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imhereforbvcky · 5 years

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Team Re-Building - Part 2 (end)

Summary: (Sam Wilson x reader, FalconCap humor/fluff) After the events of EndGame, the remaining Avengers head out on a mandatory team building exercise at your cattle ranch. The week turns out as unexpected for you as the idea was for them. (Part 1)

Prompt/Request: “Is that a horse?! Do I look like a cowboy to you?” For mine and @justsomebucky’s Cap² Challenge. I separated the prompt a little for flow, but I think I kept the spirit of it.

Warnings: None. Probably swearing. I’ve got a mouth and I can’t control it.

Word Count: 2471

“Alright,” you smiled up at Sam slowing to a stop on a ridge. Your herd of hearty western cattle stood below, dark specks still as stone in the sea of pale green and soft brown winter prairie.

Sam took a deep sigh and let it out in a quick puff through pursed lips. “So this is the job, huh?”

“Not so bad, right?”

“Definitely seen worse.” He grinned as he said it, turning to you in the bright mid-day sun.

That damn smile again. It had the heat creeping up your cheeks. You turned your head, pretending to check a strap on your saddle to hide it.

You heard his laugh, more of a soft chuckle. Apparently, you weren’t very discrete after all. It seemed, though, that Sam enjoyed this little game even more than you did. The little glances, the smiles, moving a little closer every now and again. You’d bet the barn he was doing it on purpose: making you squirm like that.

“You’re calling the shots, I take it?”

He nodded, looking over the valley as the others circled the area, pushing the cattle into a tighter herd at your staff’s encouragement.

“Well, before the real work begins…”

Sam raised his eyebrows with a slow grin as you pulled a bottle of whiskey out of your saddlebag.

“Don’t judge me,” you defended. “I know I’ve earned it. Getting you comfortable in a saddle, city-Sam.”

He laughed, rich and sweet. The sound tangled in your ears with the creaking of leather as you leaned in your saddle to pass the bottle. You and your horse moved as one most of the time and she took it as a cue to side-step.

The movement pushed your hand into Sam’s and god, just that simple brush of skin was enough to light a fire somewhere deep in the center of your spine. The flames licked up your neck while the smile on your face froze at the unexpected contact and turned to something soft, nervous and brimming with anticipation.

You felt Sam’s eyes skim over your face, deep and burning like a canyon at sunset. The air clung to your skin, like even it dared not move.

The sharp pop of a whip down below finally cracked through the moment and it was gone as unexpectedly as it had come.

Sam looked alarmed, eyes darting around the perimeter of the clearing, while yours simply scanned the loose corner of the herd where one of the ranch hands was urging an eager bull back into the fold.

“It’s just a whip, Sam.” Your voice was soft and he was glad.

“I thought it was…” he shook his head, half a smile on his lips, and half a frown in his eyes. “It sounded like a handgun.”

“Not that kind of job.” You tipped the bottle toward him again, a small sympathetic smile on your lips. While gunfire was far from a rarity here, it didn’t carry the same meaning it did for Sam. It didn’t mean a fight or a mission. It was a part of life for you both, but yours, you realized, was far more sedate thanks to Sam and the others riding out over your land that day.

This time he took the bottle and scowled at the label.

“Thought I was calling the shots.”

You laughed, reaching into your pocket for a tiny flask. “Fine. You want the good stuff; you gotta earn it out there.”

“Alright, let’s do this.” The words were a damp growl after the stiff sip of locally distilled bourbon.

Together you talked through the positions and the skills of his teammates.

“I’d set your best rider behind, someone to chase down stragglers—“

“Clint,” Sam decided without hesitation. “He’s got a good eye. He’ll take the high ground.”

“Good,” you nodded your agreement.

The others fell into positions easily, and you began driving the cattle up toward fresh pasture. With a signal from Sam, Bruce opened the hatch of the pick-up truck and 3 speckled cattle dogs lept out, barking and racing. They would do the leg-work, circling the herd and keeping a tight migration up to the cooler edge of the peaks, just breaking with green spring grass.

Sam ranged up and down the side of the group, watching, calling orders, drawing the group and the job into a cohesive unit. They moved as one, cutting across the fields like the shadow of a cloud.

Soon enough the team settled into the work, into their roles and their familiarity with each other. Sam was a natural leader and there was comfort in that. It allowed the others the freedom to do what they needed to do. He made it easy and it wasn’t long before they’d begun shouting jabs at each other.

“Rhodes that calf’s gonna make a run for it!” Bruce called over the roar of the diesel engine in which he rode. He pointed over the cab of the truck. “Ah it’s too late,” he laughed, waving a dismissive hand through the air as James tried to encourage his horse into a faster pace to head off the little cow. “It’s too late, man.”

Clint, slightly bored bringing up the rear on his own, had stopped to fashion himself a slingshot and had taken to firing pebbles at the back of Bucky’s neck. Wanda couldn’t stop giggling at the irritation rising pink in his cheeks, along with a smirk and a shake of his head. Clint knew he was going to wake up with his boots full of manure or his clothes in the creek. Worth the risk, he’d decided.

“That your cousin?” Bucky called, looking over his shoulder at Sam with a wicked grin. He pointed a glimmering metal hand up into the sky at the large bird circling the top of the hill.

“Hilarious,” Sam rolled his eyes. You, however, pulled the binoculars hanging at your chest up to your eyes.

“Sorry, soldier,” you hollered with a wink toward Sam, “Falcons stick to the canyon around here. That’s a Cooper’s Hawk.”

“Clint, that’s you!” Wanda shouted happily; turning almost completely around, hand on the back of her saddle.

Just as Clint looked over, the raptor soared for only a moment longer before pitching downward. It dove for a prairie dog at a shocking pace. Unsuccessful.

“Faceplant out of a tree,” Rhodes chuckled. “Yeah, that’s a Clint move.”

The ribbing continued until you’d urged the cattle up the hills under the slender, bone-white trunks of an aspen grove. Green shimmering leaves had just begun to sprout and the river bubbled its soft laugh nearby. It was a perfect spot to set up camp for the night. The Avengers had done well, but unused to full days riding; they’d need to find their sea-legs again.

“Oh damn,” Sam complained, half groan, half sigh. He waddled toward the warmth of the fire. “Now I know why everybody in those old westerns walked like they just got their asses beat. Literally.”

You laughed, hard. “You a little saddle sore?”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Bucky interjected, handing over a sleeve of re-hydrated rice and beef. Dinner on the trail.

“I don’t have the energy to explain how the birds and the bees work right now, Bucky. Use your imagination.”

You enjoyed Sam’s company a lot. You also really enjoyed the way he interacted with each of his team members. He was a chameleon. He seemed to sense what everyone needed and adapt accordingly. Bucky needed to not be handled with kid gloves, to be treated normally. Their unending banter was as much a defining feature of their friendship, as it was a credit to Sam’s perceptiveness and ability to meet his friends where they needed it.

A natural leader even when he wasn’t trying.

The full days ride in the long summer sun had thoroughly worn out your guests and your staff alike. They had retired into the safety of their tents, tucked into warm synthetic down sleeping bags rolled out over top of the line sleeping pads.

You, however, were never one for tents. This land was your home and you felt no need to hide from it.

When you heard the soft shuffle of feet on the packed grass and dirt, you turned your head from its place on your bent forearm.

“Mind if I join you?” Sam asked quietly, hovering at the edge of the fading firelight.

“Is everything alright with your sleeping arrangements?” you asked, pushing up onto your elbows and preparing to accommodate your guest. This was a business, after all. “Can I get you somethi—“

“No! No.” He was quick to dispel your worries. “You’ve been—Everything’s great.”

You nodded and waited, stretching back out onto your deep green wool blanket. It had been in your family for generations, had spread under these stars for countless nights.

“I just uh,” he paused, scratching the back of his neck and stepping closer. “I did two tours, and then all this. The Avengers thing. You get used to sleeping with your head on a rock and it’s hard to go back. Sometimes you start to think you shouldn’t get too comfortable, you know?”

You chewed on the inside of your lip and nodded. You didn’t know. His experience was unique, certainly a world away from your own. But a life spent out here, with just the sound of the wind in the grass and the crash of thunder off the mountains, you’d become a good listener.

“Well,” you answered slowly, patting the clay-hardened earth beside you. “There are plenty of rocks around here.”

He grinned. It was a new one for you, and it warmed you from the inside out. Just a simple tip of his lips to one side, a brightening of the glint in his eyes and you were closing your own, memorizing it and willing yourself to breathe.

He settled himself next to you, mimicking your posture and hooking a thickly chiseled arm behind his head. The heat of his skin burned warmer than the fire as his free arm pressed against yours from shoulder to fingertip. Well your fingertips, anyway.

“What are you doin’ out here?” he asked, turning up onto his side to fix you with a steady gaze.

It took you a moment to figure out how words worked again.

“I uh,” You shrugged. “I like it.”

His laugh was full and soft at the same time. You continued to marvel at the depth of mirth that spilled out of this man. He was a well of warmth and kindness, like that old familiar blanket that you always want to wrap around your shoulders and fall asleep under, safe and content.

“You pretty much do exactly what you want, don’t you?” he asked, smile pulling his full lips wide and tight. His eyes, though, were serious, slightly narrowed while he studied you in the dying firelight.

“Pretty much,” you chuckled, repeating his words back, hardly able to hold a conversation under that look.

Your entire body was drawn to it. You turned onto your side to face him full on, curling your knees to steady yourself. It was all in the eyes for you. God you could watch them all day, but here, in the firelight, it was like staring at a beach just after sunset: warm and dark and shimmering with something golden. He was like the familiar comfort of soft worn leather, and he smelled of it after a day’s ride. What you wouldn’t give to have his arms around you.

“You know you have that power now too, right?” you asked quietly. “You’re giving the orders now, Captain.” You smiled because it wasn’t really your place. Your job here was to help people see their own potential, find their role among their group. Be it a family, a business, or, in the oddest of cases, the Avengers. But lying side by side under the stars wasn’t exactly in the list of services either. This wasn’t business, this was personal.

“I know.” Sam took in a slow deep breath and let it out between pursed lips. “Doesn’t quite feel like it yet.”

“You know, this place was supposed to go to my older brother?” you asked. It was rhetorical of course, so Sam just listened, watching the bittersweet smile tug over your lips. “That’s how it goes out here. Traditions have a way of stickin’. Anyway. He went to the stock show in the city. Got one look at what could’ve been and knew that was what he wanted. He never looked back.”

Sam’s large hand smoothed over your arm before it came to rest curling through your fingers. “That must have been challenging.”

You shrugged. “Not everybody understands it. His decision,” you explained. “But it was his to make. And now this is mine. And I don’t carry his or anyone else’s decisions around on my back.”

You squeezed his hand when he nodded, letting his eyes fall.

“And that shield?” you urged. “That’s yours.”

“You’re damn right it is,” Sam grinned, curling your joined hands up to his chest. Your heart stuttered with the warmth and the intimacy of the act. It was like he’d pulled you closer body and soul. You barely knew him but you were hooked.

“So when you get home,” You ducked your head to kiss his knuckles and curl closer. “…you tell that Mission Coordinator of yours that as great this week has been, your team is never getting on horseback again!”

His laughter was a welcome sound, and a soft shudder in your own rib-cage.

Two weeks later, the team had been training together like a well-oiled machine at the compound and Maria couldn’t be more proud of herself for her obscure choice of team building exercise.

Like every other morning that summer, after a long run in the mid-summer heat, the east-coast humidity stuck to Sam like a second skin. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, fanning himself lightly with it as he jogged up the steps to his townhome.

He frowned down at the little package on the stoop, and picked it up. He hadn’t been expecting anything, but when he saw flying K brand stamped in heavy black ink over the seam, he grinned and took a seat right there in the sun.

Inside the box he found a small bottle of whiskey from a distillery nestled into the same valley as your ranch. He’d bet his wings it was the same as had been in your little pocket flask, and he laughed at the memory. The note tied to the neck of the bottle read:

“A shot for the guy calling all the shots. Give ‘em hell, Cap.”

Will reblog with tags when I get a minute today.

#sam wilson x reader #sam x reader #sam wilson fanfic #sam wilson imagine #avengers fanfic #falconcap #team rebuilding part 2 #team rebuilding 2 #team rebuilding

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shera-dnd · 4 years

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The Hunter part 2 - Our Guilt

The continuation of the self indulgent Catralonnie nonsense

This time with 100% more homoerotic sparring matches

The information they got wasn’t complete. They knew now that Prime’s ship had landed in the middle of a canyon in the Wastes; the awkward forced landing nearly completely covered the area in rocks and dirt and kept the ship hidden from scavengers for years. One of the gangs had recently uncovered it and planned to use the weapons there to get back at the kingdoms that rejected them.

Catra recognized that sentiment. She had felt the same way about Adora, Shadow Weaver, the whole world, even. Back then she would’ve grinded the entire world into dust to fill the hole in her heart. She was different now, and she would not let so many lives be destroyed with that same foolish anger.

They still didn’t know where the ship fell exactly, or where the super weapon would be pointed, or even which of the many gangs was responsible, so they still had a fair share of investigations ahead of them. And that is why they were taking a little trip through the Valley of the Lost hoping Lonnie’s contacts knew something they didn’t.

No, they were the Hunter’s contacts and Catra was travelling with the Hunter now, not Lonnie. They had put their helmet back on and it was back to having the quiet, professional, and constantly grumpy Hunter. Thinking about it now, Catra was kinda surprised it took her a whole day to figure out who they were.

Her companion guided her through shady streets and even shadier alleys, until they found themselves in some abandoned storage facility...or just a shack full of shit, both options were equally plausible.

“You wait outside.” They commanded. Catra opened her mouth to protest, but was promptly interrupted. “He’ll only talk to me. You wait outside.”

Catra sighed and once more waited while her companion did the talking. Part of her wanted them to get this over with quickly so they could get on their way already. The other part wanted it to go about as well as it did last time so she had something to do.

Luckily the former part of her got what it wanted and after a few minutes the Hunter returned, giving her a nod that Catra understood as ‘mission accomplished’. Unluckily, the second half also got what it wanted for as soon as they stepped into the main street they were surrounded by armed thugs. Armed thugs with sleeveless leather jackets and whips. Great.

“Shouldn’t you shit heads be helping with Fright Zone reconstructions?” Catra called out, her hand slowly reaching for her whip.

“You got the wrong gang, girl.” A goat man answered, sounding way too confident for someone who was about to have some broken bones. “We don’t work with those traitors and we sure as hell don’t work for you!”

“So are those the ones we’re looking for?” Catra casually asked the Hunter, completely ignoring the over confident fool.

“Yes.” They answered, hand moving for their spear.

Once more they found themselves in that familiar position of fighting back to back. It made sense now that she would feel this kind of familiarity with someone she had sparred with so many times, but for some reason knowing that it was Lonnie inside of that armor made these moments a lot more strange for Catra.

Lonnie understood her, in some bizarre way. This woman who she barely talked to outside the necessary, who made Catra suffer and was made to suffer by Catra’s hands, who hated her and had every right to. Somehow this woman got her more than anyone back at Brightmoon. More than Adora ever did.

“Do all your hunts end up like this?” Catra asked, trying to distract herself from the turmoil that always came over her when she thought of Adora.

“Not until you came along.” They complained, putting their spear away and turning to face Catra.

“Are you seriously blaming me for this?” Catra asked, incredulous “They all attacked you!”

“I am blaming you, because you are the one getting all the unwanted attention.” Lonnie argued, her voice growing louder as she nearly dropped the Hunter act.

“Says the woman wearing a whole tank worth of weapons.” Catra bit back, exhausted and stressed from the track in the desert, the stupid bandits who kept getting in the way and the unbearable silence that kept grinding at her sanity. At least shouting was better than quiet judging.

“I-” Lonnie began, but Catra would not let her finish.

“You hate me!” She loudly interrupted, “I get it. Join the fucking club!” Lonnie looked ready to strangle Catra, but before she got any chance another bandit rode past them on the back of a raptor. “You gonna shoot them?”

“We’re gonna follow them.” The Hunter answered, Lonnie’s burst of emotion once again replaced by cold professionalism. Catra let out a sigh of frustration and attempted to calm down.

“That thing is way faster than our cart.” Catra stated “A skiff would draw too much attention, so I say we cut the horses lose from the cart, grab as many supplies as we can carry and ride for the rest of the trip.”

“Sounds good.” The Hunter agreed with a nod.

It was mechanical and cold, in a way that Catra was starting to hate. She was this close to getting something out of Lonnie, even if that something was probably her right hook. Losing a few teeth was preferable to enduring the silent hatred from behind that awful helmet.

~~~

Their chase had been less a high speed chase and more a slightly hurried ride through the desert. The raptor couldn’t keep up its speed for much more than a few minutes, and as their mark slowed down so did they. They were careful to keep them just at the limit of what their binoculars could see so they wouldn’t draw their attention and raise suspicion.

“You gonna take that helmet off?” Catra asked, after a few hours in the desert. She refused to spend another minute alone with ‘The Hunter’.

“No.” The answer was quick and short, delivered with that insufferable voice distortion.

“I already know who you are,” Catra reminded her, “Why even keep it?”

“Why take it off?” Lonnie had to be fucking with Catra at this point.

“Because I wanna talk to you and not some mercenary weirdo.” Catra explained.

“I’m fine not talking.” Lonnie answer and Catra just wanted to jump her right now “And I’m not a mercenary.”

“Well I’m not fine with silence!” She complained, exasperated.

“You were before.” Lonnie retorted, now with even fewer words.

“Maybe because I didn’t know you were my lost childhood friend until last night.” Catra couldn’t believe she had to explain that “I thought you were dead!”

“We were never friends, Catra.” She answered. The words were accusatory, but her tone was tired and maybe even regretful. “You made that very clear.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t care when you just up and vanished!” Catra wanted Lonnie to open up a little, but Catra was the one leaving herself wide open. “Fuck, Lonnie. Rogelio and Kyle-”

“Are happily married and living a peaceful life somewhere else.” She interrupted.

“They were worried sick!” Catra argued back “And here you were, all this time, wearing a mask and pretending to be someone else so you could maybe get your shot at happiness, but guess what? You can never be happy by pretending! Believe me, I tried!” Catra only realized how much she had said once it already left her mouth.

Lonnie didn’t answer for a while, leaving Catra to regret every second of her emotional burst, but after a few moments and a heavy sigh Lonnie took off her helmet. She still didn’t say anything to Catra, but at least there was a human face next to her and not a cold mask.

Catra tried not to stare this time, but every time she turned to look at Lonnie she saw the woman’s face going through a journey far more intense than the one they were having. Frustrated, angry, regretful, tired, sad. Lonnie hadn’t had to suppress her own expressions in a long time and now without the helmet her emotions were exposed for the whole world to see.

“After this is done,” Lonnie finally spoke. It was nice to hear her real voice again. “Let Kyle and Rogelio know I’m fine and tell them I’m happy for them.”

“After this is done you could tell them yourself.” Catra offered, but it only earned her a glare. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

She opened her mouth to ask something, but Lonnie lifted her hand in a motion that said ‘halt’. They both stopped their mounts and brought up their binoculars. It seemed their mark’s ride decided that they had done enough running for a day and refused to move from that spot. The following display of hilarious incompetence from their target both amused and confused Catra. How did a bunch of bumbling fools manage to become such a threat to Etheria? Maybe they kept all the competent leaders at their homebase and use the rest as cannon fodder.

“Looks like they’re setting up camp.” Catra commented. It was getting pretty dark.

“Let’s do the same then.” Lonnie added, jumping off of her horse.

~~~

There was no fire tonight for either them nor did their target dare light one. It was a good thing Catra and Lonnie had spent most their lives eating cold and tasteless ration bars or this meal would’ve been dreadful. It still was, but at least they were used to it.

Catra passed her binoculars back to Lonnie as her turn on ‘idiot watch’ was over. She lazily rolled over and looked up at the stars that illuminated them, shining as bright as they had the day she escaped from Prime, expanding endlessly towards the horizon. If anything good ever came from the war, this view would be it.

“I was wondering something.” She mentioned lazily. “Why the whole ‘Hunter’ thing? Do you really need a secret identity?”

Lonnie didn’t answer for a while and Catra felt like she pried into something she shouldn’t.

“I wasn’t planning on it at first.” Lonnie explained. “I used the helmet for protection. Never understood why Rogelio insisted on fighting without it.” She shook her head and allowed a small smile at the memory. “I also never made a point of introducing myself before helping people, then one day someone called me The Hunter and I never bothered to correct them.”

“You could have said something back when we met.” Catra complained, but it was halfheartedly. More to poke fun at Lonnie than to really display displeasure.

“I said ‘Catra!’” She repeated in that same annoyed tone from before, earning a short laugh from Catra. “And ‘I hate you’. I was practically telling you my name.”

“You underestimate how many people still hate me.” Catra joked along. Lonnie chuckled at that. “I was worried it could’ve been Octavia under the mask the whole time.”

“Like Octavia ever fought that well.” Now they were both laughing. When did they get this friendly?

“Who said you fought well?” Catra teased. “If I recall correctly I was the one pinning you down.”

“That is because I was holding back on you!” Lonnie defended “Just because I wanted to work some tension out on your face doesn’t mean I wanted to kill you.”

“What? Did years in the desert give you She-ra powers or something?” Catra joked, turning around to see Lonnie detaching the chest plate from her armor. Inside there was a single First Ones relic connected to the exoskeleton she was wearing.

“Stole one of Hordak’s old models before leaving.” She explained “I could probably kick you all the way to their camp!” She gestured towards their target while looking smugly at Catra.

“Well, then take that off. We’re having a rematch.” Catra declared as she got up and began stretching.

“Excuse me?” Lonnie asked, surprised by Catra’s eagerness. “We have to keep an eye on them!”

“If they start running in the middle of the match we just catch up to them later.” Catra shrugged. “Not like it’s gonna take that long.” Catra offered her a challenging smile. “Afraid I’ll be the one on top again?” Lonnie smiled back.

“In your dreams, Catra.” She answered and began taking off her armor.

Several of Catra’s dreams had in fact started with Lonnie stripping off her armor and ended with Catra on top, but she was definitely not gonna mention that, so she settled with just waiting for her adversary to get ready with feign impatience.

The clothes Lonnie was wearing under the armor were simple and plain, offering a little extra comfort under the mountain of bulky metal she carried daily. She was definitely still wearing more under her armor than she did in those dreams.

Their sparring match was quick, but intense. Catra had speed on her side and was more than used to fighting stronger opponents, easily sidestepping and dodging anything Lonnie threw at her. Lonnie, on the other hand, had the stamina to keep fighting regardless of what Catra threw at her and enough strength in that right hook to keep Catra on her toes. They would both have to rely on wits to take the upper hand and that was something both women had quite a lot of.

In the end they were both laughing. They were tired, dirty and sweaty, but they were laughing. Even when Lonnie tackled her to the ground and pinned her in place Catra still smiled, not even defeat could take that from her.

“Told you I’d be on top.” Lonnie teased, with a smug smile on her face that was somehow brighter than any of the stars that framed her. “Do I win something?”

‘Me’ a part of Catra wanted to say. The same part that was now bombarding her with terrible ideas she would absolutely regret and questioned why her past self insisted on thinking about herself on top when this was clearly much more fun.

“Yeah,” Catra finally said, banishing any stray thoughts about Lonnie’s biceps. “You earned my silence. Congratulations, I’ll stop bothering you now.”

Lonnie looked disappointed, maybe even sad and Catra immediately regretted her decision. Lonnie pushed herself up and began putting on her armor again, making a clear effort to not look at Catra.

They both returned to their respective corners of the camp. Lonnie went back to watching over their target, and Catra accepted that she was gonna fall asleep full of regrets once again. But as she closed her eyes, she heard Lonnie’s voice.

“I think I’m gonna refuse that prize.”

And Catra fell asleep with a smile.

#catra #lonnie #catralonnie #shera #spop #fanfic

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nickelkeep · 5 years

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Something So Magic

Pairing: Dean/Cas Rating: Teen and Up Word Count: 5200 Warnings: Animal on Animal Violence, very brief in the beginning. On Ao3

With Autumn coming closer, Dean found his evenings dedicated to chopping wood and stocking up for the winter. Sam could have his fancy city living, but Dean preferred living out in the woods, away from people. Only people who truly needed him or his services would venture out to him, and he didn't have to deal with being disappointed by seeing the worst in people.

Dean lifted the ax over his head and brought it down, cleanly splitting the log in twain. Looking over to his pile, he took note that had a few more to do before calling it for the evening, and then he could kick back and read or pull up something on his laptop to watch. As he started to lift the ax over his head to finish the log he started, an unholy caterwaul and the screech of a large bird caught his attention.

Without a second guess, Dean sprinted in the direction of the cry, ax still in hand. The cries of the animal in distress were getting louder and more desperate. Dean skidded to a halt in a small clearing near his home. A large hawk was circling and slashing at a small, malnourished cat. The raptor was able to stun the cat with a sharp wing clip, causing it to tumble back towards a tree.

Before the hawk could go in for the kill, Dean jumped into the clearing, shouting and waving his ax. "Shoo! Get out of here you dumb bird brain!" He chased after the bird, startling it into flight.

Dean cautiously approached the cat. It had been knocked out and was mewling pathetically in its unconscious state. Kicking himself for getting involved, Dean took off his flannel shirt and gently wrapped it around the small black feline, picking it up and gingerly carrying it back to his cabin. Healing this little guy or gal took priority. The wood would still be there tomorrow.

Once inside the cabin, Dean delicately laid the cat down on his workbench. In the better lighting of his home, he could see the damp fur and easily deduce that he was looking at blood. He scrunched up his nose as a sneeze started to build and shook his head. "Damn Allergies. Can you please wait long enough for me to look at this little guy?"

Dean grabbed a clean washcloth, a bowl of warm water and a bottle of one of his mixtures - lemon juice and oregano oil - and set it next to the cat. "Hey, I'm sorry little guy. I know cats don't like water or other shit on their fur, but I need to treat you before I can heal you, ok?" He gently pet the fur at the nape of the cat's neck before dipping the cloth into the warm water.

About halfway through cleaning and treating the wounds, the cat started to stir. It let out a very confused sound meow, causing Dean to chuckle. "I know, right? Last thing you know, you were outside with a big bad bird swooping in over you." The cat turned to look at Dean. "Aren't you a bright little guy? Sorry, I figured that out while cleaning you up." Dean tended to a final spot along the cat's rear leg. "Almost done, and I can get you something to eat."

The cat chirped in response and tilted its head.

"All done." Dean held up a finger and turned his head before sneezing. "Sorry little guy, I'm allergic to cats. But you do need some strength. I'm pretty sure I've got a can of tuna or something around here." Dean wandered over to the kitchen area and looked through his cabinets.

The cat rested it's head on its paws and watched as Dean dug through his rations. "Here we go. One can of tuna. I guess that's a little cliché, but you work with what you've got." Dean opened the can and drained out the excess water. "While we eat, I'm gonna look for a spell to heal you up a little more so you can be on your way, okay?"

"Mrow."

"Oh, you do speak. That's good to know." Dean laughed at himself. "And I'm talking to a cat." He dumped the contents of the can onto a plate and brought it over to the workbench. "Look, I'm not even going to make you move. Full, four-star treatment. Just don't tell your friends." Dean turned and sneezed again. "I would prefer not to sneeze constantly if I can help it." He turned back around to watch as the cat devoured the tuna. "When's the last time you had a good meal, huh?"

The cat purred loudly in response.

"That long, huh? Well, you savor that." Dean gave the cat a quick scratch between the ears and turned to grab some dinner for himself. After fixing himself a bowl of stew and grabbing a couple of books out of his shelves, he sat down at his workbench to eat. The cat finished eating its own food, and sat at the top of the book, looking down as though it were reading the pages along with him. The thought made Dean's heart flutter for a moment. The cat showed no signs of its own magic, so there was no reason to believe that a familiar had stumbled across him, let alone want to bond with him.

Dean paused as he came across the spell he was looking for. "Alright, Tuna Breath." He tapped the other side of the workbench to see if the cat would follow. When it did Dean smiled. "You're a smart cat. I bet someone is missing you something fierce." Dean grabbed the plate and his bowl and took them to the kitchenette. "I'm gonna draw a little circle for you to stand in, and then I'm gonna finish healing up the big injuries, okay?"

The cat tilted its head and meowed, appearing to observe as Dean drew out the casting circle for his spell. "It's been a while since I've had to heal an animal. Most people can stick to the city and do that. People come to see me for special spells." He finished the details and tapped the center of the circle.

When the cat walked over, Dean tilted his own head before shaking it. "Someone has trained you well, little guy." He gently scratched the top of the cat's head before muttering the words to the spell under his breath.

A green light emanated from the lines Dean had drawn. When Dean finished the spell, the light faded and the cat let out a high pitched, happy meow, headbutting Dean's Hand.

"No need to thank me, little guy. You just need to be more careful out there."

"Mrow!"

Dean laughed again before turning his head to sneeze. "Let me double-check those cuts, and then we can get you on your way?"

All of the significant cuts and contusions from the run-in with the hawk had cleared up. "I think now is going to be your best time to make a run for it, little guy." Dean scratched the cat under the chin. "Your fur will blend in nicely with the night, and it'll be harder for the big, mean, birds to catch you."

Dean scooped up the cat and tucked it under his arm before walking towards the door. "I appreciate you keeping me company today, but I need you to go and find your home." The cat squiggled in his arm and tried to escape free from Dean's arms. "Sorry, buddy. You make me sneeze. I can't keep you around." Dean pouted. "Besides, it's clear you've got a family. Don't you know where they are?"

Dean got outside and closed his door behind him before setting the feline down. The cat ran figure eights around Dean's legs. "Nice try, Cat. Tripping me up isn't going to get me to let you back into the house." Dean squatted and pet the cat one more time. "It was nice to have company for the day today." He gently patted the cat's hindquarters. "Be careful, little guy."

The cat slowly padded down the stairs of Dean's cabin before looking back up at him. If Dean didn't know better, he would have sworn that he saw a sadness in the cat's eyes before he turned off and ran away. Dean sighed and headed back into his cabin, hoping to read a chapter or two of his book before heading to bed.

The next morning, Dean was woken up by scratching at his front door. At first, he thought nothing of it, but the sound grew louder and more persistent. He slid out of his bed and moved to the door, looking out and seeing nothing there. But once he opened the door and looked down, his little friend from yesterday had returned, bearing a gift.

"Hello, Cat. What do you have there?" Dean crouched down and took the ball of fluff - a freshly caught rabbit - while the cat scampered in and hopped upon his bed. Dean shot a look from the door to the rabbit to the feline laying on his bed. "What part of allergic, didn't you understand?" Dean asked the cat.

"Mrow."

"Yes, you brought a rabbit. But I can feed myself, thank you." Dean crossed his arms over his chest, slightly embarrassed that he was conversing with a cat.

The cat rolled on his back and stretched, pawing at the air. "Meeeooow."

"Cute isn't going to cut it, mister." Dean sighed. "I'm not in the market for a pet, you know. Big, tough dude like me doesn't need a little fluffball."

"Mrrrrr." The cat had rolled back over and curled up.

"You going to keep sassing me?" Dean crossed into the kitchen and placed the rabbit in the sink before grabbing a large pot.

"Mew."

Dean filled the pot with water and placed it onto the stove, turning the dial to catch the flame. "I'll remember this, Cat." He walked back to his workbench and grabbed a bottle marked eucalyptus oil. "I guess I might as well make it so I can at least breathe in here."

"Meow."

"I'm glad you agree," Dean added a couple of drops of oil and some lemon to the pot of water. "Guess I'll see if I can find a recipe or a spell to keep myself from dying from sneezing too."

After prepping the rabbit, making himself some tea, and grabbing a book of remedies, Dean lounged back in his bed, looking for anything that could help with his allergies for the long haul. He didn't know how long the cat was planning on sticking around, considering it wasn't planning on going anywhere.

At some point, Dean must have dozed off, as he woke up to the cat sitting on his chest and swatting gently at his nose. "My nose is not a wild animal, fluffball."

"Mrow."

"I don't snore, nor if I did, would it sound like an animal in distress." Dean cracked an eye open and saw the cat actually glaring at him. "Okay, so if I was snoring, it's because there's an animal I'm allergic to sitting on my chest."

"Meow." The cat walked down Dean's chest and curled up on his lap.

"You can't even get sassy at that one, Cat." Dean ran his fingers through his hair before sitting up. He started gently stroking the fur down the cat's back, taking notice of how much difference a day had made. "You know, if you're gonna stick around and not go find your family, I get to name you."

The cat turned it's head and looked at Dean.

"Oh, now you're intrigued." Dean looked around the room. "I got it. Déardaoin."

"Mrow." The cat turned around and sat down facing Dean.

"You gonna live here, I get to pick the name." Dean scratched behind Déardaoin's ear, causing him to purr. "Yeah, you'll get used to it. Especially if you want scratches and pets."

Déardaoin batted at Dean's nose pulling a chuckle out of him.

While Dean continued reading his book, Déardaoin curled back upon his chest. At one point, while stretching, Dean was able to catch a good look at the cat's eyes. They were a gorgeous shade of blue that he hadn't noticed previously.

"Hey, pretty boy," Dean pet under Déardaoin's chin, getting him to hold steady long enough to take in the color. While cats could certainly have blue eyes, there was something utterly different about his shade. "Your eyes are so pretty."

"Mew."

"Is that you saying 'Thank you?' Well, you're welcome." Dean closed the book and laid it next to him. "I get the feeling you're not a hundred percent cat, though, are you?"

Déardaoin froze and looked at Dean.

"You aren't. You act too... human." Dean ran his hand down the cat's back. "I mean, maybe I'm just a little crazy, l live out here by myself. I only see other people maybe once every other week. Maybe I'm just hoping you're more than a cat." Dean waited for a reaction. "Maybe you're cursed. That would suck being cursed as a cat. But I say that as being allergic to cats. Imagine being allergic to yourself."

Déardaoin curled back up on Dean's chest.

"Or perhaps you're a familiar." Dean felt the cat tense on his chest. "One that never resonated, so you ran so you wouldn't be forced to? Or you can hide your magic. That would explain why I can't figure it out." Dean sighed.

"I never resonated. I think my mom and dad were embarrassed." Dean gently played with Déardaoin's tail. "Sam hasn't either, but they don't know that. They're dead. So Sam got to miss out on that."

"Mrow?"

"Sorry, Déar." Dean smiled softly. "This is a little crazy and all. Just seeing you yesterday over my book while I was reading made me wonder how much I was missing."

Déardaoin stood up and headbutted Dean before hopping down and jumping up onto the windowsill of an open window. He let out a sad meow before slipping out of the window.

Dean spent the rest of the evening doing his regular routine. He made his dinner, setting aside a small portion for Déardaoin in case he came back, going through his stocks to see what he needed from town, before standing in front of his bookshelves. He was confident at this point that his cat wasn't, in fact, a cat. Nor was the cat in fact his. He could have been anything.

Dean ruled out shifter almost immediately. He had wards set up all over his land to keep away evil and malicious creatures. While not all shifters were wicked, any creature with therianthropy would trigger them. He knew it wasn't a Wampus or a Sith, they couldn't break through the salt lines that he buried around the perimeter. That meant that Déardaoin was either a cursed human or a familiar.

While Dean secretly hoped for the latter, he pulled out a book on curse breaking and climbed back in bed.

xxx

Dean woke up in a rush, looking around his cabin. Sitting at his workbench was a gorgeous man, peacefully watching over him. "Hello, Dean."

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Dean slipped out of his bed and crossed the cabin.

"In a sort."

Dean looked the man up and down. Even in the pale moonlight, he could make out his dark brown hair, and beautiful blue eyes. "What does that mean?"

"It means that you know me."

"I feel like I do," Dean admitted. "Your eyes. I know those eyes."

The man offered a sad smile and nodded.

"Why are you in my home? How did you get in here?" Dean looked around. "I should have been alerted."

"That's because we're not really in your home, Dean." The man stood up and closed the last bit of distance between them. He gently placed two fingers against Dean's temple. "It's more of us being in here. You're dreaming at the moment."

"You can't dream someone you don't know."

"You're doing more than dreaming, Dean. I can't stay here anymore, but I promise to explain as soon as I can." He leaned in and softly kissed Dean on the lips. "Wake up."

xxx

Dean woke up, sitting up and pinching himself. He was actually awake this time. He traced his fingers over his temple then his lips; his dream fresh on his mind. Dean had no clue who the guy in the dream was, he would remember someone that beautiful.

He got out of bed and walked over to the kitchen, grabbing himself a cup of water. The bowl that he had left on the floor with food for Déardaoin was empty, and after he finished his drink, he looked around his small cabin, searching to see if the cat was hiding anywhere.

With no luck searching inside, Dean decided to take a quick look outside. He opened the door and found not only Déardaoin, but a giant of a younger brother squatting down to pet him. "Sam?"

"Hiya, Dean." He stood up and climbed up the stairs, pulling his brother into a bear hug.

"You're here like, a week early."

"Yeah, well, Ellen and Missouri sent me out." Sam let go and walked past Dean into the cabin, followed by Déardaoin. "Also, when did you get a cat? I thought you were allergic?"

"I rescued him from a hawk. He seems to think that means I'm keeping him." Dean crossed his arms and stared down at the cat who let out a quiet meow in response.

"Well, maybe the hawk is what I'm looking for. I'm not entirely sure, and I kinda need your tracking skills. These are your woods, after all." Sam sat on the stool at Dean's workbench.

Dean sat on his bed and faced his brother. "I don't own these woods. I inhabit them. Now tell me, what's going on."

"So get this, Ellen and Bobby caught wind of a clan of familiars that went missing."

"A whole clan?" Dean crossed his arms.

"Yeah. From what Bobby found, the clan was either forced into bonding with members of Abaddon's coven or... worse." Sam shuddered while Dean shot a quick glance at Déardaoin.

"Okay, so they're not all accounted for?"

Sam shook his head. "Missing four to be exact. Ellen and Missouri tracked them here. Probably ‘cause you keep these woods safe."

"I mean, Ellen is the best divining witch I've ever met." Dean shrugged. "I can track, and I can heal. I'll help. But I have a feeling that there's someone else who can help us more."

"Who? Bobby's on his way back, and we want to get these four safe before they're found."

Dean looked down at Déardaoin. "Is that where you went last night? To check on your friends?"

"Meow."

"Dean, that's a cat." Sam shot his brother a bitchface.

"Mrow."

"Stop sassing, Déardaoin, let's go." Dean pointed at the door.

Sam opened the door and let Déardaoin out. He looked at Dean before following. "Are you sure he's one of them?"

"I was like fifty percent sure that he was a familiar last night. Now I'm like ninety percent after hearing about this situation with an attacked clan."

The two brothers stepped outside to see the cat waiting patiently at the bottom of the steps for them. Sam looked at Dean, surprise barely contained while Dean shrugged and gestured to follow. The group trudged through the forest, heading towards an abandoned thicket that Dean was familiar with.

"This would be a perfect place to hide. It used to be a deer grove before they moved on."

"Mrow," Déardaoin called before stopping, causing the two brothers to stay in place. The cat moved forward a couple of steps, a blue light enveloping him before a familiar-to-Dean man, wearing black slacks with a white shirt and black waistcoat, stood in his place.

Dean's jaw dropped. "You?"

"Hello, Dean." Déardaoin turned to Sam, "And a pleasure to meet you, Sam."

"You two know each other?" Sam looked back and forth between the two men.

"I did overhear Dean tell you that he rescued me from a hawk." Déardaoin smiled. "However, this is the first time that Dean has seen this form in person."

Sam tilted his head and looked at his brother, who threw his hands up in defense. "Dude, we're witches. Weird is what we do."

Déardaoin laughed softly in response. "I must say, I appreciate the mirth you've brought me the past couple of days. It's been unpleasant for myself and my surviving clan members. We're all but drained, and we need safety and rest."

He turned back to the thicket. "I'm going to go get them. They may be a bit wary, but please don't hold it against them." Déardaoin disappeared into the stand of trees.

"I don't even know how you do it, Dean." Sam ran his hand through his hair while shaking his head. "You had no clue of the situation going on, and you still managed to get wrapped up in it."

"Pretty sure Mom wanted my middle name to be Trouble, not Michael."

Sam snorted, as Déardaoin came back out, a fox and a corgi walking by his feet and a ferret in his hands. "The rest of the Clan Angelus, at your service."

The fox cautiously sniffed the air and walked up to Sam while the corgi came bounding through, running around in circles around the two brothers. The ferret scampered up Déardaoin's arm and sat on his shoulder. "I'll complete the introductions when we're back in the safety of your home, it's not safe to say our names in the open air."

Dean nodded and lead the way back to his cabin, careful to not trip over the hyperactive corgi.

Once back at the cabin, Sam headed towards his car and started pulling out some of the extra rations he had brought for the trip. Ellen had warned him that he would be searching for the familiars and that Dean would probably cooking for them. So she sent him with enough food for a small army.

Dean chose to set up and cook outside, with so many bodies and not that much room inside the cabin. It was awesome for him, and great for a plus one, but it was iffy at three and not meant for more than that. As prepped and cooked the food for the group, his eyes kept traveling back to the familiars. They had been through so much, but they looked at peace.

It brought a spark of joy to his heart that he could help them heal, but it reminded him of what he believed he could never have. And watching Sam with the fox of the group stung him even more. Dean started to lose himself to his moping when the startled squeal of a ferret on the back of corgi and the laughter of the two men brought him back to reality.

Déardaoin cleared his throat. "Alright, as promised, especially since you three appear to be settling in." He pointed at his clan members. "I said there would be introductions." He started by picking up the ferret and setting it on the table. "This little trouble maker is Charlie. She's feisty, and always getting into trouble."

The ferret squeaked, apparently in defiance, then scampered her way over to Dean.

"He can't understand you, Charlie.”

Dean put his hand down and let her scamper up and sit on his shoulder. "I think a shoulder ferret is cooler than a parrot. Does that earn me points?"

"With Charlie? Yes." The familiar in human form smiled. "The fox, who is currently resting her head on your lap, Sam, is Amy."

"Hello, Amy." Sam gently scratched behind her ear. "I can't wait until your strength is back so we can talk."

Dean smiled at his brother and could have sworn that he heard the ferret on his shoulder sigh contently.

"The assbutt Corgi that is running around is my older brother, Gabriel. He came under the bribe of sweets, and that we would help him find his witch, Kali. He's cut off from restoring his power until he's with her again."

Gabriel barked and chased his tail.

"No, Gabe, you're not going to stay a dog permanently. You'll get enough power to change back to your human form if you rest for two seconds."

Gabriel sat down for precisely two seconds before running around again.

Finally, Déardaoin looked at Dean and gave him his full attention. "As for me, I am Castiel. Youngest son of the Angelus Clan."

"Castiel." Dean tested the name out on his tongue. "It suits you."

"You're the first person to say that. Even Gabriel makes fun of it." Castiel smiled. "I apologize for intruding on you like I have. You've been so kind."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "Dude, I fed you canned tuna, I'm sorry."

"You had no idea that I was a familiar. Even then, it was like ambrosia to me. I hadn't eaten in at least a day. My magic was so weak, I'm surprised I had anything left. I had been using my powers to keep us hidden." Castiel shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Then why did you come to me?"

Castiel blushed and looked down. When he didn't answer, Dean felt a little nudge against his cheek from the ferret on his shoulder.

"Hey, Castiel. What did you mean when you spoke to me in my dream? That I was more than dreaming?"

"What all do you know about Familiars?"

Sam looked up at Castiel's question. "We don't know much. We've never resonated."

Castiel turned and smiled at Sam. "You will soon, Sam." He turned and looked back at Dean. "And you started last night."

Dean's heart skipped a beat. "You, in my dream?"

"You knew me, but you didn't know my human form." Castiel moved closer to Dean. "You recognized something, though."

"Your eyes." Dean closed his own eyes remember the not-a-dream from the night before. "I would know those eyes anywhere." Dean felt the ferret sigh on his shoulder again. "What is she? A hopeless romantic?"

Castiel chuckled. "Charlie very much believes in true love, soulmates, familiar bonds." He held his hand out to Dean's shoulder. "Come on, Charlie." When she refused to move, he leaned in and stage whispered, "I can't kiss him if you're on his shoulders."

The ferret scrambled across Castiel's arm and ran down on to the table, turning around and watching them expectantly.

"Sorry Kiddo, you're not going to see that. I need to finish cooking dinner. You guys need to get your strength back." Dean patted Charlie's head before walking back to his makeshift kitchen.

The ferret exploded into angry chirps and squeaks, disappointed at being duped.

Dean finished cooking and plating up the food, and more than happily helped feed Charlie while Sam fed Amy and Castiel fed Gabriel. Sam joked about having the weirdest family dinner ever.

After dinner, Charlie ran off to play with Gabriel again, and Amy came over to finally meet Dean. Sam took that opportunity to call Ellen and give her an update on what was happening. Castiel, being in human form, was able to speak somewhat on Amy's behalf, like he had for Charlie and Gabriel, and confirmed that Amy was resonating with Sam.

"The reason Sam hasn't felt it yet is that, like I was, Amy is still weak and needs to regain her strength. Once she has a little extra magic to spare, the bond will form naturally." Castiel paused and thought on his next words. "I will say being in your wards is rejuvenating. I felt guilty leaving them alone as long as I did, but between getting injured, you healing me, and then, well..." Castiel blushed.

"Perhaps another night here for all of you will do you good?" Dean blurted out.

Cas raised his eyebrow. "All of us?"

"I feel the pull now, and of course I want you to stay. But I know that you won't be ok unless they're ok. And I want them to be ok also." Dean shook his head and shrugged. "I have a loft that Sam sleeps in when he stays. I'm sure he can get up there ok, and I don't think you're going to pull this beautiful girl away from him." Dean scratched Amy behind her ears.

"And Charlie and Gabe?"

"You've been in there. I have tons of baskets for storage. We can give one to Charlie to nest in for the night. Gabe, I mean, I know it's not pleasant, but I have spare blankets and pillows, I can set him up with a bed on the floor out of the way so no one trips." Dean looked at Castiel. "I can make everyone fit."

"You mentioned everyone but me." Castiel tilted his head.

"Oh. Uh. I assumed." Dean turned bright red. "I'm sorry, Cas."

"What did you assume?" The corner of Cas' mouth quirked up into a sly smile.

Dean shook his head. "The familiar bond thing, and you know." He stumbled over his words. "You can have the bed. I can steal a pillow and sleep on the floor."

"No." Cas shook his head. "Absolutely not."

"Well, you're not..."

"No, I'm not," Cas interrupted.

"You were just messing with me, weren't you?" Dean asked, his face twisting into a fake pout.

"I was." Cas leaned across the table and kissed Dean softly on the cheek. "How did I get so lucky that I have a witch who is all about family, and willing to take in what's left of me and mine when I need it the most?"

Dean blushed. "How did I get so lucky that my familiar was able to charm me as a cat? And put up with the fact that I have an allergy to cats?"

"You did not just ruin my attempt to be ruin romantic, with reminding me of the fact that you were barely able to breathe through your nose."

"I think that's actually quite romantic." Dean smiled, biting his bottom lip to keep from laughing. "It means that I'm willing to show my gross side for you."

"Well, luckily, that shouldn't be an issue once we're fully bonded." Cas reached his hand across the table, offering it to Dean.

Sam returned, and Amy bounded back over to him, walking back with him. "Who's fully bonded now?"

"No one yet, Sammy. Go set up the loft. You and Amy can crash up there." Dean took Cas' hand and stood up, pulling Cas to his feet. "Let's go get the rest of the family settled in for the night. We have forever to figure out you and me, Cas."

Dean pulled Cas into a warm embrace, starting the steps to completing their bond with a real, waking-world, first kiss.

#profoundnet #spncreatorsdaily #destiel #deancas #au - modern with magic #witch!dean #familiar!cas #witch!sam #other characters as familiars #rating: t #sfw #tw: animals fighting #nickel writes

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stormhawksplanb · 4 years

Text

Storm Hawks Fanfic: Plan “B”

Chapter 4

I was so focused on Gyro. I was so worried about gear and whether or not she'd find help that I didn't even hear, and just barely felt, the effects of a sleep crystal arrow digging its way into my back. The explosive impact sent me forward as I saw more and more of the back of my eyelids. I was knocked out cold. I didn't even get to say goodbye. I didn't get the chance to save my Terra.

-Out of Nova's POV-

The sun had started to set by the time the storm hawk's had gathered back up at the condor. Stork had been the one to call the search off, and told everyone there was an emergency meeting in the lower docks. Aerrow with, Radarr on his shoulder, had walked aboard the ship followed by Piper, Finn, Junko, and a white fuzzy stowaway that no one seemed to notice even sneak onto the ship.

"Alright Stork. What's the big emergency? You sounded pretty stressed out over it." Aerrow had his arms crossed his chest. Aerrow himself was concerned about stork, and was hoping nothing happened to Nova on their search. His intentions of pairing them up together was so Nova could track down her friend quicker without the distractions of others. And the fact it would give stork a chance to get off the Condor.

"I sounded distraught because I AM!"

Everyone in the room jumped at the raise in his voice, not fully expecting it.

"Nova and I found her friend, which was a ferret by the way, not even an actual person, and you want to know who~ else~ we found?"

Finn took this opportunity to take a crack at making a joke.

"Let me guess, a Cyclonian?"

The others chuckled at him. But they soon stopped when they realized the serious nature of storks lack of amusement. Or his lack of any response.

"Wait- seriously?"

Piper pushed herself front and center of the group.

"Are you sure Stork? Did you hit-"

"I DIDN'T HIT MY HEAD! It was Ravess, she was working with Gyro, and they had a load of illegally captured animals. All rare breeds, and bog howlers. Something is wrong, very wrong..."

A crash was heard coming from inside another part of the ship. Everyone, already a bit shaken up due to storks outburst, was already on guard and a weary quiet fell over them as they followed the noises. The closer they got the more it sounded like rattling pots, and a few broken plates. Whatever was on the ship sounded quick.

Aerrow had peeked his head around the corner first and then gave the signal for everyone to jump out into the kitchen.

"Whoever you are, come out where we can see you!"

A small moment passed of more silence before a tiny, albino ferret head popped out of a bowl of fruit, sitting on the island counter. A small chirp of urgency followed.

"Isn't that the ferret you told us about?"

Aerrow looked at stork, watching as Stork's eyes widened at the little furry 'rodent' from earlier.

"I-it is. That's gear..."

And on cue it clicked to everyone what was happening, and Junko was the one to outwardly acknowledge everyone's thought.

"But where's Nova?"

-Back to Nova's POV-

This is the most deviating I've ever felt. I was captured after being knocked out. I was stuck in a cage with the other creatures and they all cried out for the desire of freedom. To roam on their home terras. There were all sorts of Species. Bog Howlers, Four toed spotted Bats, Vapor Iguanas, they even had rare species like the illusive Spear Headed Gator. It was highly illegal to hunt and capture these animals due to their toxic, or chaotic attributes. If you wanted to hunt one down there was a grueling wait period and paperwork you needed to fill out. But something tells me there was no process involved.

Time ticked by as I realized we were taking off, and flying away from the Terra. My heart sank as no one came for me. I'm glad Gear got out and escaped, but now I'm a prisoner. And there's no telling what Gyro was going to do to me. I just hoped it was mostly painless. I felt the tears boil up and fall. My positive nature was completely swept away by despair.

I must have passed out again after crying because I woke up to the sound of something in the vents above the supply room I was kept in. The next thing I knew Aerrow had dropped down.

"Hey there Nova. A little Birdy told us that you needed a hand with your mission."

He winked at me and cut open the bars with his crystal powered dual swords. The bars fell away and I quickly stepped out, making sure to wipe my eyes, and I felt a gazillion times better.

"She found you! Oh thank Atmosia, I was about to really lose it for a second!"

He nods at me, and hushes me.

"Come on, we need to get you out of here."

"But what about all these creatures?"

"Oh I wouldn't worry about that. We pulled some strings and when Ravess lands, she's gonna have a little welcoming party waiting for her."

He smiled at me from behind, and I smiled back. Making our way to one of the emergency exit doors that lead off the ship.

"So, skyknight, what's the next move?"

He opens the door and steps back, ushering me to... Jump!?

"What!? No way! I know you lot are crazy, but not insane-"

Then I heard the familiar sound of a skimmer floating near the door. Looking back and it was Junko, giving me a goofy grin.

"Where to miss?"

I chuckled at him, and jumped aboard. Aerrow grabbing our attention.

"I have a few things I have to check out. Junko is going to drop you off on the condor with stork and gear. Junko I need to meet me at rendezvous mock B."

And as soon as Junko nodded we flew off under the clouds below where the condor was hanging from some spiked ledges from a rocky mountain. We hand a bit of a bumpy landing, and a slide into the Hanger Bay, before he let me off, waved, and flew away. It didn't take long before the doors behind me opened and I saw stork and gear appear behind it.

"GEAR!"

I shouted and knelt down on one knee for her to climb into my soft embrace. Letting her, once again, claim the space on my shoulder after a few victory laps around my hopped arms.

"Oh isn't that just nice."

The poisoning tone stork used put me back into that negative mood from earlier. He was staring me down and shook his head at me. Part of me wishes I fought to stay with Aerrow on the other half of their mission.

I followed Stork further onto the condor, all the way admiring the vintage carrier ship. It was nice. Everything looked almost new. The Raptor Scientist or Terra Bogaton really did recreate the Condor. I thought the rumors of the condor being blown up were false.

Even though I know what the ship looked like from beforehand, I never got to look at it, and actually appreciate the workmanship. The pipes were all aligned with as few dents as possible. The muted red and metallic patterns on the door were old fashioned, but not out of style for a carrier ship. Everything was beautiful.

"This is a nice ship. I never noticed how much care went into until now..."

I got almost no response. Not until we hit the Cockpit section of the ship.

"Well I was the one who oversaw all the details, and blueprints. Not that you'd understand that."

I bit my tongue hoping this whole 'Ravess is back and causing trouble for everyone' thing was the only reason why he was so grouchy. Especially towards me. I mean, it's not like I'm a fan of the storm hawks or anything. Ok, yeah no. This sucked.

Thankfully it took Aerrow and the others almost no time to get back, and we headed back to Terra Atmosia, the Terra I wanted to be at anyway. I was a contestant on an art show. The others were relatively excited when I told them what I do for a living.

"Wow- you're really talented!" Piper said, which made me blush at the compliment

"you should draw the Finnster- I bet I'd make the most profitable painting." Cue finger guns, and me having to explain that I go by Commissions, and not prints.

"That's fine, that's cool."

As we landed Piper had pulled me aside, out in the hallway.

"So while the boys were messing around with Ravess and Gyro, I happened to come across something more worthwhile."

She pulled out of her satchel a colorful crystal.

"MY NOVA CRYSTAL!"

I went to snatch it from her, and immediately put it back into it's metal box. I had already explained to Piper what would happen if someone activated my crystal without taking the proper precautions. One of those dangers being you'd probably melt the skin of your hand off.

"Oh thank Atmos! I owe you one Piper!"

She chuckled at me and we went off for me to sign into the contest.

Walking up to the sign up stand, I looked around to all the other artists and smiled widely. They have no idea what they're all in for. But just before I could write my name on the board, an elderly gentleman snatched the pencil.

"Sorry miss, but you missed the deadline by 20 minutes. Try again next year..."

He turned away, and it only then dawned on me that the whole stand was pretty much packed up.

"Oh... Right..." Taking a deep sigh I turned around, facing the storm hawks.

Aerrow walked up to me, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry that happened to you. But like he said, maybe next year."

"But the headmaster of the COGA won't be judging. That was my only chance to make an impression.

"Coga?" Finn pressed his eyebrows together in curiosity.

"What's a Coga?"

(A/N: For those on mobile, if you haven’t read the first handfull of chapters you’re missing out! Here’s a link to the masterlist!)

https://myhushhushdarling.tumblr.com/PlanB

#storm hawks #stormhawks #nova #planb

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faunusden · 5 years

Text

Murder-Bird and Other Such Pet Names

"Mmf..." The early morning sun glared through the window, illuminating the bed with a pale beam of warm light against the cold air permeating the room. Yang Xiao Long awoke slowly, blinking sleep from her lilac eyes as she surveyed the still dark bedroom, save for that crack of sunlight seeping in. Her alarm listed the time as 6:00, that was way too early, nobody should be awake before noon. The blond haired girl tried to rise from the bed, but felt something tugging her back, something that did not want her to leave the warmth of the covers. Looking down at her side, she remembered the cause. Neo Politan. "Neo...I have to get up." Yang whined, gently trying to dislodge the clingy girl's vice like grip on her arm. Her flesh and blood arm that is, Yang's prosthetic, yellow and black arm was untouched. "Please?" the tiny girl signed. Neo was mute from birth, using Vale Standard Sign Language to communicate. "Its so cold, you really have to go?" "Neo, if I don't go now, Blake and Ruby are gonna kill me, ya know? We had a whole day planned to go out and do stuff!" Neo pouted silently, her face scrunching up cutely. Yang couldn't help but chuckle at her girlfriend's grumpiness. She gently pulled her closer, lowering back into the bed and allowing Neo to shift position. Her tail feathers flicked out as the covers around her rear were moved away during the snuggle. The taller blond's organic arm traced its way down Neo's supple back and the fingers found themselves entwining into the brown and pink feathers above the smaller girl's butt, Neo let out a very rare, audible gasp. "You know, before I met you, Neo, I'd never seen a bird faunus before." Yang mused, continuing to gently play with Neo's tail feathers. "What kind of bird are you again? Some kinda raptor?" Neo sat up in the bed, the oversized t-shirt she was wearing for decency, so large on her frame that it covered down to her thigh. Her pink and brown hair was loose and bedraggled, a night of...activity, fun as it was, did murderous things to the faunus girl's well kept locks. Her mismatched, pink and brown eyes narrowed in what Yang assumed was irritation at her not knowing. "Shrike. I'm a shrike, Yang." she signed, in the same "tone" as someone drawing out a sentence for emphasis. "You can remember that..." she fumbled over the signs needed, "Blake, is a panther faunus, but can't remember me telling you five times this week?" Yang felt slightly hurt. "Hey like I said, never met a bird faunus before, let alone a murder-bird one!" "Murder-bird?" Yang grinned, a sight that always made the smaller of the two flush red, such a lovely grin. "Yeah, 'cause shrikes are also called butcher birds aren't they? They skewer their prey like Mistrali kebabs! And well, you do like to stab things..." Now Neo grinned. "Murder-Bird...I like it." came the signed response. "Any other nicknames?" "Hmmm...well, there's always Bird-butt." Yang giggled, kissing the small faunus on the lips before standing up from the bed at last, towering over her tiny girlfriend and clad tin little more than a tank top and panties, making her way to the atrocious pile that she kept her clothing in. She didn't turn around again to see any signed reaction to that teasing pet name, but she didn't have to: Neo was already reaching for the pillow and aiming it at the back of Yang's head, eyes alight with mock anger and mischief. What was one thrown pillow before Yang left her alone?

#rwby #yang xiao long #neopolitan #baked alaska #cute #fluff #shrike!neo #faunus!neo #au #because tiny murder wife and tall beef wife make an adorable ship if i do say so myself #first story i've written in months now whew lad

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marmolady · 5 years

Text

Broken Chains: Revival

Book/Series: Endless Summer

Main Pairings: Estela x MC/Taylor (f), Quinn x Michelle

Summary: Part 3: Post-ending (Endless ending). With Estela by her side, Taylor must face her destiny and set Vaanu free. But at what cost?

Word Count: 7033

Warnings: Probably rated M to be safe, for language.

Previous chapter/Next chapter

AO3

Estela descended from the elevator first, her every sense alert, and spear at the ready. Somewhere within the glowing red caverns lurked the oryctoraptor, and there was little doubt that it would respond strongly to a rare intrusion into its domain.

Following a few steps behind, Taylor was quietly grateful for Estela’s courageous and capable presence by her side. It was now down to the wire, and there was no room for emotion to dull their response to the danger they faced. She moved carefully, aware of every foot placement, knowing that a clatter of rocks could be enough to get them in hot water, fast.

Letting out a breath that she’d been holding subconsciously, Estela put a hand on Taylor’s arm. “The crystal was down that way, right?” she whispered. “It looks like we’re clear for now.”

The passageway that had been opened up by the placement of the clawprint orb remained. As she passed through, at Estela’s heels, Taylor found herself overwhelmed by the drumming of her own heart. There could be no more denial, no more delaying. She focused her mind, reaching across the island.

Varyyn.

The sleeping elyyshar’s mind connected with her own, and Taylor spoke to him.

I am returning my essence to Vaanu. Bring help to the caverns beneath Atropo; we might need it. She shared with him a vision of their surroundings, calling him. I might not be human enough to go on living. This could be the last thing I ask of anyone; get Estela home safe. Please, keep her safe.

Closing her mind to any response, Taylor trained her senses back to her surroundings, listening for the slightest hint of movement in the caves. From behind came a faint sound of disturbed rocks, and she froze, feeling Estela become still beside her, coiled up to strike.

Estela smoothly slipped behind Taylor, facing back in the direction from which they’d come. She raised her spear. With a glance, she encouraged her companion to keep moving forward. If the demon reptile wanted to harm Taylor, it would have to go through her first.

Taylor crept onwards on light feet, choosing a path that took her close to geysers in which they might hide themselves should the raptor emerge. Suddenly, she felt herself nudged towards one. Taking the hint, she shrouded herself in the spray, with Estela pressed up against her, hiding. She felt a shift behind her as Estela pulled an arm back, ready to take out the threat.

The oryctoraptor stalked into view, its head cocked, listening for the source of the movement that had drawn it in.

Taylor held her breath.

Long toe claws clicking against the hard earth with each step, the raptor came closer, slowly passing their hiding place. Then, its rump now facing them, its keen eyes trained on the movements of a small lizard on the other side of the cave, and Estela struck. The raptor shrieked as the spear connected with its thigh, driven deep into the flesh by the force of the throw. It whirled around, squalling, its bright eyes flashing with rage. With its attackers still out of view and utterly silent, it turned and fled, the spear still buried in its leg.

With a gasp, Taylor stepped out of the flume. She could only hope that the injury would be enough to keep the raptor at bay- especially as they’d now lost their most effective weapon. Joining her, Estela took out her obsidian dagger.

“If it comes back, I’ll be ready.”

Taylor nodded shakily. Focused as she was on the sacrifice she was about to make, she’d not quite been prepared for the threat that stood between her and the crystal pillar. The path forward was now clear, but it was obvious that they couldn’t linger. Her time was up.

_____________________________

In Elyys’tel, a sleeping Diego was disturbed by Varyyn stirring around him. He blearily opened his eyes to see his husband hastily gathering supplies and squirrelling them into a satchel.

“What… what’s going on? Are you all right?”

Varyyn turned, and the fearful look in his eye unsettled Diego. “I’m sorry, Diego. There may be trouble. I didn’t wish to wake you; you’ve had so little sleep.”

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

“I think Taylor seeks to reunite her spirit --her being-- with Vaanu. To restore the earth and all those lost in the fires beyond La Huerta.”

Diego gave a shuddered gasp, suddenly wide awake as though someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over him. His Taylor, his best friend… she was sacrificing herself. “No! Varyyn, you have to stop her! She’ll be gone.… W-where’s Estela? She wouldn’t let Taylor do this-”

“They’re together. Diego, you must trust me.” Varyyn strode across the room in a smooth stride, his eyes filled with concern.

“Of course, I…” Diego’s voice shook. He should have known. He could tell that something was going on beneath the surface with Taylor. Why didn’t he realise? “I… I trust you.”

“I will take several scouts to the chasm. We must be prepared… the Deep Guardian will not welcome intrusion. And you… must stay here, my love.”

“Stay? No! Varyyn, I can’t!”

“Diego…” Varyyn put his hand on his love’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I trust you, but…”

“We will need to move swiftly. Taylor is fearing for her life; I may need to carry her to safety. My love, you could not be expected to keep the pace.”

Of course, he was right, but it hurt Diego’s heart to accept it. There was no doubt in his mind that Taylor run to his side if ever he were in danger. He put his arms around Varyyn. “What can I do?”

Varyyn looked down into Diego’s pleading eyes, his expression one of determination. “I will seek the mind of our chief healer if we need it, but I want you to prepare Michelle. If they’re hurt, she’ll be of help."

“Okay… okay…” Diego’s heart was hammering. That he’d been sound asleep just moments ago seemed impossible; he’d never been more alert in his life. “I’ll… I’ll find Michelle.” He staggered toward the arched door of their sleeping quarters. “Varyyn…”

“Diego, I will care for her life as if it were yours. I will care for both of them.”

A lump in his throat, Diego nodded. Deep fear settled in his belly. If Taylor was giving herself back to Vaanu, there could be nothing left of her to save.

_________________________

The glowing crystal called to Taylor, drawing her in. The cavern seemed to ring with silence, even as she kept putting one foot in front of the other. All she could hear was the thundering of her own heart. She walked close to Estela, so that their thighs brushed with each opposing stride; a small comfort to carry her those last agonising steps.

“Taylor,” Estela breathed, barely audible. “I love you. I… I’ll stay with you, ‘til the end.”

“I love you too. I love you… I love you…” Taylor spoke in whisper, her face fast becoming wet with tears against her wife’s neck.

Estela held her tight, easing her towards the crystal pillar and crouching down in the ethereal light that radiated from it. How could something so beautiful cause so much pain? Even as she felt fury bubble up within her, she forced it down. It was unfair… horrifically so, but anger wouldn’t give Taylor what she needed.

Tears streaming down her face, Taylor crouched before the pillar, feeling an overwhelming pull towards it. She gave a little sob. Vaanu. I’m giving you what’s yours. Let me go. Let me go. Please.

“No more crying now…” Estela roughly brushed aside her own tears and tenderly lifted Taylor’s face towards her own. “There’s all the time to be sad. But right now, you have me, and I have you. And you’re about to save everyone.”

Except for us, Taylor thought. Except for you. Under the sweet caress of her love’s fingers, she became calm.

“Estela, I’m so-“ she croaked, only to be cut off.

“No. Don’t do that.” Estela’s voice was firm, but unmistakeably loving. She ran her thumb across Taylor’s cheek, reassuring her that there was nothing to apologise for, that there was no need for regret in these last moments.

Taylor gazed into her eyes, just inches from her face, and felt them staring into her soul, burning with affection. She let the feeling, of total, blissful connection, fill her up, giving her all the courage she’d ever need. If she had to go, this was how it had to be. “I’m gonna touch it now…” Her voice came out far steadier than she’d expected. “Will you hold me… kiss me?” Kiss me goodbye…

Estela took Taylor’s face in her hands and drew it to her lips, kissing her slow and lingering, pouring the love that was breaking her heart into that last goodbye. An arm around her torso pulled her closer, while Taylor’s other hand reached out, offering herself. Finally, she could no longer hold back the tears, and she let them fall.

Even while her heart soared as she responded fervently, desperately, to the most breathtaking of kisses, Taylor kept reaching. Vaanu. Please, don’t take me away. She laid her hand upon the brilliant crystal pillar, and a familiar glow began to overwhelm her. Let me stay with her.

The light was blinding, and in its wake came pain, burning through every inch of Taylor’s body, a pain unlike anything she’d felt before. She doubled over and tried to scream, but no sound came out. Even though she knew Estela was there, she couldn’t see nor even feel her. She tried to reach out, to call for her, but she was totally lost. She felt herself slipping away, the light giving way to darkness as her body writhed in agony. Her every cell screaming, it became all too much. Taylor slumped forward and became still, falling into nothingness.

__________________________

The night-- or rather, the early morning, had become still, blaring music, shouts and laughter having finally ceased. The revellers-- in various states of intoxication-- had returned to their homes, save for a few who’d simply crashed on the beach.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzztttt!

A phone vibrated noisily beside Craig and Zahra’s bed. Ignoring the groaning beside him, Craig reached out and tried to make sense of the writing on the screen. Easier said than done for someone who that night had come close to replacing every drop of water in his body with alcohol.

“Yo, Z--“

“Volume. Down. Or I will stab you,” came a muffled voice from beneath the covers.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzztttt!

“I think I’ve got missed calls…”

“From where? The afterlife?”

Craig’s eyes grew wide. “D’you really think…?”

“No, asshat! Just shut it off and let me sleep.’

Bzzzzzzzzzzzztttt!

“That actually sounds like a really good idea…” Craig’s words were slurred. “I feel like this buzzing is gonna make my brain explode. You’re so smart.” Clumsily mashing the buttons, he managed to turn off the offending phone before slumping over the bedside table. “Ugh… night, Player One…”

Zahra responded with just a little grunt but edged into his side of the bed so that her back was against his side and her head resting on his outstretched arm. Within seconds, she’d succumbed to a deep slumber, thinking nothing of the phone going off for no reason at all. At the very edge of humanity’s survival, a malfunctioning mobile had little meaning.

A lone figure amid the now-deserted party decorations and discarded bottles that were strewn far and wide between Elyys’tel and the village, Diego was growing increasingly frantic. For a good half hour he’d been hammering on Michelle’s door to no response. Knowing how much everyone had been drinking, it would have been reasonable to assume that she was home but pretty much dead to the world. Doubting himself, Diego had wandered by Quinn’s place and knocked on the door there too, having seen the two of them side by side for most of the night, but still, nothing.

Running his hands through his hair, he tried to calm himself. Michelle was somewhere in the village; he’d just have to try every hut. Jeez, Taylor-- of all the nights to do this, it had to be the one where everyone was off their face drunk. He turned to head up the hill, to start searching his friends’ places one by one --surely someone would know where to find Michelle-- and was stopped in his tracks as his eye fell upon the expanse of sea before him. The orange glow on the horizon, the endlessly burning fires… it had all gone out. Taylor had done it. And he’d lost her.

___________________________

The crystal pillar was gone, and Taylor lay crumpled on the rocky ground. Her heart pounding in her ears, Estela searched desperately for a pulse, but found nothing. Through her tears, she began chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth. God, Taylor, why did you have to do this?

“Come on, come on… don’t you dare leave me…”

She had no idea how long it was --it felt like an eternity-- but finally she caught a faint pulse. Trembling, Estela leant over her wife’s chest. Taylor was breathing… just. She gave her a little shake, but the body in her arms was limp and totally unresponsive.

“Taylor? Taylor! Can you hear me? Taylor!” It was like talking to a brick wall; cold and silent, and empty. “I’m gonna get you outta here… I’m gonna get you home. Just stay with me, okay? I can’t lose you… I can’t…”

Estela hauled Taylor over her shoulders, holding onto her with one hand, while the other gripped the dagger. The oryctoraptor was somewhere in the caverns, and no doubt in a foul mood after being injured. With such a dangerous threat present on Estela’s mind, placed each step with care, creeping forward in the direction that she knew would lead out towards Elyys’tel, but moving quietly was near impossible while carrying such a heavy dead weight.

After a little way, she stopped to check on Taylor. She could feel her breathing, shallow, laboured, but was nothing else… not a twitch or a flicker of the eyelids to suggest that she was still there. That face had been so full of life, but now… nothing. Panic began to grip at Estela’s core, the relief of having revived Taylor dwindling away rapidly. By all technicalities, Taylor was still clinging to life, but was there even any of her left in that hollow shell? There was no Taylor here, not the effervescent, courageous spirit who brimmed with life and love. Estela tried desperately to wake her; pouring water over her face, shaking her, slapping her, crying out for her, losing all concern about keeping quiet as a frantic need to get some kind of response --anything-- consumed her. The devastating reality hit her like a train, and she fell sobbing against Taylor’s chest.

The strangled cry of an animal in pain startled Estela to her senses. Her blood ran cold. Emotion had made a reckless fool out of her. There was no space here to feel; however strong the pull to dissolve into anguish, she had to stay sharp. She simply could not face down the beast with a limp body in her arms; the raptor had to be dealt with. Keeping one eye on the dark corners of the cavern, she hauled Taylor up onto a ledge, just above head height. There was no doubt that the raptor could scale the rockface with ease, but she could only hope that it would keep Taylor out of its line of sight.

“Hang on for me, please, just… I’ll be back… I promise I’m not leaving you…” Estela’s voice was hushed as she nuzzled close to Taylor’s face. Her protective instinct flared up, the only thing powerful enough to drag her from her love’s side. “Hold on… hold on…”

She stalked further along the ledge, back in the direction they’d come from, her dagger tight in her grip. Hissing with rage, the raptor rounded the corner. Even with a noticeable limp and a spear hanging from its thigh, it was swift and agile. Once again, Estela held her breath. From her vantage point above the reptile’s head, there was a chance she could maintain the element of surprise. In obvious pain, the raptor walked with its head down, oblivious to the whereabouts of its attacker. Finally, it moved beneath the ledge, and Estela vaulted down to its side, yanking the spear from its hide before it knew what hit it. Blood gushed and the raptor screeched. It spun on its haunches, jaws snapping. Estela masterfully leapt out of the way, but the spear was knocked down into a deep crevice by the beast’s tail as it swung through the air. It was a blow, but she still had her dagger on hand. She danced around the raptor; even with it grievously injured, she could only just stay ahead of its jaws and talons as she searched for an opening. If she could just keep it up for long enough, the raptor would surely succumb to the gaping wound that continued to pour blood from its side. The only trouble was, it wasn’t the only one that was exhausted. Even as the raptor slowed, Estela did too, and her focus waned as unbidden thoughts of Taylor slipping away, alone and abandoned, crept into her mind. She’d been away too long-- she had to finish this, and fast.

Taking a chance, she threw herself back up onto the ledge, scrambling to get a foothold while swinging at the raptor. Her aim was true, and her blade sliced open the beast’s shoulder from above, narrowly missing swiping talons that reached out, clawing the air. Enraged, the raptor jumped, catching Estela’s leg in its maw and sinking razor sharp teeth down into her flesh, ripping, tearing. She gave a single yell of shock and pain, and held onto the jagged rock for dear life as the raptor tried to drag her down. Estela could feel a wet warmth spreading down to her foot but didn’t let it distract her-- she had to keep fighting until the monster could cause Taylor no harm. The cavern appeared to swim around her, colours blurring together. No. You won’t fucking hurt her. With a guttural shout and every ounce of strength she had, Estela plunged her free hand down, driving her dagger deep into the raptor’s skull. It gave an ear shattering shriek, releasing the searing pressure on her calf, and fell away. Estela panted heavily as she struggled to crawl forward on bloodied and grazed hands, but she managed to drag herself back to Taylor, leaving a trail of blood dark against the earth. Blood loss and fatigue left her mind sluggish; she couldn’t get a sense of who or what the figures coming towards her were, whether it was the raptor returning or some new threat. Was it even real, or just her exhausted mind playing tricks on her? All she knew was to drape herself protectively over Taylor’s frail, unconscious form, shielding her with her last ebb of strength before succumbing to the darkness herself. “Tayl-…”

__________________________

Nestled in against the soft skin of Quinn’s shoulder, Michelle was sleeping soundly when a resounding bang on the door jolted her to her senses. She sat up, realising that she wasn’t home; she was at Quinn’s place. She was sure she’d heard some idiot yelling her name earlier, but being rather hammered and with a sporting a splitting post-party headache, she’d put a pillow over her head and blocked it out. Whoever it was out there was now too loud to ignore-- and she prepared herself to give them a piece of her mind. Not wanting to wake Quinn unnecessarily, she crept to the window to see who it was that was bothering them at such an ungodly hour. Probably, she imagined, one of her friends, wasted after the party. To her surprise, the figure that peered up at her was Vaanti; the head healer, Ravyya.

“Canis and I have been searching for you. I’m afraid it is urgent, Pavo. I have received word from Varyyn that friends of yours are in critical condition. You must hurry.”

The bottom seemed to fall out of Michelle’s stomach. “What? Who-- who’s hurt?”

“The Catalysts Draco and Andromeda. We must be ready to meet them as Varyyn’s scouts return from the caverns of Atropo. They can cover the distance swiftly, but time is of the essence.”

“I’ll just be a moment- thank you.”

Suddenly wide awake, and gripped by a cold fear, Michelle hurriedly gathered her clothes and dressed herself. What the hell is going on? Tentatively, she nudged Quinn’s shoulder. “Quinn… I’m sorry, you’ve got to wake up.”

“… Michelle…” Even with her eyes bleary and filled with sleep, Quinn could see that something was wrong. “Wha-- what’s happened?”

“I honestly don’t know. Taylor and Estela are hurt, or sick…. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know it’s bad. I’m going to the med centre.”

“I’m coming with you.”

They hurried out the door met, with Diego, who’d caught up with Ravyya.

“Diego! Please tell me you know what’s going on here….” Michelle felt sick. Diego looked utterly bereft, grief-stricken. Whatever this was, it was serious.

Quinn put her arms around Diego, and he cried into her shoulder. “Diego… what is it? What’s happened?”

Ravyya spoke. “See for yourself.” She pointed a long, muscular arm out towards the sea. “Earth is restored. Time has been healed by the gift of Andromeda’s essence back to the source-- Vaanu.”

Michelle looked completely bewildered, but Quinn gasped, tears raining down in an instant, knowing exactly what this meant. “Taylor… sacrificed herself?”

Diego nodded shakily. “I think she’s gone…”

“What has come to pass is not important!” said Ravyya impatiently, already beginning to stride towards Elyys’tel. “It does not matter why we have patients, only that we heal them. If you can talk and move hurriedly, you may do so, but there is no time to linger.”

They walked quickly, with all bar Ravyya trying to wrap their heads around an impossible situation. It had been mere hours since they’d seen Taylor and Estela-- laughing, dancing, just as though it had been any other of the Catalysts’ wild parties. When Michelle looked out onto the horizon, she could see for herself that the early morning sky had changed. Could it be true? Could the world be… back? And how?

“What do you mean, Taylor’s gone?” she asked, her voice quivering. “How could she return to Vaanu? She’s… she’s human now!”

“Andromeda has never truly been human,” Ravyya said. “We expected that, having given herself to Vaanu, she would disappear, leaving with the rest of the entity to the world from which they came. But her body remains.”

Diego looked up, eyebrows knitted in confusion. “Do you mean she’s… dead? That was never supposed to happen--”

“Ack! There is no ‘supposed to’. You must have learned by now that the mysteries of Vaanu, of the universe itself, can never be truly understood. We have made guesses, predictions… that is all. And no, Canis, she is not dead. Varyyn gave message of two Catalysts found. Alive, but unconscious and in grave peril. Why would I gather healers to tend to a corpse, stupid child?”

Falling quiet, Diego dared feel a glimmer of hope. Taylor was still with them.

With the arm that wasn’t around Diego’s shoulders, Quinn reached out and took Michelle’s hand. She looked positively shell-shocked. “’Chelle… whatever this is, we’ll take care of them. Miracles have worked for us before…”

Michelle sniffed and gratefully squeezed Quinn’s hand. There was no miracle-cure Heart now. All they had was themselves; an ambitious pre-med in over her head, and the Vaanti’s traditional healers. But she’d be damned if she was to give up. As she trudged purposefully onwards, she couldn’t help herself from glancing out to sea again and again. That everything had returned after all this time… it wouldn’t sink in. It couldn’t feel real next to the friends she’d fought, cried, laughed and lived with for the past year. Compared to the overwhelming need to get to Taylor and Estela, to keep them safe, the saving of the world was almost inconsequential.

After what felt like an age, they arrived at Elyys’tel’s medical centre. For the past months, the small facility had been Michelle’s baby. Her dreams for the future had been dashed, but her ambition was too much for her to be held back. She’d led a team to MASADA, sourcing medical equipment and pharmaceuticals from Rourke’s extensive laboratories. His fascination for medicine served her well, for the library also turned out to be a treasure trove. With Varyyn’s blessing, she’d started a small clinic, where she assisted the traditional Vaanti healers, all the while studying late into the night. Even so early in her education, her medical knowledge outstripped that of anyone else on La Huerta, and she’d grown in confidence treating the minor illnesses and injuries that cropped up in the small population. This, though, would be her first major challenge.

Between Michelle, Quinn and Ravyya, they brought out a pair of beds and gathered supplies. Not knowing what they’d be faced with, they prepared for the worst, and the room was soon set up with monitoring machines, ventilators and drips. Diego could only look on, at a loss as to how to help. As she finished making one of the beds, Quinn noticed him looking lost and reached out to him.

“Do you need a hug?”

“So much.” Diego let Quinn wrap her arms around him. Of course he’d needed a hug. He just wished it was coming from Taylor.

Ravyya approached them. “They are here. It is best you wait outside. We will let you know if they are ready for visitors.”

Hand in hand, Quinn and Diego walked out and faced the morning. It looked like any other day on La Huerta, but everything had changed.

Varyyn walked past them, Taylor in his arms, and Diego felt his stomach do a somersault. She looked like death itself….

Michelle was immediately at Varyyn’s side, helping him settle Taylor onto one of the beds. She began examining her and was alarmed by her pallor and feeble vitals. She hastily hooked her up to the monitors. “She was unconscious when you found her?”

“They both were. Her heart stopped on the journey; it was a fight to bring her back.”

Just then, Seraxa entered the room, her front stained with blood, and laid Estela down onto the other bed.

“Oh my god! What happened?” Michelle put her hands to her mouth as she saw the jagged tear down Estela’s calf. It was partially closed, but oozed blood.

“The Deep Guardian,” said Seraxa solemnly. “the most wily of Vaanu’s servants. She would not have welcomed their trespass. We healed as well as could be done with our leaves, but this is too deep a wound for the treatment to be effective.”

As Ravyya hooked Estela up to a drip, replenishing the fluids she’d lost, Michelle collected herself. She was way out of her depth-- she was just a pre-med-- but friends needed her to hold it together.

“This is gonna need stitches,” she said shakily. “If you hadn’t worked quickly, she would have bled out… this is… huge.” Michelle had not dealt with such an extensive wound before. She gave Estela’s fingers a little squeeze before taking her scissors and beginning to cut away the pants from the bloodied leg. “I-it’s okay…” she stammered, before taking a deep breath and collecting herself. “I’ve got you.”

____________________________

Sean strolled out his front door, blinking in the sunlight. A little hungover, he could not say he envied the headaches that some of his friends would be sporting when they woke up. Desperate for fresh air, he headed down to the beach, picking up discarded bottles and cans as he went. Just another morning after. Or at least… it seemed that way. Until he saw a small dot on the horizon. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have said it was a boat in the distance, but that simply wasn’t possible. He wandered idly, but couldn’t stop looking back to the sea, to the dot that wasn’t a boat. Humouring himself, he reached into his pocket for his phone, which for the last year had functioned only as a camera. As he glanced down at it, Sean wondered how much he had been drinking. He had reception. More than that, he had ten missed calls and three text messages… from his mother.

Tears sprang to his eyes. These must have been from when she’d been caught up in the catastrophic eruption… final goodbyes. He slumped down onto his knees in the sand and tried to find the courage to press ‘play’, to hear his mother’s final words. And then the screen lit up- an incoming call. His heart in his throat, Sean answered, and the voice that spoke to him made him break down in sobs.

“Momma?”

_________________________

Struggling to control the nervous tremor in her hands, Michelle pulled the edges of Estela’s lacerated calf together and sutured them closed. She’d had Ravyya take an x-ray-- one of the many godsend pieces of equipment that Rourke had left behind-- and had been relieved to find that no bones had been broken by the raptor’s strong jaws. The lower part of the leg had, however, been ravaged. Muscle was left torn and ragged, a tendon ruptured, and the damage trailed down the ankle. The leaves had worked to save Estela from blood loss so far, but Michelle had needed to disturb the partially healed wound in order to effectively sew it back together. The whole thing had been an absolute mess and the pressure near overwhelming.

Sensing her colleague’s insecurity, Ravyya gave Michelle an encouraging smile- a rare thing for the stern Vaanti. “She has recovered well from bleeding. It looks as though the danger has passed.”

“If this doesn’t heal properly, she could lose the leg…:

“Nonsense! What you cannot do, our herbs will. This leg will heal.”

Michelle almost allowed herself to feel heartened when a high-pitched alarm pierced the air. Taylor was arresting… again. Frantic, Michelle put her bloodied hands to Taylor’s chest and began compressions. It was everything she’d dreaded. The cycle felt endless; compressions… mouth-to-mouth…compressions, over and over again. Tiring, she let Ravyya take over. Thirty minutes… forty…

“Pavo, I think we should stop now.”

“Let me keep going.” Michelle didn’t know how she managed to get the words out. But she had to try, just a few minutes longer. Even as her whole body shook with fear, she kept fighting. “Come back to me Taylor… come on!” she growled. Light-headed, falling deeper into a terrified daze, a voice in her head told her that it was over. She knew it, but she didn’t know how she could accept it. Taylor’s life was in her hands.

“Pavo!”

Michelle ignored the admonishment and put her mouth to Taylor’s, giving rescue breaths for what she knew had to be the last time. And the monitor’s intermittent beeping resumed, reading a pulse. Feeling as though she was going to faint, she put her hands on Taylor, checking her vitals once more. “We’ve got her back.”

Ravyya gave the smallest of smiles. “It seems your judgement was correct. But you should not let ties of the heart interfere with your decisions. Come. Finish tidying this up. I will observe Andromeda myself.”

Mid-morning, and with both her patients finally stable, Michelle retreated into the waiting room, completely drained. She collapsed into a chair and buried her face in her arms. The path she’d chosen… sometime or another, she’d lose someone in her care for the first time; it was unavoidable. Emotion couldn’t get the better of her. But Taylor, Estela… they were her sisters. She’d been a second away from accepting that Taylor was gone and giving up. That kind of decision… it was too fucking much.

“Hey…” Quinn called to her gently, her voice sweet and soothing to Michelle’s ear. She knelt in front of the chair and let her friend cry into her shoulder. “You were amazing in there, Michelle.”

Michelle could only weep. “What the hell were they thinking?”

“They said… they said that Estela’s through the worst now, that she’s gonna be okay. You did that. That was so much put on your shoulders, but you did it.”

“I’m no hero, Quinn,” Michelle hiccoughed. “Fuck, I’m barely keeping it together.”

Quinn stroked Michelle’s dirty blonde hair, which was damp with sweat, and reached up to kiss her cheek. “Honey, you don’t have to. You’re allowed to be a human being.” She exhaled, her breath trembling. “You… you’ve always been a hero. To me.”

Tears came anew, and Michelle buried her face in her friend’s hair. She held Quinn tight, as if she was the only thing that could possibly keep her afloat.

Sometime later, the sobs became whimpers, which faded into shared silence.

“Is it really true? They’re saying we’ve had contact. They’re saying that… it’s like the world was never lost. That’s why Taylor did this… god, she did this for us, Quinn.”

The slight redhead nodded. “I can’t believe it. But… but it looks like… they’re all alive. Everyone we left back home. We’re even getting phone reception, internet, you name it, like there was no storm to begin with. Everyone’s been calling family. It’s real.”

“I just… it doesn’t seem possible.” Michelle was trembling. Exhausted from the fight to save the lives of two of her closest friends, the thought of something so miraculous was jarring to her. She’d grieved for so long, come to accept her new lot in life, built something on La Huerta that she could be proud of… and now once again the world turned on its head.

“I can lend you my phone? Is there someone you want to call?”

Her insides turning to ice, Michelle shook her head. The only true friends she ever had were there on the island. They still needed her. “We need to get a doctor out here, someone who can be discreet. I’ve got them this far, but I… I can’t shoulder this one alone. There’s gotta be a way to get someone to help; between us we can come up with whatever money we need.”

“Should we evacuate them out of here?”

“And take them where? Who knows what they’ll find if they get a closer look at Taylor? She’s not a normal human, if she’s human at all. She’s got no documents to say she belongs anywhere, and I don’t know how the hell we’re supposed to answer those kinds of questions. Even if there wasn’t any of that… Quinn, she’s so fragile. At least here she’s safe. If I make the wrong call and she….” Michelle’s voice broke.

“Hey,” Quinn rubbed her back. “We’ll take care of them right here. Where we can all stay close. I think… I think you’re right. I feel like we all need to be around Taylor. It’s almost like… she has a better chance if we’re all here.”

It should have sounded crazy, but nothing else made sense. Taylor’s being revolved around her friends; she would not survive if she were taken away.

“I’ll talk to Grace and Aleister. They’ll have useful contacts. Friends in high places.”

“Thanks, babe.” Michelle tentatively leaned forward to kiss Quinn’s brow. From somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered where it all left the two of them. Home was another lifetime ago almost, and in that lifetime, Michelle worked to a plan… a plan that never would have included falling in love with a woman. With the world back as it was, old insecurities swooped in. No. Don’t give in to that bullshit now. “I should get back in there, sit with them.” She took Quinn’s hand in her own. “Would you… would you come with me? I don’t think I’m strong enough to do this alone.”

So much of Quinn’s young life had been spent in hospitals. She’d made friends, kids like her with terminal illnesses. And then, almost without fail, they would be gone, leaving behind nothing but empty beds and a sobering understanding of mortality. Those days, she’d been so sure, were behind her. Quinn squeezed Michelle’s hand and looked into her eyes, willing her to feel every ounce of adoration that she felt for her. Making calls could wait. “I’ve got you, ‘Chelle.”

Quinn placed two chairs between the hospital beds. She sat down, and laced her fingers through Taylor’s, tenderly stroking with her thumb. As Michelle hesitated in the doorway, clearly affected by the trauma of the fight she’d faced when she’d last stood in that room, Quinn offered her other hand, inviting her into a secure embrace. Collecting herself, Michelle sat in the second chair, her fingers entwining with Quinn’s on one hand, while the other gently took hold of Estela’s.

“Deep breath…” Quinn whispered encouragingly.

Michelle squeezed her fingers and exhaled shakily. Deep breath…

#endless summer #choices fandom #choices stories you play #choices endless summer #choices fanfiction #estela montoya #estela x mc #mc x estela #michelle x quinn #quinn x michelle #quinn kelly #michelle nguyen #diego soto #playchoices

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septembercfawkes · 6 years

Text

The Most Important Part of Sequels and Retellings

You've probably noticed like the rest of the world that we are living in a period of entertainment where everything is or has a sequel, a reboot, a remake, an adaptation, or a familiar story source (fairy tales for example). People in the entertainment industries, especially Hollywood, have finally caught on to the idea that making an addition to an existing story or franchise is not only safer, but smarter--you are guaranteed to make money--because it already has a ready-made audience, and when marketing your material, you don't have spend money and energy educating the audience as much on what story you are selling. You make the tenth Peter Pan movie (too late, it's already in the works), and people already know what sort of plot they are getting. An added bonus (read: draw) is that it resonates with what audiences are already familiar with.

If you are like me, you are starting for the 4th year continuing to wish Hollywood would put out more original stories and more standalones, even if you love series and fairy tales and superhero movies. I mean, wouldn't it be so refreshingly great to go to an amazing movie with a brand new story you haven't heard before? And then something like the Nutcracker is announced and you repent of your complaining, because I mean, oh my gosh, did you see the trailer?

Now that Hollywood and much of the world have discovered the power and (monetary) benefits of resonating closely with previous works (whether it be another installment or retelling) and the ease of having a ready-made audience, I don't think we are going to see an end to this phase any time soon, if ever.

And while I'm tired of the market being saturated with sequels, remakes, and reboots, the truth is, I love a story that stretches over several installments, and I even love retellings of stories I'm familiar with (though a little less now than previous because of saturation).

With all of these sequels and retellings (and me watching the new season of X-Files), I've been thinking a lot lately about what the most important part is to get right when writing one. After all, some of the remakes can seem widely different than their predecessors--different plot, different characters, maybe even different setting--and yet still be hugely successful. Others may still have those same components and fall on their faces.

This is because the most important part of continuing or revisiting a story is hitting the right emotional draws.

What were the original emotional draws in the previous installment(s)? If you are writing a sequel you need to hit those same emotional beats. If you are retelling a "classic," you need to hit the same emotional beats of that classic.

What are emotional beats and draws? They are the emotions that the story hits on. In a romance story, you need to have romance beats. In a horror story, you need to have horror beats. In a comedy, you need to have comedic beats.

It's obvious when we talk about them that way. But not all stories are as clear, and if you want to write a successful sequel, you need to go beyond generalities and hit the right kind of romantic beats. The right kind of comedic beats. All stories have more than one emotional draw. They may have one prominent one, but it will have others in it. Some have two, three, or four prominent ones, and still others.

There are some sequels that have different characters or settings (harder to pull off, but it can be done), but are still successful. Why? Because they hit the same emotional beats of the original.

If there is ONE thing that is MOST important about writing a sequel, it's including the same emotional beats.

Let's look at one of the highest grossing sequels of all time: Jurassic World.

You've probably seen it and will recall that the plot and characters were so-so. In fact, both the plot and characters were criticized and made fun of. But Jurassic World nailed its emotional beats. Nailed them.

The primary emotional draw for any speculative fiction, is a sense of wonder--that feeling of being enthralled and captivated, that sense of curiosity over potential possibilities, that sense of what if ____ could happen. Jurassic Park inherently has that, because of the subject matter: dinosaurs. But the film amplified it by having specific moments and shots that hit that exact beat, like meeting the Brachiosaurus. There is a lot of sense of wonder going on in that scene.

The secondary emotional draw for Jurassic Park is horror--something goes wrong and characters have to try to survive and outwit carnivorous dinosaurs. Whether it's the T-rex trying to get into a car, or the raptors getting through closed doors.

Then there are less prominent beats. Most horrors (there are some exceptions) tap into our primal need to survive. So Jurassic Park also has the same beats survival stories have. Likewise, a lot of wonder feeds into beats of wish-fulfillment. At on point or another, most of us have probably wished we could actually see a real dinosaur, and even if you take out that, most of us have wished at one point or another that we were on vacation at a theme park. Then it breaks down to even more beats, to a few comedic concepts and a few moments that relate to relationships between the characters. Then there are the intellectual beats that ask us to consider morals.

Jurassic Park has an extra oomph of power, because it's two primary emotional draws, wonder and horror, are actually opposites. And when you cross opposites in storytelling (as I explained in this big fat post 2 1/2 years ago), you get amplified emotional power.

Okay, so then Jurassic World came out. It's easy to be skeptical because this is the fourth movie in the franchise--I mean, what else can you do with it that won't be dumb? (Thankfully, they changed it up a bit (and amplified that sense of wish-fulfillment) by having the park be open and functional).

It was a huge success. Why? Because it nailed the same emotional draws of the originals: wonder, horror, survival, wish-fulfillment, a few comedic concepts, relationship moments, moral questions.

If Jurassic World did not hit wonder and horror, survival and wish-fulfillment, it would have not been successful.

This is why in some series you can even change characters, settings, or (to some degree, plot)--it's harder to pull off and not recommended for the majority--but what matters most is hitting the same emotional draws.

Look at Chronicles of Narnia. If I asked the average American who the main character is, most people would probably tell me Lucy--a few wise people might say Aslan, which goes into a different tangent for another post (main character vs. protagonist vs. viewpoint character). But if any of you have read the whole series, Lucy and her siblings aren't even in all the books. Lucy is only a principal character in three of the seven books, and a minor character in two others. You can argue that the books are all about Narina, I mean, it is called the Chronicles of Narnia, right? That may be true, but the first book The Magician's Nephew seems to take place in other worlds that are just as important as Narnia. It may be "about Narnia," but Narnia as we know it doesn't even exist until the end of the volume. Is it a failure?

No.

It hits the same draws: wonder, danger, spirituality, morality, allegory.

Same thing with the X-Files. When they started this new season on right now (no spoilers here), I knew the kinds of episodes it would have, because regardless of changes in plot or character dynamics--writer Chris Carter knows to hit all the same beats.

-There will be an episode about the overarching plot of the whole series, that hits the drama beat, with Smokey Man and the agents, Mulder and Scully, Scully and her child.

-There will be a standalone episode about a legendary creature or monster

-There will be a lighthearted comedy episode, that reminds you not to take the show too seriously and that the creators aren't afraid to poke fun at themselves.

-There will be a conspiracy episode, about something the government is testing on people. Mulder and Scully will work with those people.

-There will be an episode that relates to aliens.

-There will be an episode about someone who has supernatural abilities.

- At least one of these will have a horror feel, another will have a relationship draw, another will have suspense or thriller beats, another will have mystery undertones, another will capitalize on being creepy, and it goes on.

And while you might point to the fact that I mostly listed types of episodes instead of emotions--each of those types have their own specific draws.

Each individual draw may not appeal to everyone. This is why among X-Files fans you may hear some people complain about the drama beats because they only want monster-wonder ones, or some who will claim that the lighthearted comedy episode is the best one of the season while others are scratching their heads at it, or why some swoon over the relationship beats between Scully and Mulder (did you know X-Files is where the term "shipping" originated?) while others are waiting to get to the government conspiracy.

When the new season started, I had couple of family members say after the first two episodes: "Oh, this is gonna be like the old X-Files."

Yes.

Why?

Because the writers understand the franchise's emotional beats. They may do some things with the plot that you may find questionable or even . . . inaccurate. They may try to bring in other characters that most people don't like. But they know what all the emotional beats of the franchise is, and they will hit all of them by the end of the season.

They could narrow in and only do a few specific draws like most successful t.v. shows do these days--such as the overall plot with Smokey Man--but if they did, they'd be axing the viewers who love the legendary creature stories the most. They need to hit all the same beats.

And they will.

X-Files is interesting because it has a lot of specific niche beats inside of its primary ones, whereas Jurassic Park has more generalized draws (a more generalized wonder and horror--and also more primal draws). But even if you look at it, you will find some that do break down more specifically. For example, every movie in the franchise has a moment where a character is trapped in some sort of vehicle with a T-rex-like dinosaur trying to get in.

Which leads me to my next point--one of the biggest pitfalls of sequels: trying to do the exact same thing as the previous installment(s). This can go really flat with comedy in particular.

As one of my friends in college once said, "The thing with sequels is they try to do the same thing that was funny in the last movie, as if it's still going to be funny."

Sequels can easily fail when people confuse plot with emotional beats--which is easy to do.

See, the plot absolutely inherently affects, helps determine, and creates your story's emotional draws--but they aren't the same thing.

When it comes to sequels and retellings, people want the same thing . . . but different.

That sounds so vague, right? What the heck does that mean?

It means they want the same emotional draws and beats, not the exact same events and lines and contexts.

I don't want to hear the exact same joke in the sequel. I want to hear the same kind of joke.

In the sequel, you can take things from the original, and twist, tweak, flip, or invert it, to make it different, but the draws 99.9% of the time need to be the same.

You can take the last joke and build and twist it to make it funny again, and hit that same humor beat, but you can't do the exact same thing over and over again. It's annoying and falls flat.

Sure, the Jurassic movies always have a T-rex-like dinosaur trying to get in a vehicle where people are trapped, but each situation varies somewhat, and unless you are a writer, you may not even be conscious of how often this set-up happens over and over.

Jurassic has very generalized and primal emotional draws--things all humans can relate to. It doesn't need to be as varied in its installments as other franchises do. In fact, because of the nature of the story set-up (how many different ways can you put humans and dinos together in this age?), it can't be without falling on its face. It needs to stick to somewhat of a formula. A different franchise with more primal and generalized draws may have more freedom and need to utilize it in its set-up. For example, the Maze Runner movies have different set-ups each movie, but still the same generalized, primal draws. Wouldn't it be annoying if each movie really was the exact same thing, the exact same maze, over and over?

In order to hit the right emotional beats, the installments or retelling may follow a close pattern or formula, but that's not always necessary. What matter most is that they hit them.

The fifth Indiana Jones movie probably can't be a spy romance that takes place in New York City because it's very unlikely you will be hitting the primary beat of the franchise: adventure. And not just adventure, but the franchise's specific type of adventure.

Other times you may even have the same characters, setting, or a similar plot, but it doesn't hit the right specific emotional draws, and falls flat.

Again, this why it's so important to see emotional draws as something different than plot. They relate and overlap, but they aren't the exact same thing.

A couple years ago, the new Ghostbusters movie came out. I haven't seen it, I admit, so I can't give my opinion on it. But I can tell you a fact: the trailer is the most disliked video in Youtube history--1 MILLION thumbs down, and only 302k thumbs up. Some people said it was because others were sexist, which could be true, but when I started listening to what the dislikers were saying, what they were really complaining about was that it had different emotional beats. That the trailers for the new version weren't hitting the same specific beats--particularly the more serious and sinister beats--that the original trilogy hit. People were even complaining that the theme song sounded too comedic and campy and dub-steppy, and when the original had come out, it had a somewhat creepier, sinister undertone. I haven't seen any of the movies for a long time, and think I'd probably actually enjoy the new one, and I'm sure you have your own opinion, but I'm just using this as an example to teach the point I'm trying to make.

Emotional beats are where it's at. They are the reason professionals in the industry tell you to pitch your novel by comparing it to other stories (for example, "It's X-Men meets The Notebook")--which drives many readers and fans crazy. This pitch method is used to quickly communicate the sorts of beats and draws your own story has.

You can even take this all a step further and include specific emotional beats to appeal to specific audience.

A couple of weeks ago, a family member called me on the phone, and then started talking about Stranger Things. "It's reminds me of Harry Potter," he said. Then after a pause, "Even though they are completely different. . . ."

Are they completely different?

In characters and plot and setting, they definitely are.

But the reason it reminds him of Harry Potter is because Stranger Things hits most of the same emotional draws and beats. I was going to list them out, but this article is getting rather long. So instead, if you want to test yourself and you're familiar with each story, I'll leave it to you to consider: What emotional draws and beats do Harry Potter and Stranger Things share?

Is it really so surprising that Stranger Things is the most successful show to grace Netflix?

In closing, I think it's important to leave a note that some retellings (not sequels) work off slaughtering the original beats--for example, spoofs do this. Perhaps you want to write a story where Cinderella is actually evil. People will be drawn to that story because of different reasons than the Disney version. And even if you go to the original recorded fairy tales, they are very different than what we have today. So part of hitting the right beats, is going off what today's modern audience is familiar with. And sometimes going against the previous beat is blatantly intentional, but for almost all retellings, and definitely almost all sequels, you need to hit the same beats.

#writing #writer #writing tips #writing tips and tricks #author #editor #writing help #writing helps #writing advice #writing lesson #writing reference #writing lessons #writeblr #writblr #writerblr #jurassic world #jurassic park #Harry Potter #The Chronicles of Narnia

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weevil-underwood · 7 years

Note

“Tell Me” o:

((Under a read-more just because of how freaking long this ended up being XD))

A weasely smile crawled its way onto Weevil’s face as Burning Land wiped out the last of Mai’s life points. “I don’t know how that miserable mammoth lost to you.” he chortled, folding his arms over his chest triumphantly. “That was utterly pathetic.”

The young blonde rolled her eyes with a huff. “Well, for one thing, he played fair. Is that deck even tournament-legal?”

“Hee-hee, I don’t see a tournament judge, do you?” the smaller male smirked. It had been years since Duelist Kingdom, and the fateful night that Rex had anted his room against Mai’s promise of a kiss over their duel. It had ultimately led to Weevil discovering the dino duelist slouching in the boat’s commons area, and eventually allowing him to make use of his suite as a place to sleep. (It was the least he could do, he’d told Rex, for destroying his career so thoroughly on National TV). As things had turned out, it had been the spark that had kickstarted a years-long friendship between the two, and had built the trust that had allowed Rex to confide in Weevil who, exactly, had disgraced him that night.

Weevil had ridiculed him to his face, though had privately promised himself that, should the time arise that he caught Mai Valentine alone, he’d take her down a few pegs on Rex’s behalf. Tonight, apparently, the stars had aligned and second-hand revenge had been his.

“Right.” Mai said flatly, clearly unimpressed with her challenger, before shrugging and stepping closer. “Okay, then, short stuff, let’s get this over with.” Weevil’s gloating over his victory was cut short as he matched her step forward with a step backward.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, bristling. In response, she arched a thin, golden brow at him.

“You said you were taking me on with the same stakes as there were between me and your little friend, right? That means a kiss and a luxury room were on the line.” She reached out, tapping a fingertip against the golden beetle that bridged his glasses to punctuate her statement. Weevil flinched in response, his face going an odd green-white color as his expression twitched from a suspicious snarl into something more bewildered. “It’s too bad, really. I would’ve loved making you shell out for my room service.”

Again she moved in, and again he recoiled, this time fetching a frustrated noise from her. “Come on, what’re you afraid of? Cooties? You’re a big boy, right?” She sized Weevil up, briefly. “...Figuratively speaking, I mean.”

“Those were the terms??” Weevil squawked shrilly. “He told me you’d bet him your best card!” Rex was a liar. Rex was a dead-as-a-dinosaur-in-a-smoking-crater liar. In hindsight, he should have guessed. It had made little sense to him that Rex would put his dignity and his room on the line for any of the sorry cards this woman was playing with

“Hmph, as if I’d wager my harpies...especially to some twerp who’d probably take them directly to the nearest pawn shop.” Mai scoffed, seeming mildly offended that someone like Weevil had the gall to reject her after HE had been the one who’d set the terms of their bet. “Now are you gonna pucker up or are you gonna chicken out?”

Weevil’s eyes darted behind his lenses, and his adam’s apple bobbed as if he were trying to say three things at once and they were all getting tangled in his throat. Obviously the idea of letting Mai in his personal space bothered him on some visceral level, but offending his pride by walking away from a bet - a bet he’d been the one to swagger up to a near-stranger and make in the first place - seemed to be deadlocked with his discomfort.

He looked like he was about to be sick, and Mai’s look of haughty goading had chilled over into a scowl.

“Ugh, forget it, then.” she said, turning from him abruptly with a toss of her golden locks. “Next time don’t let that mouth of yours write checks you can’t cash.”

“W-Wait -- !” Weevil called - or rather, choked, seemed the better word...like he really didn’t want to, but his ego had jumped out ahead of his better sense. Whatever the case, Mai paused mid-step and looked back at him questioningly. The insector blustered, and then drew himself up to his full, diminutive height, placing his hands on his hips defiantly. “You’d better not think I’m wussing out!”

“Kinda was, yeah.” Mai replied coolly, turning the rest of the way back toward him and folding her arms over her chest, waiting to hear what he had to say for himself.

Weevil’s flush had deepened into an infuriated scarlet. “I just--I’ve never--”“...been kissed?” she offered. “Yeah, somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”“--wasted my time on such a stupid wager!” he snapped back, belatedly deciding how he wanted to end his sentence. However, he wasn’t arguing Mai’s conclusion, either. In fact, hers was closer to the truth. She cocked her head a bit, looking thoughtful. “Tell me something, kiddo, why did you go to the trouble of challenging me tonight if you weren’t even interested in the prize?”“Huh!?” the question seemed to catch Weevil offguard. And now that he was being made to think about it, he didn’t really know. Except that getting back at Rex’s enemies had seemed to fit so naturally into his list of priorities that he hadn’t even questioned it. “Because your win against Rex Raptor was cheap!” he said, jabbing a finger accusingly. Now that the imminent threat of intimacy seemed to be off the table, his boldness wormed back into the forefront. “Do you have any idea how embarrassed he was?? It was disgusting! Just because he’s an idiot doesn’t mean he deserved some harpy swooping in to take advantage of him!” A knowing look passed over Mai’s features as something seemed to click for her. “Fair enough. Well, in that case, I’m not kissing you.” she said decidedly.“Wh--are you backing out of the--” Weevil began, not getting a chance to finish as he was snatched by the front of his shirt and hauled in close. Mai pressed her lips against his, taking advantage of the tiny window that his shock had afforded her to thoroughly assert her presence on his mouth before drawing back again. “Instead, how about you take that and give it to your dino buddy? Tell him if he wants a rematch, he can man up and find me himself next time.” With that, she released Weevil and strode off with a parting shot over her shoulder: “No need to send his boyfriend in to white-knight him. See ya around, hon.”Weevil’s brain sputtered, rife with outrage and not sure where to begin in sorting it out. “BOYFRIEND?!” he shrieked, making several passersby stare at him. It was wasted anger anyway, as Mai had already disappeared into the bustle of the gaming center’s early-evening traffic, and Weevil’s only defense seemed to be to continue standing there, making a nasty face at life in general. At length, he brought his hand to his mouth, regarding the smear of glossy pink that came away on his fingertips.That woman wore entirely too much lipstick, he thought bitterly.

#I had a really hard time coming up with something for him to confess #I'm sorry I did my best #I hope you like it ;0;#harpypunk

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flauntpage · 6 years

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The NBA Has No Idea What to Do with Joel Embiid

It’s unclear when Joel Embiid won’t be the best center in the world, but at 24 years old, not even a dozen games into his third season, that’s what he is and will be throughout the foreseeable future. Embiid has entered a phase where MVP consideration is legitimate and first-team All-NBA play is expected every night. While continuing his journey towards a ceiling he still can’t see, Embiid is already (and easily) one of the seven or eight best basketball players alive.

“A summer of health,” is how Philadelphia 76ers head coach Brett Brown explains the improvement. “He had a hell of a summer, you know, and it spills over into his mentality and disposition. It’s connected to his development in his game, and the package equals somebody that wants to dominate...By and large he’s carried this team.”

This isn’t a traditional “breakout” season, as Embiid’s immensely positive per-possession effect was already known on opening night. But without any minutes restriction or schedule-related limitations (he’s playing in back-to-backs!), Embiid has entered the "you're gonna need a bigger boat" stage of his career, where most teams have no satisfiable way to combat his all-around brilliance.

"He’s super dominant.”

“Being able to play all these games and playing all these minutes, back-to-backs, I think he has a better rhythm than playing a couple games, sit out a game, or whatever the case was,” Wilson Chandler says. “I mean, he's super dominant."

Numbers fluctuate from night to night, but as of Monday morning Embiid ranked first in minutes, shots, free throws made and attempted, rebounds, and double-doubles while averaging about the same number of threes per game as Kevin Durant, Otto Porter, Kawhi Leonard, and Jayson Tatum. He’s second in points and blocks, too, a nimble mastodon who could easily be the sport’s most disruptive roll man if the Sixers ever cared to utilize him that way.

He isn’t flawless, but Embiid is considerably better than last year, when he was considerably better than the year before that. The most remarkable improvement can be seen on offense, where he’s turning the ball over less, growing by the game as a decision-maker and, with the seventh-highest usage rate in the league, bludgeoning defenses whether they guard him straight up or with a double team.

“I think his teammates have been excellent on going to the floor spots that we ask them to go to, so he knows where are his outlets in the event that he gets double-teamed,” Brown said. “That’s the first thing. And then I think secondly his ability...to not force things [when trailing the play] and to up fake people that aren’t there and just shoot it, or take a dribble and shoot a long two. Or just move the ball instead of driving into traffic. Those are the two areas that he turned the ball over in the most. Analytics and coach’s gut feel said that. And he’s improved. He’s really done a good job.”

Embiid forces defenders to play on his terms. He realizes that the entire game’s mood, feel, and tempo ultimately revolves around his size, strength, and imposition, knowing no single man in the world can prevent him from doing what he wants without a foul or cry for backup. It's beginning to look like the type of low-post command the NBA hasn't seen since Tim Duncan or Shaquille O'Neal.

“His game’s matured a lot more,” Ben Simmons said. “He’s slowing the pace down, knowing he can get to the rim whenever he wants and draw fouls and get to the line.”

Embiid’s career turnover rate was 16.3 heading into this season. Today, it’s 10.2 percent. That reduction is significant, but never more critical than when narrowed down to how he performs against double teams. Last season, he turned it over 30.3 percent of the time when a second defender swarmed him down low. So far, that number is down to 17.6 percent. Related: Embiid has scored a league-high 102 points out of post-ups this season. According to Synergy Sports, that’s more than every team in the league except New Orleans and San Antonio.

The mark of a true superstar is someone who indirectly and directly makes life easier for teammates on a consistent basis, and while Embiid fit that definition through most of his second season, watching him do it the way he does it, with more minutes, in a perimeter-oriented league, is so freaking helpful.

“Shit, he brings two defenders, so usually I get a free cut to the basket. Most of the time they’re leaving off me or Ben or whoever,” Markelle Fultz tells VICE Sports. “He just opens the lane up for me or with a rebounding opportunity, where two people box him out, I get to crash. Just stuff like that.”

Philly’s rookie shooting guard Landry Shamet agrees: “There’s five sets of eyes on him, so it’s easier to get looks and be effective without the ball.”

Even though the Sixers only have the league's 21st offense with Embiid on the floor, when he sits they fall 8.2 points per 100 possessions below the last place Orlando Magic. (Going the other way, that's the difference between Orlando and the 14th-ranked Miami Heat.)

Embiid's offense is technically a work in progress—he wouldn't be efficient if it weren't for all the free throws—but even as Philadelphia navigates through its new, spacing-starved starting lineup, his presence remains unparalleled. But it's on the other side of the ball where teams try to exploit Embiid's size in ways that place his limitations under a spotlight. Before the season began, I picked him to win Defensive Player of the Year. (Embiid finished second behind Rudy Gobert last year.) He’s a 7'2" wrecking ball who glides in the clear and explodes through tight spaces. Nobody has louder footsteps, underlined by a controlled, back-breaking spasm of unnatural agility and force.

Entering this season, the Sixers always had an elite defense with Embiid on the court and were below-average/awful when he sat. It’s early, but right now they’re a tad less effective when he's out there (just outside the top five) and bottom ten when he sits. Still awesome, but not quite the same disparity or on-court results as before. More minutes probably have something to do with that, but there's something else worth looking at. As he’s undeniably one of the game's most intimidating rim protectors, the Sixers still aren't sure how they want to use him against the increasingly uncomfortable matchups Embiid has struggled to figure out.

“How do you keep 7’2” on the floor with a mobile guy that can shoot a three?” Brett Brown said on Sunday.

It’s a question that calls back to last year’s playoff series against Al Horford and the Boston Celtics, when Embiid was diminished against a center who had to be kept in check 25 feet from the rim. His closeouts were awkward, ineffective, and exhausting. Philadelphia eventually moved Embiid off Horford to reduce his part against Boston's pick-and-rolls, but the ripple effects from this move eventually led to their downfall. (It should be mentioned that Philly's defense in that series was never worse than when Embiid sat on the bench.)

Today, the Sixers want Embiid in the paint as much as possible. He drops back against pick-and-rolls, often below the free-throw line, executing a strategy that's designed to limit three pointers by turning team defense into a reactionary game of two-on-two. As help defenders stay home on the outside, Embiid is briefly responsible for his man and the ball; his job is to force as many mid-range jumpers/floaters as possible. But as the league finds more and more ways to attack from distance, a sagging big is an invitation to pull up for three, or drive and kick back to a popping center who shoots without hesitation. Throughout the regular season, it's a look that should work more often than not. It'll preserve Embiid's body and allow him to unleash mass energy when he has the ball.

But against certain teams (AKA the ones Philly wants to eventually overcome, like the Celtics, Golden State Warriors, and Toronto Raptors) this strategy strains perimeter defenders who have to fight through screens, knowing if they can’t recover in time that a good shooter will take a deadly shot. In the play seen below, once Lou Williams gets middle on Robert Covington he receives a second screen from Boban Marjanovic. Embiid stays back, and there’s no way for Philly to guard it as well as they should.

Again, this applies to ball screens and popping big men, but, just as critically, it’s also ineffective against quick flare screens set by Embiid’s man that generate open spot-up threes.

According to Cleaning the Glass, Philly’s opponents actually had a lower three-point rate when Embiid was on the floor last season. This season, it’s up a monstrous 7.3 percent versus when he sits. That number will probably go down as the season goes on, though—especially since Philly’s backup five, Amir Johnson, executes the same scheme—and Philly’s defense remains scary when Embiid locks in as the dominant, active, mobile anchor he can be. Here he is taking away Jose Calderon’s open shot while providing Fultz with enough time to switch over and block it.

It’s a constant give and take. When I ask Fultz how difficult it can sometimes be to have Embiid so low on the floor, he agreed that the constant threat of a pull-up three, without much help, can create challenging situations. But it’s a work in progress the two are trying to figure out. “I listen to him, he listens to me,” Fultz says. “If I tell him I’m back in front or I’m forcing [my man] in, or ‘step up, Joe,’ he does a pretty good job of listening. He also does a pretty good job of talking to me. ‘Get over the top,’ you know stuff like that."

But at the end of the day, against the best of the best, this strategy won't do. Embiid needs to either antagonize at the point of attack or switch screens more than he already does. The latter strategy may ultimately be what unearths a championship-level postseason defense in Philadelphia, but for now it has obvious drawbacks. For one, it pulls Embiid away from the basket, where he’s most effective deterring shots and grabbing rebounds. Two, it’s not easy! Embiid can’t move his feet with wings and guards for an entire game, especially as they make him dance outside his comfort zone.

That isn't to suggest he's a stiff, by any means. Here, he switches onto Reggie Jackson and sticks with Detroit's point guard the entire possession, eventually forcing a deep three. But with Embiid pulled so far outside the paint, Jon Leuer is able to snatch the miss and finish with an and-one.

It's a conundrum Philly shouldn't lose too much sleep over this early in the season, but in the grand scheme of things it matters. How truly great can a relatively traditional center be—even one as great as Embiid—in a league that's constantly figuring out new ways to fold speed and outside shooting into a winning formula?

For now, he's a monster who prospers against the grain on both sides of the ball and remains plenty equipped for battle in an era that's more than happy to capitalize off his defensive disadvantages. But in the end, how successful Embiid can be without conforming to the NBA's current aesthetic may ultimately decide what his team is able to accomplish. Early results are a mixed bag, but to bet against Embiid's ability to figure it all out would be to ignore every reason he's already so awesome. At some point, his flaws may not even matter.

The NBA Has No Idea What to Do with Joel Embiid published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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flauntpage · 6 years

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The Outlet Pass: Caris LeVert is Ascending Before Our Very Eyes

Q&A: Ish Smith

VICE Sports: I know it’s only been a couple of weeks but I’m looking at your assist rate and it’s down noticeably, you’re shooting more threes. How is your mentality different this season than it’s been in the past?

Ish Smith: I don’t know. Coach is asking us to do some things that for me have been different. When it comes to change, change isn’t always a bad thing. My assist rate probably needs to be higher, but I don’t really pay attention to that. For me, there’s one goal and one goal only, and that’s the postseason. That’s being top four, top five in the Eastern Conference. And so you just kind of do whatever needs to be done out there. But I don’t really pay attention to numbers. I don’t even look at the stat sheet after the game. It’s just never been me.

You aren’t known for your three-point shot. Coming into this season you’d average one, maybe two per game, at the most. And right now you’re almost at four attempts…

That’s the way coach wants us to play. He believes in good threes, not bad threes, so hopefully throughout the season I continue to take good three where guys have created wide open shots. That’s how the game is going. And so us as a team, as you can see, we’ve improved at that and we’ll continue to get better.

How did the three-point shot affect how you prepared during the offseason?

It was a positive. Me and my brother, we went back home and it was just something that we worked on, worked on, worked on. We didn’t shoot a lot of mid-range twos, which is a little frustrating for me [smiles].

Long twos are way down for you, too!

Yeah, but that’s...you know. I commend my brother. We watched film and he told me to work on the things I needed to improve upon. It might be uncomfortable but uncomfortable isn’t always bad.

The league is obviously becoming faster and faster.

The pace, yeah.

As one of the faster guys in basketball, how does that change suit you?

Now the whole team is playing fast. There used to be a time where our second unit would come in and play fast. Now the first team and second team is playing fast. Everybody’s playing fast. It puts a lot more pressure on your transition defense. That’s probably what’s the biggest change. Defensively, everybody’s playing at such a faster pace that now defensively you’ve got to be on your P’s and Q’s conditioning wise because now you’re running back. So you’ve got to be well conditioned. But it’s a good thing. It’s a fun style and brand that I think everybody is enjoying. The fans are enjoying it.

Have you noticed defenses guarding you differently?

Yeah, I anticipate it. I don’t know. I pay attention to how they play and you’ve just got to be confident in whatever decision you make. And, I don’t know. Everybody’s doing different stuff.

What does that mean?

Some people go under [the screen]. Some people go over. It just depends. You kind of watch it when the game plays out. If you give someone the same pitch the whole game, they’re gonna knock the ball out the park, you know. They might go under one time, over the next time. But it has nothing to do with you. You just use your teammates and read off each other.

Generally speaking, do you feel like this is the best basketball you’ve played in your career?

Naw, you ain’t watch me play in high school! I was cold in high school [laughs]. I don’t know, man. It’s a long season. There’s a lot more for us as a team to improve on. And we will improve on it. As a team, we’ve got some goals we want to meet, and we will meet this year.

The Constant Punishment of Pascal Siakam

It’s a step too far to say that Pascal Siakam’s performance is a nightly barometer for the Toronto Raptors. But, as a former reserve who’s now a full-time participant in *the NBA’s most devastating starting lineup (*East of Oakland), Siakam’s upside has officially turned him into one of the NBA’s most pivotal projects.

He still can’t shoot threes and doesn’t draw fouls, but don’t ignore him off the ball. Siakam punches his way into gaps and knows how to make himself available. He relentlessly attacks the glass (good luck boxing him out!) and can usually hang in the air longer than whoever’s trying to block his shot.

Siakam is capable of raising Toronto’s overall offensive effectiveness by constantly taking advantage of attention that’s paid elsewhere. It’s constant punishment. Watch what happens when the Charlotte Hornets fail to switch this pindown for Danny Green. Siakam is good at identifying when the other team is vulnerable and then making them pay.

He also only functions at one speed, which has its downsides. But none of them can be seen when he’s sprinting past his own man up the floor, sucking help defenders in from the three-point line, and trying to end someone’s life with pure violence above the rim. According to Cleaning the Glass, 38.7 percent of Toronto’s defensive rebounds turn into a transition opportunity when Siakam is on the court. When not, that number drops to 26.8 percent. I don’t know if he’s the most conditioned player in the league, but few go all out all the time like he does.

Sometimes Siakam forces the issue, lowering his shoulder into a 1-on-3 blockade and then jacking up a shot that doesn’t even draw iron. But more often than not, Siakam’s leak outs are like a quick jab to the jaw. They provide early-offense opportunities for a growing powerhouse that doesn’t really need them.

On the other end, few defenders possess his combination of spring and range. If you’re playing the Raptors and don’t have a stretch four or five on the court (preferably both), don’t bother attacking the basket.

Siakam was not included in the trade for Kawhi Leonard—either because San Antonio valued Jakob Poeltl as a more tangible win-now product or Toronto couldn’t bare to part with a cheap, athletically unlimited 24-year-old who doesn’t hit restricted free agency until 2021—which creates flexibility to include him as a juicy asset should Masai Ujiri want to double down by adding a third star before the trade deadline (this year or next, if Kawhi Leonard re-signs).

But Siakam may be more valuable in Toronto than anywhere else. Right now, he functions as a turbo booster, the impressionable prospect whose versatility, defensive awareness, and ravenous energy are enough to elevate the Raptors into a higher atmosphere. On the other hand, as someone who’s only averaging 25 minutes per game, regular-season Siakam and postseason Siakam may be two very different players. Against defenses that are more attune to his weaknesses, the floor will be cramped and opponents will be more than aware of his propensity to sprint inward on a basket cut or corner crash—action that can do damage to Toronto’s transition defense, too.

Until then, the Raptors are +67 with Siakam on the floor and 0 when he sits, and his growth over the course of this season, embedded in that wrecking ball of a starting five, will be something to keep an eye on.

Free Agent Focus: DeAndre Jordan is Still Here (Sort Of)

DeAndre Jordan turned 30 in July, and, despite averaging damn near 15 points and 15 rebounds per game this season, a magnifying glass is not required to see how he isn’t the same player he used to be.

Jordan no longer rolls hard through the paint after every screen. He lacks the second-hop ability that once let him play taps on the offensive glass. So far, he’s only made 67 percent of his shots at the rim (two years ago he made 74 percent; three years ago he was at 75). And even though he can’t be blamed for all of Dallas’s defensive woes, Jordan isn’t the trustworthy safety net he once was: he’s noticeably slower helping from the weakside or laterally sliding with ball-handlers who get downhill off a high screen, and the days of him having any chance switched out on smaller players near the three-point line are all but in the rearview mirror.

Opponents are only shooting 44.7 percent at the rim when Jordan defends it, which is awesome and the second lowest figure among all players who contest at least five of those shots per game. But too often he simply doesn’t get there in time. Like, what is even happening right here?

Or here:

Jordan had a really difficult time handling Rudy Gobert in that same game—be it on the glass or defending Utah’s Spanish pick-and-roll—and watching his physical decline intersect with a need for patience as he familiarizes himself with a new offensive system and different teammates can be hard.

But this doesn’t mean Jordan fails all the time at everything mentioned above. And with his free agency coming up this summer, it’s only right to recognize the difference between “not being your former self” and “not being good.” Jordan is not bad, even if the player he’s morphing into doesn’t share the same strengths as the one who mashed through everything with Blake Griffin and Chris Paul. He’s developing areas of his game that may allow him to age with a bit more grace than anyone could’ve expected five years ago. Exhibit 1A: his free-throw shooting. A career 44.6 percent shooter from the line heading into this season, right now Jordan is 26-for-32—one of the most startling stats of this entire season.

Beyond his sudden transformation into Ray Allen, Jordan’s newfound ability to pass has allowed Dallas to initiate offense with him holding the ball at the top of the key, which creates a little more space than would otherwise exist with Jordan—who still can’t shoot jumpers—doing just about anything else. His passes are well timed, on the money, and shot out of a cannon.

Even if it becomes less effective once teams scout it down, Jordan still adds new wrinkles to Dallas’s offense, particularly with direct handoffs that slingshot his teammates towards the rim after he flicks them the ball. (Jordan leads the league in screen assists, and actions like this will be more dangerous when he develops chemistry with Dennis Smith, Jr. and Luka Doncic.)

There’s still a lot of basketball left to be played, but with so much of what makes him valuable in noticeable decline, whichever team offers Jordan his next contract would be wise to keep the years at one or two. The free-throw shooting is lovely, as is his evolution as a utilitarian playmaker (Jordan’s assist rate is more than double what it was two years ago, and every season of his career before that), but despite that and some otherwise promising early-season numbers, a four-year contract feels like a disaster waiting to happen—in Dallas or anywhere else.

Trade Machine: Kyle Korver

The Cleveland Cavaliers have reset their expectations and now live in the same reality as everyone else. They are bad: Kevin Love is injured, Ty Lue is unemployed, and Kyle Korver is on the trade block.

For good/great teams that can use another shooter, Korver is no magic elixir and, at 37 years old, may not even be a band-aid. His defensive weaknesses make him unplayable against most teams in a seven-game series and, as active and intelligent as he is moving without the ball, it’s not very hard to cut off his air supply. That said, he’s a career 43 percent three-point shooter, gravity matters, and no competitive team in the league would say “no thank you” if a reasonable opportunity to add Korver presented itself tomorrow. He’s due $7.56 million this year and is non-guaranteed in 2020. Here’s a quick power ranking of his five best landing spots:

5. Minnesota Timberwolves

To say Timberwolves head coach Tom Thibodeau left an impression on Korver when they worked together would be a slight understatement: "I still hear 'Ice! Ice! Ice!' like in my dreams," he said a few years ago. Is a reunion in the cards? Everything depends on Jimmy Butler’s short-term future (and how it relates to the fourth team on this list), but so long as Minnesota wants to win basketball games with Butler on its roster, trading for win-now contribution that won’t kill their long-term cap sheet makes sense.

Korver isn’t the athletic 3-and-D wing Minnesota needs, and last year’s defensive problems still linger like a stale fart. But why not go all in on the other end, give some of Josh Okogie’s minutes to Korver, and see what happens? The other significant hitch is financial: the Timberwolves are barely below the tax right now, and don’t have a lot of movable salary. Would Cleveland take Gorgui Dieng and Minnesota’s top-10 protected first-round pick in 2020 for Korver and Sam Dekker? The Cavs take on a bad contract (but a player who sorta kinda maybe fits beside Love) and stay under the tax this year while picking up a pretty interesting asset for their trouble. The answer is probably no, but at least that phone call isn’t a waste of everybody’s time.

4. Houston Rockets

Even though a playoff rematch against the Golden State Warriors feels unlikely at the moment, the Rockets should still avoid any personnel decisions that don’t make them better in that particular matchup. Unfortunately, Korver’s defense blots out almost all of his positive impact in that particular matchup. But right now, simply making the playoffs should be a priority. This team is in serious need of any help it can get. Nene, Marquese Chriss, and Houston’s second-round pick in 2021 for Korver? That’s an ugly offer, but it’s unlikely Daryl Morey would improve it.

3. Los Angeles Lakers

Korver and LeBron know each other and the Lakers need shooting. But they also have nothing to trade, and, regardless, Dan Gilbert would be an intractable road block.

2. Oklahoma City Thunder

I wrote about the Thunder last week, and their need for Korver isn’t complicated: OKC is shooting a league-worst 27.7 percent from deep. Patrick Patterson is 4-for-7 in their two-game winning streak, which is nice, but nobody else has yet to really find a rhythm from the outside. Not a coincidence: Only four teams are less efficient on offense. Korver would be a godsend.

1. Philadelphia 76ers

This pretty much says it all.

Last year, Philly made great use of the buyout market, but lightning isn’t likely to strike twice in the same spot. Would they tie their own protected first-round pick in 2021 (the same year they get Miami’s selection) to Jerryd Bayless’s expiring contract? A straight swap was reportedly in the works last summer, but with Bayless nursing a sprained knee, more teams in the hunt for Korver’s service, and Cleveland turning its focus on the future, the Sixers may need to throw in that extra asset. This feels like a best-case scenario for everyone involved.

The Portland Trail Blazers Burn Unit

Entering this season, it was stylish to be outwardly unimpressed by the Portland Trail Blazers. In a league that slaughters stagnancy, they made no significant changes after getting swept in the first round by a lower-seeded team. But so far, a combination of internal development, changing roles, and new faces on the fringe have created one of the NBA’s more entertaining all-bench units.

For the purpose of exploring how good this team can be, “how does Portland look when Damian Lillard and C.J. McCollum are both out of the game?” is a question worth asking. Last season, the Blazers outscored opponents by 1.3 points per 100 possessions when those two sat, but their offense was atrocious. The offense was even worse two years ago, when they were outscored by 5.8 points per 100 possessions. So far—especially before Moe Harkless’s ailing knee persuaded Terry Stotts to insert Caleb Swanigan into the rotation—they’ve been a nightly fireworks display, in no small part because Zach Collins may already be the best backup center in the league.

After a rookie year that was only aesthetically pleasing when observed with the long-term in mind, Collins has been a revelation on both ends. He’s knocking down threes, beasting switches in the post, and, with old partner Ed Davis no longer around, anchoring a defense as best he can with some stout paint protection. (As of Tuesday, Collins’s rim protection numbers were the exact same as Giannis Antetokounmpo’s—at some of the better marks in the league.)

Beside Collins—who, by the way, is 20 years old and has the third-highest True Shooting percentage in the league—is Nik Stauskas, Evan Turner, Harkless (when healthy), and Seth Curry. Just about everyone can handle the ball, attack, pass, and shoot. Curry and Stauskas are harmless replacements for Shabazz Napier and Pat Connaughton, but playing Collins as the lone big instead of partnering him up with Davis or Noah Vonleh gives this unit an obligatory modern feel. We’ll see how long they can keep it up.

Over/Under With Caris LeVert

Career All-Star games for Caris LeVert: 0.5

I asked a few people this question throughout the week, and without much hesitation almost everyone took the over. I’m not sure the question is that easy, but I’d have to agree. Healthy LeVert is very good and has flaunted the characteristics of a building block for an organization that hasn’t seen one of those since...I honestly don’t know.

Before his four-point dud against the New York Knicks on Monday night, a dozen players were averaging at least 21 points, four assists, and five rebounds per game. Eleven of them were stars: LeBron James, Kevin Durant, Giannis Antetokounmpo, Russell Westbrook, Victor Oladipo, Damian Lillard, Nikola Jokic, James Harden, Blake Griffin, Anthony Davis, and Joel Embiid. No. 12 was LeVert, who’s 24 years old with 44 career starts. Yes, those numbers come from a five or six-game sample size, but none of it feels fluky. Last night, LeVert finished with 19 points, six rebounds, and six assists in Brooklyn’s one-point win over the Detroit Pistons. He was a team-high +13 and generally did whatever he wanted to do.

Operating in lineups that have tons of shooting mixed with players who space the floor in different ways (AKA the undeterrable lob threat who is Jarrett Allen), LeVert has spent the season just sort of getting where he wants. As the league gets faster and faster, Brooklyn has embraced the tepid tempo LeVert seems to favor. He can bolt up the floor when need be, but prefers to box inside a phonebooth, with daring step backs, hypnotic in-and-out dribbles, and a reservoir of merciless shoulder/ball/head fakes in tight quarters.

He can really pass, really score, and has the body to defend multiple positions. But the first thing that jumps out when you watch him for an entire game is how easy he makes driving to the basket look. (Driving through multiple layers of NBA-level defense is not easy.) Only Kemba Walker and DeMar DeRozan have scored more baskets on drives this season; LeVert’s all-around scoring numbers in this category are more impressive than Giannis Antetokounmpo, James Harden, Donovan Mitchell, LeBron James, and just about everyone else. It’s very early, but this is still wild.

LeVert’s mid-air body control doesn’t even make sense sometimes, and contact made by a defender has virtually no impact on his soft touch. It’s almost like a larger, much-less-flashy version of Kyrie Irving. But what really separates LeVert from others is his restraint:

LeVert still has both feet on the ground when Kevon Looney leaps for the block, then releases his shot after Looney’s fingertips fall below the ball. It’s magic, and also might not even be the most impressive thing about him. When a role player seemingly morphs into a star overnight, what you have is someone who already knows how to do the little things. Instead of pouting when the ball isn’t in their hands, they cut and screen. They understand how to impact winning without directly affecting the box score. The prototype example is Jimmy Butler, who’s spent his prime as a diamond-encrusted Swiss army knife.

LeVert is not Butler, but he thinks through the game in a similar way. On the offensive end, they both make the most of every situation, and that includes gliding with purpose off the ball.

My favorite LeVert play can be seen below. It happened in secondary transition, after the Nets ran off a Pelicans miss. Once things settled into the half court, LeVert surveyed the floor from the left wing and saw that Allen had E’Twaun Moore on the right block. What happens next is a thing of beauty:

You can learn a ton about who LeVert is by watching that one sequence. His anticipation, speed, aggressiveness, and intelligence are all on display. He directs D’Angelo Russell to feed the mismatch and then, knowing his man will be momentarily distracted by his own help responsibilities, sprints into the lane and draws a foul.

LeVert is shooting below 30 percent from beyond the arc, but he’s over 80 percent from the free-throw line and has a release that’s fast (and funky) enough to be optimistic about his long-term range; when/if he starts making enough threes to prevent defenders from ducking under the screen, watch out.

LeVert’s hot start feels like it came out of nowhere, but fellow Nets who worked out with him during the summer aren’t surprised. This section began by calling him a building block. He’ll make $1.7 million this season and $2.6 million in 2020. After that, if an extension isn’t agreed upon, LeVert will enter restricted free agency and be set to sign a massive offer sheet. Until then, he’s Brooklyn’s best player and juiciest trade asset. (The Nets would be foolish to include him in a trade for Butler.)

How much he’ll cost the Nets is hard to say, but nothing about his current success suggests there’ll be any drop in production before that next contract is due. If LeVert and the Nets can agree to an extension this time next year, all the better. If not, it’ll be interesting to see how high his stock climbs throughout this season, and how it impacts Brooklyn’s ability to sign marquee free agents (smart wings who can score and pass are fun to play with).

Nothing against Thaddeus Young, who Brooklyn dealt to Indiana for LeVert back in 2016, but that will probably go down as the most favorably lopsided transaction in recent Nets history. They finally caught a break.

Film Session: There's Still Nobody Like LeBron

Two years ago, the Denver Nuggets had the worst defense in the league, in part because they forced the fewest number of turnovers. So far, with Mike Malone’s aggressive scheme on full tilt, they rank fourth in points allowed per possession and forced turnover rate, per Cleaning the Glass. When trying to stop a pick-and-roll, Denver will bring the screener’s man high to either trap the ball or cut off penetration. It’s a volatile strategy that requires them to swing for the fences on just about every possession while letting smart offenses feast on corner threes and shots at the rim.

Last week, this confrontational style collided with LeBron James, the league’s most perceptive passer. James finished with 11 assists and spent a majority of the game one step ahead of his opponent, shifting defenders with his eyes and firing bullet passes that required that extra zip to reach their destination before Denver could respond. The Nuggets lost by seven.

But after a few plays where Denver used three men to defend LeBron in the pick-and-roll, L.A. switched things up in a clever way. In the play seen below, what initially looks like a Svi Mykhailiuk-JaVale McGee pick-and-roll quickly transforms into LeBron on the right wing, with McGee’s roll sucking in help defenders from the weak side and Nikola Jokic essentially guarding Mykhailiuk for no reason.

The Lakers short the pick-and-roll, meaning they anticipate the defense’s aggression and intentionally move it to a third teammate who can then attack the rotating defense from a different angle. There’s nothing unusual about that, but when executed this far from the rim it shows just how powerful and anticipatory James can be. There’s really nobody like him.

When a similar action took place in the third quarter, Denver still couldn’t stop LeBron’s pass even though the action didn’t really fool them.

The Lakers spend more time in transition than any other team. They run off everything and have a ton of success in the open floor. But sequences like this are a nice reminder of all the different ways LeBron can attack whatever defense stands in his way. Despite their limitations and general inexperience, L.A.’s offense ranks just outside the top ten when operating in the half-court.

P.J. Tucker to the Rescue…?

Houston’s defense is bad—only five teams are worse right now—and slightly worse than average when P.J. Tucker is on the floor. But when Tucker sits, they fall from “not great” to “maybe the worst defense in NBA history." (When he’s on the court without Carmelo Anthony, Houston falls right outside the top ten.) As the Rockets tread water waiting for James Harden’s return, Tucker’s individual and team defense is one of the few bright spots they can look to when reminding themselves that they were good enough to win a championship last season.

The Rockets still switch a ton, and Tucker has done an exceptional job kicking smaller teammates out of mismatches before the offense is able to exploit it. The play below isn’t quite that, but still shows how well Tucker grasps what Houston wants to do. He (and Chris Paul, who switches onto Mike Scott in anticipation of Scott setting a ball screen on Lou Williams) knows the Clippers want to attack Isaiah Hartenstein, so when Hartenstein’s man runs up to set a pick on Michael Carter-Williams, Tucker takes the responsibility and switches onto him.

Here’s a scram switch by Tucker and Paul, but the Clippers wisely respond by going after Paul with Danilo Gallinari. Even with perfect communication and execution, a switch-everything defense can only do so much when someone like Hartenstein (or Melo) finds himself on an island in a small group with no rim protection.

Offenses know what’s coming, too. They’ve adjusted. Montrezl Harrell scored a career-high 30 points in that game because he kept slipping screens and attacking smaller defenders. Houston had no answer for him.

On this play, Anthony and Clint Capela switch at the start and then completely forget what to do.

Here’s Portland doing a good job of leveraging Houston’s defensive scheme against them. When Melo (somewhat unnecessarily) switches onto Damian Lillard to take away their signature flare screen, Jake Layman slips to the rim and dunks the ball. The whole point of switching everything is to keep the ball (and your man) in front of you, but that detail has so far been lost on this Rockets team.

Even without Trevor Ariza, Luc Richard Mbah a Moute, and Jeff Bzdelik, Houston’s defense should stabilize itself as the year goes on. The system isn’t necessarily the problem, but the Rockets are deploying players who can’t/don’t know how to make it work. James Ennis will help, Harden’s return will improve the offense (which has clear effects on the other end), and perhaps a trade or two will be made to improve the personnel. Until then, Tucker is playing like a Defensive Player of the Year candidate crossed with Chuck Noland. As the world burns around him, a little credit is due.

The Outlet Pass: Caris LeVert is Ascending Before Our Very Eyes published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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flauntpage · 6 years

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The NBA Has No Idea What to Do with Joel Embiid

"He’s super dominant.”

“His game’s matured a lot more,” Ben Simmons said. “He’s slowing the pace down, knowing he can get to the rim whenever he wants and draw fouls and get to the line.”

Philly’s rookie shooting guard Landry Shamet agrees: “There’s five sets of eyes on him, so it’s easier to get looks and be effective without the ball.”

“How do you keep 7’2” on the floor with a mobile guy that can shoot a three?” Brett Brown said on Sunday.

Again, this applies to ball screens and popping big men, but, just as critically, it’s also ineffective against quick flare screens set by Embiid’s man that generate open spot-up threes.

The NBA Has No Idea What to Do with Joel Embiid published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

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flauntpage · 6 years

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A Comprehensive Review Every New NBA 'City' Uniform

The biggest NBA news of the day is that Baron Davis and Laura Dern are dating, but the second biggest news is that Nike Released their designs for every NBA team’s “City” alternate jersey, which are jerseys inspired by cities or some shit. I looked at them and wrote about them, like a normal sports blogger does.

GOOD:

CHICAGO:

It’s the flag, and it’s a nice flag everyone is very fond of. I am worried about players spilling chocolate on their unis, though. That would be very embarrassing, I think, to walk around with a big ol’ chocolate stain on your nice white uniform. High risk, high reward play, here.

PACERS:

It has a checkered flag, like a race car. I like race cars. I like that they go vroom vroom very fast.

CLIPPERS:

Look I don’t know what the fuck is has to do with boats, or why the team is wearing Miami Dolphins colors, but teal is an NBA power color and you have to respect any team that dons it.

BUCKS:

Eggshell tones baby! Perfect for the river-yacht or a chilly, fire-lit library, with a tasteful stripe down the middle to bring it all together. This is the midwestern thinking man’s alternate jersey. Also they say “CREAM CITY” on the bottom, which is where I live, work and play, spiritually.

MAGIC:

If you don’t like these, you need to smoke more weed. One time I was EXTREMELY blitzed off THC drops at the Hiram M. Chittenden Locks in the Ballard neighborhood of Seattle, Washington, and I spent like ten minutes in the gift shop, looking at the t-shirts they were selling. I thought the drawing was really nice and for a hot second I thought, damn I need one of these motherfuckers REAL bad but then my good brain, not my stoned brain, kicked in and way like “Hey Corbin, man, you’re probably too stoned to make this purchase, this shirt isn’t that nice dude.” Anyway, if I was still using, and I encountered this jersey in that state, I would HAVE to buy the Bismack Biyombo manifestation of this jersey, just spend whatever obscene amounts of money was requested of me, and regret the purchase in a very true and real way while also savoring my stoned wisdom in that time. This jersey rules.

SPURS:

I get that, as a left leaning-dude, I’m expected to hate black and white Spurs-branded digi-camo. But by making the camo black and white, it goes BEYOND a tribute-to-the-troops and turns a bunch of dudes who plays a game for a living into members of a private mercenary gang that kills its enemies with hoops. Watching capital inadvertently debase the world spanning military colossus that keeps it in power is kinda funny, I think it’s good.

SIXERS:

EXTRAORDINARILY classy font! Finally, the play of Joel Embiid is being recognized for what it is: a luxury product, grander than any wine, any gold topped chocolate bon bon, any gentle scented oil, rubbed into your back by the world’s strongest and most skilled masseuse.

ROCKETS:

At first glance, it’s maybe a little weird that the Rockets have Chinese writing on a jersey that is meant to celebrate the city of Houston, a city where most people speak English. But, clearly, this is the harbinger of the future for the franchise, which is going to move to Beijing as soon as possible. What’s my source? THAT’s my source buddy! BEIJING ROCKETS 2018-19, DON’T TRY TO HIDE FROM IT!

UTAH:

Evokes the 70s, cocaine. Maravich belongs in this jersey.

KINGS:

The Basketball is a Lion King. He will stand above all other balls and roar, and the other balls will bow at his might until, one day, he is killed by another basketball, his brother who is also a basketball. His son, a basketball as well, will get revenge and take his place on the mountain, though.

BROOKLYN:

It’s a Nets Jersey. It’s black and white and it looks nice. Not everything needs to shatter molds.

MIAMI:

I wanna make a joke, but what, I’m made of stone?

KNICKS:

I like firefighters and no one can say otherwise.

BAD:

CELTICS:

You guys aren’t gonna believe this, but the Celtics have a boring looking alternate jersey to compliment their boring looking regular jersey. Features grey. More on that later. We are living in the wildest possible times.

LAKERS:

Kobe Bryant designed these. They’re supposed to look like snakes, because Kobe branded himself as a snake. Kobe spending his retirement trying a bunch of sports-adjacent shit he’s not good at and getting deferrence because he is Kobe Bryant, The Player Who Scored A Lot, is maybe the most embarrassing shit I’ve ever seen a professional athlete do. It would be less embarrassing if he was posting videos where people pissed in his mouth or making sly pro-Trump allusions to reporters or taking 125th place in Scrabble tournaments.

CAVS:

It is, I think, truly stunning how terrible these things are. They are, first, off, grey. You know, grey? The color of cloudy days and paved over fields? The color that only looks good on dads, while they swing hammers or pick up their children, or whatever? And then, the only color that REALLY compliments grey, which is yellow. You know. Like a paved road, that thing everyone thinks has a cool color? I mean who can blame Nike, I suppose, when LeBron James, the world’s most famous athlete, is the human being who is your most prominent non-Jordan pitchman, you gotta put him in the ugliest shit imaginable

OKC:

Honestly, It’s impressive how awful these are, soup-to-nuts. No one who made this had even one good idea they put into the final product. Every OKC jersey is bad, of course, on account of the team’s very existence being born from the poison seed of theft from Seattle, but… Gradients!? GRADIENTS!? A grey-to-grey-gradient? Why, on God’s green earth, is Nike fucking so hard with Grey, a color, not even a color, a SHADE, that has inspired exactly no people, ever? They like grey so much that they put TWO DIFFERENT KINDS of grey in this piece of garbage, and subtly mixed the two greys so that there would be nearly infinite manifestations of grey betweens the main greys. This jersey is seeking the limits of grey itself, the deepest grey, the grey at the edge of our understanding of grey.

WASHINGTON:

All the chocolate staining potential of the Chicago jersey, none of the evocative shit. These are maybe, low key, the worst one.

ATLANTA:

This evokes bees, not Hawks. Would someone please put feather texturing on these jerseys, like the world has been demanding all these years.

DETROIT:

These say “Motor City” but do not feature any pictures of cars, which I love because, like I said earlier, they are fast and they make loud noises. The move here was an updated version of the mid 90’s Grant-Hill vroom vroom firehorse, but Nike isn’t listening to good sense!

GOD ONLY KNOWS:

WOLVES:

Look, I’ve talked a lot of shit on Grey, which is Nike’s favorite color right now I guess, but I can accept it here. Minny winters are insanely grey, wolves are grey, this all makes thematic sense. But also: good god grey is ugly. Don’t wear grey!

MAVERICKS:

These are bad but they’re like so bad that I think they almost fly around the moon and become good again? They are a bad uniform that lives somewhere out of time, a look that has never been cool in any era, but in that fact I think they gain a kind of integrity. There’s a possibility that, someday, in 2067 or some shit, these will have been regarded at an innovative step forward in jersey aesthetics, even if we think they’re hideous now. Cop them and freeze dry to sell in the future.

WARRIORS:

That shade of yellow is hideous but the logo is cool? “The Bay” is some real San Francisco bullshit though, one of those subtle org-wide attempts to separate the team from Oakland before they strip the city of the team and move them to rich-ass tech boi SF in a few years.

MEMPHIS:

Honestly I feel weird writing snarky, mildly absurdist jokes about a jersey that is based on signs from a famous workers rights struggle. While I guess I respect Grizzlies celebrating a monumental protest with their unis, the fact that they were designed and manufactured by Nike, a company with a workers rights record that is spotty at best, goes a long way to defanging the allusion. Capitalism: it’s everywhere and it’s amoral!

SUNS:

EXTREMELY PURPLE. Purple is my favorite color and I honestly admire how purple these are, while also wondering… how purple is too purple?

PELICANS:

These are also Purple.

BLAZERS:

Every other Portland fan hates these things, which makes sense because they live in the world capital of streetwear snobbery. I think they’re fine. The plaid is totally unnecessary. If I was making these bad boys, I think I would stick a fat-ass salmon on there, personally. I also think that the mascot should be replaced with a salmon.

HORNETS:

I don’t even know, man. If it were up to me, I would make them play in a white jersey with a fat-ass picture of Michael Jordan’s smiling face on the front, and anything else will just seem incomplete to me.

RAPTORS:

Finally a uniform that tells sports fans: “Hey: my face is up here. I know my body is chugging away down here, but the soul is in the face, and that’s where a person’s TRUE MEANING can be found. Geeze louise.”

NUGGETS:

Nice shade of blue. Fun stripes. Otherwise: whatever.

Okay I did it, this is every uniform. Back to tracking down every last piece of information I can collect and Baron + Laura. Where do they like to go to dinner, you think?

A Comprehensive Review Every New NBA 'City' Uniform published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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flauntpage · 6 years

Text

A Comprehensive Review Every New NBA 'City' Uniform

GOOD:

CHICAGO:

PACERS:

It has a checkered flag, like a race car. I like race cars. I like that they go vroom vroom very fast.

CLIPPERS:

Look I don’t know what the fuck is has to do with boats, or why the team is wearing Miami Dolphins colors, but teal is an NBA power color and you have to respect any team that dons it.

BUCKS:

MAGIC:

SPURS:

SIXERS:

ROCKETS:

UTAH:

Evokes the 70s, cocaine. Maravich belongs in this jersey.

KINGS:

BROOKLYN:

It’s a Nets Jersey. It’s black and white and it looks nice. Not everything needs to shatter molds.

MIAMI:

I wanna make a joke, but what, I’m made of stone?

KNICKS:

I like firefighters and no one can say otherwise.

BAD:

CELTICS:

LAKERS:

CAVS:

OKC:

WASHINGTON:

All the chocolate staining potential of the Chicago jersey, none of the evocative shit. These are maybe, low key, the worst one.

ATLANTA:

This evokes bees, not Hawks. Would someone please put feather texturing on these jerseys, like the world has been demanding all these years.

DETROIT:

GOD ONLY KNOWS:

WOLVES:

MAVERICKS:

WARRIORS:

MEMPHIS:

SUNS:

EXTREMELY PURPLE. Purple is my favorite color and I honestly admire how purple these are, while also wondering… how purple is too purple?

PELICANS:

These are also Purple.

BLAZERS:

HORNETS:

RAPTORS:

NUGGETS:

Nice shade of blue. Fun stripes. Otherwise: whatever.

Okay I did it, this is every uniform. Back to tracking down every last piece of information I can collect and Baron + Laura. Where do they like to go to dinner, you think?

A Comprehensive Review Every New NBA 'City' Uniform published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

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