#(i really enjoyed eagle but. let's see how rifles goes........)

[lacomandante]

Sam warned me going into the books that Rifles is...rough. And a few pages in and oh boy. She was not wrong. I was lamenting that Teresa wasn't there and then our first introduction with Sharpe and I'm like. you know what nvm. Book Sharpe at his Worst™

[unidentifiedflyingfks]

Movie: FINAL GIRL (2015)

Cast: ABIGAIL BRESLIN of Little Miss Sunshine and Zombieland

WES BENTLEY of and The Hunger Games, Yellowstone, and my personal favorite P2

ALEXANDER LUDWIG also of The Hunger Games and Vikings

This movie has literally kept me up all night with questions. Mainly how did they get Abigail Breslin, Wes Bentley, and Ragnar Jr. all to agree to be in this awful movie? Then, answering my own question, can literally anyone with $$ make a movie and pay reasonably well known actors to play in it? Then, is everybody fucking with me?

***Side note: the term ‘final girl’ is a common trope in horror referring to the last girl left alive, or the survivor. (Ex. Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween)

The director, Tyler Shields, is better known for his photography career and before that professional inline skating, funnily enough, where he worked alongside the likes of Tony Hawk and other pro skaters. His photography seems to be centered around shock value with works including items like black guys lynching a KKK member, Lindsay Lohan as a vampire, a crocodile biting a crocodile skin purse, and more recently a photo of Kathy Griffin holding what looks like Donald Trump’s severed head. (Spoiler alert: Donald didn’t take it well) Basically all playing off of easy to reach social issues that will exploit controversy without offering anything other than surface level discomfort IMO. Final Girl was his debut film and while I will credit its high production value and actors I soo wanted to like, that’s where it ends.

(Tyler shields and his infamous photo)

The movie begins with Wes Bentley’s character interviewing a child (young Breslin) who just lost her parents under seemingly violent circumstances. She demonstrates puzzle solving skills and seemingly photographic memory as well as a apathetic view of death—as when she says “death happens” right after the death of her parents. So Bentley recruits her for **something** hard that most people can’t do. He also reveals his wife and child were killed by **someone** (not the villains the whole plot centers around because if they’re seniors in high school at the time they would have been about 6 when his wife was killed assuming it was recent to the death of Breslin’s parents since we’re…. ah doesn’t even matter. Too stupid.)

First of all, I love Abigail Breslin. She’s beautiful, funny, and I especially like her as #5 on Scream Queens. Buttttt, let’s keep it real she was horrible for this role. It was never believable that she was an elite agent trained since childhood to mirk people with her bare hands. That being said, her training basically consisted of talking yourself up, choking Bentley, and taking DMT (Also, what?) so it’s not all on her. I would have even been with it if she used her aforementioned puzzle solving skills and smarts to beat the boys, but instead were treated to unrealistic fights scenes with Breslin’s character takes multiple punches to the face while looking the daintiest I’ve ever seen her.

Stop there if you’d like, you have the jist, but there is a little more.

Anyway it all starts when she’s launched on her mission. Is it the first mission of many, or what she’s been training for her whole life, we don’t know. Breslin befriends a girl in a 50’s style diner with instant milkshakes and they start talking about their love interests. The girl has the hots for a guy other than her boyfriend, and Breslin has the hots for her mentor/dad (basically, right? It’s Wes Bentley I get it, but it’s still kindaaa weird right?) That encounter amounts to very little then Breslin meets Jameson, Alexander Ludwigs of ‘Vikings’, who dresses for prom and invites her out. (Yeah, that’s all I got too)

They meet up with Jameson’s three dumb friends and they’re all wearing their prom garb too. Then they drive out into the wilderness to some teenage drinkin and fuckin couches in the woods—again, not that you’ll see any fuckin’ inthis movie, killin’ motivated crimes only for these teen boys. Breslin’s pops out some DMT laced liquor for the boys and they start playing a game of truth or dare out of a bag for some reason. After a weird spiel from Jameson about a rabbit he feels bad about letting die slowly, Breslin conveniently draws ‘get tied up’ from the truth-or-dare bag. She’s tied behind the back, not that it really matters because she gets out instantly. Then they tell her their plan for the four of them to hunt her down ‘The Most Dangerous Game’ style. They give her five minutes to run, but one guy is too eager to kill her and runs off before the five minutes is up. Luckily he’s tripping balls by now in the way only people who have never tripped any balls imagine tripping balls is like, so while he’s battling two deadmou5e-like apparitions Breslin can steal his axe and kill him with it. Now she’s armed, oh never mind she left the axe in that guy’s chest.

Then she kills another hallucinating guy after taking a couple blows, then she goes after the third guy. Number 3 is also clone kid #7 from UltraViolet, his worst fear is that his girlfriend, the one from the 50’s diner, is fucking Jameson—which she is—and also that she will find out about their “hunting trips” and he will have to kill her for it. After hallucinating all of this, including a fist fight with Jameson who apparently isn’t even there, it is revealed to be Breslin’s character encouraging his hallucinations the whole time. She then kills UltraViolet-child-actor with a rock to the face in the the best kill scene of the film.

(See?)

The only one remaining at this point is Jameson, who incidentally is the only boy who didn’t take the DMT laced drink. Breslin is beat up and exhausted by the time Jameson encounters her. Before THEIR fistfight they engage in a game of wits (not For realz). They each answer each other’s questions with Breslin revealing she enjoyed killing the boys and Jameson AKA Ragnar Jr. admitting they’d already killed 20 women the same way. He then asks her to join him and continue killing together, but she declines, they fist fight, she chokes him like she choked Bentley in the beginning, and drugs him.

(This is the high school goof supposedly responsible for 20 murders. I just can’t get over this. As an avid reader of true crime, numbers like this are unheard of for a guy of his age. Also are we supposed to believe 4 guys in Tuxedos in this seemingly small town have killed 20 women and no one noticed? GTFO)

When Jameson wakes, he’s in a noose on a stump teeter tottering for his life as he starts to hallucinate. He satisfactorily begs Breslin for mercy, then is overtaken by his worst fear—the ghosts of his victims who startle him off the stump and to his death by strangulation.

After Ragnar Jr’s dead, Bentley walks out of the forest with a sniper rifle and I almost freaked TF out. I don’t feel good about comparing it to LOTR, but it’s like Gandalf calling in the giant eagles to take Frodo home after he’s travelled a third of the world to get there ON FOOT. What. Was. The. Point. Seriously. (Actually seriously—would the birds have been corrupted by the ring of power, or is that just like a major plot hole? And was Breslin on hard drugs for a little while and I didn’t hear about it?)

Anyway, after that Breslin and Bentley go to a diner, order pancakes, agree that they taste terrible, and that’s it. The end.

I know you may be thinking ‘yeah unidentifiedflyingfks, but your missing the deeper meaning—they all took the DMT and it made them face their worst fears!’ Yeah—I get that, but it still doesn’t mean it works. I would have literally rather it be magic than DMT. They’d probably all have different reactions and probably not even be incapacitated in the ways depicted in the movie. For it to expose everyone’s ‘worst fears’ is fucking magic anyway so let’s go ahead call a spade a lazy, half baked plot line, m’kay?

What really irks me about this movie though, is it could have been good. Have Breslin act within her skill set and find ways for her to use them that make sense, or at least give her some boxing classes and have her lift weights for Christ’s sake. Also these teens have killed 20 girls already? Where did they even come from? Also Bentley knew and this was the best way he could come up with to take them down? And who told him to act like a total weirdo creep in every scene? I don’t expect much. If you can’t make it good make it funny and this was neither. I wanted to like this movie, I still like Breslin and Bentley, but for as many reviews I read that wanted to give it 0 stars and couldn’t, I will. Never forget…. Oh never mind forget it all.

***0/5 FF’s, first certified TERRIBLE MOVIE!!

Here’s some user comments I found 😂😂 ->

[fragenherrdoktor]

Rip's backstory? Im gonna President's day this question, actually. Major's? Dok? Do you think Schrodinger is based (in universe) on a an actual Kid? (My Headcanon)

Whoa! Thanks for the questions! I’m going to break the answers up by character for length. I touched on some of these points in a past post, so I’ll expand on them. First up, Rip Van Winkle! 

Rip seems to be Zorin’s opposite; she’s the ‘Eva Braun’ to the latter’s ‘Brunhilde’. Zorin appears to represent the more agrarian population, while Rip is more the urban-dwelling socialite. She seems more refined in her style of dress and love of opera, so I would imagine she comes from a higher social class, possibly the daughter of an officer. That or she’s putting on airs to make one think she’s from a more affluent background than she really is.

I think Rip was likely born around the Rhineland, given her moniker is both Dutch and a literary reference to Irving's Rip Van Winkle because:

The Rhineland is closer to Holland than any other part of Germany. While the German ‘Von’ is more common in names, the Dutch ‘Van’ makes its way in there too: example Ludwig Van Beethoven who was originally from Bonn, Germany. So she might be of Dutch descent to some degree, too?

Irving’s novel takes place in the Hudson Valley, which Life magazine in 1939 called “America’s Rhineland” because they are a bit geographically similar.

I think Rip was born and raised on propaganda. In Dawn, her hair is braided similarly to girls and women in the BMD. She likely joined as a preteen and was active in it until her late teens or until 21. The BMD indoctrinated young women and taught a very romanticized version of German folklore and tradition coupled with the National Socialist system. That’s probably what lends to Rip’s more silly, girlish, and romantic personality and outlook on the events in Hellsing. A lot of the BMD’s teaching also focused on the “self-sacrifice’’ women should make to further the cause of the party, which seems to match her sacrificing herself to further Millennium's goals to keep Alucard stuck at sea for a bit to launch their attack.

She likely voluntarily joined the Aufseherin, too. I think Rip (and Zorin to an extent in terms of sheer brutality and rural upbringing) is based on Irma Grese the most. Grese is described as being beautiful, immaculately dressed, and one of the most sadistic female guards. That description seems to fit Rip and her gleeful enjoyment of Mill’s actions.

Given her entrance in Hellsing: The Dawn (she’s K.O.’d like immediately) and moniker, I think Rip is out cold for pretty much the entirety of the Hellsing Raid and misses the rest of WW2. In Irving’s novel, Rip Van Winkle falls asleep for 20 years and misses the American Revolution. This leads me to think that Hellsing Rip is out for an extended period as well due to the karate chop from Alu’s coffin to the back of her head.

I think the hit also caused some extensive head trauma and forced the Doktor to work on her shortly after the raid. In the opening of Dawn, Millennium is experimenting on POW’s and only seems to be able to create ghouls, not the more advanced bootleg vampires, yet. I think Rip was one of the first, if not the original successful FREAK. I also believe she fell flat on her face and chipped her teeth after being knocked out, and Dok filed them into points, giving Rip her signature smile.

Due to her unconsciousness and missing parts of the war, I think Mill’s higher-ups (namely Major) gave her the moniker Rip Van Winkle as a joke.

I believe the wack to the head messed with Rip’s memory too, possibly giving her amnesia, and is one of the reasons why she’s so attached to Der Freischütz. I think she always enjoyed opera. Those with amnesia, while they might forget past events, loved ones, have been known to have their musical memory still intact. I think this is one of the reasons she’s so obsessed with the opera and strongly relates to it; it’s one of the strongest things she can remember and thus relates to it waaay too hard. (Wouldn’t feel bad for her. The whole aftermath of the Hellsing Raid is pure speculation on my part. Rip’s scarily loyal to Mill, so she’s terrible through and through.)

Her being called Rip Van Winkle showcases how her, and by extent all of Millennium, are stuck in the past and are resistant to change. Irving’s story is a cautionary tale about wasting your life away, and Mill, well, they waste their lives trying to get revenge/overcome the supernatural/prove their superiority.

Her catchphrase “Tinker tailor soldier sailor, my bullet punishes all without distinction” is a reference to the old ‘Tinker, Tailor’ game/nursery rhyme children used to use to identify who was “it” in a game of tag. I think it highlights how childish Rip is, she views shooting someone kin to playing deadly tag.

In the novel Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, named after the same rhyme, British SIS agents track down a Soviet spy in their ranks. I think this also references how Rip got on the Eagle using British naval forces that betrayed the crown in return for vampirism.

I have no fucking idea where the hell she got the Jezail rifle from. They were really popular with Afghan troops, especially during the Anglo-Afghan war. I think it’s supposed to add insult to injury that she’s using a musket that devastated British forces in 1800′s before while also reinforcing how behind the times she is.

She seems to personally relate to Kaspar in Der Freischütz, who in the opera makes a deal with Samuel, an evil spirit/the devil known as Black Huntsman, for magic bullets. However Rip got her powers, I imagine it took her (with the help of Mill/Dok) summoning an evil spirit and making a deal with it that enabled her to shoot cursed bullets.

The fact that Rip and Zorin are a part of Mill highlights that they’re both highly effective soldiers. Their leadership roles are also one of the things that show how unorthodox Major is at running his organization. Women participated in military service, but it was very regimented because the Nazi’s were, in a word, conservative. Women served alongside men, but they could never give their male soldiers orders. Both Rip and Zorin are officers with troops under their command, so they must be good at what they do, even if Rip is a bit of a ditz at times.

Rip is the only one who is scared shitless of Alucard when she first sees him. She seems slightly more ‘realistic’ about her capabilities, but goes through with being bait, cementing her extreme loyalty to Mill’s cause. However, the way she talks about Alucard makes me wonder if she’s aware that they are truly fighting the actual Dracula. Rip seems to believe Alucard IS Samuel to some degree(???). The way Major builds up this idea in her flashback leads me to believe Major isn’t 100% truthful about what exactly Mill is fighting or their end goal (even to higher-ranking officers) and is fine letting his soldiers believe in whatever gets them to do what he wants (read: die horribly).

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 7: Let It Be]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.  

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language, ANGST.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

A/N: Thank you all so much for the love this fic has received! I hope you continue to enjoy it...the highs and the lows. :) I also wanted to give you a heads up that I am currently in school and that the next year will be pretty intense, so there may be times when I don’t update as frequently as I’d like to. But I will never go on an official hiatus or not finish a series, and you are always welcome to drop me a note asking how the next update is going. Happy reading!

Taglist: @blushingwueen​ @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap @sincereleygmg @stormtrprinstilettos @loveandbeloved29 @ohtheseboysilove @jennyggggrrr @vanitysfairr @bramblesforbreakfast @radiob-l-a-hblah @xox-talia-xox @killer-queen-xo @caborhapch @kimmietea @asquiresofftime @hardzzellos @sleepretreat @ramibaby @jonesyaddiction @ixchel-9275 @omgitsearly @lovepizza-cake11 @deacy-dearest @shishterfackisback @mrbenhardys @deaky-with-a-c @whitetrashdarling @stephanie-everlasting @brianprobablywill @dancingstan @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @abigfatmess @hufflepuff-khaleesi @sara-1705 @thigh-your-mother-down @chlobo6 @danamaleksworld @painkiller80 @teenwolflover28 @jazzman-19 @lucyplaysguitarandcellobitch Please let me know if I forgot anyone!!

You slam the door behind you and sink to the kitchen floor. Your hands are trembling, your chest heaving, your vision blurring as tears ripple across your eyes. You don’t remember what you said to her, to the siren, to the sublime woman you’re still struggling to comprehend is Ben’s fiancée; something insipid and vague, something brief. You don’t remember leaving Trader Joe’s or driving home. Your shopping cart is still full and unattended in the produce section, waiting powerlessly to be retrieved, ice cream slowly melting and dripping through sagging paperboard containers.

“He’s getting married,” you gasp almost inaudibly between ragged breaths. You glance up at the refrigerator. The magnets still spell those two innocent little words: I’m sorry.

You rip your potted artificial calla lily off the counter and hurl it at the refrigerator; magnets and ceramic shards fly in every direction like shrapnel.

“He’s getting fucking married!” you scream to your empty house.

You bury your face in your hands and sob with maddening helplessness. You fell for it. Some outlandishly-too-good-to-be-true British movie star dropped out of the sky and you were stupid enough to believe he loved you, that someone like him ever could. You fell for it like a mammoth into tarpits, roped in viscous darkness and with nowhere to go but down.  

And then you hear a jarringly cheery ringtone. You clutch for your purse and tear out your iPhone. The name on the screen is Ben Hardy. 

“No fucking way,” you hiss, and decline the call. It occurs to you—gnaws away at you—that just enough time has passed for them to have finished shopping, picked up Eli from Ben’s mother’s apartment, arrived home; just enough time for Ben to have slickly dismissed himself, disappeared to his Lexus or some other shadowy corner somewhere, a dim clandestine place to deal with dirty secrets. And that’s exactly what I am: the unhallowed mistress, an unspoken ghost in the haunted crevices of a marriage, a black stain on a white dress.

Your phone, face-down on the countertop, rings every two to three minutes like clockwork. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hands and try to collect yourself: stagger to your feet, pour a glass of the Patrón tequila—straight, no ice—that you keep on the top shelf, drop a vinyl on the record player. Take It Easy by The Eagles floats through the thick, stifling air. You glare at the green calla lily that lays limply on the kitchen floor, its petals bent precariously yet still intact.

“Die, bitch,” you whisper bitterly. But of course, it doesn’t die; the calla lily is fake, just like your relationship with Ben, just like all the things he said to you. It’s a lie. It’s eternal. You snatch the lily off the floor and toss it into the trashcan.

There’s a sound outside—the humming of an engine, the rustling of footsteps—and then frantic banging so forceful your door quivers on its hinges. “Y/N!” Ben shouts from outside, still rapping on the white-painted wood. “It’s me, it’s Ben, let me in.”

“Never in your life,” you hurl back, furious at how hoarse your voice sounds: like someone who’s been crying, like someone pathetic and wounded and weak. You feel like a fox caught with its leg in a steel trap, the flesh split down to the bone and glistening with ruby gore, the hunter looming voyeuristically with his hands on his waist and a rifle slung over one broad shoulder.

“Please, please let me in, just let me explain—”

“Fuck off!”

“You deserve an explanation,” Ben says, more measured now. “Let me give you that.”

That knocks some of the rage out of you, replacing it with curiosity, unsurety, temptation. You don’t know what you deserve, but you do crave an explanation. And part of me still wants to see him.

“Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.” His words are patient, suppliant. The Eagles record spins as the moments tick by.

At last, you cross the kitchen and open the door. Ben slips inside as you step away until your back hits the refrigerator. You remember the last time you were in this room together; it hangs between you like spiderwebs, invisible but ensnaring, interlaced threads just waiting to be walked into.

“Hi,” he says softly, almost whispers. Then his gaze flicks around the kitchen, to the magnets and ceramic debris littering the floor, to the tequila, to the record player, to you. And you almost feel sorry for Ben, almost; because his once-clear eyes—malachite or emerald or peridot or jade, you think impulsively—are red and swollen, his shoulders wilted, his expression shell-shocked. He looks like hell. But you probably do too. “Babe...I...” He comes towards you.

“Don’t touch me.”

He backs away immediately, raising his hands in surrender. The silence is heavy and ominous.

Finally, you ask: “Who is she?”

Ben sighs, rubbing his chin distractedly with one thumb. “Her name is Santina Nicolosi.”

Your eyes close like drawn curtains. “Of course it is.” You know that name, you’ve taught Nicolosi kids before. The Nicolosis are a vast family with old roots in Hollywood, producers and actors and directors, ostentatiously wealthy, omnipotent. The kind of people Ben should be associating with. The kind of women he should be marrying. “Is she a model?”

“An actress.”

“Jesus christ,” you moan. And then, before you can stop yourself: “Why, Ben?”

“It’s hard to explain, it’s complicated, it’s...” He gestures vaguely with his hands, his beautiful hands. Hands that will never touch me again. “We haven’t...we...we were really young when we had Eli, and it hasn’t been easy, it’s been off and on, and we disagree on virtually everything...but I...” He wrenches it out. “I’m an adult, I have to take responsibility, I have to try to make it work. For Eli.”

You scoff. “Yeah, I’m sure living with gorgeous Santina Nicolosi and her barrels of money and inexhaustible industry influence is a real goddamn curse.”

Ben says nothing.

You swallow, your voice cracking. “So this is what you do, you find someone brainless and naïve and ordinary to screw around with, and then when you’re bored of that you go home to your actress-slash-heiress fiancée—”

“I’ve never done this before.”

“You fucking liar,” you seethe.

Incredibly, he laughs, a quick caustic sound. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“I get that ‘not in the picture’ could be open to some interpretation but there is no alternate universe in which it means engaged to.”

“I didn’t lie to you about the rest of it.”

You shake your head in fury, in persistent waves of shock. “I can’t believe this, I really can’t believe this, and I...oh god, I...I still have to see you, because I teach your son...” You’re sobbing again, you’re falling to pieces, you’re fracturing like thin ice under reckless feet.

Ben tries to reach for you. “Please don’t—”

“Don’t touch me, you, you...” There’s no word for what he is, there’s nothing malevolent enough.

He points at you as his voice leaps louder, more wrathful. “Don’t you say it, don’t you dare call me a demon!”

“You are!” you scream at him. “You are a fucking demon, you are a monster, you are the worst thing that ever happened to me!”

Now Ben has nothing to offer in reply. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, frowns at the floor, chews on his lower lip in that absentminded, nervous way that he does. “I’m so sorry,” he says simply.

“Thanks, I’m whole again,” you fling like a dagger.

He flinches, and again you’re struck by his palpable distress, his vulnerability. But that didn’t stop him from cheating, lying, making me love him, cracking my ribs open so he could rip my fucking heart out. “I...”

“Get out,” you snap.

“I’m sorry, I really am. I won’t make this any harder for you than it is already. I won’t bother you again.”

“Perfect,” you whisper, your lips trembling. He needs to leave, he needs to leave NOW, I can’t let him see me crumble again.

Ben opens the door. “I hope—”

“Just get out!”

He nods in resignation, steps outside, disappears into the fading afternoon sunlight. And you’re alone in so many more ways than one.

You bite back tears as you pace through the kitchen, struggling to compose yourself, desperate to forget. Then your eyes catch on the artificial calla lily in the trashcan. It’s pointless to throw it away, you realize. There’s no end to it; even if it’s collected with the refuse, even when goes to the landfill. It won’t decompose, it won’t disappear. If anything, it’ll just end up choking a dolphin or sea turtle to death. You fish it out and lay it on the counter.

“I don’t want to let you go,” you say to the green calla lily, to nobody at all.

I have to heal from this. I have to get over Ben Hardy. I have to move on.

But you’ve already forgotten what your life looks like without him.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday. You shuffle out of your bedroom with a blanket draped over your shoulders like armor, your eyes sore and aching, your thoughts a fog. You’ve slept for approximately ninety total minutes. You scowl at the couch.

“Stupid debaucherous sex-couch of shame,” you mutter. That’s supposed to be funny, but it doesn’t feel that way; it feels sad and pitiful and raw. You plop down in your lounge chair instead, pulling your knees to your chest, flipping through the channels until you find a special about the Cretaceous Period on HBO.

After an hour, your phone rings. It’s Joe Mazzello. You’ve saved him in your contacts as Zappy Zap Dino Boi. Tipsy Y/N is an interesting character. “Hello?”

“Hey, Sweet Caroline!” His voice is bright, bubbly, effervescent.

“Ahh. You remembered that.”

“I wasn’t nearly as turnt as you were. We still on for baseball?”

Are we? You don’t want reminders of Ben, you don’t want any links to his world; you want to forget he exists entirely. But you like Joe—or, at least, you had at The Edison—and you can’t help but notice that he’s already lightening your spirits, evaporating gloom like rain off pavement. “Yeah, totally.”

“Is tomorrow afternoon gucci?”

Oh my god, he’s one of those people who says gucci. “You are definitely not as cool as drunk-me thought you were.”

Joe cackles through the phone. “Is it okay if I bring a friend?”

“Ben?” you ask reflexively.

“No, not him. Ben’s got work in London. Why?” His interest is piqued. Oh no.

“No reason. That’s fine with me. Your friend is gucci.”

Joe chuckles again. “Text me your deets and I’ll pick you up.”

“Sounds like a plan, dinosaur kid.”

“Also: the friend is not Jeff Goldblum. Don’t get too excited. Don’t show up with whipped cream and lingerie.”

You laugh, your first laugh in nearly twenty-four hours, a loud genuine laugh that starts deep in your belly. “I’m devastated.”

“See you soon, amica.”

“Bye, Joe.” You hang up and stare at the ceiling. This is fine. This is sensible. This is only going to lead to good things.

Right?

~~~~~~~~~~

“Strrrrrike seven!” Joe announces cheerfully. He’s wearing shorts and a red baseball jacket that he says is from a film he wrote and directed called Undrafted. It’s an even eighty degrees outside and breezy; the strands of dark hair that jut out from under Joe’s cap are fluttering in the wind. The sky is clear, unmarred cerulean. You had been anxious before Joe’s Subaru rolled into your driveway, steeping in your dusky house and your own misery, second-guessing the point of friendship, of love, of everything; yet the moment you slid into Joe’s backseat all of that vanished. You adore this eccentric little man, you had realized with relief, even when there’s no alcohol involved.

“This is so sad,” you say, twirling the bat in your hands. “This is absolutely pathetic. I am an embarrassment to America.”

“Maybe Joe’s pitching is the problem,” Gwilym suggests helpfully from where he’s crouching over home plate.

“Uhhhh, rude, Gwilym!” Joe shouts.

You glance back at Gwil. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m pretty sure it’s me.”

Gwil stands, the ball still snug in his mitt, and pulls off his catcher’s mask. “Joe,” he calls, “take it down a few notches. Toss it underhand. Nice and easy.”

“Fine.” Joe snatches the baseball out of the air when Gwil lobs it to him.

You turn back to Gwil, shielding your face from the sun with one hand. “Is this getting too painful to watch?”

He smiles benignly, reassuringly, but his eyes are nervous. They’re an intense royal blue, you note; like the ocean, like the sky. Like Eli’s, like Santina’s. That’s a thought you push away with both hands. “No, no, not at all. You aren’t far from the mark, actually. You’re just swinging a second too soon. But if Joe slows down and you figure out a rhythm, get your comfort level up...you’ll be batting three-hundred in no time.”

You chuckle, bouncing the bat against your sneakers. “I highly doubt that, Mr. Lee. But we’ll do it your way. They don’t have baseball in the U.K., do they?”

“Cricket and football, mostly.”

“Who do you root for?”

He grins, more brashly now. “The Welsh.”

“Hey,” Joe yells. “Is the pep talk over yet? Are you ready for me? I’m aging out here. I suddenly love rice pudding and can’t figure out how cellphones work.”

“Don’t rush her!” Gwil replaces his catcher’s mask.

“You’re Welsh, aren’t you, Gwil?” you ask.

“I am, happily so.”

“I just taught my kids what Wales was last week! It took a solid fifteen minutes to get past the large marine mammal connotation. They voted that Scotland was cooler.”

“Freaking tiny American savages!”

“Hey!!” Joe waves his arms theatrically. “I exist!”

“Go ahead,” you accede, taking position and raising the bat over your shoulder. Gwil squats just behind home plate again.

“You have more time than you think you do,” he says softly. Joe pitches the ball underhand, and it floats slowly through the air as your gaze tracks it. “Not yet,” Gwil whispers to you. “Not yet, not yet, not yet...NOW!”

You swing, your eyes pinched shut, bracing for the weightless whistle of open air. Instead, there’s the jolt of an impact, a cracking sound...and Gwil’s ecstatic cheer.

“Holy shit!” Joe cries, his eyes following the ball across the field. “You hit something! You actually hit a ball!”

“Yes!” Gwil throws off his mask and pumps his fist in the air. “I told you, I told you that you could do it!”

“I did it!” You spin around and—spontaneously, without thinking at all—you leap onto your tiptoes and toss your arms around Gwil’s neck. “You saved me! I’m a proper American now!” And for one fleeting moment, there’s no Ben Hardy anywhere in your mind, there are no trapdoors of agony like cold pockets in a lake, frigid paralyzing blackholes just itching to drag you down. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Of course,” Gwil says uneasily, his arms hesitantly circling around you. You back away as Joe comes jogging over, clasping the conquered baseball.

“Not bad, Carolina Panther! Should we celebrate? In-N-Out Burger?”

“Carolina...Panther...?” Gwil echoes.

“It’s a Sweet Caroline joke. Joe’s mocking me. Per usual.”

“You really weren’t that bad a singer,” Joe teases with a grin. “Obviously I enjoyed meeting you. Where did you say you knew Ben from...?” He’s trying to act casual, but you can tell he’s been waiting for an opportunity to ask that question. And you’re trying too: trying not to cringe at the sound of Ben’s name, trying not to let on that it rips you in two.

“I actually teach his son Eli, he’s in my first grade class.”

“Aww, how precious!” Joe gushes. “And...you and Ben...are you, uh...like, a thing...?”

Not since I found out about his fucking fiancée. “No, definitely not a thing. Just friends. I actually don’t even know if you’d call us friends, maybe just acquaintances.” Maybe just mortal enemies. You narrow your eyes at Joe. “You know he’s getting married, right?”  

“Is that still happening?” Gwil asks Joe.

“Yeahhhh,” Joe sighs dramatically. “Santina.” He pronounces each syllable of her name distinctly, like it’s a newly discovered breed of insect or a rare element on the Periodic Table.

“What’s wrong with Santina?” You’re channeling all your effort into seeming indifferent.

Joe rolls his eyes, tossing the baseball between his hands. “What isn’t wrong with Santina.”

Gwil snorts in agreement, slapping his catcher’s mitt against his thigh to chase the dust away.

“So...” Joe prompts. “In-N-Out Burger? What do you say, Sweet Caroline? I’ll buy, but only on the condition that you get me back when you’re in the MLB one day.”

“I will gladly accept those terms.”

You all pile into Joe’s Subaru, and Gwil isn’t riding shotgun this time; instead, he climbs into the back with you. The In-N-Out Burger is packed, so you eat in the car with the air conditioning blasting and the radio blaring A Night At The Opera. And somehow you find yourself laughing hysterically as Joe tries to sing Bohemian Rhapsody with his mouth full of cheeseburgers, as Gwil spills a chocolate shake all over his expensive plaid golf pants, as you share your animal fries with Gwil and he shoves two under his lips like walrus tusks; somehow, you find yourself barely thinking of the suffocating grief that’s been hovering over you at all.

But when you inevitably have to go home—when your kitchen door clicks shut and you’re left alone with your randomly-arrayed fridge magnets and your piercing memories and your undying green calla lily—suddenly it feels like there’s nothing in the world worth thinking about but Ben.

~~~~~~~~~~

Usually you have to wait until lunch or special to check your phone, but today the kids have an assembly about preventing forest fires. Only in Los Angeles.

While Sasha keeps a watchful eye on your class, you sneak away to catch up on grading. As you pluck your favorite red pen out of your teacher bag with your left hand, you tap your iPhone screen with your right. It’s 11:05 in the morning. You have seven new texts, all from Gwil.

9:21 a.m.: Good morning, love!

9:44 a.m.: Wow wow wow that was meant for someone else, please disregard.

9:51 a.m.: Okay I lied, that was meant for you, I am just hilariously bad at asking people on dates.

9:54 a.m.: ...Will you go on a date??

9:55 a.m.: With me, clearly.

10:11 a.m.: Bleeding christ I am the worst, please ignore me if you have any taste whatsoever.

10:35 a.m.: Brb swimming back to Britain in disgrace.

At first, you’re too stunned to do anything but blink senselessly at the phone: Gwil likes you? Do you like Gwil? Gwil is sweet, of course, he’s handsome and charming and successful and everything a lover should be. But Ben is immutable; he’s the stars, he’s the sawtoothed ocean floor, he’s the blood cells splitting in your bone marrow. There are parts of you that won’t ever be free of him.

Ben isn’t here. Maybe he wasn’t ever really here. And he is never coming back.

You text to Gwil: Let’s do this.

[glamoursarusrex]

Mama Dick feat. Titans: Red Hood and the Outlaws Jr.

Grab your popcorn, Kids! It’s another longun’. Thank you to @raventrigonsdaughter for the prompt of “To be clear, I wasn’t the one who thought this would be a good idea”. Focusing on the escapades of Gar, Raven, and Jason if left to their own devices. If you want anymore stories surrounding the Titan’s family, feel free to fill up my asks! Without further ado, enjoy this fic!

“Dude, you sure this is a good idea?” Gar asks his companions as they creep along the roof of a warehouse. The building overlooks Gotham Harbour. Raven, Jason, and Gar stick to the shadows as they make their way across the roof.

“Gar, this thing’ll work like clockwork. We steal a fuck ton of drugs. Send them into the river. Lose Black Mask about half a million dollars worth of product and boom! Get back home before anyone misses us!” Jason explained.

They find the roof entrance and crouch by it as Jason works on the lock.

“Rae, you’re alright with this?” Gar questions.

“I find it all rather thrilling.” Rachel says with a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Won’t Kori and Dick get mad at us that we snuck out?”

Jason scoffs, “furious. Beasty, if you’re really so worried that our moms are gonna rain hell on us, you can just head back. I really only need the witch. You’re just the third wheel.”

Gar stumbles, “I-I’m not scared! I just… wanted to know the logistics is all.”

Raven laughs, “Liar, you’re pent up with nerves.”

“No one asked you, Birdie!” Gar exclaims.

The roof door clicks. It opens slightly. Jason pumps up his fist beaming. He puts his fingers to his lips and whispers, “From here on, it’s quiet. We’re just flies on the wall.”

In response Gar turns into a fly. Raven rolls her eyes. Jason chuckles and whispers, “See, he gets it!”

The teens slink into the building. Raven covers herself and Jason with a layer of shadow. Gar flies behind them. They slowly tiptoe down a couple flights of metal stairs before they reach a catwalk running over the main warehouse floor. The find some large pipes running through the grated floor and hide behind there as they watch the scene below them.

On the ground is a table with road maps and notes strewn all over it. In the center is duffle bag stuffed with benjamins. At the head of the table is a burly man in an italian suit and wearing a gold necklace and several gold rings. There are about six other men standing around the table wearing black hoodies or faded leather jackets.

“Those guys look like they can beat our ass to next Tuesday.” Raven comments.

“Well it’s a good thing they aren’t our targets,” Jason states. He points to the far end of the warehouse where a pile of boxes and two semis are stationed. The semis are being guarded by burly men with machine guns. “Those are.” he finishes.

“Dudes, those guys have big guns!” Gar exclaims.

Jason rolls his eyes, “You truly are Dick Grayson’s protege.”

Gar ignores that comment, “So how are we supposed to get past them?”

“We can’t. So we’re just gonna have to make them move. Which’ll be your job, milady.” Jason says looking pointedly at Raven.

A smile tugs at Raven’s mouth. “I think I have a couple tricks up my sleeve!” She declares pridefully. She turns to Gar. “Watch my back, okay?”

Gar salutes with one of his fly legs, “Ya got it , Rae!”

She turns to Jason, “wait for my signal!”

The boy mockingly pouts, “What? No goodbye kiss?”

Raven blushes, “Maybe later.” She nods towards Gar. “When Lord of the Flies isn’t bugging us.”

“Hey, Nivana! Puns are my trademark!” Gar exclaims.

“Please. They’re more like rip offs!” Jason scoffs.

He turns and sneaks along the catwalk towards the cargo. The other two teens study the conversation below.

“My boys on crime alley are pulling double the weight to satisfy everyone else’s lack of sell. I should be getting double the cut!” One of the men at the table exclaims. This earns a barrage of protests from rest of the table. The man in the Italian suit, their leader, shoots his pistol in the air to call order.

“I hear your complaints, Markov,” he says in false sympathy. “Unfortunately, Black Mask doesn’t give two shits about who pulls the larger load. All he cares is that the job gets done. You’re lucky enough to have your share to begin with.”

This starts another string of protests. Gar turns to Raven, “So what’s the plan?”

“There’s this mind control ability I’ve been wanting to try out.” Raven explains.

“You mean you’ve never done it before?”

“Not to this scale. But I was able to mind control the server at Big Belly Burger into giving me a second helping of fries.”

“Careful! We gotta a badass over here!” Gar mocks.

“Can it, grass stain!” Ravens eyes glow as she concentrates on one of the men at the table. His eyes glow slightly. It calms to a purple iris before any of the other men could notice. Raven smiles. “Let the puppet show begin!”

The men continue to shout and throw insults at each other. One of the men calmly starts counting, “five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two…”

He continues counting until the guy next to him catches on, “Floydd, what the hell are you doing?”

Floydd looks to the man blankly. “What?” He asks in a distant voice.

“Why are you counting?”

Floydd smiles goofily, “Oh! My therapist told me if I’m ever under too much stress and feel like lashing out, I should breathe and count.”

The men at the table look to him in confusion. He continues, “I’ve also taken up yoga, thai chi, and therapeutic grass dancing.”

“Grass dancing?” Markov asks.

“Yes! It’s cleansing for the soul. You, my friend, could use at least ten sessions. If you want, I have a blog that explains everything.”

“Grass dancing?” Gar asked.

Raven chuckles, “I have no clue what that is. I just pulled it out of my ass.”

The leader glares at Floydd. “Is this some kind of joke?”

Gar gasps and quickly whispers in Raven’s ear. She giggles.

Floydd giggles, “No, but your fashion sense is.”

The leader looks down at his expensive suit. He looks up to Floydd and growls, “Are you looking to be taken out?”

Floydd shrugs, “I’m more into girls myself but if you wanna…”

A couple of the men at the table try to suppress their laughter. Their leader fumes and cracks his fists when Markov interrupts. “Dude, what happened to your eyes?” Markov asks, squinting. “Are they purple?”

Gar whispers in Ravens ear and she nods quickly.

“Yes!” Floydd states with a melodramatic flair. “I got them from my mother’s side. But she is an honorable and strong woman. I am proud of her!”

Floydd straightens up. “But you? Your families are shit!”

He points to Markov, “Your father’s a Nazi!”

He points to the Leader, “Your sister’s loose!”

He finally points to the largest man at the table, “Your grandmother’s quiche is second rate!”

The man starts forward with fury blazing in his eyes. “You’ll pay for your words Floydd!”

Floydd backs away with his hands in a surrender position. “Okay. Okay. Maybe I went too far. Sorry!” He says smiling and shrugging. As the group continues inch towards him threateningly, he throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine!” He pulls out his gun and fires it into the air. “Come at me, bitches!” he screams.

Raven severs her connection with Floydd as chaos erupts below. Fists are flying between the table men. As she hoped the gun men leave their positions from around the semis to help their respective bosses.

She felt a twinge of guilt when she heard Floydd screaming in confusion as everyone ganged up on him. The one solace is that he is known to peddle to kids and murder his underage sellers if they didn’t meet his quota. So, in a word, he got what was coming to him.

Raven sees the familiar shape of a teenage boy flip down the rafters and land behind one of the trucks. She turns to Gar. “Take the money and meet us at the rendezvous!” She teleports away.

Gar morphs into a large Hawk and exclaims, “Yes ma’am!” He swoops towards the duffle bag.

Jason peeks into the back of the truck. His shouts of happiness are drowned out by the shouts and the firing of guns. The back was filled to the brim with cocaine. Soon, it was all going to be at the bottom of Gotham River. He climbs the back and quickly pulls the door down.

He races to the front. He climbs into the driver seat and begins hot wiring. He had to work quickly. It’s only a matter of time before the drug posse found them out.

As if on cue, someone shouts, “That green eagle’s taking our dough!”

“I’m a hawk, dumbass! Basic biology!”

Jason looks up and sees a familiar green hawk circle around the men carrying a black bag in his talons. The hawk heads towards the entrance the kids snuck in from. Jason beams at his stupid friend. He looks across and his smile goes away as one of the men looks directly at him.

“Hey! Who the hell’s guarding the trucks?” the man shouts.

“Shit!” Jason exclaimed. He successfully turned on the vehicle. To his dismay, the side view mirrors reveal that the bay doors behind him are closed. Great! Now he’s caught between a wall and a bunch of Schwartzeneggar stunt doubles with assault rifles. “Please! I need an angel!” He cries.

Suddenly, Raven falls from a portal and lands in a crouch on the hood of the car. She sends a wall of shadow towards the men knocking them off their feet. She then places a glowing hand on the car. Jason felt like he was going through a flash freezer. Just as soon as the feeling was there, it was gone. He could see a row of warehouses outside of his windshield.

Raven falls forward with fatigue. She pants heavily. She hears the truck horn and looks in at Jason’s stupid grinning face. He yells through the driver window, “Get in loser! We’re going shopping!”

Raven rolls her eyes and smiles. She quickly hops off the hood and climbs into the passenger seat of the car. She rests back against her seat and breathes heavily. She’s grateful for the moment of rest even if they are still on mission.

“Good news is, we’re not swiss cheese! Thank you for that. Bad news is, you dropped us at the furthest point on the pier from the water!” Jason exclaims.

Raven sighs, “Look it was either we live or we’re conveniently close to the water!”

“I don’t suppose you have enough mojo in you to port us closer?”

Raven rests her head in her hands, “negative.”

“That’s okay we’ll just do this Mad Max style!” Jason says shifting gear.

“Do you even know how to drive?”

“I’ve nicked cars plenty of times. This is my first semi. So, this’ll be fun for both of us!” Jason beams with a hint of madness in his eyes.

Raven sinks into her seat and grabs onto the door handle and dashboard with a death grip. “Mother of Azar, give me strength.”

Jason floors it sending the truck lurching into motion. He takes a sharp turn and follows a long drive in between two lines of warehouses. As he picks up speed he squeals with delight. Raven can’t help but also feel elated by the adrenaline and speed. She doesn’t recognize her own voice laughing with mania at the thrill and the adventure.

Their elation is short lived as they hear gunshots in the echo behind them. The cabin jerks. The truck loses some speed. Jason growls, “they took out one of the tires!” Raven looks in the side view mirror and sees three men on motorcycles tailing them. They are each holding guns.

Another shot rings and takes out the side view mirror startling Raven. “There’s three and they’re getting closer!”

“Hang on!” Jason orders. He jerks the truck into a sharp turn. The cargo hold slams into a pile of wooden boxes. The boxes cascade down in its wake. Two of the cyclists maneuver past the obstacles. The last one gets knocked out by a falling box.

Raven looks out the window and announces, “One down! There’s still two on our tail!”

“Not for long!”

Jason takes another sharp turn. One of the cyclists keeps up with the truck. The other slams into the wall of the warehouse with a fiery explosion. The final cyclist fires at the truck. The bullet skids along the cargo hold with a horrific screech. Jason exclaims, “Come on man, I just got my new ride and you’re keying my paint job?”

Raven grins wryly, “I’ll teach him some manners!” With that she rolls down her window. She sends a shadow blast at their pursuer knocking him off his bike.

Jason looks at her beaming, “That’s what I’m talking about! Shoots and scores!”

Raven smiles back at him. They lock eyes for the briefest moment of pure joy. Something catches Raven’s eye and she quickly glances out the windshield. Her eyes widen in horror. “Jason, look out!”

Before he could register what’s happening, the cabin lurches. He could feel his stomach shift as the truck free falls over the edge of the pier and into the river. In their excitement, he forgot to keep track of where they were.

The water fills up the cabin through Raven’s open window. Quickly undos his buckle. He looks over to Raven and sees her head tipped forward the impact must have temporarily disoriented her. Jason tries to quickly undo her buckle. To his horror, it’s jammed.

Thinking fast he quickly feels around for anything of use. He feels along the folded mirrors and to his delight he finds a stashed pocket knife. Though criminals, these guys know how to carry useful tools. When he looks back at Raven he sees her head is almost submerged. He quickly saws away at the tough fabric binding her to the seat.

He takes a deep breath and goes under. He’s so close. Just a few more good saws. Jason sticks his head up and takes one more swig of air. It’s now or never. The strap finally gives and Raven floats up. Jason wraps his arms around her waist. His lungs are burning but he was too close to give up.

He pushes at the door. It doesn’t give. He tries harder but still no budge. His lungs are now on fire. He finally let go of Raven and slamming his whole body against the door. It finally opens. He quickly grabs Raven and pulls them both through the opening.

He kicks with all of his might against the current caused by the sinking vessel. His muscles are fatigued and he’s seeing spots dancing in his vision. Up above he sees the light of the moon. This gives him the strength to push past his pain. He kicks harder and faster with all of his might.

The pressure around his header gets lighter  and lighter until he finally breaks the surface. He gasps lungfuls of sweet delicious air. After a second of catching his breath, he hoists Raven heads above the surface. He rests her on his front so that her head is resting on his shoulder. He performs an underwater heimlich on her desperation. “Come on, Rae! Don’t drown on me!” He begs.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally spits up water and gasps. Her ugly coughing is like music to his ears. Jason finds himself enveloping her in some kind of awkward underwater hug. It didn’t matter she was alive. He gasps, “Bird, I can kiss you right now!”

After a few deep breaths she says, “Slow down, boy blunder, it’s only our first date!”

He laughs, “It is not!”

“It is too!”

“This is at least our second! I would go as far as to say our third.”

Raven rolls her eyes. “Once we get back to dry land, get into warm clothes, and get in our dry beds, I will tell you how wrong you are!”

“Will that be our fourth date?” Jason asks.

“Second!” Raven groans.

“Keep telling yourself that!” Jason mocks.

Luckily they broke surface near the pier. Despite Raven’s protests, Jason carries both of them towards shore. Which is a small beach that rests along the embankment wall. Once they were able to touch the floor, they practically crawled the rest of the way out of the water. Once they were completely on land, they collapsed into the sand.

“Hey, dudes!” they hear. A little green dog comes bounding over and licks their faces with his tail wagging happily. Raven groans. Jason absentmindedly scratches the dog behind his ear.

“Gar, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m so happy to see you. You will not believe the adventure we had.”

“I’m sure Dick and I would love to hear all about it.” says a female voice.

Jason, Gar, and Raven quickly look up. Nightwing and Starfire stand over them. Their glares drill holes into the teens. Their whole demeanor screams that the three kids are in deep trouble.

Gar quickly morphs into a human and holds his hands up in surrender. “Dudes, just to be clear, I wasn’t the one who thought this would be a good idea!”

[fanfic-scribbles]

On the Run: Chapter Five

Chapter Five: “Trial by Fire” or “Yes It Goes On and On My Friends”

Masterlist Here

Overall Story Facts:

Fandom: MCU Avengers; MCU Captain America

Adventure/Romance – James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes/Reader – Female Reader

Warnings: Violence, language, eventual romance, reader character with sassy/abrasive personality

Chapter Summary: A close encounter gives you a different insight into Bucky’s mindset. Also, maybe the Avengers are what they’re cracked up to be. Except for Captain America. He’s still the biggest little shit you know.

Special Chapter Warnings: Violence (not graphically described), emotional turmoil.

Words: 5169 (weeps)

A/N: I am so sorry for the length of this chapter. Every time I tried to edit it, it…just kept going longer. And longer. I have to take my hands off it or it will never end. I mean, it was definitely fun to write, but damn… Other than that, not much for notes this week. Please enjoy. Oh! Wait, I lied, I have a note: I have made a loose timeline and am going to start noting when the flashback chapters take place (or thereabouts). The Reader flashback (chapter two) is about two years before the beginning of this story, and the Steve Rogers one (chapter four) takes place about a year before the beginning of this story. What happened in between then? That will come out in future chapters. For now, just enjoy the ride.

 Chapter : “Trial by Fire” or “Yes It Goes On and On My Friends”

  You. Are. Bored. And tired. And maybe a little bit cranky.

“Aren't there Geneva Conventions against this?”

You can see Steve roll his eyes in the rearview mirror. Thankfully, Captain Caffeine-Denier is driving so you aren’t stuck next to him. As fun as it might be to test the limits of Captain America’s patience, it’s much better to do it where he can’t wrap his hands around your throat.

“It’s almost nine,” Steve says, taking the time to glance back at you again. “When will you stop needing coffee?”

“When I get some.” Duh. “Eyes on the road, Captain Car Accident. If I end up in “Red Asphalt” number 500 I’m gonna haunt your star-spangled ass for eternity.”

“It might be worth it for the wails of agony whenever I walk into a Starbucks,” he mutters.

You snort. “You go to Starbucks? You’re killing me; your fake glasses say ‘Brooklyn hipster douche’ but in reality you’re more of a faux-hipster douche.”

“Okay, hipster and not-hipster,” he says like he gets it (fat chance). “But why does ‘douche’ carry across both? You can get more creative than that.”

“Yeah but your honest personality carries through no matter what you wear.”

“Maybe you’ll feel better if you eat something,” Sam interjects and digs in a duffle bag. You don’t care if he makes a stupid fucking ‘eat a Snickers’ joke because your stomach grumbles at the mere mention of something edible. But what Sam holds out to you is…is…

Your stomach goes silent and you can only stare at the granola bar in his hand.

“You okay back there?” Steve asks. “You stopped complaining.”

You blink. “Okay…” you say and press your back up against the window, pushing back as far away from that thing as you can get. “Okay, I give; what do you want to know? Just–just take it away, please; I’ll cooperate.”

Sam laughs but, mercifully, puts it back. “It’s a granola bar, not a taser.”

“You’re trying to turn my insides into shrapnel. Nuh uh; I’m not falling for that shit.”

“You mentioned cooperating,” Steve says, sounding more like the wretched morning person you just know he is. “How did you meet Bucky?”

Hah. What a loser. “Who names their kid Bucky? Like, do parents never consider all the terrible nicknames that people can make from that?”

Steve rolls his eyes again and goes back to scowling at the road. That’s definitely not a bad thing; you rest your head against the window and watch the pavement pass by.

“Buchanan.”

You have to think on what that little non sequitur is about. Steve is stealing glances at you again. “His middle name is Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes. That’s where ‘Bucky’ comes from.”

“Okay.” You know bait when you smell it so you leave it floating for a much dumber fish. “By the way, where are we going?”

“A safehouse Barnes has used in the past,” Natasha says.

“Ah.” That means exactly nothing to you. “And you’re hoping to…find him there?”

“Or a lead on his direction,” she says and that is that for the next ten hours.

Okay, so not literally. It might even still technically be morning when Steve pulls down a street in an under-construction industrial district. The car goes slow, as if this is a neighborhood with a really bored cop just sitting over yonder. But Steve is silent (thank heavens), Natasha is sitting up straighter and even Sam, chill as he is, is at attention. You…sit there and look pretty. Because unless they need someone squinting at building numbers, there’s nothing else to do and you don’t want to distract them.

Mostly you don’t want to distract them, but once you’ve parked you’re bored again as they rifle through the back and load up on weapons. Well, Natasha at least grabs some weapons: a couple of guns, a knife or three, and some little silver things you don’t get a good look at. Steve grabs his shield but doesn’t change out of his ‘normal’ clothes. Sam grabs…a backpack. It’s a nice backpack, you have to admit; hard, futuristic–

“Ooo,” you say when you realize what it really is and you swing behind him to look at it. “Is this where your wings are?”

“You know about my wings?” he says, sounding amused.

“I’ve read a newspaper within the past five years. I know some stuff.” You walk next to him because, despite flying possibilities, right now it’s just a backpack and you doubt that’s going to change anytime soon. Natasha and Steve are walking ahead and aside from him glancing back on occasion, they don’t pay you much attention. That’s…fine. Doesn’t help the atmosphere, though. Benign as the unfinished office building looks– tall, wide, with brick overlay and sheets of plastic blowing lazily in the breeze. The surrounding area is so quiet that it’s creepy. Also, weird. The inside is unpainted, not carpeted, and from what you can tell the entire building has frames but no windows. And yet Natasha goes to the elevator, punches in a code on a little pinpad, and it works. The doors open.

“Uh…” you say and hang back.

“It’s all right. It’s safe,” Sam says and gestures for you to go in.

Yeah, because being in a small space with grumpy Captain America, stoic Black Widow, and srs bsns Falcon is a safe, grand old time. You suck it up before one of them can decide to do it for you. The doors shut, the elevator moves, and it is…slow. Natasha actually sighs as you make your way up to whatever ridiculous floor you’re going to. You forget all sense of self-preservation and start humming. Muzak, eat your heart out.

“‘The Song That Never Ends’? Really?” Sam says but, again, more amused than annoyed. You flash him a smile but continue to hum as you stare at the back of Big Blond Eagle’s head. Less than a minute goes by when Steve suddenly slams his hand on the button to stop the elevator.

You are not ashamed of the fact that you find yourself clinging to the one and only Sam “Falcon” Wilson like he is your own personal lifeline. To be fair, his wings probably can’t do much in an elevator shaft, let alone the elevator itself, but you’ll tackle Natasha to the ground before you willingly wrap your arms around Steve.

“What was that noise?” Natasha asks you, smiling, while Sam tries (poorly, the bastard) to hide his laughter.

Not. Ashamed. And you’re not even going to acknowledge her question. “Can we please get out of the suspended steel deathtrap?!”

“In a moment,” Steve says, preparing his shield. It’s enough to make Sam stop laughing (mostly) and wipes any sense of amusement off Natasha’s face. Sam shuffles you behind him into a corner and there’s a tense second, after Steve forces the doors open, where he pokes his head out and you hope he doesn’t get shot in his stupid face because he might have denied you coffee but you don’t hate him that much. (Yet.)

Thankfully he pulls his head back in, sans lead, and lightens the straight line of his shoulders. “Clear,” he says and you all leave the tiny metal box. You walk down the hall and when you come up at another intersecting hallway they all treat the corner with just as much care and concern.

You don’t have the mental energy to panic at all of these so you just watch Steve bear his shield and Natasha hold her gun at the ready. Once the coast is declared clear and all three are more relaxed as they glance at the rooms you slowly pass, you ask, “Hey, Captain Coffee-Block, why don’t you have a gun?”

He glances back at you, like he’s surprised you’re talking, and then he looks forward with a grimace that implies he’s remembered who he’s dealing with. “I don’t need one.”

You beg to differ. “You take a vow of non-violence or something?” Wait; he had dropped as many bodies in your living room as Natasha had. “Or a…vow of non-lethal…violence?”

Steve flashes you a smirk. “How articulate.”

Brat. “Hey, you’re the one that vetoed a morning essential.” You wave your arms. “I won't speak for anyone else here but some of us mere mortals require a little boost when we have to get up at ass-crack o’clock.”

Steve mutters something you can’t hear but it makes Natasha smile (before she quickly goes back to being too cool for school) so it probably isn’t very flattering. You mock an exaggerated gasp. “Captain America, are you making fun of me?”

Steve looks at you again, his face almost a straight line. “Do you get more or less annoying with coffee?”

Sam laughs and Natasha rolls her eyes, but she looks at you like she expects an answer. “Definitely less,” you say. You all stop by a door. It looks like any other door you’ve passed so far but Natasha breaks the doorknob and she and Sam case it with their heads on swivel sticks before entering and doing a more thorough search. It’s a…big room. Empty. Boring. Despite that, Steve, Sam, and Natasha look in every corner (all four of ‘em) while you hang back and watch from the hallway. Whatever they’re seeking they don’t find, and soon you’re all back to slinking down the hallway.

“How do I know you’re just not saying that to get coffee?” Steve asks, looking right at you even though he’s still walking. You hope he trips.

“Wha– oh.” You snort. “Buddy, think of it in practical terms. Coffee means I’m drinking, not talking.”

“Ah,” he says as you all stop at another room. “I’ll make it a priority then.”

You clasp your hands. “A man after my heart.”

He’s standing on the other side of the door across from you while Sam and Natasha check out the inside. His big blue eyes go wide and hopeful. It is grossly adorable. “Oh? You mean you have one?”

You clutch your chest. “Oh! The cruelty! Someone fetch the smelling salts!”

He rolls his eyes, losing all pretense of innocence. “I was born in 1918 not 1818.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Natasha, are they flirting or do they actually hate each other?” Sam asks as they rejoin you. “I can’t tell sometimes.”

Laughter bubbles up from somewhere inside you that’s safe from your cold dead heart. Flirting. With Legal Blond Eagle. You cross your arms over your aching stomach and grip your sides. You actually fall on your ass as hilarity knocks you off balance.

“Not flirting,” Natasha says.

“Are you kidding me,” you wheeze as Sam helps you up. You wipe away tears. “Oh my g–”

Contrary to what the good captain might think, you are not dumb, nor are you actively suicidal. So when Steve puts his hand up and Sam goes silent, you also shut up and stop. You stay next to Sam as he pulls out his gun. Steve moves closer to the window frame, shield in hand, and leans against the wall on one side while Natasha makes herself as flush as a painting on the other side. There’s no glass, it’s all open; open to the bright, late morning sunshine and a warm breeze that flows past you. The wind makes you flinch; makes you realize how exposed you are.

You try to take a step back but Sam’s hand presses firm on your lower back so you stop. You look from Sam to Natasha to Steve and decide that maybe a shield is a perfectly fine thing to have after all.

There’s a faint but still all too close explosion outside that makes you want to both jump out of your skin and hit the deck, so you freeze. Steve looks down and spits out a curse that is, unfortunately, drowned out by Natasha’s string of them just before she kicks him back out of the open frame. Gunfire sounds in distant pops that become louder as the bullets start hitting the side of the building and the wall behind you.

Sam shoves you flat and you curl up as he rises just slightly to start firing back. Action movies are so much better when you’re flipping past them with a remote, you think. A flash of movement down the hall makes you un-hedgehog and you can see two black-suited people with nasty-looking guns taking aim in your direction.

You don’t think, you just grab the fabric of Sam’s sleeve and yank him down. He swears at his own misfire but before he starts to yell at you, you just point down the hall and he goes on guard immediately. Sam gets the guy who’s starting to aim at you first, and then the other one that’s already firing at him. While they fall, though, three more come from the corner behind them and pick up the slack.

Two firefights two days in a row. This shit is tired.

Your ears are ringing from gunfire and Steve’s shouts aren’t quite loud enough to pierce the haze, though you do try to make out what he’s saying. You hear him shout “GO!” just as something explodes and the hall fills with gas. This is very familiar. Greatest hits or a shitty lack of creativity, it’s the same stuff as before and you scramble on all fours, trying to get away from the wisps already burning your eyes and making you wheeze. A hand grabs the back of your shirt and helps you with that.

‘Helps’ you by throwing you into a stairwell so hard your head smashes into the railing and you lie there, dazed, as the door slams shut, muffling the sounds of the fight. Unless your resident elder statesman is taking more offense to you than he’s letting on–

“That her?”

“Yeah.”

Aw, now this is some bullshit. You play possum, shutting your eyes and deepening your breathing just in case they come to check. Cold concrete isn’t the nicest thing to rest on, but it does provide good contrast to the hot, pulsing pain near your temple and accompanying trail of blood.

“Reload. We won't have any other time to do it,” Assface says.

“Has there been any sign of him?” Douchewad asks.

“No,” Assface grunts and something clicks loudly. “All right. Move.”

One of them grabs you and drapes you over his shoulder. It’s uncomfortable– there are a lot of stupid pokey bits digging into your soft and tender stomach. Briefly you debate the merits of you, an unarmed person without a deathwish, taking on both Grunt #1 and Grunt #2, both armed. The deliberation ends with a resounding ‘fuck that,’ so you keep playing dead. They carry you down a few levels, go back inside the building proper and walk in the opposite direction of the fighting upstairs. They then enter into another echoing stairwell, where they meet up with a group of their equally violent friends.

Yeah, ‘waking up’ seems like a real bad time. Thankfully you are laid upon the ground and ignored while they talk plans and placement. The group disperses with their orders and you are left once more with Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum.

“This is ridiculous,” Douchewad says.

“What do you propose?” Assface asks.

“Shoot her and drag her out. They won't fight so hard over her corpse.”

Words and thoughts cannot express just how not in favor of this plan you are.

“Idiot; she has to be alive. Orders are orders.”

Yes; overruled, Douchewad. ‘Orders’ though. That’s…concerning. But you put it on the backburner for now. You have enough to worry about.

“Dragging her out of here alive is going to be impossible. Black Widow will cut her losses if it gets to be too much.”

“She won't. Her ‘Captain’ won’t let her and she’s his faithful little dog.”

Oh, you are so going to tell Natasha about this. Then she is going to beat the shit out of them and you are going to watch and feel bad not one whit.

“Just because he used her for a safe house doesn’t mean he’ll come back for her.”

…What?

“Oh, he’ll come.” Assface laughs. “We were in loose contact with the cell in Ohio–”

‘The cell in Ohio’ do these people ever listen to themselves or are you really living out a piece of shitty Tom Clancy fanfiction?

“–and they found out he’d been hiding in that dump–”

Hey, asshole, that ‘dump’ was home.

“–and he burned them down. Razed everything. Almost did the same to the base in Tennessee. Normally he leaves something for the Fed pigs to find.”

“And they’re sure it was because of her?”

“Mm hm. Before he went and joined his ‘Superhero Pal Squad’–”

Buddy. Leave the demeaning and derogatory nicknames to the professionals. That was pathetic.

“–we had no record of him, aside from the places he was taking out. Everybody assumed he just kept moving too long. But no, he just erased his tracks too good so he could go back and play house. We have better records of him when he’s on the road with Widow and Hawkeye, for fuck’s sake. Once we did track her down we kept a loose eye on her; figured she was just a crash site. The tape, though? They finally got something out of it just a few days ago. One of the agents was asking about her and the Soldier made threats about if anything happens to her.”

That…that’s…

Something.

It’s a lot easier to lie still after that. After Bucky had left you had hoped for a phone call, a letter, a note, a fucking pamphlet or napkin scribble, just something from him, to you, to let you know he was okay, that he hadn’t…forgotten you. All this time you’ve thought he’s taken your advice to ‘forget about it’ with gusto. But it turns out that ignoring you like a regrettable Spring Break hookup is just his (demented) way of protecting you.

Once you’ve railed him out for his terrible taste in best friends, you’re going to have some choice words about that.

Shots fire but it’s a testament to just how much that fucking raccoon upends your world that you barely notice at first. Asswad and Doucheface or whatever shoot back and you curl up to protect your ears and make a smaller target, but the two numbnuts drop and you flinch as footsteps approach.

Natasha sighs. “Are you going to lie there all day?”

You unfold and use the railing to get up. You’re a little unsteady at first– your legs don’t want to work and your head sways a bit, but when Natasha sizes you up your nerves are what almost bring you down. “Are you all right?” she asks, looking at your head.

You touch it and– fuck, ow, you forgot about that, but the dull headache is back to remind you and that dried blood is going to be hell to get out of your hair. “Yeah, fucking aces,” you grumble.

She gives a curt nod. “Follow me,” she says and starts down. At every landing she stops a moment, listens by the door, and then goes. You never get to stop– she’s moving quick and light and you’re clambering behind like Lurch.

When you catch up she asks, “Why didn’t you run?”

“What?” you ask even as you're trying to get a working breath again.

“From those two idiots,” she says and motions up with her head.

“Wait…” You stand and take a deep breath. “From the guys wielding guns bigger than some children I’ve seen? Really?” She lifts a shoulder and you roll your eyes. “Lady, you need some normal friends. Ones who don’t get their kicks from driving into warzones.”

She stares at you. It’s unnerving. You are not a fan. “Did they say anything?”

You shrug as casually as you can. “Apparently they’re trying to take me alive.”

She rolls her eyes. “I could have told you that.”

Anger flares up in you. “Could you have? Interesting. Because you haven’t told me shit.”

She doesn’t get to say or do anything, thankfully. Not so thankfully, it’s because a door slams somewhere up above and you can hear people running down the steps.

Natasha opens the door and you realize you’re at ground level and the first thing you see is a small group of Bad Guys with, surprise, guns. They don’t notice you at first though and that’s enough time for Natasha to shoot two of them, order you to “Go!” with a firm shove, and engage the last two standing.

You stumble over your feet but run out the side door– and immediately press yourself back against the building behind a decorative outcropping at the sight of more guys (do they ever end?) running around the front to go for Natasha. As soon as they’re gone you bust your ass and run.

You push your body well past its limits, take a few turns, and end up gasping for air in a parking garage. Once you get past wishing to die already, you look around. It’s devoid of people, nearly empty, and so much more exposed than you want to be. But no one has followed you, you’re alone, and there are a few scattered cars. And since your ride has been blown to smithereens…

You try a couple of cars before you find an older Cadillac with a busted back door lock. Within a few minutes (during which every distant sound is making you jump; thanks a lot for the possible PTSD, Captain) you have the car hotwired and ready to go.

You’re planning out how to get back to the building (you cannot get lost, you will never live it down), and how to fit Steve “I’ve never met a gym I don’t like” Rogers in the car (no fucking way is he allowed to sit shotgun. In fact, if you’re driving, can you get away with stuffing him in the trunk?) when you have the sudden, striking, dizzying thought that…

…You don’t have to go back. If you want, you can just leave. Sam, Steve, and Natasha are all Avengers and they will be just fine without you. You can get away from guns and explosions and–

You think of Steve, putting his shield behind you and covering you bodily when you ran out of your home. Sam, who put his hand on yours when you started shaking during the drive after and who just straight up killed a guy who had aimed at you. Natasha, who had come after you and forced you to run while she covered you. All of these people who are Bucky’s friends and who are currently bugging the shit out of you because they’re worried about your favorite (by default, you swear) trash panda.

“Motherfucking conscience,” you snarl and tear out of the parking garage. You take your anger out on the accelerator. “Do you have any idea how much easier my life would be without you? No Trash Panda, no Grandpa Freedom, no– oh, wow.”

Natasha has somehow done a mid-air somersault with some dude’s head in her thighs, and he goes flying past the front of your car just before you pull up. She’s still on guard so you motion for her to get her ass inside the vehicle.

As soon as she’s in you’re off. “What was that you said earlier?” she asks. “About having ‘normal friends who don’t drive into warzones’?”

“Shut up,” you grumble, driving around and searching for Sam and Steve. Are they out of the building? They better be out of the building. “Shut up. You wanna go back? I can drop you off.”

Natasha is primping in the visor mirror. “No thank you. I’m done.”

There’s something about her tone that you really don’t like, but before you can ask, there’s a minor explosion (seriously what is your life) from where you just were. Natasha hasn’t even glanced back, even now that she’s done fixing her hair and wiping away blood and dirt. She’s looking out the windshield, but does spare you a glance and a shrug. “They blew up ours. It’s only fair.”

“You,” you say, fixing your eyes ahead, “Are scary.”

“Thank you,” Natasha says and points upward. You follow the line and–

Falcon is flying. Dodging something, probably gunfire, but he’s taking hairpin turns and diving and–

“Turn right,” Natasha says and you scramble to turn the wheel before you run into a wall and head onto a small road. It leads to a dirt-covered construction site where Fa– Sam has landed and he and Steve are talking in the midst of unconscious-or-dead Hydra jerks and broken weapons.

Natasha rolls down her window. “Hey boys,” she says and it’s pretty funny to see them jump. “Need a ride?”

Sam grins and he and Steve hop in the back. That is also satisfying, watching Steve hunch up behind Natasha like he’s ready to start ringing bells in Notre Dame. But, too bad for hilarity, good for Steve and Sam, Cadillacs aren’t the smallest of cars, and they get themselves sorted out comfortably.

“Thanks for picking us up,” Sam says.

“Yeah, well, cash, grass, or ass, no one rides for free,” you say just as lightly. Sam chuckles.

“Where did you get the car?” Steve asks.

“Good question.” Natasha looks at you and smirks. She says your name like she’s anticipating and delighted by the trouble you’re about to get into. “Where did you get the car?”

You scowl at her. Snitch. “Parking garage,” you mumble, hoping they can’t hear you.

Of course, Steve has to say something about it. “Did you st–”

“Oh no, I do not want to hear about morality from you!” you snap. “Grand theft person is way worse than grand theft auto.”

Captain Asshole is unrepentantly smug. “If you say so,” he says mildly as you get on the freeway. “Both felonies, though. So welcome to the club.”

Traffic is light enough that you shoot him a glare. Sam is ‘coughing’ and Natasha is smirking, while Steve is black to blue-eyed innocence. You roll your eyes back onto the road and sigh in disgust. “Great. I’m on a scavenger hunt with Double-Oh Red Scare, Captain Kidnapper, and Techno Icarus.”

“You willing to go along for the ride now, Patty?” Sam asks.

“Guess so, now that I’m a fugitive too.” You mean for it to be a joke but it comes out dour. Now that ‘fight or flight’ are not your only two options, the adrenaline is fading and you can feel every aching muscle, every throb of pain in your head pulsing steadily worse. The others all fade to quiet which is both a blessing and a curse– less annoying, for sure, but there’s also nothing to distract you, other than the road.

“Do you want me to drive?” Sam offers.

If Sam drives then you’ll be stuck in the back with Steve and you can’t. You just can’t. “No,” you say and grip the wheel so tight your hands hurt. It’s all you can do right now to consciously keep a measured weight on the gas rather than press it to the floor. What if all of this is for nothing? What if…

You want to put it into words, maybe make a joke to lighten it and piss off Captain “Can’t Keep a Fucking Eye on His Own Best Friend” Rogers, but the words don’t come. Your mouth is open though and you can feel Black Widow staring at you. “Um, guess I should…probably ask where we’re heading, though.” Go you, it sounds almost normal.

“Keep going. We’ll get some distance,” she says.

“Cool.” ‘How do you know he’s alive’ still sounds too blunt. ‘He didn’t leave a note, did he?’ is too oblique or, if they get it, inappropriately morbid.

Natasha says your name gently. “Did those two…gentlemen…say anything to you?”

Ooo, points for phrasing. “No,” you say and swallow a lump of tears. ‘Do you think Bucky can handle an evil organization going after him this hard’ is too wordy and dumb. The three musketeers wouldn’t be after him if they thought everything was hunky dory. Unless they just worry too much and everything really is fine.

But what if it’s not.

What if he’s not.

What if you never get to yell at him for the tragically hilarious contradiction of being thoughtless because he thought too much?

What if…

Natasha says your name again, firm, and you want to vomit. So you do. In a metaphorical sense.

“What if he’s dead?” you ask, feeling as pained on its release as you would of actual stomach acid. “What if this is a wild goose chase? What if…” You can’t say it again, so you don’t.

They’re silent. Someone leans in, and at first you don’t know who, but it’s Steve who says, “He’s not dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that,” he insists. His tone isn’t Captain America and it isn’t Steve Rogers. It’s hard but…kind. You don’t know what to make of it. “Bucky has lived through so much. More than anyone should ever have to, more than anyone else can ever take. If he was dead Hydra would know it. We would know it.”

You’re not sure you believe him. You want to, though. You sniffle and realize that, ugh, you’re crying in front of relative strangers. Trash Panda would mock you forever if he could see you right now, and the thought makes you rub your face almost hard enough to peel skin.

“We’ll talk about it once we all get some rest,” Natasha says. “You were right, before…we haven’t told you anything but we’ve been asking questions nonstop. It’s not fair. So, once we can take a breath, we’ll tell you what we know.”

You wait for her to add about you returning the favor, but it doesn’t come. And for some reason, you don’t care as much about holding back anymore. “Mmkay.”

She nods once. “Pull off on the shoulder and we’ll switch.”

You listen to the rhythmic ticking of the blinker and come to a slow stop in the dirt. You take a moment to get your body in order. Steve takes the opportunity to lean back in next to you and say, “Shotgun.”

It turns out that Steve being his little-shit self is all it takes to make you feel almost normal again and you glare at him. “In your fucking dreams, Flag Boy,” you say and get out of the car.

Before you leave your side you hear Natasha tell him, “If you try to take this seat I will break all your bones and shove you in the trunk,” and you actually smile. She may be fucking scary, but Black Widow is a-okay by you.

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[timothy-z3r0]

Who really killed Optimus Prime?!

It's August 8,1986. I am twelve years old. I am walking into the theater with my idiot cousin to go see The Transformers: The Movie. It's just him and me, without our parents. I call him my idiot cousin because he was shackled to the mainstream. He only moonlighted as a geek. And besides, seven years later, he would arrange to have his truck that his parents bought him, to be stolen, stripped, and the frameset on fire somewhere in the shady side of Memphis, all because his parent wouldn't buy him a new truck. So you understand what kind of person he was. I had to hang out with him. When you live in the country and your cousin lives next door, you tend to hand out with him, whether you like it or not.

So yes, we went and saw the movie.

I enjoyed it! Although I wasn't prepared for all the Autobot casualties in it. Including the Elephant in every geek's room. The fall of Optimus Prime! Now we all know what happens. Megatron mortally wounds Prime with laser blasts to an exposed waist wound caused by the Decepticon leader and a large piece of shrapnel. But bear with me while I set up the scene okay?

What I want to do now is break everything down for those that don't remember well. Let's start at the part where the Dinobots dispatched to bring a beatdown on Devastator and the Autobot shuttle lands.

Optimus see the squad of Decepticons led by Megatron and utters the words, “Megatron must be stopped, no matter the cost…” Prime transforms and rolls out alone. No one follows. They know what he must do. Optimus has finally been pushed as far you can push him.

Cue amazing song by Stan Bush, "you got the touch" which was supposed to be used in the Stallone film, "Cobra".

Now we see Megatron, Soundwave, and Ramjet running, and then Thundercracker, Blitzwing, Shrapnel and Thrust bringing up the rear. The camera pans to the right to show a red1970's Freightliner FL86 coming at them full tilt.

Ohhhh Shhh.....

Thrust is the first to feel Primes wrath.

Then Shrapnel, Prime's next target takes a glancing blow but still a powerful hit. The Insecticon is thrown forcefully to the ground.

Prime tries to get Blitzwing in his sights but he dodges the semi truck and takes to the sky for a hasty retreat. At this point, the rest, save Megatron, has turned to open fire on Prime. He propels himself into the air in mid-transformation.

Insert Eagle shriek here.

Ramjet is the next to feel defeat by Prime’s Ion Blaster.

Quickly and deadly, Thundercracker and Soundwave are dispatched by Optimus who doesn't use trigger discipline anymore. He makes sure that they stay down. (note that Ramjet turns into Dirge in the next scene.)

Also, Kickback seems to join in as targets.

Prime hunts down Megatron who is in a corridor. The Decepticon leader turns to face Optimus.

"Prime!" He almost sounds joyous to see his old foe.

Optimus utters the now famous words, "One shall stand, one shall fall."

"Why throw your life away so recklessly? Megatron asks, with a hint of arrogance in his voice.

"That's a question you should ask yourself Megatron," Prime says, with cold certainty.

Enraged, Megatron goes for his fusion cannon, but then he shakes off the lust to end him so soon.

"No!, I'll crush you with my bare hands!" He shouts, leaping at Prime, knowing this battle will be different. Just as Prime predicted.

Prime takes a piece of debris to the waist. It hardly slows him down.

Megatron means to finish his opponent no matter what!

Another strike, causing more damage to Optimus.

“I’ll rip out your optics!” he screams, only to get overtaken by the strength of the Autobot leader.

It would seem that cruel tyrant will get his way, but Optimus uses his seemingly exhausted supply of strength to send Megatron flying.

"Finish him off Prime! Do it now!" Kup shouts.

Now prime walks slowly over to his ion blaster as if he's about to dispatch a wounded creature. You see that he takes no joy in doing it. Yet it must be done.

Megatron finds possible salvation, spotting a blaster in the rubble and pleads for mercy from Optimus.

"You, who are with mercy, now plead for it? I thought you were made of sterner stuff." Prime says with a hint of disappointment.

Megatron takes advantage of the situation to reach for the blaster.

Hot Rod tries to help.

Knowing that Optimus will not fire and desperate to end the fight. Megatron fires multiple times, aiming at Prime's wound.

“FALL!  FALL!”  Megatron fanatically shouts! His words drip with vile hatred.

(And yes, all this was new to us! Because of the FCC, you could say in a cartoon, "I'll kill you!", or "Kill them!" So words like "kill" became "destroy". Somehow the FCC was chill with that. Also, the FCC wouldn't let the Decepticons win, ever! So the bad guys seemed to be just hooligans running around kicking over tables and such. The never got to actually win anything, that's why all the death scenes were such a shocking thing to the viewers. We were used to the weak threats of, "Next time!" or something like that.)

Megatron throws Hotrod into the winds like he was mere trash and triumphantly stands over a weakened and mortally wounded Prime. But Prime throws one last punch sending the evil leader skyward, landing on the ground and not moving.

So, I got carried away with the descriptions and the play by play didn't I? But that's okay, It's my blog. Deal with it.

Prime's death didn't traumatize me, I was never one of those people to be deeply bothered by the death of their hero. (I watched Cowboys and The Champ at a very early age. I think my Parents were sadists.) I knew that death would eventually happen, but who will be the next leader to step up? That's what I more interested in.

Hot Rod got the matrix in the end and was changed into Rodimus Prime. I don't understand all the hate he gets. They say he was just a young reckless soldier. Just a dumb kid so to speak.

After coming for Hot Rod for that. Then why not come for Optimus Prime or should I say, Orin Pax for being a data Clerk!

The point of the story is this.

Where in the blazes did that blaster come from?

Some say it was Shrapnel's gun, which is wrong.

Others say was Scavenger's. He wasn't even in that fight!

Others even say that it was Blitzwing's. But he carries a large rifle!

Fear not, my two readers! For I have found out just who the blaster belongs to! No, it wasn't a deus ex machina that the writers lazily have thrown in.

Here! Here is the truth that you seek! The blaster belonged to no one. Because the blaster was none other than!.....

Now, who's the crappy rip-off? Now, who's the poor man's Transformers?!  

Seriously though. (man did I put a long tail on this kite) It and the sword that Megatron used were from the armory in Autobot city.

I had fun writing this piece. I hope you enjoyed it and if you did, leave a comment down below about how you felt about this part of the movie. I'd love to hear from you.

[auburnfamilynews]

Another year of college football is in the books, which means it’s bowl season baby! Truly one of the greatest times of the sports year, but honestly, this year feels a little underwhelming. Maybe it’s the matchups, or maybe we put too much emphasis on the College Football Playoff. Don’t worry, I’m here to spice it up.

We all know the matchups, but let’s look at the games in terms of mascot matchups. The rules of the game are simple: I’m going to look at each game like both mascots are battling to the death, Roman gladiator style. Here are my Top Ten mascot matchups(with a couple honorable mentions).

10. Georgia Southern Eagles vs. Eastern Michigan Eagles

We are at number ten on the list and this might be the most unique matchup we have this season. It’s Eagle vs Eagle, brother vs brother. So which eagle is superior? We have redneck eagles against, well… midwestern eagles? I’ve never watched Eagles fight, but I imagine it’s watching two eagles fly in a circle over and over again. If I’ve learned one thing from living in the south, you never underestimate a redneck in a fight, give me the Georgia Southern Eagles.

9. Mississippi State Bulldogs vs. Iowa Hawkeyes

I don’t know if any have ever owned a bulldog, but my dad had a pug for 7 years, and to me that’s close enough. This dog didn’t do a damn thing, you’d be lucky to get him to go outside for a little while. That being said, how would a bulldog stand a chance against a hawk? Hawks can lift up to 60 pounds, which seems hard to believe, but I watched YouTube videos on it so it must be true.

Bulldogs would have to use the buddy system so that with their combined weight, it would be really difficult for the hawks to scoop them up. Here’s something else, bulldogs aren’t very smart. You think they’d stick to the buddy system? No. They’d get a sniff of something and be off and running alone. That’s why I’m taking the Hawkeyes here, just not a fair fight.

8. West Virginia Mountaineers vs. Syracuse Orange

On NCAA 14, I always loved playing as West Virginia. Let me take a break from this regularly scheduled programming to bring you the following announcement…BRING BACK NCAA 14 YOU COWARDS. And we’re back, the real puzzling aspect with this matchup is what to do about the Syracuse mascot. They’re called the Syracuse Orange, but what is “Orange” //hits vape.

To me, we can look at this in one or two ways” the Mountaineers are going to be battling literal oranges, as in the fruit, or they are going to fight a bunch of men in the Orange mascot suits, which is what I am going to believe. So now we have rednecks with old time rifles, fighting against people dressed up as oranges with eyes. As much as I want to take Syracuse, because nothing gives me more joy than imagining a stampede of oranges running up on mountaineers, I have to take West Virginia here. I’m sorry Syracuse fans, I’m not strong enough.

7. UAB Blazers vs. Northern Illinois Huskies

My wife has always wanted for us to get a Husky. It would be great, they’re smart, loyal, and they look freaking majestic. I would love to have a bunch of huskies following me around all the time. And the huskies are going to need more than their smarts to defeat a dragon, technically a blazer, but I’m going to call it a dragon.

Now what do we know about dragons? They’re highly dangerous, often the villains in movies, and very powerful. But they do have weaknesses. It depends on what type of dragon we are dealing with, if it’s a dragon from Shrek, you just give it a few compliments. Dragons from The Hobbit love gold, so that seems easy enough. Unfortunately, dogs can’t speak, and have no sense of money. Give me the blazers in just not a fair fight.

6. Michigan State Spartans vs. Oregon Ducks

This isn’t the best matchup on my list, but this one is my favorite. It provides my favorite mental image of them all. Imagine, if you will, we are back at the coliseum, the Spartans come out first, dressed in their armor with their swords and shields. They’re getting themselves pumped up in whatever fashion Spartans pumped themselves up.

And then, out of the other door, ducks come out. Surely those Spartans didn’t train their whole lives to take on a flock of ducks, right? But what they don’t know is that these ducks have a plan. Ducks can’t fight, but they can poop. That’s their play, flying in formation and pooping all over the Spartans until they can’t take anymore. Sure, it’s not a great plan, but it’s ducks! Give me the upset, I want the ducks.

5. Kentucky Wildcats vs. Penn State Nittany Lions

Actual underrated game in terms of football, and underrated in terms of mascots. Two different species of cats, big cats, going at it. If you’re wondering what the difference is between a Wildcat and a Nittany Lion is, I did some research for you. Wildcats are a species of small cats, mostly found in Europe and Africa. Nittany Lions on the other and is, well, not even a real animal, it’s just a mascot.

For these purposes, we are going to see a Nittany Lion is smaller than normal African Lions. Nittany Lions have the size advantage, but Wildcats are faster and more agile. It really depends on the style you prefer: big and strong, or agile and fast? It’s like that scene in Dark Knight when Christian Bale asks Morgan Freeman to make him a new suit because he needed to be faster. I prefer being fast, that’s why I’m going with the Wildcats in a close battle.

4. Florida Gators vs. Michigan Wolverines

Now that we are entering that top 4, you could talk me into rearranging numbers 2-4 in any order. It really was splitting hairs trying to decide where to rank these matchups. A wolverine, as in not Hugh Jackman, but if it was Hugh Jackman fighting a bunch of gators, you’d best believe that would be in the number 1 spot.

An actual wolverine is a carnivore that resembles a small bear. An adult wolverine only weighs between 20-55 pounds. The gators would have a clear advantage in terms of size. Wolverines tend to hunt Wolves and Lynxes, and they usually hunt in packs. Gators tend to keep to themselves, unless they feel threatened, or are hungry. The wolverines would have to surprise the gators in order to have a chance of winning. I don’t think they would have much luck, and that’s why I’m picking the Gators in a close fight.

3. Baylor Bears vs. Vanderbilt Commodores

This might be one of my spiciest takes, but I didn’t like the movie The Revenant. Yeah, thought it was overrated. That being said, the bear scene was just really well done. Before that movie, I didn’t really think of bears as being overly threatening. Now, if I ever go hiking, I’m taking at least one person that I know I can outrun.

Commodores are a rank in the military, specifically in the Navy. So, I could plop down someone from today’s world, but that’s not what Vanderbilt’s mascot portrays. They portray someone from a couple hundred years ago, and that’s what the bear has to fight. I’m imagining someone with a pistol and a sword going up against a bear. I feel like the commodore would get the first attack in with his pistol, and that would slow the bear down for a second, before it recovers and comes on a hate fueled rampage. The commodore can’t climb because of all the heavy equipment, and there’s no way they can outrun a bear. I predict the bears start slow, but come out and maul the commodores later in the fight.

2. Clemson Tigers vs. Notre Dame Irish

Hey, the Tigers are back! And this time they get to fight more humans. But, not just any humans, drunk, Catholic Irishmen. This battle goes in one of two ways, and there’s no in between.

Scenario #1: the Irish drink as much as they can handle, gaining powers such as super strength and durability, and go toe-to-toe with the tigers. Scenario #2: the Irish drink, and fall over in an alcohol-induced nap while the tigers maul them as they sleep.

There is no middle ground here. It’s just a manner of which scenario you choose to believe will happen. I’ve never personally met an Irish person before, but I have heard rumors about them, and I want to believe they are true. I’m picking the upset, and hoping the drunk super-powered Irish can pull the upset against the confused tigers.

1. Middle Tennessee Blue Raiders vs. Appalachian State Mountaineers

The number 1 spot, king of the hill, best matchup of the year is the Blue Raiders vs the Mountaineers. We have multiple factors in play here: both parties are from the South, which means both qualify into the redneck category. What do you do when two sets of rednecks are fighting? Sit back and enjoy the show.

As I’m writing this, I’m only about 70% sure I know who would win this fight. I know Middle Tennessee’s mascot is a horse, so let’s imagine the Blue Raiders are from the Old West, makes it a fair fight. Mountaineers have already won one matchup today. Can they make it two?

I’m giving the edge to the Mountaineers, and here’s why: mountain men know the terrain better, they grew up in the woods, and know how to use it as an advantage. I think it’s a really close fight, but the Mountaineers come out on top.

Honorable Mentions

Purdue Boilermakers vs. Auburn Tigers

Come on, you thought we wouldn’t have something about Auburn in this? Even though I am a homer, this matchup is interesting in terms of a mascot battle. When doing research, I honestly thought Boilermakers were a type of trains. According to the Google machine, a Boilermaker is someone who works on and repairs boilers. So now we have a group of tigers (which is called an ambush or a stealth) against men who work with heavy equipment. It took me fifteen minutes to try and come up with a reason why boilermakers would win in a matchup against tigers, but I can’t, unless it was just an army of buff sweaty men against a few tigers. However, in a surprising move, I’m taking the Tigers.

Iowa State Cyclones vs. Washington State Cougars

You might be asking yourself why I think Cougars stand a chance against Mother Nature. And that’s a fair point, on the surface, cougars should not be able to even damage a cyclone. But these aren’t normal cougars, they are cougars that are trained by Mike Leach himself. If anyone can figure out how to defeat an act of nature, it’s that man. I think the key to defeating a cyclone is misdirection, you can’t stay in the same place. Eventually, the cyclone will just get tired and give up chasing you, like your dad in the family backyard football game. All that being said, I’m taking the upset. Go Cougs!

from WarBlogle.com http://www.warblogle.com/2018/12/10/football/top-10-bowl-game-mascot-matchups/

[junker-town]

The day Chris Long gave a season of NFL checks to charity

The Eagles defensive end’s career is football, but he won't let it be his legacy.

Chris Long looks up from his phone in time to see the stoplight change from yellow to red. He slams on the brakes of his Toyota FJ Cruiser and apologizes; he’s trying to follow his GPS while looking for an Instagram video he filmed with a drone at his farm in Virginia. It’s a bird’s eye view of him and a few childhood friends blowing up a Darth Vader doll stuffed with colored powder and Tannerite, an explosive target used in rifle practice.

Long, a defensive end for the Philadelphia Eagles, is driving to the Mariana Bracetti Academy Charter School in North Philly to speak to high schoolers. Earlier this morning, he announced that he and his wife Megan are donating his last 10 game checks to three different organizations devoted to educational equality in the three cities in which he’s played football. He’s calling his new initiative “Pledge 10 for Tomorrow,” encouraging fans to give what they can, and he’ll donate an extra $50,000 to the city with the most donations.

“Ah, here it is!” he says, finding the video. “I know Tannerite isn’t good, but how cool does this look?”

He hands me his phone. It looks very cool, mesmerizing even. Long has set the video to a song by My Morning Jacket, and the soaring chords match the brilliant bursts of teals, greens, and pinks that billow out against a white blanket of snow.

“One of my buddies from high school who I do this stuff with just had a kid,” Long says, taking his phone back. “I hope it doesn’t mean he’ll stop doing dumb shit like this with me.”

I remind Long, who is 32, that he has a kid, and that having children hasn’t stopped him, nor generations of men before him, from doing dumb shit.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says, and smiles.

Long starts telling me about the other dumb shit he does. He regularly runs out of gas. He's had the car we’re in for two years and hasn't registered it. He lost his birth certificate a while ago. He was so obsessed with the movie Drive that he bought himself a ‘96 Chevy Impala, then totaled it listening to the soundtrack a day later. (He owned a replica of the scorpion jacket Gosling wore, too, but gave it to Goodwill after the crash because “the dream had died.”) Last year, he listed his former Patriots teammate Danny Amendola’s number on a fake Craigslist ad for a Suzuki Spider, then watched a bewildered Amendola field calls from people looking to buy his nonexistent motorcycle. He and William Hayes, who’s on the Dolphins now but played with Long on the Rams, once filled a teammates’ car with packing peanuts and crickets. The crickets died and it smelled terrible.

“I am incapable of not being a regular fucking moron,” Long says, laughing.

He misses the turn for the high school. He whips the car around, finds the entrance, parks, and walks by a few vans belonging to local news crews and NFL Films. The league is filming the event for some series about Players Doing Good Stuff.

This fall is the first time Long has so overtly publicized his charitable work. He founded WaterBoys in 2014 after he climbed Kilimanjaro with his then-teammate James Hall. So far the organization has funded 26 wells — 22 of which have been built in East Africa — that serve 7,000 people each. With former NFL player and Green Beret Nate Boyer, Long also leads trips of veterans up Kilimanjaro. He then founded the Chris Long Foundation in 2015.

Following the Unite the Right rally in his hometown of Charlottesville, Va., he was moved to put his arm around his teammate Malcolm Jenkins when Jenkins raised his fist during the national anthem before a preseason game. Long has continued to do so through the season, and yesterday, he and Jenkins were two of 12 players at the NFL owners fall meetings to discuss the protests. In a week, they will spend their day off after the Eagles’ Monday Night Football game against Washington at the Pennsylvania State Capitol advocating for criminal justice reform.

After his symbolic gesture, Long felt he had to publicly do something concrete. In September, he gave his first six checks to fund two scholarships at St. Anne’s-Belfield, the private high school he went to in Charlottesville (even though he and Megan had quietly funded two already, and those kids are about to head off to college). But he wanted do something “more macro,” so now he’s giving away his last 10 checks, too, forgoing an entire season’s salary. He also created the matching campaign on social media because he thinks a lot of people truly do want to help, they just don't know how. Give them a link and a pre-vetted charity, turn it into a competition, and boom: you’re raising hundreds of thousands of dollars. (As of publication, Long has raised over $205,000.)

Inside the high school, Sylvia Watts McKinney, the director of Summer Search, one of the programs Long is supporting, introduces him to the group of kids he’ll be speaking to. She reads a passage from Ralph Ellison’s essay What These Children Are Like.

“If you can show me how I can cling to that which is real to me, while teaching me a way into the larger society, then I will not only drop my defenses and my hostility, but I will sing your praises and help you to make the desert bear fruit.”

“A little bit about me,” Long says, after he thanks McKinney and takes the mic. “I’m a football player. I spent eight years in St. Louis, and we never won more than seven games in a season, which is really bad, for anyone who follows football. It was a rough time.”

He’s not using any notes, and sounds far more natural than he did recording a Pledge 10 PSA from a teleprompter this morning at the Eagles facility. The students, very few of whom are white, seem skeptical at first, but they warm up as Long tells them how the Rams never made the playoffs, how he was injured in 2014, how he was released in 2015, how he went to New England and won a Super Bowl. He thinks he can do that here with the Eagles. A few kids whoop.

Long, back row, with students from North Philly’s Mariana Bracetti Academy Charter School.

“For me as a student growing up,” Long says, switching gears, “I had everything I could ask for. Every resource was at my disposal. I went to a private school, I had tutoring, all those mentoring opportunities I needed, but I still struggled in school. I wasn’t a great student, but I also think I took it for granted. And that is something I really regret.”

Long did, and does, have everything. He’s the son of Diane and Howie Long. Howie was a famous NFL player, actor, and is now an analyst. Football is the reason Long — and his brother Kyle, who plays for the Bears, and Howie Jr., who works in player personnel for the Raiders — grew up rich and is the thing that has made him richer. It’s afforded him over 311,000 Twitter followers, given him a platform. Which, right now, he’s using to tell kids that they should value people the way people value retweets or likes on Instagram. This makes them laugh.

Then he lets it rip.

“Life is short,” he says. “Live it with joy. I really think that the biggest thing I could leave you with today is to take pleasure in the work that you do, whether in classroom or community, and enjoy it. Be that contagious light that spreads energy to other people. Great people make other people feel they can be great, too. We talk about this in the locker room as football players and leaders, how you want everyone around you to feel like they can be great for having played with you, sat in a classroom with you, been a friend of yours. Through your loyalty, your excitement, and for who you are. Be contagious in your energy.”

It’s Wednesday around noon, five hours before the event at the high school, and Long is walking into the Whole Foods next to the apartment he and Megan are renting in Philly. It’s 75 degrees out, but he’s decided it’s fall, so he’s wearing socks with Birkenstocks, thick sweatpants, a long sleeve wool shirt, and a Carhart vest.

“I call his style, ‘rich hobo,’” Green Bay Packers tight end Martellus Bennett will tell me on the phone a few days later. He played with Long in New England and the two became very close. Bennett describes their connection as “cerebral.”

“He’d walk into the locker room and I’d be like, ‘Nice jacket, but those sweats are trash, and those Birks gotta go,’” Bennett says. “But he has to wear socks because his toes are gross. I love his style, he always makes me feel okay to dress the way I dress. We both just didn’t care. He’s like a rich bum. Just look at him.”

The rich bum is currently looking at a wall of healthy-looking drinks. He picks up a Maple Water and puts it in his basket. I ask what Maple Water is. He’s not totally sure, but it’s probably just water with maple in it, and he says it’s good. I ask if he worries about getting recognized when he goes out in public.

“Nah,” he says. “I haven’t been in Philly long enough. And the great thing about being a football player is you don’t get a ton of facetime. You always have a helmet on.”

Long also grew up around fame. It’s not something new he’s had to adjust to.

“It’s too hot for the hot bar,” he says, waving his hand in the direction of the steam trays of chicken and tofu.

He then proceeds to wander up and down each aisle. I lose him at one point, which is hard to do, because he’s 6’3” and weighs 276 pounds. His arms are the size of a normal human’s neck. He has wide eyes, a square jaw, and broad, decisive shoulders. He could pass for a Viking, if Vikings had tattoos that said VIRGINIA; he has a full sleeve on one arm and a half on the other that will soon become full. Tattoos, he says, are addicting.

“He shows us as black players in the NFL that he gets it. He’s not turning a blind eye.” — Martellus Bennett

Long scoops some peanuts and raisins out of a bulk bin. If he occasionally acts like a teenager, he consistently eats like one (or at least a somewhat health conscious one). Over the next three hours, I’ll watch him eat a bowl of cereal, a protein bar, a piece of Ezekiel bread with peanut butter, a chicken breast, an entire bag of trail mix, a grapefruit, more trail mix, all of these peanuts and raisins, and another protein bar.

“He’s a total meat,” Diane will say about her son when I call her tomorrow. Long credits his parents — who’ve been involved with the Boys and Girls Club of Charlottesville for a long time — for teaching him and his brothers the importance of giving back.

“Did he clean his truck when you were there?” Diane asks.

I tell her I don’t know if he cleaned it, but that it was very neat.

“I'll tell you what,” she says. “That’s probably the one inauthentic thing you saw about him. Because usually, when you get in that truck, there’s piles of clothing and paperwork. He looks like he lives out of his car. He probably cleaned it for you.”

About an hour after the Whole Foods excursion, Long is sitting in a plush room off of the lobby of his apartment. He just called in to Ryan Russillo’s radio show, and we can’t go back upstairs because Megan doesn’t want us to wake their 18-month-old son, Waylon. We have to get out of this room, though, because the sun is beating directly in and Long is sweating through his wool shirt.

“You wanna play pool?” Long asks.

I say sure, so we head to the lobby, where there’s a pool table that no one ever uses. We’re playing best of five. Long breaks, then sinks the eight ball a few turns later. I win. I somehow manage to win the next game, too, on my own merit, which shocks both of us.

Suddenly, he realizes there's a chance he could actually lose this thing. His eyes narrow and he starts enforcing obscure rules. He wants to raise the stakes, so we bet that I have to publicize who loses in this article.

Long was the No. 2 draft pick out of UVA and a fierce competitor during his six “miserable” seasons with the Rams. He was, at one point, one of the best defensive ends in the league, but the team consistently sucked, and he suffered back-to-back, season-ending injuries in 2014 and 2015. When then-Rams coach Jeff Fisher released him, Long reached out to Bill Belichick and the Patriots. New England wasn’t the perfect schematic fit for Long in terms of defense, but he just wanted to win, so Belichick said he’d find something for him to do.

Photo by Patrick Smith/Getty Images

Chris Long won a Super Bowl during his one season with the New England Patriots.

Last season wasn’t ideal from an individual standpoint — he was only on the field for 65 percent of the snaps — but it culminated in a remarkable Super Bowl win. And it gave him some of his closest friends; he still talks often to Bennett, Devin McCourty, Julian Edelman, and Rob Ninkovich often. That team had something special.

Still, he can’t get rid of the devil on his shoulder whispering that he wasted his prime with St. Louis, a team that was once a single fake punt away from going 0-16. He decided not to resign with the Pats because, while a championship was nice, he’s still acutely aware that he won as a role player. He loved team success, but his individual ambition was still unfulfilled.

“My career’s been all over the map, and I think players struggle with what’s their legacy,” Long says. “I haven’t been a superstar, but you can still think about your average-ass legacy. What’s kept me in the game is trying to leave on my terms. This has probably happened to so many players, and I probably won’t be able to accomplish it. But I want to leave playing at a high level. And using the game. I don’t want to let the game use me.”

Long felt that the Eagle’s defense was a better fit for him, and his intuition that they’d exceed expectations has turned out to be correct. With only one loss, Philadelphia has the best record in the league as of Week 7. And while he isn’t on the field more than he was in New England — he’s playing just 45% of snaps this year — he has two sacks so far and seems happy with his role. He also knows that as an active player, he has a bigger platform to raise money and speak out than he would if he retired.

Long sinks a shot, rubs his arm. He’s still sore from the Thursday game against the Panthers, which was almost a week ago. When he was recovering from surgery in 2014, he’d sit on the sidelines and watch huge guys crash into each other, thinking, I do this? He hasn’t been diagnosed with any concussions, but he worries about how CTE manifests itself. He also knows it’s too late to reverse any damage.

“And what’s me taking a knee in response to Trump? That’s not what this is about. He can’t make me kneel or stand.” — Chris Long

“Something I worry about more than that is the void that football will leave when I’m done playing,” he says. “You’ve been doing something your whole life, and then it’s over. You’re approaching your middle age. My friends back home have settled in. When I stop playing, I’m going to be the one who’s like, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

Long wins the fourth game to tie us up, 2-2. He keeps getting interrupted by the phone calls, FaceTimes, and texts from other players (including one from Edelman that just says “so tight”) as Pledge 10 gains traction.

“I think he’s one of the most genuine guys you could be around, especially off the field,” Hayes tells me. “Ninety percent of the guys you play football with, you don’t talk to after that. Chris and I haven’t played together the last couple years, but we’ve never left each other. He was my partner in crime when it came to pranks, and we both love competition. I tried to push him every day, and he did the same for me. He’s more of a brother than even a friend.”

Long breaks to start the fifth game, then goes on a roll, putting away most of his stripes for an early lead. He eyes up the cue ball, aiming for the striped No. 10, but he judges the angle wrong and sinks the eight ball again. I win.

We go back up to Long’s apartment after playing pool. Waylon has woken up, and is very busy putting wooden pieces of mail into his wooden toy mailbox. He’s a spunky kid with a mullet, which Long thinks is hilarious (he called him a young Mike Gundy on Instagram, in reference to the mulleted head coach of Oklahoma State). Megan gives Long a hard time for losing to me while she gets ready to take Waylon to the park.

Nicole Woodie, who used to run community outreach for the Rams until Long hired her to run his foundation, showed up at the apartment a few minutes ago. She sits on the couch replying to emails. Media requests have been pouring in since Pledge 10 went live.

“Someone from The Ellen Show just emailed me,” Long says, sprawled out on the coach and overflowing onto the ottoman. “They want me to come on. I’m gonna tell them no.”

“Chris, are you crazy?!” Woodie says. “You can’t turn down Ellen! Think of the moms!”

“Hmm,” Long says. “I don’t know. Would we reach people we wouldn’t reach through the sports media stuff we’re already doing?”

“Yes!” Woodie practically cries. “It's a totally different demographic! And Ellen usually does something like gives a big check. Come on, you have to do this.”

Long reluctantly agrees.

“His thing is that he’s not trying to bring attention to himself,” Bennett tells me. “He's trying to bring attention to the cause. That's noble, because a lot of people try to make it about themselves. He's trying to spread a message. He’s like, ‘Nah, I’m a part of this fight, but these [black players] are the generals. He wants to put the generals out there, guys who are more adept to talking publicly about it instead of himself."

I’ve watched Long try to do this all day. The Eagles’ PR guy asked Long this morning if he’d do SportsCenter before the upcoming Monday Night Football game against Washington.

“Nope. Put Malcolm on,” Long told him. “Put Malc up there. He’s doing great stuff in Philly.”

On Monday night, SportsCenter will run a short segment on Long anyway. But they will have to use old footage, random photos they dug up, and quotes from one of Long’s statements.

“How do you support guys like Malcolm without hijacking the situation?” Long wonders. “And then how do you interject your opinion without making it seem like you know these issues better than the people dealing with them? That’s a thin line you gotta walk.”

Bennett thinks Long is managing to walk it.

"You go through the league,” Bennett says, “and not many white players are actually saying things like Chris does. When he does, it goes bigger than just a black player saying it. He shows us as black players in the NFL that he gets it. He’s not turning a blind eye. When white players stay quiet, I’m like, I know you see the struggle, I know you see what’s going on. You play with me. We're examples of how people can get along and come from different backgrounds to work toward the same common goal. But when I speak on things that matter like this, and you turn your head, it’s like you think you can wash it away.

“Chris has always been real about it,” Bennett continues. “We'll have a conversation if he doesn’t understand something. That’s a powerful thing. And now he’s donating all of his salary to equality education? It's just like, what?!?"

Hayes appreciates Long’s involvement, too.

“When he put his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, it showed a lot,” he says. “That one little thing he did. He knew that it could possibly cause a rift or cause a lot of conversation, but Chris, he knows what’s right, and what feels right. And he’s gotta stand up for it.”

Photo by Rich Schultz/Getty Images

Eagles defensive end Chris Long embraces teammate Malcolm Jenkins on October 8, 2017, during the National Anthem.

Long hates that Trump has made the method of protest the point of contention. He thinks the national anthem is the most effective way players can draw attention to social injustice in their communities, but he’s never felt comfortable taking a knee because of the work he’s done with veterans. After Trump said that team owners should fire any player who kneels, a lot of people tweeted at Long telling him it was now his duty to do so.

“A lot of people use the knee as though it were some barometer for how much you care about these issues,” Long says. “I could take a knee and not do a thing off the field — and I’m not alluding to anybody doing this, I’m just saying — and it would be worthless. And what’s me taking a knee in response to Trump? That’s not what this is about. He can’t make me kneel or stand.”

Long picks up Waylon and gives him a raspberry on his stomach, then goes to find a shirt that doesn’t have a picture of the band The Highwaymen on it. He comes back out wearing a corduroy button-down that Megan bought him yesterday. He almost walks out the door with the tag still on.

On Wednesday night, after his speech, Long spends time with the Summer Search kids in the cafeteria. He takes pictures, posts a video to his Instagram story, and then does the requisite press conference before thanking McKinney, the director of the program. On the drive home, he talks about how jazzed he is that he got to meet some kids his donations will benefit.

“Before somebody’s president, or a hero in society, or somebody who invents something, they were sitting in a classroom,” he says. “You have no fucking clue who that person’s gonna be, who sets that whole thing in motion that alters the path of a city. Programs like this tell kids, ‘You matter. You fuckin’ matter, man.’”

I ask Long if he liked high school, and instead of answering, he asks me if I liked high school. He keeps flipping the script like this — who would I profile if I could pick five people to write about? What’s been my biggest mistake in an article? What’s been my most disastrous tweet? (All of them, I tell him.) He might be testing the waters; he’s mentioned that he might want to have a podcast, or try writing, once he retires.

He’d be good at getting people to talk; I’m five minutes into a story about the time I almost got suspended before I remember he's supposed to be telling me things like this. I ask him the question again.

No, he says after a beat, he didn’t especially like high school. He thinks he squandered it. He loves his friends from Charlottesville, but he wonders what his life would’ve been like if he hadn't gone to college in the same town he grew up in. He’s grateful for football, but wonders what it would’ve been like to find a passion off the field, something that didn't require Toradol shots to the ankle. That wouldn’t be over before he’s 35. That he’d be sure could fill the void. He never graduated from UVA and still wants to get his degree. He wishes he could've lived two different lives at once.

“I don’t know if you were like this,” he says quietly, staring ahead. “But when I turned 18, I got so sad. I was like, man, I just want it all to slow down. I kept thinking how I’d be 30 soon, how we're running out of time. I’m always thinking 12 years ahead.”

Long is motivated by an adolescent invincibility and stubbornness, but guided by an old soul’s understanding that life is short. He’s at once the teenager still doing “dumb shit,” and a grown man looking 12, 20, 50 years into the future.

It’s this duality that allows him to believe two things can be true at once. He's convinced he can still have his best season yet, but knows time is working against him. He knows about the risks of CTE and the fragility of bones and tendons, but puts his brain and joints on the line each week. He’s squirmy in the spotlight, but knows he needs it to make the biggest difference he can.

“You’re looking to catch him in the lie. And you won’t. It’s just like, why bother?” — Scott Van Pelt

The path of least resistance for Long would’ve been to retire after winning a Super Bowl and shut the hell up. Instead, he signed with a new team and dove into the thorniest political issues facing the league. And now he's doing it for free, at potentially huge physical cost.

“Charity is one of the coolest parts of being a football player,” Long had said on night before the launch of Pledge 10. “I’m really not bullshitting you, I really do care about what we do. I would totally resent the idea that I just do this shit for no reason.”

He sounded desperate to make me believe him; I could almost see his brain spinning. I asked him if he’s ever anxious.

“Yeah,” he said. “I am. And I’m trying to control the narrative in a positive way. I want to make sure I’m not misunderstood. I hate being misunderstood.”

Long has this recurring dream where he’s going to jail for life. Because no matter how hard he tries, the narrative is out of his control. Thanks to social media, he hears people who accuse him of having a white savior complex, or of being an entitled millionaire trying to stay relevant. He can see when people call him a libtard, a snowflake, unpatriotic, tell him to stick to sports. It drives him nuts when people insult his intelligence, and it’s the reason he fires back — the way he did when people criticized him for not going to the White House after the Super Bowl. Or the way he will in a few days when a conservative columnist (whose recent columns include “Hollywood has too little masculinity, not too much”) for the Bucks County Courier Times writes that Long “is a good example of the odious trend of virtue signaling.”

There will always be naysayers, so what can he do? Find a place — both on and off the field — where he can be useful, try his hardest to do what he believes is the right thing, and hope to cement a legacy he’s proud of.

“You can’t believe this guy is as good as he is,” ESPN’s Scott Van Pelt says. He’s admires Long and gave $10,000 to Pledge 10. “You’re looking for reasons for him not to be great, or good, or with his heart in the right place. You’re looking to catch him in the lie. And you won’t. It’s just like, why bother? Why not just accept that this is someone whose heart really is where it appears to be, and just be happy that exists? As opposed to trying to figure out how, or being an accountant for ways he could better. What a waste of time.”

Long’s mother says something similar.

“It almost sounds like a Disney movie,” Diane tells me. “It’s like he’s a weird, dark Disney movie. Dark because the subjects are more serious, but really, he’s just a good soul trying to do good.”

Having successfully navigated back from the high school, Long pulls up to the parking garage of his building and turns his car off in the middle of the road. I’m confused at first, but then realize the fob that opens the gate is attached to his keys. Which means he has to take them out of the ignition. He does, then waves them in front of the security pad to open the door.

“Chris,” I say, “There’s gotta be an easier way to do this.”

“Yeah,” he says grinning. “I know.”

Then he puts the key in the ignition, turns the car back on, and floors it up the ramp.

[lovelyparanormalbooks]

Book Blitz: Grand Finale: A Cowboy to Keep by Karen Rock (Giveaway)

On Tour with Prism Book Tours.

Book Tour Grand Finale for

A Cowboy to Keep

By Karen Rock

We hope you enjoyed the tour! If you missed any of the stops, go back and check them out...

Launch - Note from the Author

Best of all, this novel is the prequel to my ROCKY MOUNTAIN COWBOYS series that starts November 1, 2017. THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN COWBOY series chronicles the lives and loves of Jack's ranching family, the Cades (hot-tempered, passionate rough-riding rebels) and their neighbors, the Lovelands, (laconic, stubborn, gritty loners), with whom they've feuded for over a hundred years. They are loyal, strong and determined cowboys who work hard, play harder and love forever. I know you’ll fall in love with them as much as I have!

Christy's Cozy Corners - Dani’s 10 Tips to Running a Dude Ranch

Howdy all! Dani Crawford, stable manager at the Mountain Sky Dude Ranch outside of Denver, Colorado has learned a lot on the job and she’s ready to share her tips to running a dude ranch... 1. Carefully plan your horse line-up. Keep horses that don’t like each other apart, pair the right horse with the right human and always put the gassy horse in the back- lol.

Rockin' Book Reviews - Review

"This is a tale of secrets, judgement, redemption, mystery, suspense and romance. , . . This was a very enjoyable book to relax with."

Katie's Clean Book Collection - Excerpt

Jack rolled his eyes skyward and his chest rose and fell. “Ma’am. I have no quarrel with you. Let me have my gun and I’ll be on my way.”

Dani blew out a breath. “Kick it over here.” He did, and the Glock skidded to a stop at her feet. “Don’t move unless you want your head blown off.” At his nod, she snatched it up and straightened, her rifle still trained on the trespasser. “I could shoot you. It’s the law.” “But you won’t.” He lowered his arms and crossed them.

Bookworm Nation - Review

"I really enjoyed this one. I I thought the plot and setting were a lot of fun. I also really enjoyed the characters of Dani and Jack."

I Am A Reader - Things Bounty Hunters Hear

Jack’s been chasing criminals since bond jumpers gunned down his little brother two years ago. He wants retribution, but most of all he wants redemption since he blames himself for not protecting his sibling like he should have, as an older brother. Life on the road is hard, but he won’t quit until he takes as many lowlifes off the streets as possible so that no families have to suffer as his have. Here’s a sample of what he hears every day on the job:

1. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

Nicole's Book Musings - Excerpt

Dani’s stomach fluttered at Jack’s appreciative look, then he strode down the hill. When she hustled after him, he stopped at the base. “What are you doing?”

“Going with you.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, it’s too dangerous.”

With Love for Books - Review

"Karen Rock writes about a beautiful ranch with stunning horses situated in a former mining area. There are many places for a criminal to hide, both on and close to the premises, and while Jackson and Dani visit them because they're looking for someone, I could still enjoy the vivid descriptions of the amazing countryside, a combination I liked a lot. A Cowboy to Keep is an original love story. It's filled with suspense and at the same time it's really romantic. I loved this fabulous story with many unexpected twists and turns."

Reading Is My SuperPower - Interview

Around here I like to say that reading is my superpower. If YOU had a superpower, what would it be? Karen: Hmmmm… there are so many good ones that I wish I had… I would love to fly. Sometimes I really, really wish I could make myself invisible. Also, it’d be fun to morph into different animals, like dolphins or eagles, and get to see their worlds. But, if I’m true to who I am, my superpower would be storytelling because I believe in the power of stories to uplift us and transport us from our everyday lives. I’m a big believer in hope and positivity and faith and I hope my books give that to my readers.

Urban Book Reviews - Review

"The book was intense. Sweet, hot, and intriguing. I couldn’t stop reading it. Karen Rock has created two characters that will never be forgotten. An emotional attachemwnt occurs once the book is read. Once, one reads this, it will be hard to let go. Addictive, well-written, and highly engaging. Overall, I highly recommend this romance to readers worldwide."

The Silver Dagger Scriptorium - Jackson’s 10 Tips to Courting a Cowgirl

Howdy! Jack here. Tracking bandits is easier than chasing cowgirls. When I first lady eyes on Dani, my heart about stopped beating. Of course, she’d pulled a gun on me for snooping around the dude ranch, so that might have been a contributing factor. Still, I knew right then and there I wouldn’t rest until I’d swept her off her feet and into my arms. I don’t love often, but I love hard and I knew she was the only woman for me. Here are my tips on how best to court a strong, gutsy cowgirl like Dani: 1. Don’t leave home without your wranglers and your cowboy hat. And a little face scruff never hurt none, neither.

Hearts & Scribbles - Excerpt

“Thought you were waiting for my signal.” Dani’s voice was breathy. “If I waited any longer, I’d be drawing social security.” “Ha-ha,” she said slowly, so Jack understood exactly how funny she thought him, and, contrarily, wouldn’t suspect that she really did find him amusing. No more flirting.

Brooke Blogs - Review

"A Cowboy to Keep was such an enjoyable book. Between Dani’s past catching up to her, the chase for Smiley, and even more twists and turns, you will find yourself staying up late to finish this one. I liked the suspense and I really liked the romance. It was tender, sweet, and believable. If you like sweet, wholesome romance plus suspense, then you will enjoy A Cowboy to Keep by Karen Rock."

Okie Dreams Book Reviews - Review

"If you’re looking for a terrific contemporary romance with a good dabble of suspense mixed in, pick up a copy of A Cowboy to Keep by Karen Rock. It’s a great read and the perfect prequel story to what promises to be a stellar new series: Rocky Mountain Cowboys."

Falling Leaves - Excerpt

Jack. When he smiled, Dani couldn’t help smiling. When his face turned sad, something inside her broke a little. She wished she’d met him years ago, before she’d gone left instead of right, taken the wrong turns that kept her from ever traveling beside him.

But she had him for now and she’d make the most of it.

Paulette's Papers - Jackson’s 10 Tips to Tracking Down a Criminal

Hey all. Jack here. I’ve been tracking bond-jumpers since my brother’s murderers skipped out on their court appearance. This cowboy’s picked up a few tips for tracking down criminals: 1. A little menace goes a long way in persuading reluctant witnesses to talk.

Getting Your Read On - Review

"In addition to romance, this book has a bit of danger, mystery and suspense to liven things up. . . . It's hard to resist a good cowboy story!"

Thoughts of a Blonde - Excerpt

All her feelings for him—hot and beautiful in her heart—dissolved on her tongue, strange, new and inexpressible. He twined his fingers in hers, his thumb circling the center of her palm, slowly, and Dani disintegrated.

Becky on Books - Interview

Where did the inspiration for this book come from? I’m a huge fan of westerns, especially ones with renegade heroes like Jack Cade. Those dark, conflicted cowboys tempt the good gal in all of us who hope to tame these strong, fierce men. I was also inspired by the idea that sometimes the person who most needs to forgive us for our past mistakes is ourselves. Both Jack and Dani have troubled pasts and their path to love requires them to confront, and forgive those mistakes before they can be ready for their happily-ever-after. I always want my characters to earn their happy endings and when Jack and Dani finally get there, it’s all the sweeter for the challenges they overcame.

Book Reviews - Review

"I loved this story by Karen Rock. . . . If you love cowboys, horses, and adventure, you will love A Cowboy to Keep."

Heidi Reads... - Excerpt

And then he pulled back, his eyes on her, his expression a silent question she couldn’t answer. Instead, she reached up and kissed his scar, wanting him to know that it made him beautiful to her. How much he meant to her. How every atom of her wanted to be here with him.

He angled his head and kissed her once more, slowly and tenderly.

Fire and Ice Book Reviews - Review

"FANTASTIC!!! Another fantastic read by Karen Rock. This story not only had the chemistry between Dani and Jackson but had tons of twists and turns some that I didn't see coming. "

Mel's Shelves - Reasons to Vacation on a Dude Ranch

The first time I learned about dude ranches was in a funny movie titled CITY SLICKERS with Jack Palance, playing a tough as nails cowboy, and a three city boys, comedians Billy Crystal, Bruno Kirby and Daniel Stern, who are hopelessly out of their element after they sign on for a cattle drive. Watching the grandeur of the West, the freedom and sense of independence life on the range can give, I’ve always known two things: 

1. I would someday visit and/or live out west and I would write a book set here.

Lola's Reviews - Review

"If you’re looking for a great slow building romance with a well done, but subtle suspense element I would definitely recommend this book. There was so much I enjoyed about this from the realistic and interesting main character to the wonderful setting, the suspense element which kept me on my toes and wondering about people their motivations and some side characters that made the story complete. The romance feels real and these two were so great together. This might be my favorite book by this author yet and if I am correct this is the first book in a new series!"

Zerina Blossom's Books - Interview

What was your favorite chapter (or part) to write and why? My favorite chapter is always the Happily-Ever-After chapter. I put my characters through quite a bit before we reach the ending and it makes the final scene the sweetest of all because we know that the hero and heroine have truly earned that joy. It’s that smiling through tears part of the book and I can’t wait to write those scenes!

Don't forget to enter the fabulous giveaway below, if you haven't already...

A Cowboy to Keep

by Karen Rock Contemporary Romance

Paperback & ebook, 384 pages February 7th 2017 by Harlequin

Can't stop running from the past Dani Crawford has a secret…and if bounty hunter Jackson Cade finds out, he could ruin everything. The scarred yet handsome cowboy has tracked a dangerous criminal to the dude ranch Dani manages, and to get rid of Jack she'll have to help him catch his man. But the closer they get to cornering their quarry the more Dani wants Jack to stay. Spending time with him is making her long for things she can never have thanks to a past mistake. And if the truth comes out she may be spending her future behind bars rather than safe in her cowboy's arms…

Goodreads│Amazon│Barnes & Noble│Kobo Book Depository│Harlequin

About the Author

In a quest to provide her ELA students with quality reading material, educator Karen Rock read everything out there and couldn't wait to add her voice to the genre. In addition to her work as a Young Adult romance novelist, she's now an author for Harlequin's Heartwarming line and thrilled to pen stories that moms can share with their teenage daughters. She's loved Harlequin books since she spent summers going through her grandmother's Presents books that she passed along in paper grocery bags each year. As half of the writing duo J.K. Rock, Karen also pens young adult romance. When she's not busy writing, Karen enjoys scouring estate sales for vintage books, cooking her grandmother's family recipes, reinventing her gardens to suit her moods and occasionally rescuing local wildlife from neighborhood cats. She lives in the Adirondack Mountain region with her husband, her very appreciated beta-reader daughter, and two Cavalier King cocker spaniels, who have yet to understand the concept of "fetch" though they know a lot about love. For more information about Karen's upcoming books, check out her website.

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       Tour Giveaway

- 1 winner will win the above Prize Pack: 7 Paperbacks & a $50 Amazon Gift Card (US only) - 1 winner will their choice of an ebook of one of Karen's backlisted titles (open internationally) - Ends February 14th a Rafflecopter giveaway