#it has been a long time since i drew hornet. that is actually not winged nosk
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Hornet
#hollow knight#hollow knight art#hornet#hk hornet#silksong#silksong hornet#hollow knight fanart#my art#it has been a long time since i drew hornet. that is actually not winged nosk#i drew this on my phone because. i am too busy to draw stuff with a mouse#help me guys i am held hostage to make 10000+ documents at school#i offer you hornet
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John Reed-USA TODAY Sports
Let’s talk Ball
I don’t know about you folks, but I have been watching my fair share of NBA Bubble Basketball this year.
Luuuuuuuuuuuuuukaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa oh my gaaaahaaaaahaaahahaahahahahahahahaaha
— Drew Crowson (@SonOfCrow2) August 23, 2020
It has been great. But it has gotten me thinking, longing back to our beloved Auburn Tigers Men’s Basketball team whose season was painfully cut short due to this awful virus and to the warrior-poet-king-of-our-hearts Isaac Okoro. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to watch Okoro lock a player down on one end and then sprint the length of the court for a highlight play on the other end.
Guys, he was so good. In fact, he was so good that he played himself right into a potential lottery selection in the upcoming NBA Draft.
This year’s draft lottery has already happened, so we know the order, and folks it is a mixed bag. There are some places where Isaac would be a part of an elite organization with intentions on winning titles and competing immediately, and then there’s also the Hawks!
So let’s go team by team in the lottery and I’ll tell you if this team should draft Okoro, and if Okoro should want to be drafted by this team.
1 Minnesota Timberwolves
A team that has been on the cusp of relevance for about nine years now, but can’t seem to find anyone on the roster to take over games when it is “winning time.” The T-wolves have a superstar in Karl Anthony-Towns, but he hasn’t been the NEXT ANTHONY DAVIS that he was billed as early in his career. Could this team use Okoro? Sure. But they’ll most likely go for a player with a more complete offensive game with the first overall pick.
Should Isaac want to go to the Timberwolves? No. Until this organization proves itself anything besides a bowl of underachievement, no.
2 Golden State Warriors
I know, it is weird to see the Dubs this high up in the draft, but they had a ton of injuries this season and wisely tanked in order to be back better next season. My gut tells me they are going to trade this pick for a veteran player, but they should look at drafting Okoro. No one is projecting him to go this high, but he would fit nicely as a defensive presence alongside Draymond Green. He could cover some of Steph’s defensive issues and be an active slasher on the other end. I would personally love this pick for the Dubs, but I doubt it happens since they just got Andrew Wiggins.
Should Isaac want to go to the Warriors? Yes. This is a team with a culture of winning titles and he would be able to work on his shooting without the pressure of carrying a lousy roster each night.
3 Charlotte Hornets
This roster is a mess. They need a ton of help and they need someone to come in and be the franchise cornerstone. I love Okoro, but I don’t think he’s that dude for the Hornets. I’m not sure that dude is in this draft either, to be honest.
Should Isaac want to go to the Hornets? NO
4 Chicago Bulls
Fresh off firing their coach, the Bulls are going to probably continue stockpiling young players who may or may not fit together at all. It’s a bold strategy, and it hasn’t really been working out for them. The Bulls have decided Zach Lavine is their go-to scorer and that is basically what you need to know about them. Coby White looked really good for them in the back half of the season, but I really don’t know what to make of this roster. They could use Okoro in that he is a human who can play basketball at an NBA level and they could use more of those.
Should Isaac want to go to the Bulls? Man listen, unless they trade two or three dudes for a big name who can carry the scoring load and actually make this team make sense, no.
5 Cleveland Cavaliers
The Cavaliers could use a small forward who plays sound defense and makes open shots. They have some weird pieces on their roster, but I actually don’t hate this fit for Okoro. He would be able to challenge Cedi Osman pretty quickly for the starting job and I like him alongside Drummond, Love, and Collin Sexton. I doubt Okoro goes this high, but I wouldn’t hate it.
Should Isaac want to go to the Cavs? Yeah because no one cares what the Cavs are doing. Okoro would be a part of a roster that would allow him to develop a bit before he is asked to do too much.
6 Atlanta Hawks
This actually makes a ton of since for the Hawks who have tried and failed to style themselves as Warriors-East. They need a defensive captain who can do a decent Draymond Green impersonation covering five positions and working his tail off for rebounds. Okoro would be a hometown kid who would sell jerseys too. That said, the Hawks have a ton of young wings and I could also see them being content with Cam Reddish as their future at the three.
Should Isaac want to go to the Hawks? Yes because it’s home, but no because the Hawks have far too many young wings already. This isn’t a great fit for him.
7 Detroit Pistons
Guys, I watched a ton of NBA games this season and I can not tell you one thing about the Detroit Pistons. Looking at their roster and stats I think they should look more guard than talented small forward. That said, Blake Griffin is still a really good offensive threat in the league and would leave Okoro open for a ton of good looks. I like this fit because Okoro would get to start and develop for a team with low expectations and a superstar. Okoro could be a really good piece for them, especially if Derrick Rose can keep giving them 18 points a game.
Should Isaac want to go to Detroit? Yes because it is exactly the type of rebuilding team he would help. They’ve got a superstar, and they’ve got an identity.
8 New York
No https://t.co/nu4a74sXcs
— Drew Crowson (@SonOfCrow2) August 25, 2020
....just no.
9. Washington
Are the ‘Zards going to keep Brad Beal and John Wall together? There’s a lot of uncertainty in the locker room in DC. In a perfect world, with a healthy and on form Beal and Wall, this would be a dynamite landing spot for Okoro. The three of them would be a terrifying prospect to opposing rosters from an athleticism standpoint alone. However, we have no idea what that roster is going to look like in six months.
Should Isaac want to go to the Wizards? I don’t think he should because there’s so much uncertainty there. Too many things have to go right for that roster to be cohesive and competitive.
10. Phoenix
OH MAN YES. As many times as the Suns have gotten it wrong in the draft over the past few seasons, this would be hitting a home run. After what the Suns just did, going undefeated in the bubble and challenging for a final playoff spot after looking really average in the early part of the season, this team in trending in a great direction. With a bonafide stud in Devin Booker and a hopefully healthy Deandre Ayton, this roster suits Okoro. He could split minutes and challenge Kelly Oubre and really give the Suns a ton of options with the lineups they could play. I don’t think he will fall to 10, but if he does the Suns should snatch him immediately.
Should Isaac want to go to the Suns? Yes.
11-14 San Antonio, Sacramento, New Orleans, Boston
I don’t see any way Isaac Okoro, an Auburn Tiger, falls out of the top ten in the NBA Draft which is a bizarre reality. If he were to do so, the teams 11-14 (with the exception of the perpetually rebuilding Kings) all represent incredible landing spots. The downside to these teams would be the fit for Isaac. Most of these teams have established pieces at the wing positions and Isaac might not get the minutes he needs. As much as I would love to see what Gregg Popovich could do with Isaac Okoro, I don’t know if he would get much run competing with DeMarr Derozan and Marco Belinelli for minutes.
If I am Okoro, the dream scenario is a team with established players, but a need for a defensive perimeter piece. The best fit for our boy might be the long shot in Golden State, a theoretically revitalized Wizards team, Detroit or the newly fun-to-watch Phoenix.
Just please not the Knicks.
from College and Magnolia - All Posts https://www.collegeandmagnolia.com/2020/8/26/21402844/who-should-draft-okoro-who-should-okoro-want-to-draft-him
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Astronautical Ch 7
A Guardians of the Galaxy Fanwork
Pairings: n/a
Genre: Adventure, general
Word Count: 6k
Rating: T to be safe
Links: Fanfiction.net || Ao3
Summary: Peter and his new crew set their sights on the planet Halfworld with the hope of rescuing Groot, but first they have to convince Yondu and his ravagers to lend their help, and hope that the heist won't include any undue surprises.
Author’s Notes: I’m really bad at remembering to upload here, sorry!
Astronautical Ch 7: Angel With A Shotgun
The security measures in this so called research facility were a joke. The men Korath had been assigned to take on this mission had mowed down the little robots with ease, and the staff turned out to be nothing more than a bunch of sniveling cowards in white coats.
Korath strode down the corridors of the tiny laboratory unit. The air was filled with the smell of antiseptic cleaners and medical grade rubbing alcohol, with a distinct undercurrent of fear and death that drifted in and out; a sour smell that Korath knew all too well. A metallic rattling of doors and the sounds of animals snuffling and scrabbling at their cages drifted down the white hallways. In some far removed corner something was howling, a high keening noise that sounded hollow and mournful even to Korath's uncaring ear.
The so called doctor that led him through the lab was trembling, the seams on his white coat dancing with his violent shivers and occasional sniffling.
"H-h-h-here." He hiccuped, gesturing to a pair of swinging doors with windows set into them. "This is-is the Enhancements Research Lab."
Korath shoved the doors open roughly and stepped inside, grabbing the researcher by the scruff of his coat and dragging him in as well.
Inside, the reek of harsh cleaning chemicals was stronger than ever. Korath wrinkled his nose against the cloying smell and resisted the urge to sneeze. Two large empty tables made up the center of the room, racks of surgical equipment and tubing arranged around them on rolling carts, and used bloody rags and gauze pads piled up and spilled out of the tiny trash receptacles underneath. Inactive monitors and computers lined the walls. Against the far wall, several small kennels were nestled among the technology. In one Korath could make out a pair of white-tipped ears poking out from a bundle of white towels. Likely the creature was recovering from a recent surgery.
"Are you-" The man in the coat squeaked out, hands wringing together. "Are you going to kill us?"
Korath turned his head to consider the trembling man, hardly much older that Korath himself by the looks of it, eyes wide and rolling in terror and dark hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, and felt a wave of disgust swell up from within. He found he wanted desperately to tell him that yes, he would be ridding the universe of their parasitic presence, but he had his orders, so instead he pulled his lips back into a poor impersonation of a smile that didn't at all hide the cruel intentions in his eyes.
"Now why would we waste such precious resources?"
.
The three cycles passed in surprising peace. Nebula and Drax both seemed to be making an effort to actually get along. For Drax this meant easing back on the insults, both direct and underhanded, and even opening up about his family in brief moments. For Nebula it seemed to mostly mean remaining fairly scarce, but she could occasionally be drawn into some of the less rowdy conversations and even snorted into a bowl of soup so hard at one of Drax's joke that she had to leave the table for a while.
They made great time to the rendevouz point which turned out to be a thriving outpost on a small moon in the Godstears galaxy, arriving a whole half-cyle early which gave Peter plenty of time to work on some of the minor repairs his ship still needed.
Work was slow but steady with his broken finger. The others had offered to help, and he probably should have let them, but he was enjoying the peace and solitude after days cramped in the one-man ship. The swirling designs Drax had drawn across his cast and a little smiling face that Nebula had added after she had taken Peter's request to 'Just sign your name with a smiley face or whatever' too literally was all the company he needed. The air was crisp and refreshing and from the open access hatch he could hear the low rumble of Drax's voice floating up from the common area, and a softer murmer that was probably Nebula's reply.
He had finished repairing the big dent over the left wing and was working on welding a couple of smaller cracks and scrapes over the hood when he caught the familiar sight of the Eclector lowering down through the misty sky.
Hastily, he stashed his tools back into the box at his side and poked his head down the access hatch.
"Hey guys," He called, tossing Drax the box of tools when he caught the man's eye so he could work his way down into the ship. "Ready to go?"
.
They had arranged to hold the meeting in the common room of the Elector itself to avoid any information leaking into the wrong ears. Walking up the loading ramp of his old ravager ship was a surreal experience. He hadn't been there for the destruction of all but the third quadrant, but in the time that followed he had grown used to the smaller, emptier, portion of the ship, and the sea of familiar dead faces floating by were disturbing on a whole new level. Half of these men should be dead by Yondu's own hand, with the help of Rocket, and the other half had suffered a far worse fate at the hands of their own crew in the viscious mutiny. For the most part, Peter wasn't even sure which of his old crewmates fell to which side of that fate. Other than a few names that Rocket could recall all he really knew was that they were all, each and every one of them, dead, save for Kraglin.
Seemingly oblivious to Peter's discomfort, the ravager crew welcomed him aboard with cheers and good natured slaps on the back. Despite Drax's earlier misgivings about the degenerate crew, he seemed to be enjoying the ruckus, although the large glass of something frothy and amber that someone had shoved into his hand may have had something to do with his sudden turn around in attitude. Nebula stalked silently behind him, tense as an overdrawn bowstring, and looking about as ready to snap.
Being equipped to host a crew of well over a hundred men full time, the common room of the Eclector was massive compared to the tiny little storage space on the Milano. It used to remind Peter of a cafeteria as a child. Several tables and a collection of couches, chairs, and benches were scattered across the room, used for everything from eating meals to taking naps, to gambling away ones earnings. Peter had learned how to use weighted die on the low wooden table in the far corner, and had lost one of his favorite pistols betting on a match in the empty spot behind the long tan couch that was about 5 shades lighter at that time.
"What the hell is this?!" The sharp bark cut through the easy laughter like a gunshot through a flock of birds, scattering the ravagers and opening a wide berth around the newcomers. All eyes turned to the captain who stalked down into the room with a thunderstorm on his face. Heavy boots slapped against the metal steps leading down from the upper levels and Peter was startled to see the point of his arrow peaking out from under his coat.
"Who wants to tell me what one of Thanos's assassins is doing on my ship!?" He hollered as he stopped at the bottom of the staircase, Kraglin and several other crew members who had followed him down spilled into the room after him looking confused but ready to spring into action at their captains command.
At his side Peter could see Nebula's hand inch towards the batons strapped to her back. He desperately hoped this was a sign of her erring towards non-lethal combat if it came to blows.
"It's Okay, Yondu, they're with me-" Peter started, stepping forward.
"Well they'd better be off my damned ship! I don't need her kind of trouble in my operations!" The crew surrounding them began to shift and murmured, eyeing Nebula now with a mix of disquiet and open hostility.
"Look, Yondu, she's defected from Thanos's army, Okay? No trouble. So everyone just calm down and we can talk this out like adults. Adults who are about to be really rich if we pull off this heist." The mention of money seemed to quiet down the less violent members of the crew, though some still looked like they were spoiling for a fight.
"If she really did turn on Thanos, then I'm betting there ain't nothing on that planet worth more than the bounty on her head." Yondu hissed back, hardly sparing his wayward son a sideways glance. The murmuring around them grew more excited and the rustling of clothes and boots grew louder as the crew edged closer.
Nebula was beginning to more closely resemble a cornered animal than a master assassin, eyes darting around for an escape route and hands poised over her weapons. Much to Peter's surprise, Drax drew closer as well, subtly shifting to cover Nebula's back and fixing the nearest ravagers with a warning glare.
Double shit. Things were not going as smoothly as he had hoped. Since when was Yondu such a coward? Sure he had never gone out of his way to deal with any of Thanos's thugs, it was just common sense not to seek out that hornets nest, but he had never seemed outright afraid of much of anyone. Something else was going on here.
"Well it would be a losing bet." Peter huffed back, sticking out his chin defiantly. "The information she has is invaluable, and since when do you work for Thanos?" Yondu sneered back at him, knowing that he couldn't ignore the challenge to his pride in front of the crew.
"You know I don't work for nobody but my own damned self, boy, so you best cut the crap and tell me what's on that planet that you want so desperately."
"That's none of your business."
"It's entirely my business! It's my ships, and my crew you're askin' to borrow, and I ain't no damned fairy godmother here to magically grant your wishes fer nothin' more'n the warm fuzzy feelin' of doin' what's right."
Peter resisted the urge to chew on his lip. He couldn't just say 'I'm doing this to rescue my friend.' That kind of sentimentality wasn't going to be winning him any points with the crew right now, and while maybe Yondu could be persuaded to overlook it if they had been discussing things in private, there was no way it wasn't just going to earn him a clout him over the head here.
"It's a weapon of sorts." Peter ventured, gauging the reactions of the room as he went. "Something one-of-a-kind and invaluable to me."
"So you're holdin' out on us, huh?" Yondu was pacing now, addressing the room as much as his guests, and making a show of it. "Taking the big payment and tossin' us the scraps, is it? And what's to keep us from just, say, double crossin' you and takin' this one-of-a-kind invaluable weapon of yours, hm?" The crew snickered around them.
"Because you don't trade in bodies." Peter growled back, effectively silencing the muffled laughter and causing Yondu to pause and fix him with a long cold stare.
"A'ight, boyo. I'll hear you out. Why don't you come on up and we'll talk in private?" The ends of his duster flicked out as he turned back to the stairs he had come down from. "Just you. Leave these friends a'yours down here."
Peter opened his mouth to protest but was stopped by the sound of Drax clearing his throat.
"Go. We can take care of ourselves."
Looking at the Champion, mug of beer held stubbornly in one hand and the other hand wrapped lazily around the hilt of one of his freshly sharpened blades, and Thanos's ex-daughter who had since regained her composure and stood with defiant ease under the sea of eyes, and realized that he believed him. They would be fine. With a grateful smile he followed after the captain. As he climbed up to the next floor he could hear Drax's voice rise up from below.
"Now, who is foolish enough to think they can defeat me in a game of arm wrestling!?" A chorus of excited cheers rose up in response and Peter couldn't help the chuckle that followed.
.
Several flights up Yondu was waiting for him in the drafting room. Peter was hardly surprised to find Kraglin there as well. The man had always been like a scrawny second shadow to the centurian. Working his way up through the ranks to become the captain's right hand man at an impressively young age.
"Now, are you going to tell me what's goin' on here. The truth, boyo. We don't deal in tradin' people, and I know you don't either, so what the hell is this place, and who the hell are you willing to break into it to retrieve?"
Peter squared his shoulders and schooled his face carefully into a neutral expression, but this close to the man who had died in his arms in the empty void of space as what failed to be his father collapsed behind him was making it difficult to concentrate. He wanted nothing more right now but to step forward and throw his arms around the man who had raised him and beg his forgiveness.
"It's a research facility of sorts. According to Nebula they develop cutting edge weapons tech and enhancements. They're keeping a friend of mine there and I can't get him out alone." Peter leveled as best he could without giving too much away. He really didn't need a repeat of the infinity stone fiasco, and didn't know if the mention of going toe to toe with The Mad Titan himself would spook the Ravager captain from this plan. "I have a scheme I'm working on and I need his help to pull it off."
"And you're willin' to risk my crew and give up anything of value for him?" Yondu hummed to himself and took a seat in one of the big chairs, Kraglin taking his usual place at his shoulder.
"Cap, if he has inside information then this could be a pretty good score for us. Fernweh would be willing to pay top dollar for weapons of that quality, no questions asked."
"That's another thing." Yondu seemed to ignore his first mate's point to lean toward Peter with narrowed eyes. "How is it that you came across one of Thanos's children, and what makes you so sure she's not just leadin' you about to sell you out at the first chance she gets?"
"Thaaaaats a long story, but basically I got picked up by Ronan for being StarLord and she helped me escape." Peter chuckled.
Yondu slammed his fist against the arm of his chair, startling Kraglin as much as Peter.
"What did I tell you about that blasted childsname of yours?!"
"Whoah, take it easy, it's just my old outlaw name. I've always-"
"I told'ya to keep your goddamned trap shut and never use that stupid name O' yours and you couldn't even do that, could you?" He didn't just look upset now, he looked downright dangerous. What was the big deal? It was just a nickname. A really good one, yeah, but his Yondu had never once given half an Orlani's ass about it, so why was it suddenly such an issue? Unless...
"Is this about the bounty on my name?" He asked. That didn't make much sense, he'd been going by that name for years before the encounter on Xandar that changed everything. Something cold and hard ran its icy fingers across his gut.
"...How long, exactly, has there been a bounty on that name?" How far back did these changes run? He had assumed that whoever rewrote this new universe had just changed a few things from around the time that the Infinity stone came into his life. This news changed things. And not for the better.
"Since around the time my crew plucked your scrawny ass on up from that sorry little dirt ball you called home. I don't know what kind of joke the cosmos are makin' here, but if you were dumb enough to call yourself by that name in front of The Accuser then I would suggest gettin' as far away from that assassin as you can and keeping your fool head low for a long while, or it'll be cut off 'fore you know it."
"I can't do that, Yondu. And don't worry about Nebula, really. She hates Thanos more than anyone else I've ever met. I don't think she'll be turning me over any time soon. Besides, we need her for this to work. No one else knows this facility, the codes, and the security measures."
Yondu looked less than pleased by Peter's reply, but when he glanced at his first mate, Kraglin just nodded encouragingly.
"The men could really use a good firefight Cap. They're gettin' kind of restless with these last couple'a escort jobs. I caught them tryin' to set up some sorta bettin' operation with darts and blindfolds in a pit... I didn't ask too many questions."
Yondu made a face that was somewhere between exasperated and disgusted, peeling the corner of his lip up to reveal pointed teeth.
"A'ight. You got your cover fire, but don't expect me to go to bat for you if you get yourself stuck down there, and if the damages to my M-ships start eating into the profits it'll be your hide it's comin' outta, you got that boy?"
Peter nodded and tried not to let the smug grin win over his face.
Yondu stood and led the way back down towards the common room. As they approached a rhythmic clapping and hooting drifted up from the open hatch. Down below the crew had formed into a tight circle around several figures. Nebula sat on one side of one of the tables, her bionic hand held up with her elbow resting against the table top. On the other side stood three ravagers, huffing and panting as they struggled to tip her hand backward. Despite their creative cursing and all three of them working up a good sweat, her slender arm refused to budge even an inch.
"LISTEN UP!" Yondo's voice cut through the excitement, everything falling to a silence punctuated by a loud bang and the howling of the man whose hand Nebula had just slammed against the table, effectively ending the game. Yondu fixed him with a hard stare and he fell silent as well, tucking his injured hand against his chest.
"We're goin' on a heist!" The crew once more erupted into cheers. More bottles of liquor were pulled out from who knows where and several members stopped to pat their injured crewmember and laugh at him good-naturedly.
.
The Keystone quadrant was definitely out of the way. It was so far removed from the closest inhabited system that the nearest jump point they could find dropped them nearly a whole cycle's travel away. This gave them plenty of time to hammer out the finer details of the plan and prepare for their roles. The M-ships were all dusted off and tuned up, and Peter pulled out some spare uniforms for Drax and Nebula. It was like a strange DejaVu pulling the old never-worn-in-this-universe outfits once more. He didn't even bother giving Drax the top half of his uniform this time around, and Nebula cut the left arm off of what should have been Gamora's uniform. Seeing Nebula walk around in it reminded Peter of just how much he missed having the green woman's calm and reassuring presence in his life. He desperately hoped they would find her soon.
Two of Peter's spare guns, an old set he had purchased as a birthday present to himself because they reminded him of the old action movies he would watch on Earth, were strapped to Nebula's hips. Apparantly she was some sort of sharpshot. First Gamora and now her sister; was everyone's thing going to be guns now?
Drax had also been given something that resembled a small caliber rocket launcher from the Eclector's armory which he had slung across his back.
The hustle and bustle of preparations were a welcome distraction from the tight feeling in his chest, and before he knew it they were putting the plan into motion.
As the planet Halfword took the form of a tiny dim dot in the windshields Peter took his place in the co-pilots chair. There had been some discussion about it, and it had been decided that since Nebula knew the security systems and lay of the land better, and currently had the full use of both of her hands, that she should be the one to pilot them in. And by decided, he meant he had been outvoted two-to-one.
Drax the traitor was once more in the back seat manning the weapons system in case they were spotted prematurely. Peter had once offered him the front but was informed that the back seat had more leg room, and that, unlike Peter, Drax did not have scrawny little baby legs which could fit between the front seats and the too-close consoles. Peter felt that he could have just made his point, without outright insulting him.
They approached the planet with the power dropped into its lowest setting, the lights dimmed until he could only make out the glowing control panels and the silhouettes of his teammates. The plan was for them to coast in under the sensors, disguised as so much space rubble. Nebula knew of a few points in their radars where it was strictly automated, and the system's AI would not immediately alert the guards to the intrusion of something that fell bellow the energy expectations of a live spacecraft.
Yondu and his fleet of M-ships would remain hidden behind one of several dead planets nearby and wait for a signal that they had arranged to send out when they had located Groot and were ready to leave the planet. The signal was a short burst of energy designed to mimic the communication waves used by Thanos' own vessels, so with any luck the inhabitants would assume it was a failed hailing frequency and that would buy them enough time for the M-ships to show up and them to slip out undetected.
Entrance into the atmosphere went off without a hitch. No fleet of guards or blaring alarms greeted them as they glided down to land in what looked like some sort of loading bay that hadn't been used in years. A thick layer of ashy dust had settled over the black buildings all around them, billowing out from under the ship in a wave as they touched down, only to settle back down before the engines even cut, like it was just too tired to be bothered and wanted nothing but to return to its eternal slumber.
Outside of the ship everything was eirily quiet. Even the sound of their boots was muffled in the dust as they crept through the empty buildings. They had chosen to launch their assault under the cover of the planet's night cycle and touch down in a deactivated portion of the facility that was no longer monitored. In the distance, the lights of the active facility shone like beacons guiding them through the darkness.
They came upon the first access point they had to pass through, a thick concrete-type wall that ran the perimeter of the entire active facility and housing for the inhabitants. As Nebula stepped forward to tap in a series of numbers into a keypad with 15 glowing symbols Peter held his breath. This was the moment of truth. Either the code would work and the system had not been updated, granting them access through the rest of the facility undetected, or it would be rejected and they would be immediately discovered.
With the code entered, the keypad made a sort of soft whirring noise before blinking a light teal color. The soft click of a bolt unlocking was one of the sweetest sounds Peter had ever heard.
On the other side of the wall stood more buildings, just as silent and still, but here there was no layer of dust to shuffle through, and the shadows were fewer. Their first stop was a warehouse near the center of the facility. According to Nebula this was where they stored most of the research material, and where they would most likely find the items that they needed to repay the ravagers with. Things were going to get much trickier once they had Groot in tow, and Peter would much rather not have to worry about that on the way out.
The keypad on this building was of a much higher tech, but Nebula's codes work nonetheless and before he knew it they were tiptoeing through poorly lit rows of priceless artifacts, all neatly labeled and carefully placed on metal shelves. Peter had no clue what any of these things were. That swirling black and white rock at his shoulder could be worth millions on the black market, or could just be a worthless rock. Fortunately, Nebula seemed to know what she was after and grabbed a number of seemingly random items as she passed, handing them to Drax who stored them away in a large leather satchel strung across his shoulders.
Just for the kicks, Peter snagged a few smaller items that caught his eye and shoved them into his own pockets; A couple small pebbles that seemed to glow from within, a weird computer chip, some sort of grey and red box that was about the size of his fist... They each had labels but it was all just gibberish to him.
When Drax's bag was filled they slipped into a hallway at the back of the building and followed it deeper into the slumbering facility. The lights in here were so dim that Peter could only barely make out the edges of several tables as they passed. He activated his mask after he didn't notice one in time and was confused when it rolled away on squeaky wheels after he bumped it with his hip. Under the infrared sensors of his mask, he was disturbed to discover that many of the tables were actually gurneys and steel carts of various shapes and sizes. Creepy.
What felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes later, Nebula finally led them through an empty courtyard and into an imposing grey building that had no windows and a very thick automated door that required a complicated code and the press of a hand to enter. They ducked under the door as it rolled up into the wall at a sedated pace, too impatient to wait for it to finish its lengthy journey.
"What is this place?" Drax asked, his hushed voice echoing down the empty hall.
"This is where they keep the rowdier test subjects." Nebula whispered back. Now that she mentioned it, Peter realized that the doors they were passing here had heavy bolts fixing the frames to the walls, and window slits that were just big enough to look through, but wouldn't easily accommodate an escaping body. Below the windows were metal plates with numbers engraved into them, even numbers on their right, and odd ones to their left. They were passing number 7 now, but when Peter paused to peer through the window he was thankful to find it empty. He checked the next few, and found them empty as well, until Nebula cursed at him to hurry up.
Unlike the rest of the rooms, door number 15 had a chart hanging below the engraved number. Here they paused, and when Peter put his face against the glass he could make out the dark form of Groot hunched in the corner, knees drawn against his chest and head resting on his knees so that he more closely resembled a gigantic bird's nest than the teammate he was looking for.
"That's him." He whispered, struggling to keep his voice down now that his friend was so close and stepping back so Nebula could access the keypad.
"How do you remember all these codes?" He asked as she typed in a simple three digit code. As far as he could tell, every single code had been different.
"My father always stressed a good memory." She murmmured back, swinging the door open and entering the room. "He hated repeating himself."
Upon their entrance the lights inside the room turned on, temporarily blinding Peter as he disabled his mask and let his eyes adjust. The figure in the corner had not moved at all in the time it took him to regain his bearings.
"Groot." He called out softly, although there was probably no one around to hear even if he had been shouting. "Come on buddy, we're here to get you out."
That at least elicited some sort of response.
The Flora Colossus slowly uncurled with the dry rustling sound of old twigs and kindling sliding over each other. He looked terrible. The few leaves that were present were shriveled up and brittle, and his usual layer of vibrant green moss was absent. Dark eyes, which Peter knew to be soft and expressive, appeared cloudy and unfocused as they blinked up at him. A thick unbroken band of black metal was wrapped around his neck like a collar.
"I... am groot." His voice was hoarse and wispy.
"My name is Peter Quill." Peter soothed him. "We're here to rescue you."
"I am groot." Groot rasped out, turning his dry squinting gaze on Nebula.
"Not this time, buddy. She's not going to hurt you again, she's here to help me save you."
"You can understand him?" Nebula interrupted.
"Oh, yeah. I mean I kind of raised him in my timeline." This only earned him an arched eyebrow and no further questions. Groot either didn't hear or didn't care, too focused on the thought of escape.
"So what do you say?" He turned his attention back to Groot, still hunched miserably on the ground. "Come with us and we'll leave this ugly place."
Groot drew a deep shuddering breath and struggled to his feet.
"I... Am... Groot!"
"Then let's go." Peter and Nebula turned to the door, pausing in the hallway and waiting for the colossus to catch up. As he ducked through the doorway a red light winked into life on his collar and he hunched over with a gasp of pain. At the same time a deafening screech tore through the air causing Peter to flinch and reach for his ears.
"Damn it!" He screamed over the alarm. "The door! GET TO THE DOOR!"
Drax shot off like a bullet for the main door which was descending at a much quicker pace than it had opened at. With a dramatic slide Drax made it just in time to shove his shoulder under the door and hold it open.
Nebula paused long enough to take a hold of the collar with her cybernetic arm -Sparks burst out where she made contact and the brittle wood of Groot's body crunched as she forced her fingers between the metal and the wood and twisted the collar off with a strangled cry of her own- and then followed swiftly after him.
"HURRY UP!" Drax roared, straining under the significant weight.
Groot, however, was going nowhere quickly in his dilapidated state, lumbering desperately towards the sliver of freedom at the end of the hallway with his mouth set in a grim line.
Nebula added her strength to holding back the door which inched closer to the ground, forcing Drax to his knee, while Peter did his best to hurry the tree along, pulling the signal button from his back pocket and mashing it repeatedly, hoping Yondu would get the message that they were in trouble and hurry things up.
"Come on Groot, just a little further. Give it all you got."
"I..." Groot gasped out, stumbling forward just a little faster.
"Am..." Drax was screaming now as the door pressed into his back, bending his neck into an awkward angle as his muscles bulged like they were about to burst.
"GROOT!" Groot reached the door just as Drax's chest was bent down to his knee. Vines errupted from his outstretched arms to wrap around the base of the door, warping the metal so that it folded upwards like a set of drapes.
"YES!" Peter whooped and cheered as he activated his mask and pulled out his right-hand blaster. Just like old times.
Out in the courtyard blinding searchlights threw down dizzying shadows and followed them as they ran across the open space. Red tinted beams rained down from atop the walls, pinging off the ground at their heels.
"It's just the automated response!" Nebula shouted over the noise as she fired back into the dark. Several miniscule explosions sounded where she had hit her marks. "Let's get out of here before any of the live guards show up!"
"It's a little late for that, Sister." Korath's voice boomed through the court as the automated bullets suddenly stopped, the four Guardians skidded to a halt as well. Squinting against the light, Peter could just make out the form of Thanos's son and easily a couple dozen armed Kree soldiers all standing on the walls surrounding them.
"Get out of the way Korath." Peter shouted back, screwing up his face and aiming his blaster as best he could through the burning lights. "We cut through you once and we'll do it again."
At his sides Drax and Nebula were lining up their shots, and Groot's arms swelled and creaked as he gathered himself.
Korath's laughter echoed around them, loud and viscious.
"You won't find these soldiers so easy to outmanuever."
As he spoke a smaller shadow broke off from the rest and dropped down into the courtyard before them, blocking the exit. Peter's heart caught in his throat as he stared at the stranger under the harsh white lights.
"Rocket...? Oh, buddy, what have they done to you?"
End
#Astronautical#gotg#Guardians of the Galaxy#fanfic#fanfiction#writing#Chapter 7#gotg astronautical#Peter Quill#Nebula#Drax The Destroyer#Yondu#Kraglin#Ravagers#Groot#Rocket#Korath
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A Matter of Time
~*~
A story for Genevieve Cogman’s The Invisible Library series. Contains spoilers up through book three, The Burning Page.
For @holdbeast, who proved that I was not in a fandom of one, to my joy and relief.
Read it on AO3 here.
~*~
The Library is an island, untouched by time. They say that there, you can live forever, but your wounds will never heal.
Irene takes some time to think about the people closest to her- those who stayed, those who left, and those who came back.
~*~
Kai marched down the corridor with his head held high, the vastness of the Library sprawling out around him. The way he walked, he made a grubby peacoat and pageboy cap look like high fashion. He was a prince, and proud of that fact.
Which is why, despite everything, the first thought that ran petulantly through his head was ‘a prince should not have to ask for directions’.
Leading Kai down the hall was a young Librarian with boyishly short hair, in midnight blue robes that shimmered like the night sky. This earnest young junior was, for the moment, his princely entourage. It was a start, at least.
It occurred to Kai that he’d been so preoccupied with finding Irene that he may have overlooked a few pleasantries.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Yes, ser?”
“I, ah,” Kai cleared his throat. “I never got your name.”
“Morgan, ser.”
“Morgan,” Kai echoed, a twinge of distaste curling his lips. “After Morgan le Fay, no doubt.”
“No, ser, actually,” Morgan said, bright and cheerful in exactly the way Li Ming wasn’t. “Morgan is just my name.”
“You realize Librarians are meant to use aliases, right?”
“Oh, it’s alright. It’s hardly the name I was born with.”
Kai shrugged, before being ushered through an archway into another sprawling wing of the Library. To his surprise, they emerged onto a cobblestone street. Here, the Library’s ubiquitous bookshelves parted to reveal a pub, sitting incongruously in the corner of the room.
When Irene said she’d be ‘at the pub’, Kai hadn’t entirely believed her.
“Here we are!” Morgan chirped. Kai was examining the pub’s windows, the sign above the door, reaching out and touching the wooden columns as if to confirm that they were real.
“Thank you,” Kai said, finally. Morgan bowed.
“It’s an honor to serve my senior Librarians,” Morgan said.
Kai fidgeted at such deference, lifting a hand. “Don’t… Don’t give me so much credit. I’m still in training, just like you.”
“Just imagine what you could do when you’re fully-fledged!” Morgan all but squealed. “THE Kai. THE Irene! My mentor’s told me so much, and, of course, news gets around-”
Kai pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please. We’re… we’re not… all that.”
“Of course, of course,” Morgan nodded, struggling to put a lid on their own excitement. “Humility is the mark of a true hero.”
“That’s... not exactly what I’m saying.”
“Thank you for this, ser,” Morgan beamed, and it occurred to Kai that it should be the other way around. “I look forward to working with you in the future.”
Kai nodded, waving Morgan off as they disappeared into the Library sprawl.
~*~
The interior of the pub was dark, gloomy, and improbably dust-free despite how little it seemed to be used. Irene was sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of brandy by the light of a single lamp. She cut a striking figure, half-hidden in the gloom. Though even she couldn’t help the quizzical look she gave out the door at Morgan’s departing form.
“Who was that?”
“A fan,” Kai said, drawing up beside her, “if you can believe that.”
“Hopefully one more genuine than Penemue and her lot,” Irene said acidly. Kai shifted in his seat.
“What sort of library has its own pub?” He said at last, eager to change subjects.
Irene shrugged. “What sort of library has its own dormitory?”
“Point,” Kai nodded.
“It’s not like it makes much difference,” Irene said, holding her glass up to the lamplight and swirling the caramel liquid about. “Time stands still in the Library. Nobody here needs to eat or drink. Nobody can even get drunk. So, really, the only thing this brandy’s good for is the taste.”
Kai watched as Irene took a sip, her expression clouding. “Bitter?” He asked.
Irene looked out over the rim of her glass, gazing at something worlds away.
“Yes.”
Kai exhaled. Emotional support was hardly his area of expertise. Maybe if Irene had a literal river of melancholy flowing through her veins, he’d have some power over it. But right now, the only spirit in the room was sitting in Irene’s glass, and it didn’t seem any more capable of lifting her mood.
“How are you feeling?” Kai said lamely. Irene gave him a withering look, one that said ‘I’m drinking alone in a dark room and that by itself should speak volumes’, but it still felt like something Kai should ask.
“Idle,” Irene muttered, clinking her glass down on the bar. “Useless.”
“You saved the Library,” Kai offered. “I’d say you’ve earned a vacation.”
“It’s no vacation if they don’t give you a choice,” Irene grumbled. “Then it’s just a suspension. The Elders didn’t suggest I take time off for my health, Kai. They made me take time off, just so they’d have time to take inventory without me stirring up any more hornet’s nests.”
“Or spider’s nests, as it were.”
“Thank you, Kai.”
Irene slid her glass away, crossing her arms on the counter and laying her head down. She was still staring at that far-off place behind the bar, her eyes distant.
“What are you thinking about?” Kai asked.
“Alberich,” Irene lied.
“You’re thinking about that Fae woman, aren’t you?” Kai hissed. Try as he might, those words, from his mouth, could only ever be an accusation.
Irene slapped her palms on the counter.
“She had a name, Kai,” she said through gritted teeth. “Her name was Zayanna. She saved me from Alberich. She died for me.”
Kai crossed his arms, haughtiness edging into his tone. “Irene, perhaps you don’t recall, but she also tried to kill us.”
Irene met Kai’s gaze, and saw the pride of dragons swimming within. She wasn’t going to back down.
“Kai, Zayanna also helped me rescue you from Venice.”
“Again: tried to kill you.” Kai huffed. “I don’t understand why you’re trying to make excuses for a Fae!”
“Because…” Irene faltered. “...she made good in the end. She thought we were friends.”
“Fae don’t have friends,” Kai snapped. “They have supporting actors, stagehands, pawns, pets! Maybe she saved your life out of the goodness of her heart, or maybe it was just a whim! Maybe helping to save me in Venice was just a flight of fancy, like anything a Fae does! They’re fickle, unreliable, untrustworthy- it’s in their nature, Irene. You know this.”
“Like being obstinate and pigheaded is in yours?” Irene bit back, brittle.
Kai hesitated. So firm was he in his speech, so full of conviction, that his eyes had revealed his true nature, and shone with red light. And Irene stood there, meeting his gaze in defiance, cast in the glow of draconic crimson.
Kai took a deep breath.
“Although,” Kai said, the fire fading from his eyes. “She did save you, in the end. I’m grateful for that, at least.”
“She saved you, too,” Irene said softly.
“You saved me, Irene,” Kai said. “Zayanna just held the door for you.”
Irene sighed, in a manner that said the conversation was over. This isn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want people throwing themselves into danger on her account. She didn’t want Kai telling her who deserved her sympathy or her grief. And she certainly didn’t want this brandy, a Library facsimile that failed to chase the ghosts from her head and left only bittersweetness on her tongue.
“I need… time,” Irene murmured. Time, and books, were the two things the Library had in abundance.
“Time won’t heal you,” Kai said. “It’ll scar over, and take the sting out of the pain. But you’ll still carry the wound. You’ll still carry the weight.”
Irene sniffed. “Where did you hear that?”
“Where do you think?” Kai shrugged. “I read it in a book.”
Irene made her way to the door. Her hand lingered on the doorknob.
“I’m taking a walk,” she said.
Kai nodded.
“Irene,” he said, as she opened the door. She turned to him, and he met her eyes- eyes that carried so much weight, for so many years. So much history. So much memory. The Library brand across her back overshadowed any scars her body might bear, but in those eyes…
“Irene,” Kai echoed, remembering where he was. “Just… remember to come back up for air.”
Irene smiled, but it was a tired smile.
“Says a dragon who can never drown.”
Irene lingered in the doorway just long enough for Kai to wonder if she wanted him to follow; but by the time he’d decided, she was already gone.
~*~
“It has been said, ‘Time heals all wounds’. I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”
- Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy
~*~
Where the Library was stillness and solitude, Vale’s London was hustle and bustle. Irene lost herself in the swell of evening traffic, carried along in the tide of bodies. The sun was just beginning to set, a smoky coal behind the perpetual smog, and the people around Irene drew up scarves and veils to keep out the sharp, acrid smell of the city.
Irene took a deep breath all the same, filling herself with the familiar musk of the city. A carriage trundled past, hissing steam into the air.
Not two days ago, the Library was on the verge of catastrophe. But in this world, it was just business as usual. In the grand scheme of things, would anybody notice if the Librarians were no longer scurrying around backstage? This world would keep on turning, along with the countless alternates.
The world would survive without the Library.
Without her.
Irene shook the thought away. It had been two days since she’d confronted Alberich in his phantom domain, two days since she’d summoned a conflagration to save the Library from being annihilated. It had been two days since Zayanna had betrayed her, tried to kill her, and then turned right around and saved Irene’s life. And it had been two days since Kai and Vale had pulled her out of the flames.
Two days, but the smoke hadn’t cleared. A dark mood had taken Irene ever since, both looming above her and settling in her stomach, like the bitter dregs in the bottom of a teacup. Part of her felt utterly relieved that the Library was safe, and proud that she was responsible for its survival. Part of her wanted to mourn, wanted to cry for Zayanna, who died for her, and for the books that she had to destroy in order to save the Library as a whole. Part of her felt guilty for holding Zayanna’s life on the same level as some stuffy books. And part of her felt that Kai was right, that she shouldn’t spare any grief or sympathy for someone who tried to kill her, a fickle Faerie she couldn’t even call a proper friend.
Irene rode that train of thought until she reached Vale’s lodgings. She paused on the steps, gazing up at the door. Maybe here, she’d find some respite from all these irksome ‘feelings’. And if not, at least Vale would know the best local place to get a drink.
“Excuse me!”
Irene stopped on the step, blinking. There was an androgynous youth standing before her, wearing a peacoat, trousers, and pageboy cap. The same one she’d seen a few hours ago, in the Library.
“Are you… Irene Winters?” They asked, bubbling with excitement. “THE Irene Winters?”
“In this world, at least,” Irene said dryly, unable to match their enthusiasm.
“Might I ask a question, ma’am?” Their voice carried an Irish lilt.
“Go on.”
“How, um…” They smiled sheepishly. “How do I look?”
Irene looked them over. Boyishly short hair, bright eyes, uncovered mouth. She raised and lowered one shoulder.
“A little incongruous,” she said lightly. “The pageboy cap won’t be invented until next century, and you look a little young to be wearing a navy coat. But it’s hardly the worst look around, junior…?”
“Morgan, ser,” they replied, undimmed. “I’d thought to take after your own junior, ma’am, but I suppose Ser Kai can make anything look good.”
“That he can,” Irene shrugged. “Listen, Morgan…”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Did you… follow me here?”
“Oh!” Morgan flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, no, no, that’s not- I’m here with my senior, actually, just taking in the sights, getting to know the area, you know. It was just happy chance that I stumbled across the Librarian-in-Residence, and such an illustrious one at that. Irene Winters, hero of the hour! Now, is that after Irene Adler or Milady de Winter? If- If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d love to have you, that is, it would be an honor if you would sign my copy of The Student Librarian’s Handbook-”
Irene held up her hands, grimacing. “Morgan, I’m flattered, but this is… this is a little much-”
“Miss Winters?”
Irene looked up. Vale was standing in his doorway, a bundle of mail tucked under his arm.
“Is that you causing all that racket on my doorstep?” Vale asked.
Irene breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t think she’d ever been so happy to see Vale, and that included him flying in on Kai’s back to pull her out of a raging inferno.
“Yes, it’s me,” Irene exhaled. “May I come in?”
“Of course, of course.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Morgan,” Irene said, casting an apologetic glance over her shoulder. “I need to speak with Mr. Vale.”
“Peregrine Vale?” Morgan squealed, starry-eyed. “The Great Detective?!”
Vale gave the youth a polite nod, ushering Irene inside and shutting the door before Morgan’s giddy squealing could accidentally summon the police.
~*~
Vale’s study would not have looked out of place in the Library itself. Quiet, lamplit, blissfully bereft of squealing, starry-eyed juniors, and, of course, filled with books. Vale hurriedly cleared a stack of newspapers from a couch so that Irene would have somewhere to sit. He leafed through the stack, before tossing them unceremoniously onto another pile strewn across the floor.
“I hope you’ll forgive the disarray,” Vale said. “Entertaining guests is not exactly my strong suit.”
“It’s quite alright,” Irene said. “Honestly, it feels just like home.”
Vale nodded. “That Library of yours is quite the sight. I would have loved to stay longer, browse a few more books, but you know how it is here. Work, work, work. Not two days away and now I’m back in it up to my ears. Who was your friend?”
“A colleague,” Irene shrugged. “And a fan, if you can believe that.”
“The sort of excitement you get up to, I’m surprised you don’t have more,” Vale said. “Tea? Maybe something stronger?”
“No, thank you,” Irene said. “You seem well,” she added.
What she wanted to say was that Vale seemed... different. Lively. Animated. He no longer had the haunted look in his eyes, nor the hollowness of his cheeks, the face of a man plagued by nightmares. But there was still a manic undercurrent to his energy, as if he was eager not to dwell on anything overlong.
To his credit, Vale admitted as much.
“There’s always more work to be done,” he said, sweeping his arm around the piles and piles of notes and newspapers strewn about. “More clues to find, more crooks to catch, more would-be criminal masterminds to put in their place, which is behind bars. How are you faring? That was quite the mess we pulled you out of. Literally, at the end.”
Irene exhaled, leaning forward and resting her chin on her latticed fingers.
“I’ve been thinking,” she finally managed.
“About that Fae woman?” Vale asked mildly, but it still sounded like an accusation.
“Her name was Zayanna,” Irene snapped.
“Zayanna, then,” Vale said. “Not about Alberich? I suppose that’s understandable. Despite the danger posed by the traitor Alberich, you have foiled him in the past. But as for Zayanna trading her life for yours, well, I imagine that would be somewhat distressing.”
“Must you be so insufferably clinical?” Irene muttered acidly.
“Miss Winters, I am a detective. Professional detachment is a matter of course.”
“Of course,” Irene echoed. Vale awkwardly cleared his throat.
“I’m only stating, objectively, the dissonance involved with-”
“If you’re just going to tell me to ‘spare my pity’,” Irene hissed, “then Kai already did that.”
Vale sniffed.
“There’s no love lost between Mister Strongrock and the Fae,” he said. “Nor between the Fae and I. That being said…”
Vale turned and met Irene’s eyes, his expression softening.
“I’m sure Strongrock is more concerned with how it has you out of sorts, no matter how he feels about the Fae.”
There was a moment there- one approaching tenderness. It was there for a moment, and then it was gone.
“If you were to ask my advice,” Vale continued, “I would say to simply get back to work. A new day, a new project. New work to be done. If one can focus on doing, rather than thinking, than sooner or later you’ll have forgotten the gloom. If you can simply find a new focus, then your mind will be too busy to go wandering around in the dark.”
Irene sniffed. “Where did you hear that?”
“In a book,” Vale shrugged. “Your Library had quite the selection. Like I said, I would have loved to linger, but duty calls.”
Irene sighed. Slowly, she got to her feet.
“Thank you, Vale,” she said, eyes downcast.
“I hope I was able to provide you with a solution,” Vale said simply.
“Some advice, Vale, from a friend?” Irene smiled, but it was a tired smile. “Sometimes, people want sympathy, not solutions.”
“...I see,” Vale said, his lips curling into a frown. “Is… Is there anything else I can help you with, Miss Winters?”
“One thing,” Irene said. “Where can I get a drink?”
~*~
“A mind without purpose will wander in dark places.”
- Dan Abnett
~*~
Vale gave Irene directions to his pub of choice, all the while bearing the quizzical look of a man who’s realized his faux pas but was nonetheless happy to be left to his own devices. Eager to get back to work, no doubt. Irene should have known. Vale was always good for a listening ear, but his was hardly a shoulder to cry on.
Irene didn’t know if she even felt like crying. She just didn’t want to feel anything. Hopefully this pub would be up to the task.
Despite Vale’s glowing recommendation, the pub itself didn’t look all that special. The signboard above the door declared the pub to be ‘The Stone’s Throw’, which Irene had to admit was a hair more creative than ‘The Verbing Animal’. But there was something here, something that caught in the air and prickled beneath Irene’s skin.
Maybe it was fate, Irene thought. Or maybe it was the onset of a buzz. She’d settle for that.
The interior of the Stone’s Throw was subdued, by pub standards. Irene took a private table on the second floor overlooking the main space, settling in with a glass snifter and a bottle of brandy she’d paid for upfront. She poured herself a glass, lifting it up in her hand and watching the dark amber liquid catch the lamplight.
“Is this seat taken?” asked a familiar voice.
Irene sighed, before draining her glass in a single, regrettable, gulp. It burned on the way down.
“If I say ‘yes’, is there any chance you won’t just take it anyway?”
The other woman took the seat opposite Irene, by way of an answer, and Irene ruefully refilled her glass.
“Hello, Irene,” Bradamant said.
“Bradamant,” Irene smiled thinly. “How did you know I was here?”
“Yes, Irene, how did I ever deduce that you were in the world where you’ve been posted as Librarian-in-Residence?”
Irene rolled her eyes. “I meant here, in this pub.”
“Ah.” Bradamant tipped her head towards the balcony. “Morgan followed you.”
Irene looked over the balcony. Morgan was at the bar, dressed in a new knee-length frock coat not unlike one Vale might wear, speaking to a handsome young man with auburn hair and dark glasses. They wore it well, although it echoed Irene’s own sentiment that she was not a role model when it came to fashion. Morgan saw her looking, and gave her a bright, cheerful wave.
“Morgan’s your junior, then,” Irene mused. “She seems-”
“‘They’, if you please,” Bradamant cut in.
“Excuse me. They seem nice. Certainly not lacking in, ah, enthusiasm.”
“Certainly not.”
Bradamant took Irene’s glass and downed her measure of brandy, to Irene’s chagrin. Seeing the look she was giving her, Bradamant tipped the bottle of brandy and refilled the glass.
After a lengthy silence, Bradamant exhaled, holding her hands up peaceably.
“I’m not here to fight,” Bradamant said. Irene warily met her eyes.
“You’re out in the field again,” Irene said tentatively, retrieving her glass. “And with a new trainee. I thought you were spending some time in the Library.”
“As Kostchei’s secretary? Taking notes, filing reports?” Bradamant almost snorted. “That arrangement wasn’t working out for either of us. Now that you’ve oh-so-gallantly saved the Library from whatever calamity Alberich was about to bring down on our heads, Kostchei decided to let me off the leash.”
“Because for you, babysitting is as much a punishment as paperwork,” Irene said, taking a sip and relishing the annoyed quirk of Bradamant’s eyebrow.
“I’m not here just to talk shop, you know,” Bradamant muttered.
“Then why are you here?” Irene asked. She drained her glass, and reluctantly handed it over.
“It won’t do for a lady to drink alone,” Bradamant smiled, pouring herself another measure of brandy. “That’s how you get yourself a reputation. You’ve already got yourself a reputation for going on adventures, and you know what they say about women adventurers in London.”
Irene did indeed know what Londoners said about ‘women adventurers’. More shocking than that, however, was the audacious, nagging feeling that Bradamant might be flirting with her.
Of course, that might just be the brandy.
“Bradamant,” Irene said softly, studying the other woman in the dim lamplight. “Why are you really here?”
“To talk,” Bradamant said. “Can’t we just talk?”
A fair question. A simple question, really, but one with a not-so-simple answer. Irene and Bradamant had a complicated history. Any relationship has its highs and lows, but six months ago, Bradamant had seen fit to stick a needle of curare into Irene’s neck and leave her paralyzed in a closet while Bradamant took credit for her work- hardly the best of terms. The Bradamant sitting here in front of her now, having a civil conversation over a bottle of brandy? This was a Bradamant that Irene scarcely recognized.
Irene studied Bradamant in the lamplight, scrutinizing her expression, tracing the knife-line of her jaw, her lips, to the glass in her hand, searching for the warning signs, the hidden motives.
There were many things knife-like about Bradamant, but somehow, somehow, this felt different.
This felt genuine.
Bradamant lifted her hand and drained her glass, still awaiting Irene’s response, her eyes catching the light like embers.
“Irene?” She asked, more gently than she’d ever heard Bradamant speak.
Irene sighed.
“If it’s all the same to you,” Irene said, retrieving her glass, “I think I’d rather just drink.”
~*~
So they drank, sharing the glass and the bottle between them. And, despite Irene’s misgivings, they talked. They talked about work. They talked about liquor. They talked about books. Irene was surprised to find herself opening up to Bradamant, though she supposed the liquor was loosening her tongue. She spent a great deal of time telling Bradamant about Kai’s abduction in Venice, about breaking into the Carceri to save him, about the confrontation with Lord Guantes in the opera house. She told her about how she used the Language to re-shape the myth of The Horse and the Rider, and had gotten the Horse to aid in their escape. She told her about how, pursued by a multitude of Fae in the space between the worlds, she had invoked the name of a high dragon, escaping by the skin of their teeth and the beating of mighty wings.
Bradamant, for her part, almost seemed impressed. At the very least, she seemed annoyed that she had no comparable exploits to mention, being cooped up in the Library simply filing paperwork.
Irene told her about the debacle with Alberich and the confrontation in his phantom-domain. And, to Irene’s own surprise, she told Bradamant about Zayanna- how the Fae had swung, like a pendulum, between friend, accomplice, traitor, and something in between. She told Bradamant about how they met in Venice when Irene was still undercover, how she’d pitied Zayanna’s circumstances. She told her about how, yes, Zayanna had tried to kill her on Alberich’s behalf, but Zayanna also led her to Alberich’s domain, and died saving Irene from his wrath.
She told Bradamant about how strangely Zayanna’s death had hurt, about how much she wanted to mourn a Fae. And a part of her, deep down, wondered if Bradamant might take Irene’s sympathy for a Faerie and use it as grounds to charge her for treason against the Library. At the very least, Irene expected Bradamant to lambast her for thinking, even for a moment, that she could trust a Fae. Irene cringed, abruptly regretting the alcohol-fueled confession that led to this point, waiting for Bradamant to tear into her, not even knowing if she’d be wrong.
“I’m sorry,” Bradamant said instead. “She sounded like a friend.”
“Except she wasn’t, though,” Irene said. “She just thought it was all a game. Alberich threatening the Library was just a game. Leading me to his domain was just a game. Even when she was dying, even when-”
Her blood was on my hands, Irene thought.
“-even then, she thought it was all a game.”
“She was in a story,” Bradamant said gently. “Like any Fae. It just wasn’t the story she thought it was. She thought she could be your nemesis, your rival. Someone to challenge, someone to push to new heights.”
There was a strange note to Bradamant’s voice, Irene thought, but she shook the notion aside.
“She was your friend,” Bradamant shrugged. “In her way.”
“I don’t think that’s what she was,” Irene mused.
“She was something, then,” Bradamant said, gazing down into her glass. “A maybe. An almost. She was something, or you wanted her to be.”
“I don’t even know what I want,” Irene admitted.
Bradamant shrugged. “Love?”
Irene cringed. A single word, in Bradamant’s voice, called up a memory from what felt like a lifetime ago…
“Don’t you dare tell me you don’t have enough! You want to complain because your parents are too distant, or Coppelia is too cold, or you’re still just a little cog in the Library’s vast machine? There are some people in this world, junior Irene, who would kill to have ‘problems’ like yours! Spend a few years hungry, or out in the snow. Then come to me and tell me you want more!”
Irene remembered what she’d said, back then. She’d asked Bradamant if she’d rehearsed that, or if she’d read it in a book. Needless to say, that didn’t help things. That was their first big fight, one that would be only the first of many. Irene let out a shuddering breath, and pushed the memory away.
“Then again, there’s always the chance you’re mistaking adrenaline for some other feeling,” Bradamant was saying.
Irene suddenly stood up, her chair scraping back. Bradamant looked up at her.
“Something wrong, darling?”
Irene flinched at the word. A sudden anxiety knotted in her chest. “I, um…”
Irene’s gaze flitted around the room, spotting a side door that led out onto a terrace.
“...I need some air,” Irene said, finally. She poured a last measure of brandy into her glass, downed it in one go, and then slapped the glass onto the counter and stalked away.
~*~
“You have a house, if not a home. You have people who care for you, if not about you. You may not have everything you want, but I’d wager you have everything you could ever need, and you have the audacity to claim it all forfeit because it is not love.”
- V.E. Schwab
~*~
The moon over Vale’s London was bright and clear, undimmed by smog or the shadows of moored airships. Perhaps too bright and too clear, Irene thought, but then, that would handily explain all the werewolves. She emerged onto the terrace and let the cool evening air kiss her face, leaning on a balcony rail.
There was something about this world, deep in the fabric of it, that set it apart from the Library. It was louder, of course, and smoggier, more crowded. But there was more to it than that.
Time did not pass in the Library. The Library was a place of stillness, of preservation. They say that there, you can live forever, but your wounds will never heal. Your body will be preserved, frozen in time.
Irene wondered if the same principle applied to the mind. What if the timelessness of the Library effected more than just your body? In the Library, you do not age, and you do not heal. Do you learn? Do you grow? Does pain fade? Does grief soften? Does anger dim?
That would mean that Coppelia will be perpetually obtuse, and Kostchei will forever be stiff and humorless. And Bradamant…
“Enjoying the view?” Bradamant asked.
“Yes,” Irene said, pointedly staring down at the street and not at the other woman slinking up beside her. “If you’ll excuse me, Bradamant, I was having a bottle epiphany.”
“Have you finally resolved to desert the Library and elope with your apprentice?”
“No,” Irene hissed. She sighed. “Bradamant, why are you really here?”
“You keep asking that,” Bradamant huffed. “What’s so unthinkable about a drink between friends?”
“Is that what we are?”
Bradamant stared at her, looking, for all the world, genuinely hurt. Irene bit her lip and turned away.
“I told you, I’m not here to fight,” Bradamant said stiffly. “Would I lie to you?”
Irene answered with a bark of pained, bitter laughter. Bradamant balled her fists, finally grabbing Irene by the shoulder and whirling her around to face her.
“Damn it, Irene!” Bradamant snarled. “Believe it or not, I’m trying to be honest here! I’m trying to tell you something!”
“Then say it!”
“I loved you!”
Irene stared at her, the anger dying in her throat.
“What?” Irene whispered.
“I loved you,” Bradamant echoed in the Language, and the truth of it swept across Irene like a tidal wave. The Language could not speak a lie. “A long time ago, before it got twisted into this poisonous, monstrous envy. You said you wanted to go back to us not quite hating each other, right? Well, I want to go back further- to when we were both young, and eager to do the Library’s work. Before it became about the prestige. Before the Elders started singing the praises of my apprentice, Irene the prodigy, rising star of the Library. Before envy smothered any affection I had for you.”
“Bradamant…” Irene gaped. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Then be quiet for a moment, would you?” Bradamant huffed. “The point is, I didn’t come here to fight. I came here to try to reconnect. To extend an olive branch, if you would.”
“A peace offering?” Irene blinked. “You stole my brandy!”
“Because we’re both such paragons of social interaction, Irene!” Bradamant snapped. She sighed, exasperated. “Listen, Irene. I came here because seeing you moping around the Library was becoming a nuisance. I thought I’d try to put a stop to it. That’s all. And if anyone asks what I was doing offworld, I’ll tell them I was on assignment, and consulting this alternate’s Librarian-in-Residence.”
Bradamant spun on her heel, ready to storm away from this mess of a conversation.
It occurred to Irene that she could just let Bradamant leave, and their relationship, frayed as it was, would be preserved as it was right here in this moment, in all its barbs and bitterness.
No. That would not do.
“Bradamant,” Irene called, stopping her at the door. “Thank you.”
The Language coiled in the air around them, its power resonating like a warm breeze, or an embrace. Bradamant took a deep breath, tentatively turning and meeting Irene’s eyes.
“We should do this again,” Irene said simply, the tension between them dissipating on the wind.
“We should,” Bradamant mused. “Maybe next time, I’ll even bring my own glass.”
“I wish you’d said something,” Irene shrugged. “Before.”
“You were my student. It would have been unprofessional.”
“I’m not your student anymore.”
“No,” Bradamant smiled. “You’re not. Good night, Irene.”
“Good night, Bradamant,” Irene said, warmer than she’d been in months. “I don’t hate you.”
“I don’t hate you, too,” Bradamant returned. “I’ll see you at work.”
~*~
Kai was sitting at the bar, discussing the finer points of men’s fashion with Morgan while they stared, wide-eyed, and nursed a glass of cranberry juice. When he saw Bradamant coming down the steps, he stood, and acknowledged her with a polite dip of his head.
“Lady,” he said.
“Princeling,” she replied. “Here to offer Irene a shoulder to lean on? Perhaps a nice, sculpted pectoral?”
“Only if she wouldn’t prefer something softer,” Kai grinned.
“Cheeky,” Bradamant said, bringing a hand to her chest. She raised her other hand and beckoned towards the door. “Come along, Morgan.”
As the duo disappeared out onto the street, Kai made his way upstairs. He stepped out onto the terrace, the evening air a relief compared to the pub’s stuffy interior. But more of a relief was the sight of Irene, on her feet and in relatively high spirits. Woozy and leaning on a balcony rail was certainly better than drinking alone in the dark.
“Bradamant seems downright tolerable,” Kai said, by way of greeting. “What’s gotten into her?”
“Half a bottle of my brandy,” Irene said, not unkindly. She took a step towards Kai and wobbled precariously. He darted forward to steady her.
“I can imagine where the other half went,” Kai muttered, curling an arm around Irene’s waist and helping her lean on his shoulder.
Despite the moment she’d had with Bradamant earlier, it seemed that the liquor was finally starting to catch up to Irene. Irene wondered about the Library’s timelessness and its effect upon Librarian’s alcohol tolerance. Maybe that was something worth looking into.
“Come on,” Kai said beside her, steadying her, both body and mind. “One step at a time.”
Irene considered that. In the Library, time stood still, and wounds did not heal. But here she was, putting one foot in front of the other. Vale would be waiting in the carriage, no doubt with an itinerary of more work to be done. Bradamant would be lurking nearby, keeping her distance, but never too far away. And Kai would be here, right here, ready to catch her if she falls.
Time was ticking forward, and they were moving forward, one step, one confession, one job at a time.
Irene didn’t drink too often. But as far as bottle epiphanies went, well, that was a solid one.
“So drunk you won’t even talk, huh?” Kai tutted. “Come on, Irene. Let’s get you home.”
“I think home is something you take with you,” Irene said, halfway between a daze and truly heartfelt. “Not somewhere you go.”
“Oh yeah? Where’d you hear that?”
“I read it in a book,” Irene mumbled sleepily. “I might not be remembering it right.”
“We’ll look it up in the morning, then,” Kai said. “Let’s go home.”
The Library is an island, untouched by time. They say that there, you can live forever, but your wounds will never heal. But out here, time was ticking forward, slowly but surely, each passing second a heartbeat, a footstep, a confession, or a promise.
~*~
“I think that Hell is something you take with you. Not somewhere you go.”
- Neil Gaiman
~*~
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A day with Hornets assistant coach — and NBA lifer — Stephen Silas
See the intense work that goes into every game.
Stephen Silas, the associate head coach of the Charlotte Hornets, is the ultimate NBA lifer. He was literally born into the league in Boston, where his father Paul, a former NBA star and coach who spent more than 40 years in the league, was helping the Celtics win a pair of championships. Stephen can remember toddling around the Kingdome while his dad completed his playing career for the Sonics under Lenny Wilkens.
While born to a great player, Stephen has always considered himself the son of a coach. More than that, he wanted to be around his dad as much as possible, so he grew up going to practices in San Diego when Paul coached Donald Sterling’s Clippers. Later, he was a ballboy for the Knicks while his father was an assistant under Pat Riley.
Young Silas played games of HORSE on the Garden floor with Patrick Ewing’s son (little Patrick) and mopped sweat while Big Patrick was shooting free throws. He also learned an essential lesson in those years.
“Being on the sideline I knew I had to be quiet when Pat Riley was coaching,” Silas says. “Be seen and not heard was how I grew up.”
That may as well be the essential credo of assistant coaches everywhere. Do your work, stay on top of things, and keep out of the spotlight. Some teams go so far as to keep their assistants completely off limits. The Hornets are not one of them.
They’ve granted me access to Stephen while the team prepares for a mid-November game against the Celtics. I’ll be with him from shootaround through pregame and postgame, with a film session sandwiched in the middle, to document the largely opaque daily world of an NBA assistant coach.
His boss, Hornets head coach Steve Clifford, shrugged when I thanked him for agreeing to the project. He knows what it’s like to toil in anonymity. Silas, frankly, doesn’t need the extra publicity. He has interviewed for the head jobs in Charlotte and Houston and annually shows up on lists of up-and-coming coaching candidates.
If Silas is unknown to the general public, he’s practically family within the larger NBA ecosystem. He worked with the retired players’ association after graduating from Brown with a double major in sociology and management. Later, he cut his teeth as an advance scout working both the college and the pro circuit, where he first met Clifford almost 20 years ago.
When a job opened up on his father’s staff in 2000 with the Charlotte Hornets, friends suggested he hire his son. Paul wasn’t sure. Neither was Stephen, for that matter. Enough people convinced them it would be a good idea and Stephen had his first coaching job at the age of 27, then the youngest assistant in the league.
“To be Paul Silas’ son in the world of basketball wasn’t necessarily something I wanted to do right away, but it was a way in,” Stephen says. “Being my dad’s son has always been great. That’s one thing I’ve just had to deal with.”
Photo by Mike Lawrie/Getty Images
Paul Silas
Father and son stayed together through stops in both Charlotte and Cleveland. Stephen later worked with the Warriors under Don Nelson before returning to Charlotte in 2010, where he’s been ever since.
After almost two decades on the sidelines, the 44-year-old Stephen has outgrown his father’s shadow. His fellow coaches find him to be thorough and meticulous. Players respond enthusiastically to his even-keeled, yet demanding, approach.
“He’s always been around the game,” says Hornets forward Michael Kidd-Gilchrist, who has worked with Silas since his rookie season. “He knows it inside and out. He coached my cousin in Cleveland, Dajuan Wagner. It’s like damn, feel me? He’s old, but he don’t look old.”
In a league that is trending toward more and more toward specialization, Silas’ coaching profile is broader and more diverse. He’s done offense with Nelson and defense with Clifford, two of the game’s great tacticians. He’s worked individually with guards, big men, and wings. He’s coached summer league.
“There isn’t much in the NBA that I haven’t done,” Silas says.
There also isn’t anyone he doesn’t know. As we chat following a practice session at Emerson College, Silas nods toward an Emerson coach. “That’s my guy,” he says. “We met at Dave Cowens’ camp.”
9:30 a.m. Shootaround
There’s something about the cold quiet of the morning shootaround that says it’s time to go to work. There are no frills to be had in this environment, least of all heat. The players and coaches arrive on buses in their workout gear, while the support staff stocks their locker room with uniforms and equipment.
After watching film, the Hornets hit the court at 10 a.m. for a 50-minute walkthrough, which, like all NBA walkthroughs, is closed to the media. There’s 25 minutes of offense and 25 minutes of defense. Everything is planned in advance.
“When I first started, shootaround would be literally, shoot around,” Silas says. “You go and play some shooting games, maybe walk through four plays. And that’s it. Everybody get on the bus and go.”
Things change. Under Clifford, the Hornets are known for preparation and attention to detail. Before they get to the Garden, the coaches will have gone through a thorough scouting report that was compiled by one of the assistants.
“Cliff is so detailed,” Silas says. “He’s got it down. If we have an opinion, we’ll give it to him. As the years have gone on he’s leaned on us a little more.”
When Clifford got the Hornets job four-and-a-half years ago, he didn’t even bother to interview Silas. He simply asked him if he’d like to stay on staff. As the number two man, Silas runs practices on occasion and takes the lead in game-planning. During games, he’s responsible for substitutions.
“He can do everything,” Clifford tells me. “It’s healthy for the team to not have to listen to the same voice 82 times. I have so much trust and he’s so thorough and knowledgeable in what he does that I’m never worried. The preparation is going to be as good or better.”
Jeremy Brevard-USA TODAY Sports
Stephen Silas talks with Kemba Walker
That’s in addition to his other duties, which include working individually with the wing players. If Silas has a speciality, it’s player development — Clifford was immediately drawn to how Silas interacts with players.
A special education major in college, Clifford notes something a former professor had told him about teaching: “If you gain the right type of communication with your group they will try hard to meet your expectations,” Clifford says. “That’s what he’s very good at. He has a way to gain their respect and establish the right kind of credibility so they know he can help them. There’s nothing more important than that.”
Silas is perhaps best known by hardcore NBA aficionados for his work with a young Steph Curry. He taught Steph his two-basketball dribbling routine and he gets a chuckle when fans come to the arena early to watch Curry’s pregame workout. Their relationship has deep roots.
Silas had known Steph since he was a kid growing up in Charlotte. His niece and nephew went to the same school and Paul Silas had coached Dell Curry with the Hornets. They were both sons of former players and hit it off immediately. Curry would come over on off days and watch games or eat dinner. They’d go to church together or go to the gym and get up shots.
“He’s like the perfect student,” Silas says. “He listens all the time, asks great questions, challenges you a little. You can tell him something and he’ll get better right after you tell him. He stretches you, which was good for me as a coach.”
After the walkthrough is completed, everyone heads back to the bus for the short ride back to the hotel. Now it’s time to think about a future opponent, the Cleveland Cavaliers.
12:30 p.m. Film work
Still in his sweats from shootaround, Silas has a tablet setup on a stand next to his MacBook, where he’s watching film of Cleveland’s game against Houston. We’re in a suite on top floor of the Ritz, where the team is staying. Being the number two man has its perks.
Like most teams, the Hornets divide the scouting work, with each assistant taking 20 games. Silas has the lead for the Cavs, which consists of watching five games worth of film and compiling his notes into the scouting report that goes to Clifford. He’ll then go over the report with the head coach before they present it to the group.
In his early days, Silas would travel with a plastic bag full of VHS tapes. He once spent a lonely Saturday night in a Los Angeles Walmart looking for two VCRs so he could make his edit on the road. Now the team has its own software for watching film.
As with everything, there is a routine. Silas likes to watch two games back-to-back, which helps him recognize patterns. He never watches live so he can skip past commercials and free throws. He keeps the sound on because he can occasionally pick up a tidbit or two based on what they’re talking about on the broadcast.
Once he has his five games he’ll compile the scouting report, which sounds a lot cooler than it actually looks. The report is only a few pages long, but it’s crammed with offensive and defensive keys, matchups, and individual play sets. Silas and the other assistants draw the sets in black ink and make notes in red because Clifford prefers it to computer generated diagrams.
“Our game plans are pretty substantial,” Silas says.
Before he even gets to the video, Silas will have received an email from the team’s advance scout, Drew Perry, who sees each team live at least twice. Perry tracks all the play calls and forwards them to the team’s video department.
The video team then syncs them with the film so they appear on the bottom of the screen. They also catalogue them for the scouting report software they use where Silas makes his notes on the tablet. After watching games all the way through, he can jump back and forth between specific sets, individual personnel, or outcomes.
Perry will also send along a playbook consisting of diagrams as well as his own notes. Silas flips through the diagrams that run on for several pages detailing how the Cavaliers try to score: early offense, secondary offense, post-ups, corner, high posts, Hawk cuts, UCLA cuts, zippers, catch and shoot, loop action and spread, Princeton, dribble hand-off, step ups, horns, middle pick-and-roll, side pick-and-roll, side out of bounds, deep corner out of bounds, baseline out of bounds, ATOs, and crunch time plays.
It’s literally everything you could ever want to know about how the Cavs run their offense in every conceivable situation. Even for someone who consumes a ton of NBA basketball, the diagrams look like hieroglyphics. For coaches, they’re an unspoken method of communication.
“Drew is unbelievable,” Silas says. “He’ll do seven different options on double drag, which is just two picks in transition. It’s a little bit of overkill, but it’s better to have more than less.”
Advance scouts are the true information brokers in this league. They see everything from play calls to player reactions on the bench and in the huddle. Silas learned the art of scouting from his days doing advance work and it was an invaluable apprenticeship. He used to diagram everything. Now, he instantly recognizes actions and traces them back to the root.
“Slice 4 Pop,” he says as the Cavs run through a set. “A Kevin Love play. This is actually a play they used to run for Amar’e Stoudemire in Phoenix where the small will pin down on Kevin Love coming up to the top.”
On the screen, all of this happens in a few seconds. A guard runs toward the baseline to set a screen on Love’s defender that will allow Love to catch the ball about 18 feet from the basket near the top of the key. Within that set are variations, and within those variations are options if the play breaks down. Silas can diagnose all that in less than the time it takes to watch the full clip.
On defense, he’s looking for coverage patterns. Do they shoot the gap on a stagger screen or lock-and-trail? Do they get up in the passing lanes and deny everything or lay back and pack the paint? Always, he is looking for tendencies in pick-and-roll coverage. “That’s the nitty gritty of offense,” he says. “Try to get two guys to the ball.”
Despite all those tactical adjustments, there is a fairly consistent collection of sets and calls from team to team. The difference is philosophy, as well as personnel. Right on cue, as the Cavs bring the ball up in transition, LeBron James waits a half-beat and then hits a trailing Love for an open three at the top of the arc.
“Those transition threes,” Silas says, shaking his head. They will be an adjustment for Dwight Howard, a traditional center in a world that emphasizes speed and shooting.
“Dwight is programmed to run back to the rim,” Silas says. “But with the game changing and more spacing [for centers], he has to be conscious of staying up. So when I do my writeup it will talk about all those aspects. Kevin Love running into that trail three.”
When his film work is done, Silas will have a few hours to himself before heading back to the arena.
5 p.m. Arrive at the Garden
Before every road game Silas will catch a ride with forwards Michael Kidd-Gilchrist and Treveon Graham 30 minutes before the first bus leaves from the hotel. Guards Jeremy Lamb and Malik Monk will arrive around the same time, and the next part of the workday will commence.
They are his guys and they run the gamut of experience levels and roles. They all need something different from their coach. Silas is responsible for them and takes ownership over good plays and bad ones. The bad ones linger. Maybe he could have found another clip or talked through a coverage one more time.
“You’re always thinking about your guys,” Silas says. “Every guy is completely different. You can’t approach it the same way. Some guys are better learners on the floor. Some guys need 20 clips, they want to see everything. Some guys want 10 of their good and 10 of their bad.”
Each player gets his own individual time with Silas for a pregame shooting routine and going through more film on the bench on a laptop. The order is set and never deviates.
Graham is up first. The 24-year-old from Virginia Commonwealth caught on as an undrafted free agent last season after a year in the D-League. Graham earned a role off the bench in the absence of Nicolas Batum, but he’s out with a thigh contusion. Coach and player sit on the bench and talk.
“For him, it’s, ‘Are you good? Is there anything you need a little more work on?”’ Silas says. “If it’s a veteran that’s not playing much they’re completely different than a young guy who’s not playing much. They have to know you have their best interests at heart and you understand what they’re going through. If a guy’s not playing much you can’t hammer them all the time because they’re going to hate coming to work every day.”
Kidd-Gilchrist, a low-maintenance defensive stalwart, takes the court next. He always gets exactly what he needs. No more. No less. Before a game against the Rockets, Silas sent him a clip defending James Harden. The next day Silas asked if he got the text and MKG nodded. Silas laughs. “I can’t get a thumbs up, or an OK, or a black fist or something?”
That’s MKG: quiet and dependable. They’ve been together for six years and their connection grows deeper every season. “He’s more than a coach, man,” MKG tells me after finishing his pregame routine. “He’s a friend. He’s a mentor.”
Lamb, a thrice-traded former lottery pick from Connecticut who is off to the best start of his career, is up next. His emergence as a starter in place of Batum has been one of the team’s positive developments. It’s early in the season, but Lamb appears to finally be achieving a breakthrough six years into his career. Then again, it’s not that early. He and Silas spent much of the summer working out in Charlotte.
“It was real this summer,” Silas says. “That’s a win. A good summer is a win and now he’s had 11 really good games. He’s super confident, he works, and is very conscientious.”
Jeremy Brevard-USA TODAY Sports
Stephen Silas
Lamb always has to get shots up after practices and shootarounds. They hit the same areas of the floor day in and day out. Devising a routine and sticking with it has been an important part of his development. And he’s always asking for clips. Silas makes it a point to mix in positive plays so Lamb can leave the session feeling good about himself.
“When you do have a coach who cares about you and really likes to develop players and make people better that’s huge,” Lamb tells me. “You don’t always find that in the NBA. People always talk about how hard players work and stuff like that. At the end of the day, they never get a day off. He’s always texting me, ‘What time do you want to go tomorrow?’ Even when I’m late, he’s there. It’s great having a coach that believes in you but also pushes you.”
Because he is a rookie, Monk gets the final pick and winds up with the last shooting slot right as the arena countdown clock gets to 90 minutes. “He got the best time,” Silas says with a bemused look. “Go figure.” Silas has to bring Monk up to speed quickly but not overload with him with too much information. It’s a delicate balance.
“This is completely different than anything he’s ever seen before,” Silas says. “It has to be enough but not so much that they don’t tune you out, which I would have done when I was 19 and someone was showing 20 clips of pick-and-roll protection.”
Monk, who is already getting important rotation minutes, is full of boundless energy and enthusiasm. On our way off the court for a quick interview, he stops to sign an autograph and winds up signing for every person in the section. This is still new and fresh and he’s eager to please. I ask Monk if Silas ever loses patience with him.
“Never. Never. Never. He doesn’t get mad,” Monk says. “You make a mistake, he’s going to tell you and you learn from it. In the tone that he talks. No get mad, no get frustrated, nothing like that. Coach Clifford is the one that gets mad.”
After their workouts, there’s still more time for film and final prep. The crowd is starting to arrive and the Garden is coming to life.
Gametime 7:30 p.m.
The gameplan has been well established since early this morning. On offense, they want to run multiple actions to try and gain an advantage against the Celtics’ switching defense. Any possession that ends with one pass or or one screen is probably not a good possession. On defense, they want to keep the Celtics’ new star point guard Kyrie Irving out of the paint and off the three-point line.
The Hornets catch a break when it’s announced that Al Horford won’t play because he’s recovering from a concussion. That solves one issue since Horford is a mobile big man who takes opposing big men out to the perimeter, and the Hornets prefer to pack the paint. His replacement, Aron Baynes, also isn’t as likely to switch on pick-and-rolls. They catch another break when Irving crashes into Baynes and suffers a facial fracture less than two minutes into the game.
The first half goes according to plan. The Hornets limit transition and dare the C’s to beat them from the outside. The offense runs through multiple sequences and keeps turnovers to a minimum. Even though All-Star guard Kemba Walker struggles with his shot, he still hands out 10 assists in the first half as the Hornets build an 18-point lead.
They’re still up a dozen points going into the fourth quarter, but that’s when things fall apart. Walker is suddenly the only player who can score and the Celtics make an inspired comeback to extend their winning streak to 12 games. It’s a brutal loss for the Hornets, even more so because it’s their fourth straight defeat and they won’t play again for five days.
As I head down the tunnel to catch up with Silas, Celtics coach Brad Stevens pulls me aside and says the Hornets were as prepared as any team they’ve played this season. “Whatever we did, they were on it,” Stevens says.
I relay the complement to Silas, who grimaces. “Great,” he says. “What does that get us?”
The Hornets mood is forlorn, even angry. Coaches and support staff walk by sporting thousand-yard stares. It’s only November, but these setbacks hurt. I ask Silas how he deals with the losses. “Not well,” he says.
He’s got family waiting for him and he’d rather not deal with any of that right now. There are postgame duties to handle on the plane ride home, and he’s already thinking of clips to show his guys. The Cavs’ report is waiting to be finalized when he lands.
The bus is leaving for the airport in 10 minutes, and it occurs to Silas that they’ve been on the road for a week and a half. As he searches for something positive, he says, “It will be good to go home.”
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