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A retired soldier finds himself threatened by a flowerbed.
A retired soldier finds himself threatened by a flowerbed. Stars David Warner, Martin Freeman, Geoffrey Whitehead and Vicki Pepperdine. From April 2005.
@SimoLittlefield
A pleasant surprise to find that the series I made with @SimonichollS , starring @Geoff_McGivern, Martin Freeman and David Warner, is being repeated on @Radio4Extra. A surreal rival to Sherlock Holmes, this was a great way to spend a week at Maida Vale.
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A.N: an unrealistic ending to a story that’s true for many. This one I’ve been meaning to write for a while; it felt like a hug 🫂
You don’t like loud classrooms.
They make your chest feel tight, like the air is too thick to breathe properly.
The other kids don’t seem to notice the chatter, the scraping chairs, or the laughter that comes too easily.
You sit at your desk near the window, fingers curled around the edge, eyes fixed on the trees outside.
It’s easier that way.
“Y/N?”
Your shoulders tense.
You know that voice.
Soft.
Careful.
Like it doesn’t want to scare you.
You turn your head just a little. Your teacher, Ms. Maximoff, is kneeling beside your desk now.
Her red hair falls forward slightly as she tilts her head, studying you with gentle concern.
“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” she says. “Is everything okay?”
You nod immediately.
Her expression doesn’t change much, but something in her eyes softens even more, like she doesn’t believe you, but she won’t push. Not yet, at least.
“That’s alright,” she murmurs. “If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here.”
You look back at the window, not wanting to continue the conversation.
Wanda notices patterns. It’s something she’s always been good at. Like, small shifts, quiet changes, the things other people overlook.
It’s part of what makes her such a good teacher.
And you… You don’t fit.
Not in the way the other children do. You don’t laugh loudly. You don’t raise your hand. You flinch when someone moves too fast near you. You freeze when voices get too sharp.
And sometimes—this is what unsettles her the most—you look tired.
Not sleepy.
Tired.
That deep, bone-heavy kind of tired no child should carry.
She tries again a few days later.
“Y/N,” she says gently after class, when the other students have left.
You pause at the door, your small backpack hanging off one shoulder.
“Can you stay for a moment?”
You hesitate.
Then nod.
You step closer, but you don’t meet her eyes.
Wanda keeps her voice soft. “I just wanted to check in. I’ve noticed you’ve been a little… quiet lately.”
Silence.
Your fingers tighten around your sleeve.
“You know,” she continues, “sometimes when something is bothering us, it can help to talk about it. Even a little.”
You shake your head.
Still not looking at her.
“I’m okay,” you whisper.
The words sound practiced.
Rehearsed.
Wanda feels her chest tighten.
“Alright,” she says, just as gently. “You can go.”
You leave quickly.
Too quickly.
-///-
That night, Wanda doesn’t stop thinking about you.
Her wife, Natasha, notices.
She always does, too.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Natasha says from the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in her hand.
Wanda looks up from the couch. “What thing?”
“The ‘I’m worried but trying not to say it out loud’ thing.”
Wanda exhales softly, rubbing her hands together. “There’s a student in my class.”
Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Only one?”
Wanda almost smiles, patting the seat next to her.
“She’s… different. Quiet. Withdrawn. But it’s more than that.” She hesitates, meeting Natasha’s eyes as she moves towards the couch. “She flinches. A lot. And she looks… exhausted.”
She sits down next to Wanda, knees touching her thigh as she tucks her legs underneath herself.
“How old?”
“Six.”
Natasha sets her mug down.
“Has she said anything?”
Wanda shakes her head. “Every time I ask, she shuts down. It’s like she’s… afraid of saying the wrong thing.”
That’s what does it.
Natasha straightens slightly, something cold and precise settling behind her eyes.
“Tomorrow,” she says, “I’m coming with you.”
Wanda blinks. “Nat—”
"Wands, I work in children's welfare. What you said is reason enough for me to look into it,” Natasha says calmly. “And if something’s wrong…” She trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish.
Wanda nods.
She trusts her.
Always has.
-///-
The next day, you notice her immediately.
She doesn’t belong in a classroom.
Not like Ms. Maximoff does.
This woman is… different.
She stands near the doorway at first, speaking quietly with your teacher.
She’s dressed simply, but there’s something about the way she holds herself, straight, alert, like she’s always watching.
Her eyes scan the room.
And then they land on you.
You look away quickly.
But it’s too late.
She’s already noticed.
Natasha takes her time.
She doesn’t approach you right away.
Instead, she observes.
The way you sit too stiff in your chair. The way your gaze flickers toward the door every few minutes. The way you hesitate before answering even the simplest question.
And then—
A boy runs past your desk too fast, and a chair scrapes loudly.
You flinch.
Not a small reaction.
Not subtle.
A full-body recoil, like you were expecting something worse.
Natasha’s jaw tightens.
Yeah.
Something’s wrong.
Later, during lunch break, Wanda sits beside you on the bench.
Natasha lingers a few steps away, pretending to check something on her phone.
“You remember my wife, Ms. Romanoff?” Wanda asks gently.
You nod.
“She works with children, too,” Wanda continues. “She just wants to make sure everyone is safe and happy.”
Safe.
The word makes your stomach twist.
Natasha steps closer, crouching down so she’s at your level.
Her voice is calm and steady.
“Hi, Y/N. I’m Natasha.”
You don’t answer.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
You glance at her.
Just for a second.
Her eyes are different from everyone else’s.
They’re not soft like Wanda’s.
But they’re not harsh either.
They’re… certain.
As if she already knows something.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
You hesitate.
Then shrug slightly.
It’s not quite a yes.
But it’s not a no.
Natasha nods once, like that’s enough.
“Do you feel safe at home?”
Your heart stops.
The world goes very, very quiet.
You stare at the ground.
You don’t respond.
You can’t.
Because if you say the wrong thing—
If you say anything—
Your fingers curl tightly into your sleeves.
Natasha watches the silence stretch.
The way your shoulders tense.
The way your breathing changes.
And that’s all she needs.
She doesn’t ask again.
Instead, her voice softens—just slightly.
“You’re not in trouble,” she says. “And whatever is going on… it’s not your fault.”
Your throat tightens.
You blink hard.
Still, you say nothing.
But Natasha doesn’t push.
She stands slowly, exchanging a look with Wanda.
A silent understanding passes between them.
This isn’t nothing.
This is something.
And they’re not going to ignore it.
-///-
That afternoon, as you sit by the window again, the classroom feels a little different.
Not louder.
Not quieter.
Just… different.
Because now, someone has seen you.
Even if you didn’t say a word.
And for the first time in a long while, you’re not completely invisible anymore.
The man introduces himself as Steve.
He doesn’t stand over you like most adults do when they want something. Instead, he pulls a chair out slowly and turns it so he’s sitting across from you—not too close, not too far.
Just enough that you know he’s there, but not enough to make you feel trapped.
“Hi,” he says, offering a small, careful smile. “I’m Steve.”
You don’t answer.
You keep your eyes on the desk, tracing a faint scratch in the wood with your fingertip. You’ve already counted it before—three fingers long, slightly curved—but counting it again feels easier than looking up.
“That’s okay,” Steve says gently, like he expected the silence. “You don’t have to say anything right away.”
The room is quiet. Too quiet.
Outside the classroom, you can hear the distant noise of other students—chairs moving, someone laughing, a teacher calling out instructions. It feels far away. Like it belongs to a different world.
“I heard you like sitting by the window,” Steve continues after a moment.
Your finger stills.
He notices things.
You don’t like that.
“It’s a good spot,” he adds. “Lots of light. And you can see outside.”
You don’t respond.
But you don’t move away either.
Steve shifts slightly in his chair, resting his forearms on his knees. He doesn’t take out a notebook. Doesn’t write anything down.
He just… sits.
“I work with kids sometimes,” he says. “Mostly I just make sure they’re okay.”
Okay.
You swallow.
“I talk to teachers. Sometimes parents. Sometimes kids, if they want to.” He pauses. “But only if they want to.”
Silence stretches again.
Your shoulders feel tight.
Your chest feels tight.
“Do you feel safe at home?”
There it is.
The question.
It drops into the room like something heavy.
Your heart starts beating faster. You can feel it in your throat, in your ears, and in your fingertips.
You nod.
Too fast.
Too automatic.
Steve doesn’t react right away.
He just watches you.
Not in a scary way.
Not like he’s angry.
But like he’s… thinking.
Like he’s trying to understand something you didn’t say.
“Okay,” he says finally.
That’s it.
No follow-up.
No pressure.
But somehow that makes it worse.
-///-
He comes to your house two days later.
You know it’s him before anyone says his name.
There’s something about the knock, firm but not aggressive.
Steady.
Your stomach twists so hard it almost hurts.
“Stay in your room,” your parent says sharply, already moving toward the door.
You don’t argue.
You never argue.
You close your door quietly and sit on the floor, your back pressed against the side of your bed. It feels safer down here. Smaller. Like, if you make yourself small enough, you won’t be noticed.
Voices drift through the house.
Muffled at first.
Then clearer.
“…just a routine check…”
“…she’s a quiet child…”
“…always been sensitive…”
You pull your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them, pressing your face down.
You try to make yourself even smaller.
“…we would never…”
“…of course, we understand your concern…”
Their voices sound normal.
You know that tone.
You’ve heard it before.
It’s the voice they use for other people.
Not for you.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
If you don’t move, if you don’t make a sound, maybe he won’t come up here.
Maybe he’ll just leave.
Maybe everything will stay the same.
You don’t know if that’s what you want.
But it’s what you’re used to.
After a while, the voices fade.
The door opens.
Closes.
Footsteps.
Silence.
He’s gone.
Nothing changes.
At first.
Then everything does.
You don’t go to school the next day.
Or the day after that.
At first, you think you’re sick without knowing you were.
Or maybe in trouble.
You don’t ask.
You’ve learned not to ask.
“There’s no need,” your parent says when you linger near the door on the third morning, your backpack hanging loosely from your shoulder. “You’ll stay home for a while.”
“For how long?” you whisper.
They look at you.
Just look.
Your throat closes.
“…okay,” you say quickly.
Your backpack stays by the door.
You go back to your room.
-///-
Days blur together.
You lose track of time.
Morning feels like evening. Evening feels like nothing.
The window doesn’t help anymore.
You stop looking outside.
There’s no point.
No one is coming.
-///-
Wanda notices on the first day.
The empty chair.
Your chair.
She pauses in the middle of attendance, her eyes lingering just a second longer than they should.
“Y/N?” she calls out automatically.
Silence answers.
A student shifts in their seat.
“She’s not here,” someone says.
Wanda nods slowly, marking it down.
Absent.
It happens.
Kids get sick.
But something about it doesn’t sit right.
On the second day, she asks the office.
“No call or note,” they tell her.
Her concern sharpens.
On the third day, she calls.
No answer.
By the fourth day, she’s pacing.
“You’re wearing a path into the floor,” Natasha says from the kitchen, watching her with quiet focus.
Wanda doesn’t stop. “She hasn’t been in school all week.”
Natasha sets her mug down. “Did the office hear anything?”
“No. No call. No email. Nothing.” Wanda runs a hand through her hair, frustration and worry tangled together. “That’s not normal.”
“No,” Natasha agrees. “It’s not.”
Wanda turns to her. “What if something happened?”
Natasha doesn’t answer right away.
Because they’re both thinking the same thing.
“What if we missed something?” Wanda whispers.
Natasha’s gaze softens slightly. “You didn’t miss anything.”
“But she wouldn’t talk to me,” Wanda says, her voice tightening. “She wouldn’t talk to Steve either, and now she’s just—gone.”
Natasha straightens. “Then we go find her.”
Wanda blinks. “Nat—”
“I mean it,” Natasha says. “This doesn’t feel right. Not after what we saw.”
Wanda hesitates.
Then nods.
“I’m going there,” she says.
Natasha doesn’t argue.
“I’m coming with you.”
The house looks normal.
That’s the first thing Wanda notices, and it makes something deep in her chest twist uncomfortably.
The curtains are neat. The garden is trimmed. The front step is clean.
Everything looks… fine.
Too fine.
“She lives here,” Wanda says quietly.
Natasha stands beside her, eyes already scanning windows, corners, and small details most people would miss.
“Okay,” she replies.
Wanda steps forward and knocks.
The sound echoes too loudly in the still air.
They wait.
Nothing.
Wanda knocks again, harder this time. “Y/N? It’s Ms. Maximoff.”
Text of tweet under the cut because it is loooong.
But... Stochastic Parrots.
Timnit Gebru was fired from Google in December 2020 for refusing to retract a research paper, and every single warning that paper made about large language models has now happened at a scale the industry spent 4 years trying to make people forget about.
Her name is Timnit Gebru.
She co-led the Ethical AI team at Google. She co-wrote a paper called "On the Dangers of Stochastic Parrots" with Emily Bender at the University of Washington and two other researchers. The paper was 14 pages long. It was submitted to a top AI ethics conference. And it was the reason Google decided that one of the most senior Black women in AI research could no longer work there.
The story Google told publicly was that she resigned. The story she told, confirmed by 2,695 of her colleagues in an open letter, was that she was fired by email while on vacation because she refused to either retract the paper or remove her name from it.
The paper had not even been published yet.
Here is what she actually wrote, and why every prediction inside it has now come true.
The first warning was about scale itself. Bender and Gebru argued that training ever-larger models on ever-larger scrapes of the internet would produce systems that appeared fluent but had no actual understanding of language. They called these systems stochastic parrots because they would repeat patterns from training data with statistical confidence and zero comprehension. The paper predicted that this apparent intelligence would fool both users and developers into trusting outputs that were structurally incapable of being reliable.
This was 2020. GPT-3 had just come out. The paper predicted the hallucination problem before anyone had a word for it.
The second warning was about bias amplification. The paper documented in detail that internet-scale training data contains systematic overrepresentation of dominant viewpoints and underrepresentation of marginalized ones. The models would not just absorb this bias. They would amplify it, because the optimization process rewards confident outputs, and confidence in language patterns tracks frequency in the training set.
The prediction was that hiring tools built on these models would discriminate against women. That healthcare triage tools would underperform on Black patients. That loan approval systems would entrench inequality while presenting their decisions as neutral algorithmic judgment.
Every one of those things has now been documented in deployment.
Amazon's hiring algorithm penalized resumes that contained the word "women" in any context. Healthcare risk scoring algorithms used by major US hospitals were found to systematically underestimate the medical needs of Black patients. Apple Card's credit algorithm gave wives credit lines 10x lower than their husbands for the same financial profile.
The third warning was about environmental cost. The paper calculated that training a single large language model produced emissions equivalent to the lifetime output of 5 cars. The prediction was that the race to scale would create an environmental footprint that would eventually rival entire industries.
In 2024, Google's emissions were up 48% from 2019, and the company explicitly blamed AI infrastructure. Microsoft's were up 29%, same reason. Both companies have now quietly abandoned the climate commitments they were publicly celebrating the year Gebru was fired.
The fourth warning was about documentation. The paper argued that the training datasets being assembled were too large for anyone to actually audit. Nobody at Google, OpenAI, Meta, or any other lab could tell you with confidence what was in the data their models were trained on. This was not a temporary problem to be solved later. It was a permanent feature of the approach.
In 2023, researchers discovered that the LAION-5B dataset, used to train Stable Diffusion and other major image models, contained thousands of images of child sexual abuse material. The companies that had trained on the dataset had no way of knowing. The paper predicted that category of failure 3 years before it was found.
The fifth warning was the one Google cared about most.
Bender and Gebru argued that the deployment of these systems would centralize linguistic and cultural power in the hands of the small number of companies that could afford to train them. The internet would become a place where the dominant voice was a statistical average of dominant voices, presented as a neutral assistant. Languages underrepresented in the training data would degrade over time as more web content was generated by these systems and fed back into the next training run.
This is now happening in real time. A 2024 study found that 57% of new web content in English is AI-generated or AI-assisted. Researchers studying low-resource languages have documented active degradation in translation quality, because the synthetic content fed back into training is itself worse in those languages.
The paper Google fired her for predicted the model collapse problem before model collapse had a name.
The mechanism behind why this all happened is the part of her work that nobody quotes.
Gebru's argument was not that AI is dangerous in some abstract sci-fi sense. Her argument was that AI is dangerous in a very specific structural sense. The technology was being built by a small group of researchers who shared similar backgrounds, worked at similar companies, and were rewarded for shipping products faster than competitors. The incentive structure made it impossible for safety, ethics, and bias concerns to slow anything down. Anyone inside the system who raised those concerns was either ignored, sidelined, or removed.
She was making that argument from inside Google.
Then Google proved her right by removing her.
The team Google had built to make sure their AI was safe was dismantled in 90 days because they did the job they had been hired to do. Margaret Mitchell, the other co-lead of the Ethical AI team, was fired two months after Gebru for searching through her own emails for evidence of how Gebru had been treated.
Gebru did not stop. She founded DAIR, the Distributed AI Research Institute, in 2021. The mission is to do AI research outside the control of the companies that have a financial interest in not hearing the answers.
Every prediction in the Stochastic Parrots paper has now been validated by deployment. Hallucinations are an industry-wide problem the largest labs cannot solve. Bias amplification has been documented in hiring, healthcare, lending, and criminal justice. Environmental costs are larger than entire small countries. Training data audits remain impossible. Model collapse is an active research crisis at every major lab.
The question worth sitting with is the one almost no one in the industry will say out loud.
Every researcher with the technical credibility to call out these problems watched what happened to her in December 2020 and made a calculation about their own career. The number of people willing to speak publicly about safety and ethics issues inside the major AI labs collapsed after that firing and has not recovered.
The researcher Google fired for warning about exactly what is now happening was right.
The company that fired her is now the second-largest deployer of the technology she warned about.
And the people inside that company who agree with her are not allowed to say so.
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I wish more people got this because some ‘low-empathy’ people are the most compassionate and sympathetic in the universe, and I hate it when that’s taken to mean ‘unfeeling and probably hostile’ when nothing could be further from the truth
Posts like this make me feel so much better. It always seems like society treat responses to others pain as though empathy is the most important kind. I am around 85% compassionate and this post helped me not feel like I am a monster because of that for once.
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The second worst part is, once you get older, you find yourself saying "you'll understand when you're older" with Full Comprehension of how fucking annoying you're being right now, but also knowing that it's all you can say.
