroke your ego. You know that everyone finds you sexy. Even that guy,” she jutted her chin at the runner that gave Ansgar a full model survey… three times on his way past.

#the best intentions

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