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notfeelingthyaster · 4 years ago

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Imagine (based on the incomplete fanfic Son of Underworld) (3/5) (Son of Hades! Percy AU)

Before reading, check the masterpost - and read the warnings before proceeding :)) Good reading!

Percy goes back to Yancy, and things proceed as normal. He has nightmares, he misses his mom, who he only saw for a week. He thinks back on last summer and asks himself if it's worth going back to.

Annabeth tries to go back to her father's family. It doesn't go well, but at least they could keep contact using a landline for the three months she can deal with the monsters in her father's new location. There's a weekend he tries to visit her in San Francisco - but he still isn't perfect and lands in Sacramento.

It takes him an hour and a half to reach her - and it's the best weekend of the year, even if he doesn't meet anyone in her family - she is afraid they'll double the monsters in her house.

And her stepmom is racist. So there's that.

Annabeth makes fun of his Academy Uniform, the blazer and the black gloves, the red tie that he hates, and he calls her Wise Girl - he is two grades over her because of her years as a runaway.

It feels a little like a date. There's pizza, and they hold hands when she takes him to see the Golden Gate. He notices that Annie's eyes look literally like molten silver - every demigod carries a trace of their parent, he finally notices.

He can't come back after that - they were attacked by a Hydra, and killing it was only possible because he managed to use fire - a green, weird fire that he did not know he had - to cauterize the stumps.

Blackjack shadow travels him back to Yancy Academy and he and Annie keep the contact for another two weeks before she has to go back to Camp since San Francisco is becoming too dangerous.

It's his last year of middle school. Next year, he doesn't know if he'll continue in Yancy or go for a scholarship at Phillips Academy, in Massachusetts.

It's far. It's almost four hours from his mother, it's six hours from Camp. But it's the best school on the East Coast.

He does his midterms exams. He is in all high of A+ in Geometry, Algebra II, Economics and Government, Ancient World History, and Health&PE.

U.S. History and Science keep between B- and D+, and he is okay with that.

Language Arts and World Cultures can go die in a hole. He hates reading, writing makes him anxious and the only language he can get a C+ is Latin.

They give him a tutor for English - his GPA is only sustained by math. His grades raise a little: They go from F to E+.

There's a girl being tutored with him. She is Cherokee and a grade below him - her name is Piper.

He hates verbs. He hates To Kill a Mockingbird. He will kill a mockingbird if it stops them asking him to read again.

He cheats in his essays - makes skeletons write them for him. They suspect - it's not his handwriting, it's not the way he writes, it has no errors.

They can't prove it, so he scrapes Language Arts with a D+.

His midterm GPA is amazing. He goes see his mother for Christmas, even though he thinks there's no Christ. Maybe. Who knows? He is not celebrating Jupiternalia anyway.

He barely put his bag down when his four weeks with his Mom go down the drain - Thalia and Annabeth appear in his door. He grabs his backpack, his weapons, and go.

Annabeth looks at his hands with wonder - it's the first time she sees them bare in two years, but he puts his gloves back quickly enough.

Thalia is less skittish around him, and that's good. Better, at least. He notices that her eyes aren't only green - there are waves in them, it's like looking at the sea. It changes with her humor, perhaps? He doesn't know.

They make fun of his uniform - but they are going to Westover Hall, and he will merge better if he looks like a preppy kid from a boarding school.

Percy knows about the Mist this time. He helps Thalia to control it - his heart aches when he thinks of his friends. Its been a year and a half now. He misses them.

The daughter of Zeus asks him who taught him.

"The same person who taught you"

She looks at him appreciatively now, but he knows he'll come short of whoever she is measuring him against.

They see the kids. There's a girl looking nervous and overlooking the gym, and a boy by her side fiddling with his cards. Their hair is black just like his - he wishes for a brother and a sister.

Their skin is not like his - but it doesn't matter that they have a different mom, does it? In the end, it's family. Grover says they're powerful - so Big Three might be a possibility.

They're not children of Poseidon - their skin lacks the tan and the hair lacks the messiness, the windswept look - And Zeus is a lot of things, but a hypocrite isn't one of them, is?

Percy dances with Annabeth, and he feels alive. Then, he is running to save the children.

He doesn't shadow travel them. Shadowtravelling with more than one person is tricky, and he still hasn't mastered not going to Wyoming.

He kills the manticore with his Warhammer, but as it crumbles to dust, Annabeth falls.

The earth trembles at his feet - but it's Thalia's hand in his shoulder that remembers him there's two kids here, and Artemis Hunt is all looking at him with varying degrees of disgust and fear.

It's nothing he is not acquainted with. For being black (and not even a normal shade of black), for his clothes, for not having a father, for having a father and it being Hades. Just now, he was being judged for being a man.

Misandry is news for him. His mother raised him to respect all genders (even when he discovered a few months ago there's more than two), that women deserve the same as men. Annabeth fights alongside him frequently enough. Clarisse wipes the floor with his ass. Katie Gardner doesn't - it doesn't make her weaker, or less deserving of respect.

He knows women have to fight for their place in society much more than he has to. He knows these women are probably traumatized by violent men and unable to fight back.

It still doesn't make it right for them to be bullies. It gives a reason, but not a justification.

And when they take Bianca Di Angelo, who has a little brother and barely has any idea of what she is doing, who was just attacked by a thing that shouldn't exist and is probably still in shock, he wants to scream.

Artemis sees something in Bianca - and he finally looks at the girl's eyes. There's a storm raging in them.

Zeus is a hypocrite, after all.

But it's not his place to say anything, nor to the children, nor against Artemis, so he just leaves the tent and goes ask the only other boy here to teach him Mythomagic.

Nico Di Angelo asks way too many questions and has an infinite source of energy. He is prideful - a trace common of all Zeus children. His eyes aren't stormy like his sisters, there aren't clouds in his irises. They are white, like his probable father's lighting bolt.

Nico asks him why he has green eyes - and why they turned black after the question. He doesn't know the answer.

Apollo appears and says something about flying in the sun car - it's the first time he and Thalia agree on something.

But calls for Blackjack. He is not flying, not even under a god's asking. Apollo understands.

Thalia goes with him. Better through shadows than through air. He doesn't want to leave Nico with the misandry archers - but he has Grover, and Percy would probably land them in Iowa.

The daughter of Poseidon holds his waist while they ride on the hellhound. He focuses the best he can - and, for the first time, he lands exactly where he wants to land: in the woods at Camp.

Thalia helps him get to the Big House under weird looks of the year-rounders. They are there at least three hours before Apollo.

"You're kinda heavy, Corpse Breath. But that was cool."

"Shut it, Kelp Head"

He is anxious to just leave and go back to his mother, but Annabeth is in danger: They need a quest.

He has dreams. He can't fault Annabeth for doing what he would've done without a second of hesitation. It's Luke.

He helps Nico settle at Cabin 11, and avoids the huntresses. Connor hugs him, and Clarisse wipes the floor with him in wrestling - they are his friends now.

Clarisse, Connor, Annabeth, Grover, Charles. Luke, Ethan, Alabaster. The scales are tipping. He doesn't care for masters - he cares who is the defending.

Artemis goes missing, and they finally get a quest. Zoe Nightshade doesn't want a boy in the quest but tough luck: He is the most experienced camper here right now AND the quest goes through a desert, so he is going.

There's some doubt about taking Thalia - she is a daughter of Poseidon and can't do much in the wasteland.

So it's decided: Phoebe, Bianca, Zoe, Perseus, and Grover. No one is happy about it, and Percy knows Thalia is going to follow them.

He introduces himself as Perseus to them. He is stoic and doesn't smile around the girls.

Capture the Flag is horrible. He doesn't leave his post and blocks Zoe with skeletons for enough time that Thalia manages to snag the flag and cross the river.

The huntresses get mad and try to fight the campers - Phoebe tries to hit Nico with the pommel of her sword and a lightning bolt hits her, putting her out of commission.

He is claimed. Bianca isn't, but it doesn't matter: She is not a camper, she is a hunter. Her loyalty is to her half-sister now.

They leave in the morning without Phoebe before anyone wakes up.

Bianca looks at him weirdly because of his soft white and blue sweaters and scrunchies that he started using to take off hair from his face, and the contrast it makes with his dark skin and demeanor.

Newsflash: He doesn't care for a prejudiced daughter of Zeus's opinion.

Zoe doesn't even look at him twice: They have trans girls in the hunt, they're caught up with modern times. Except for the misandry and the exclusion of genderfluid, agender and non-binary people. But sure, caught up.

Nico asks him to protect his sister. He says he is going to try, but he understands death better than some. He says it'll be dangerous, but he'll do his best.

For some reason, Nico doesn't look worried.

Thalia joins them in the Space museum. She came in her Pegasus, Porkpie, and they fight the Nemean Lion together. His hellhound startles the hunters, and Thalia laughs.

They kill the Nemean Lion, and Perseus thinks he finally perfects his power over the earth when he uses a stone spike to pierce the monster through the mouth and barely gets tired.

The duster is not his style, but beggars can't be choosers. Zoe is warming up to them, he thinks, but he doesn't care either way: his objective is Annabeth.

He still hasn't managed to open the ground or to control metal's proprieties, but he controls the earth beneath his feet, shadow travels (very badly controlled, but sure), raises armies of skeletons and money and gems just sprout when he wants them. He has power.

But he isn't completely in control yet, so he doesn't want anyone touching him. And it's been such a long time since anyone except his mother ever been close to any skin below his neck.

Perseus has dreams. He is grateful that Artemis took the sky for Annabeth, so he burns the coat in her name.

Thalia says she has met Apollo, and Perseus is glad at least one god is on their side.

Perseus feels in the air: life. This town is cloying with the smell of life, of forests and waterfalls. He hates it on principle but wishes she could enjoy it.

He kills a spartoi. He doesn't manage to kill more, but now he knows. He wishes he could open the ground and swallow all of them, but even his own skeletons he only manages to turn them into piles of bones.

The boar carries most of them: it's still just a boar and they are five, so both he and Thalia enjoy Blackjack, who now is almost the size of a small rhino.

Perseus meets Ares awake this time. He didn't snitch on him to the gods, but he wishes he did.

Meeting Aphrodite is awful. Percy looks at her, and he sees blonde hair that he can't decide if it's golden or brownish, he looks at her eyes and see the blue and grey fight for dominance in the irises. Her skin flicks, and he sees a scar crossing her eye.

For a moment, her skin turns as black as his - his desire for family.

He hates her more than he hates Ares when she looks at him with a smile and says that his love life will be the most interesting tale she has ever woven.

They cross the junkyard. Bianca dies for a figurine of Zeus, and Perseus wants to scream at the skies for the injustice. He isn't close to Bianca, he won't miss her, but he blames himself.

What if he was good enough at shadow traveling to take all of them away? What if he was able to kill Talos before? If he saw the figurine in her hand, if he was clearer in his warning, if, if, if.

He is a son of Hades, and death follows him. The stench of it grabs at his clothes, but he doesn't cry. Bianca is not the first to die in the name of the gods - she won't be the last one.

Perseus tries and tries to reach for any part of her body - everything is gone.

The Hoover Dam goes exactly the same way - Percy finds the mortal girl cute, but he doesn't ponder on it. It's not the time. He tells her his name is Percy, because why not. He is not seeing her again.

He laughs at the dam joke and feels a little freer. He cares about Zoe. It's difficult not to.

They fly away, and Perseus doesn't like it, but he barely flinches.

They get closer - all of them. Perseus always makes friends in quests, and he is happier for it.

Thalia catches Nereus - and she tells them all about Bessie, the ophiotaurus. Percy thinks that, for a serpent cow, it's pretty cute.

Grover leaves with it back to Camp Half-Blood and away from the temptation that Thalia feels. He knows it - he feels it too, deep inside of him, the urge to kill all of them.

But is Kronos any better?

They meet Annabeth's father. Her stepmom caught a glance at him and sneers like he is covered in blood.

Luke is in Mount Othrys. Percy doesn't join him. He wants to. The drachma is still in his pocket. But Luke needs to pay for what he has done to Annabeth. This is not about the war that looms on the horizon, this is about his best friend.

They fight. Perseus holds the sky, but the thing in his fingertips is not the earth, it's something older and harder, that presses him to his knees. He draws strength from the earth, and he holds on.

They win, but at what cost? Luke falls. He cries and throws the drachma over the cliff - a promise gone with one of his first friends.

Zoe is dead. Three people dead, for a goddess who couldn't care less about them. Perseus wants to go back in time and accept Luke's proposal.

He wants to cry and he doesn't. They go to Olympus. Thalia joins Artemis, and he feels betrayed: just because she is afraid of power, she is going to throw the weight of this prophecy on him?

And on top, she just joined the eternal misandry group, and something in his heart festers. He thought he had one more friend in her, but she was just another pawn.

Annabeth basks in her mother's praise. He wants to vomit - two people are dead, but who cares.

Thalia pleads for the ophiotaurus life, but she doesn't lift a finger when they talk about his death. He hates her. He holds a grudge for his cousin just like his father holds one for his brother.

He just saved their asses for the third time, and they're talking about murdering him because he might not save them a fourth.

The gods. They take and they take and they take and the demigods keep giving.

His father saves him - no one dares to go against Hades' vote to let him live, because he is a hero.

They go back to camp, and Perseus is charged with the task to tell Nico.

"Well, so bring her back"

The boy says it non-chanlantly like he is counting on it. Percy feels guilt creep at his heart like a plague, all the ways he failed to save Bianca. If he just had a better grasp in his powers, if he was just better. And here it was, something else he couldn't do.

"I can't, Nico"

Nico yells at him. He screams that he killed his sister. Percy starts to retract, and they end up in the pavilion. Everyone is there, and they don't lift a finger to help.

Percy is so tired. He hasn't seen his mom since October. He just lost one of his best friends. He was on a mission for a week. He held the sky in his hands. Zoe is dead. Thalia is gone. Death follows him. The guilt claws at him - for not being enough.

Nico shouts and shouts. The final straw is when he says that he shouldn't have trusted a son of Hades, how everyone told him not to. He tells no one wants him here, and before anyone can say anything to contest it, spartoi appear.

People scramble for their weapons, but Percy opens the ground and swallows all of the skeletons. When they're gone, so is Percy.

Turns out? Percy doesn't want to be here anymore either.

Nico is prideful. People in camp scrambled for his attention. A couple of kids of Aphrodite tell him that Perseus wasn't a good company, trying to get in his good graces. This time around, there's no one to sing the praises of Percy Jackson.

Grover takes him aside and explains, a little against him own will, what happened with Bianca. He gives him the figurine.

Nico feels guilty. He is too prideful to admit, but he feels it burning in his heart - so he tries to understand what he just did. Grover tells him about the last two years. The guilt now fights with admiration, and resentment battles with adoration.

Some people steer clear of him for a while. Charles Beckendorf is too kind to isolate him - but Nico sees the sadness in his eyes. Annabeth doesn't talk with him - she just lost three best friends in a swoop. Grover reluctantly tells him more about Percy. Clarisse wipes the floor with him - and he doesn't complain when he wakes up and his makeshift bed in Cabin 1 is crawling with bugs - He is pretty sure Connor hates him.

Katie Gardner doesn't talk to him anymore. Will Solace - who is his best friend - consolates him. He tells Nico he was pretty awful to Percy last summer, and Percy still came back.

Pretty awful doesn't even begin to cover what Nico did. But he nods and settles. It's going to be fine.

Perseus wanders the Underworld. He plays with Cerberus, and it's finally time to go make peace with his father and meet Persephone.

There's the heavy weight of a drachma in his pocket.

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angryhausfrau-writes · 4 years ago

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I’ve Traveled Troubled Oceans - Chapter One: The Plot

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this painting?” Jack asks the room at large.

Anne shrugs.

Charles grunts.

“Maybe Max would want it?”

That's the most sensible suggestion Jack's probably going to get out of the lot of them – and it's coming from the new guy. So that bodes well for this whole fucking venture now doesn't it.

“Wait,” Charles says, finally deigning to actually look at what the fuck Jack's talking about. “Flint didn't want it?”

It is, technically, Flint's painting. Traded to Jack for hash by some street kids and paid to Flint in recompense for connecting him with that party full of poncy coke fiends with more money than burst capillaries.

Anne gives a derisive snort. “Nah, he fucked off to America to live in romantic poverty with his boy toy.”

Though given that said boy toy is heir to the Hamilton fortune, their romantic poverty is more likely to involve a stately home in Greenville or Chapel Hill or something than actual poverty of the variety he or Anne or Chaz are familiar with.

“Well I don't give a fuck what you do with it, Jack. Just get it out of here. I don't want any more Spaniards poking around. Or Russians. Or whoever the fuck they were. They fucking trashed the place.”

“Yes, of course, Charles. You're absolutely right. They simply ruined the whole crack den vibe we've got going on here. I'll make certain we get our interior decorating straightened out first priority.”

“Fuck you, Jack.”

Charles wishes.

“Well, if I'm actually giving it to Max, Anne had better be the one to deliver it.” Since Max doesn't like Jack, for some reason. And really, really likes Anne for completely obvious reasons.

“Fine,” Anne grits out. As if getting eaten out in the back of a Range Rover is really fucking up her social calendar. “But you're helping me carry it all the way to the fucking West End.”

Wonderful. Now Jack gets to stand outside in the cold while Anne gets eaten out in the back of a Range Rover.

“Fine.”

Jack shrugs on his warmest coat. Maybe he can make a little dosh off the snobby theater patrons. The rich artsy fucks – or those who style themselves that way, anyway – always have a habit or two to indulge.

But surprisingly, Jack gets pulled into the back of Max's car right along with Anne and the painting. And he doubts it's for another ill-considered threesome. Not with the way Max actually deigned to pause whatever boring regency-era drama she's got on. No, she wants to talk business.

Exactly what business that is becomes apparent when Mr. Scott joins them.

“You want the money,” Jack blurts out.

Max nods.

“And you want to use my crew to get it.”

Another nod.

“Fuck no. I'm not going against Eleanor and Woodes Rogers. Not for love or money.” He gets up to leave, gesturing Anne to follow. She's the love, he's the money.

Mr. Scott speaks up. “He owes me.” His tone is level, but Jack can read the vehemence behind it. “They all owe me.”

And Jack doesn't have to be a genius to guess what he means.

“He sent you away for that four stretch. Just like he sent Flint and Silver and who knows how many others.”

Like Charles. Oh, fuck, Charles. Who'd gone away on a two stretch on a job that shouldn't have been anything but a quick in and out. But somehow London's finest had been there, waiting, handcuffs just ready to snap around his wrists.

“That man owned me, body and soul.” And Mr. Scott's anger has gone beyond vehement to downright poisonous, though he's still speaking in that same even tone. “But he thought I was getting greedy. Getting uppity. So he sent me away, to teach me a lesson.”

Like he was some errant school boy and Lord Hamilton his headmaster. Oh, he'd always styled himself as such, the pompous prick. Mr. Scott takes a breath.

“So yes, I want the fucking money.”

Fair enough, in Jack's estimation. But that still doesn't explain why he's the one who has to go get it.

“Surely there are enough remnants of Flint's old crew to con into this suicide mission.” Billy Bones comes to mind. He's pretty sure either Eleanor or Woodes Rogers would be susceptible.

“Flint's gone,” Max supplies. “Bones turned traitor. And Silver paid me out the ass to help him disappear. Last I'd heard, he ran away up North to open a pub with Madi.”

So that's his share disappeared, then. No wonder Max is going straight to the source.

Anne snorts. “Wonder how long that honeymoon's going to last.”

Max smiles, and it's not a very nice expression. “Well, either they'll reconcile or Madi will be back here in a week with a big fat insurance payment on the pub that mysteriously burned down – and Silver will be nowhere to be found.”

Mr. Scott smiles proudly. Madi truly is her mother's daughter.

“Ok, ok. You're short on options. But that still doesn't explain why you'd come to me.” Jacks been out of that particular game since Charles went away. And sure, he's built himself a tidy little empire here, dealing drugs to the rich idiots who want them. But that doesn't mean he's ready to get back in the saddle – and certainly not with anything on the scale Max is talking about.

Max looks uncomfortable, which isn't an expression Jack's used to seeing on her. “It needs to happen quickly and with discretion.”

And there isn't anyone else she trusts with this, Jack realizes. Well, damn. Now he's got to do it – Max owing him a favor is worth thrice his weight in cold hard cash.

“Why the time limit?” Anne asks.

An excellent question. “The Eleanor I know doesn't need the money. She probably just took it because she got bored of her gilded little cage.” She'll want to keep it around for a while, as a trophy if nothing else.

“Eleanor doesn't need the money,” Max says with a grin that spells nothing but misfortune for her victims, “but Woodes Rogers is another story entirely.”

“I thought he was loaded,” Jack interjects. “Surely blow and rent boys can't run him that much.” Though if he holds parties like the one Jack had attended on a regular basis – that might actually start draining the old trust fund. But even so, he and Eleanor both work the kind of rich people jobs that amount to doing fuck all and being paid out the ass for it. So he doesn't think that's quite it.

Mr. Scott smiles, and it's not a very warm expression. “Apparently Mr. Rogers has something of a gambling problem. He's run up significant debts with some international syndicates – including our friends the Spanish.”

“And now that his patron Lord Hamilton is out of the picture,” Max continues, “he's left with wolves at the door. The cash is as good as gone by the end of the week.”

“Well shit,” Anne says.

A sentiment Jack wholeheartedly endorses.

“Even if I had an entire week to plan this venture, I couldn't guarantee success. And all you're giving me is three days! How the hell am I supposed to pull this off, Max?”

Max smiles. “Charles is back in town, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Jack says tightly.

“That's your way in.”

“Now I know you're joking.”

Max raises one delicate eyebrow in question.

“Charles and Eleanor had a rather... explosive falling out right before he went away. Surely you heard about it. There's no way in hell he's our way in – she'll slam the door right in his face.”

“The thing about Eleanor, Jack, is that she loves to burn bridges. But once she's burned them, she inevitably finds herself looking back across the water to the other side. And finds she rather misses what she had when she was there.”

And isn't that just a terrible insight into Max and Eleanor's former relationship. Jack shudders. He's never going to bitch about Max being with Anne again.

Probably.

“Ok,” Anne says. “So Eleanor still has the hots for Chuck and she'll fuck him just cuz of that.”

“Well, not just because of that,” Max interjects. “She'll fuck him because she likes to have her cake and eat it too.”

Max waves an airy hand around the group assembled.

“We are all well aware of how things ended between her and Charles. And she hates to lose face above all else. Her fucking Charles and then throwing him over is her rewriting the breakup – getting to play the all powerful king and him the pitiful subject, to be used and thrown away on a whim.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Fine,” Anne interrupts, annoyed. “Eleanor's going to play weird sex mind-games with him instead. How does this help us get the money?”

“Eleanor's the one who'd smell a rat,” Jack says. “Woodes Rogers isn't exactly the sharpest or most conniving knife in the drawer. He'd let us right in on, on the pretense of another party. We sell to him and his friends again and they're all too off their heads and sex crazy to bother wondering where we've run off to after.”

“The rich have an amazing ability to overlook the “help” once they've stopped making themselves useful,” Mr. Scott adds.

“Right, yes.” Jack nods decisively as a plan forms. “And with Eleanor otherwise occupied, we'd have run of the whole house. Plenty of time to snoop around and find the money. And if we bring a travel case for the drugs – we load up the cash and just walk out as if nothing ever happened.”

“And as luck would have it,” Mr. Scott interjects, “they plan on throwing a party this very Wednesday evening – in celebration of Miss Guthrie's birthday.”

A plan formed, Jack and the others all nod in unison. They're going to get that fucking cash.

Although convincing Charles to go along with it might be a little difficult.

#black sails #maxanne #max/anne #charles vane/jack rackham #rocknrolla #black sails modern au #fanfic #chapter 1

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deepdisireslonging · 6 years ago

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Family Found Part 35: Secrets

The Royal Rumble is rolling closer and the roster is getting antsy.

Warnings/Promises: wrestling violence, demon-deal

Word Count: 3130

Note: I need your help. Do you guys want a little recap of feuds development in previous weeks before matches like they do on Raw? Or perhaps a quick opening paragraph recapping the last week? I would really like any thoughts you guys have on what would make it easier to read and to keep up with. My DMs and asks are always open for feedback, or you can reply here. Tag lists are open too. Enjoy! (And holy shit we’re at chapter 35?)

Part 1: Welcome to the Team

Part 34: Double Trouble

Monday Night Raw – January 7, 2019

The lights flickered in the arena. Cole, Corey, and Renee fell silent at their post. When everyone could see again, Dr. M was standing, alone, in the ring. He cleared his throat and fiddled with his mic. “Ms. Y/N, I need to discuss something with you.” He sang-spoke your name again before your music hit and you walked out onto the stage. “There you are. Braun and I want to defend out tag titles tonight.”

You nodded but tilted your head in confusion. “Okay… that could have been said over a phone call. Why call me out here?”

“We want to defend them against the Authors of Pain.”

Ah. “And why is that?” You crossed your arms, blocking yourself off as if he could see the nervousness in your eyes from the ring.

His cheek twitched with a grin. “We both know who is the real power here on Monday Night Raw. It is not you with your secrets. Seth Rollins with his champion’s control. Or even Braun and I. It is in the tag division here, in Akam and Rezar.”

“Why should I give you what you want?”

“Power does not come from tearing our opponents down, but from recognizing their strengths. Then, when we beat them, our strength is credited at a higher standard.”

“We?” You made a show of looking around him. “Are you defending alone, or do you have Braun hiding somewhere, ready to strike someone from behind. Since that seems to be what you are training him in.”

Dr. M stepped to rest his forearms on the ropes. “He will come when he is needed.”

It didn’t matter how many times you’d had to talk to him. Dr. M was always going to give you the creeps. “I shouldn’t be giving you anything after what you two did to Finn Balor last week. Maybe what went around will come back around,” you quipped. Dr. M merely smiled. You twisted to leave.

“And Ms. Ambrose.” You turned at his voice. “Don’t let your hidden priorities stay hidden for too long. They will fester and infect you. And those closest to you. Too much longer and,” he ducked his head, “not even I will be able to heal you.”

Your temples jolted as you tensed your jaw. “Good luck with your match.”

***

The Authors of Pain and Drake Maverick entered the arena a few minutes later. They had just reached the top of the ramp when Drake was snatched from between his charges. Braun threw him off the stage, then feel to his knees. Akam and Rezar rained blows on him until Dr. M was there to assist him. It took a minute, but they eventually spun and stumbled their way down the ramp and into the ring.

Corey got more excited the longer the match went on. “Did you see that? Rezar is keeping Braun on the run. No one has been able to do that since… well, probably Brock Lesnar. And Akam is keeping Dr. M away from… wait.”

“I sorta say,” Cole added, “didn’t this same plan happen with the Revival back at Clash of Champions?”

Renee breathed, “oh no,” then everything broke apart. Playing into the Revival’s hands may have worked then, but AOP had them scouted. Drake, now recovered, made sure that his teammates knew exactly where Dr. M was, and when to switch up their tactics. Dr. M was tossed through the ropes where he bounced off the apron hard. He didn’t get up as both men dog piled on top of Braun. They sprung up and caught Drake jumping off the turnbuckles after the ref counted to three.

The new Raw tag team champions were too busy celebrating to see Dr. M smiling, leaned back against the side of the ring.

***

As the commotion headed your way, you went ahead and put away your phone and clipboard. The trio that rounded the corner made your brow crease, but they came anyway. Finn Balor was doing his best to keep Tyler Breeze and Zack Ryder from fighting backstage, while also adding in his own thoughts. “I’ve been fighting just as hard for my own goals, t’ank you. We’re here.”

You looked back and forth between them. “Gentlemen. May I help you?”

“I want an opportunity,” Zack said, jumping in front of the other two men. Tyler pushed him back and said the same thing. Finn met your gaze and shook his head.

Oh dear. “I would love to give each of you an opportunity, but I don’t know how I am going to give each of you an equal chance to have one… unless-“

Breeze bounced on his toes. “Unless what?”

“Unless she puts us in a triple t’reat match. Tonight.” Finn arched his eyebrows. “Am I right?” He nodded and stepped back with a smile as you shrugged in the affirmative.

Zack reeled, growling. “A triple threat match. Really?” He started to pace back and forth across your office. He huffed as you caught his shoulders.

“Yes. And, I will keep whoever wins tonight in mind for anything that comes up. Will that suffice?” Again, you looked between the three of them. They avoided looking at each other, and only Finn was able to meet your eye. “Give me a little while; be ready. You all will have your match.” Gulping down the dryness in your mouth, you shot them a smile. “And may the best man win.”

***

“Ladies and gentlemen… Elias.”

He glared at the crowd from under his spotlight. They waited, impatiently, for him to speak or sing. Gritting his teeth, he strummed a bit, working out what he wanted to say. He sang about how annoying Dean was. How he was the reason they lost last week. About how he wanted another fight so that he could break Dean apart for his time wasted over the past several weeks.

Elias was about to say more when he was hit from behind. Dean came out of the dark and knocked Elias over, stomping on his gut so he couldn’t stand. “Would you just shut up!” Looking around, Dean picked up the guitar and played a few sour chords. Elias grabbed at his boot. Dean tugged his foot away and dropped the guitar on Elias’s hand. While the Drifter rolled around on the canvas, Dean left the ring. “Besides, I thought we were done. That’s what you said last week. So, I’m moving on. You’re not worth my time any more.”

“I’m not worth your time?” Elias shouted back. He stumped to his feet and fell through the ropes to chase after Dean. “Annoying, crazy, son of a gun. You were the one who-“

A Dirty Deeds wiped him out.

“Don’t call me crazy,” Dean shot over his shoulder.

***

The other half of the women’s number one contender tournament was scheduled next. Natalya and Dana met in the ring. The shook hands, then broke apart as the bell rang. Backstage, Ember watched the fight from a monitor. One of these women could face her at the Royal Rumble. Or one of them could win the Rumble and face her at WrestleMania, assuming she still had the title then. She watched the pre-match comments from both competitors.

Dana had been keeping up with everyone’s stats, especially Ember’s. “But I have flipped a new leaf. I’ve got a better way to use that knowledge, a better plan. Tonight, I’m going to put that plan into motion. By the time the Royal Rumble gets here, the whole locker room will know how I can break down any woman in my path. And it starts with Natalya.”

“I’m not worried about any plans of Dana’s,” Natalya said in her video, “I’m focused on getting the job done. No numbers, no second-guess what’s the best plan, just go out there and do what needs to be done. I’ve been champion before. And I am going to be champion again.”

Ember nodded and gripped her title tight as Natalya was true to her word. She flinched as Dana took an especially hard bump. By the time the referee’s three-count rolled around, the other half of next week’s match was set. Renee was super excited about announcing it.

“Next week, Rhonda Rousey will go head-to-head against her best friend, Natalya, to see who will face Ember Moon at the Royal Rumble. And I bet it is going to be another fantastic match.”

***

Finn vs. Breeze v. Ryder

Personally, you were there to que the entrances for the triple threat match. You would be watching it from the back with Triple H, who was residing over the production side of the show that night. There was always a McMahon in that role, in every show.

Balor, Breeze, and Ryder kept to their corners at the bell. After another second of hesitation, Finn ran and drop-kicked Ryder out of the ring, then leapt to his feet to engage Breeze. They kept the ring to themselves for a while before Ryder came flying back in and pushed Finn out. Then he had a turn fighting Breeze. When Finn came back and acted like he was going to push Ryder out again, Breeze stopped him.

“Hold up! It’s my turn to get thrown out. You guys go at for a while so I can catch my breath or something.”

Finn and Ryder shared a look and a shrug, then helped each other flip Tyler Breeze over the top rope. He came back with a vengeance a few minutes later. Having caught his breath meant he could flip and spin around both of his opponents faster than they could react. But neither took enough for a pin. The pin didn’t come until Ryder wiped Breeze out on one side of the ring, then turned around into a drop kick that bounced him into a corner. Finn scaled the ropes and came down in a Coup de Gras. He didn’t know what opportunity he had just won, but there was one in mind that he was wishing for.

***

At the sound of the electric guitar, Dean bounced his way down to the ring. He gave John Cone a wave and checked his tape as the next music took over. Baron Corbin entered, laser focused on Dean all the way to the ring. They met in a tight lock. Baron lost ground first, but Dean was the one pushed across the ring. They met again, giving blows to each other’s torsos and heads to build up bruising that would help later. With the third meet, Dean caught Baron in a series of submission holds. They were old school. Dirty and rough. Desperate, Baron was able to get his feet under him and jumped just high enough to break Dean away by his jaw.

They were recovering on either side of the ring when Elias strolled out from behind the announce table, guitar on his shoulder. He was humming to himself. That it was playing through his head mic was driving Corey manic.

Dean watched as Elias smirked and climbed onto the apron. He clenched his fists the further away he got, walking closer to where Baron was watching in a far corner. “Don’t you do it. Don’t you-“

Elias slapped Baron upside the back of the head. It was enough for the referee to call the match a disqualification and award the win to Baron. Baron took it with a laugh. He continued laughing as Dean glared at Elias’s exit, strumming his guitar.

***

Curt Hawkins slinked along a shadowy part of the hall. He looked left and right, then bumped into Seth Rollins. Seth squinted as Curt hid something behind his back. “Watcha got there, Hawkins?”

“Nothing that belongs to you anymore.” Curt tried to run past him again, but Seth snagged the hidden object. Seth held up the Universal title. Then he started laughing. “What? I had to try something since nothing else has worked.”

Seth continued to laugh. “And you almost got away with it… if this wasn’t a replica.” He held up his other hand, showing off the real Universal, and the Intercontinental. “I mean, I can understand why you couldn’t tell the difference. It’s not like you’ve held a title in a while. Here,” Curt froze as Seth dropped the real red and gold title onto his shoulder. “Feel the difference?”

He was off like a shot the second the leather settled. He looked left and right. Then he bounced off a tall chest and went sprawling. Drew McIntyre bent a knee and picked up the title. With a glare, he handed it back to Seth. He hauled Curt to his feet and sent him scuttling down the hall while the champ slung both titles over his shoulders. When he turned around, Seth was smiling at him.

“Do you want another shot at one?”

Drew leered at him. “Are you offering such a shot for the IC?”

“I’m a working champ. Hell yeah, I’m offering. But are you accepting?” Seth held out his hand. Drew took it without a second thought.

“I’ll find us a ref.”

“And I’ll square it up with Y/N.”

***

The number one contender’s match for the women’s tag titles was brutal. Tamina and Nia had worked out their timing with devastating accuracy. Mickie James and Alicia Fox had Alexa Bliss ringside with them; she kept on eye out for both of their competitors and shouted at them the perfect times to attack. But unlike with the AOP earlier in the show, something was off.

Alicia missed a command and filled in with her own ideas. As such, she walked into an attack and quick tag-off between Nia and Tamina. Mickie was laying on the floor on the other side of the ring and couldn’t be moved. Alexa tried distracting the ref from the apron but dropped to the ground when Tamina rushed her. Nia pinned Alicia, ensuring their match at the Royal Rumble.

Quick as a flash, before the bell had stopped ringing, the Riott Squad invaded the ring. They kicked Alicia out to the rest of her team, then focused on who they would be facing in a few weeks. Nia got stuck with Ruby and Liv on each arm. Sarah held her own against Tamina, raking her nails across her face and dropping her to her knees. As suddenly as they appeared, they darted out and regrouped at the top of the ramp. Sarah and Liv picked up their championship belts from the floor and held them high while Ruby glowered from over their shoulders.

***

Alexa came stomping up to you by a backstage tv. You held up your hands in surrender, but she still did her best to get in your face. “What kind of a manager are you?”

“One doing the best she can. I can’t help it if your team loses a match.” You tried to walk around her, but she pushed you back. You looked down at where her hand had been as she continued to talk.

“We didn’t have any kind of preparation! And what was that thing with the Riott Squad?”

Now you were peeved. But you were the general manager. You could keep your cool. Or most of it. “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll try to give you two weeks’ notice instead of one. Though, if you want your ladies to be champions, they really need to be ready for anything at any time. Such as the Riott Squad.” Alexa sputtered and gaped at you. “But you’ve got plenty of time to work on that. You won’t be getting another chance until after the Royal Rumble. Is that enough of a heads up?”

Not waiting for her answer, you shouldered past her.

***

IC Drew vs. Seth, Dolph interferes, makes his own challenge

Seth and Drew put on another clinic for the Intercontinental. It was going well, the crowd as on its feet, the announce team was fully engaged, when Dolph got involved. Drew was getting up from one of Seth’s suicide dives when he came around a corner with a chair. Drew dodged, but the hit wasn’t meant for him. Seth dropped. The second swing caught Drew in the stomach; the third rang across his back and dropped him to the floor. Then Dolph stood over him and shouted, “I’m going to take my chance. The one you stole from me. TLC and just about every week since then.”

Even though Seth had won by disqualification, Dolph tossed the champion in the ring and tossed in the chair too. He grabbed a mic from a techie and circled the fallen champ. “You think that just because you defend the gold every week that you are deserving of it. But I used something out of your book tonight, Seth. Chairs to the back have always been your thing. They’re what you use when you can’t beat someone with your bare hands. When I use a chair, it’s an exclamation point on my skill and my prestige in this business. I am going to erase you, Seth, from the Intercontinental championship with pride. It’ll be a service to the WWE.”

Drew rushed into the ring, but got caught up on the ropes. Dolph stuck him again and again with the chair until he was satisfied and Drew’s movement was his labored breathing.

***

Backstage, Drew leaned against the corner between two hallways. He used the crease of the brick to stretch a difficult place between his shoulder blades. As Finn stepped into view, he stood tall. “What do you want?” he growled.

“I should be asking you that. What do you want, Drew? A title. Or just to beat Dolph?” He easily dodged Drew swinging a punch. “If I can keep Dolph off your back until you win the Universal, would you be willing to make a deal?”

Drew huffed. “And what’s that gonna cost me, Balor? A bit of my soul?”

“No,” Finn chuckled, “though that might be easier for you to give. No. If you win because I kept Dolph out of the way, I want to fight you for it first. There aren’t any more rematches. And I know neither of us want Seth getting his hands on it again. Consider it?” Finn held out his hand.

Looking at it with distrust, Drew hesitantly shook his hand. He couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down his spine seeing Finn’s overly-bright smile. Drew took his hand back like the exchange burned. Finn chuckled again, deep in his throat. Then he turned on his heel and left the Scottish Psychopath in the flickering lights of the hallways.

Part 36: Choices

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

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mephistophelianmusingsxo · 7 years ago

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Sin City

It is said that loneliness is one’s lack of social activity, another humans company but true loneliness is isolation, it’s an emotional power to emptiness. It is more than just that feeling of wanting company, true loneliness is disconnection. No matter the amount of bodies that swarm your own with heat you’re still lonely, you’re still cold. It’s an impossible struggle to react and build a meaningful human contact. You’re hollow. Your insides whistle and echo the sounds of voices but they don’t quite reach your ears, the soft haze, the quiet buzz fades still. People fear being alone, they fear they may become lost without constant interaction but I, I chose to be alone. I chose this life. It wasn’t forced upon me, it was what my heart chose. You may ask “What is it like being alone?” And I can truly say, it is critical that you first assess the reason and actions to bring you to this point, whether in reasons for physical violence, emotional anguish, or the degree your mind is willing to go to accomplish this sense of being alone. I mean after all, we’re all, alone aren’t we? No one ever truly understands what it is like to be them, to experience their happiness, their pain, their sorrow and their guilt. So, how can we say that we are in fact not alone? We are. Some people find it easier to be within their own company, smothering their monadic existence from others. Pretending that all is good, life is perfect and they’re hunky dory. Drawing fucking pictures of a life everyone wants but not one single being has. Bullshit. Whether you will like to disagree or agree with my matter at fact, you cannot deny that solidarity is a fleeting feeling. It is universal. Race, creed, social standing. Once in a person’s life it will visit their soul and leave a mark so deep, they will always question if it ever left. Every song, every piece of literature, every painting extracts the inescapable fate of pure loneliness and we somehow are fundamentally distant from this, we protest that we do not have it. The paradox to all human existence for our social entities is to seek connections. May it be with another human or simply an object that holds great sentimental value.

Which leads me to my next point, by now you’ve probably already guessed my life became tangled in ways it never should. A typical story of a child not wanted, and a child gone wayward. However, you would be wrong. My childhood was the exact juxtaposition to expectancy, I was an only child. Sweet little protégé to dear old Dad’s booming company. Showered in love and adoration from the minute I was born, a child couldn’t ask for more. But it was never enough, I never belonged, I couldn’t excel in the areas my father wanted to carry on his heritage, try he might have, he could never tether my soul, could never cage my free spirit. I wanted to explore the world, I wanted to become accustomed to more than what I had growing up, I had a wild zoe for freedom. Academically I excelled in everything I did. From the writing short hand classes my father enrolled me in, to the logistics and statistics courses. In effect, there wasn’t much I didn’t excel in, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t care for flash suits, fancy jobs, exquisite restaurants, nature was more my thing. No convention or obligation, seeking out every unique possibility in each circumstance as it was. Enjoying whatever I deemed appropriate in this socially adverse world, limitations were minimal, and I rather relished in my adventurous unconventional conformity of a woman. Freedom, now freedom is open to arguments; social and political views as something that must be contained and controlled or something that cannot be. It has been across everyone’s lips, touched their tongues but never their actual mind set nor their soul. It has touched every human heart with adept fingers and a shadow that looms. Forever changing but never abandoning.

‘Freedom’. Freedom means many things to many people; politically the freedom to vote and choose your respected candidate, socially for you to choose what and who you like to acknowledge with. Standing free with those that fight for the freedom of speech, distancing yourself from those who fight for an entirely different cause but still freedom. Financial freedom is what got me in to this mess. Where others seek to free themselves from debt, standing credit and foredooming loans, I propelled myself further and further in to the outstanding debt. What’s more surprising is, I don’t particularly wish to be free either. Which is funny, wouldn’t you say? For a woman that has documented nothing but her free spirit doesn’t seem to want to be free of the hold finance has on her. I have to say it is interesting that we all pursue this Liberty as an ends to a means. An end to all our struggles. But what is our deliverance? The no longer outstanding debt, the ability to do what we like? Say what we like? It is not truly being what we all call 'free’. If you look, it is our hearts that drove us in to this mess at the beginning yes? So, who is to say that our hearts will not choose the same path? It will remain unchanged as long as our heart yearns for what it just escaped from. Why? Because we desire what we think we cannot live without. And… Voila! We find ourselves in debt again. It’s a viscous cycle. It eclipses all we know and only serves what we don’t. Feeds off the hunger of curiosity. And well, being a natural spirit of curiosity, I was an easy target. I was the prey awaiting the predator to seize. It was not an approach in the dead of night, it was more an ease of comfort and insurance slinking its way around your body, your mind, your heart until you realise and it’s too late. It’s not a peripheral remedy. It’s simply not something to help you balance your books it becomes your life. Symptoms begin to fester, and you apprehend that it’s a disease, but rather than dealing with it you run. I ran. Intoxicated with the deadness of every human strategy, the knowing that it’s something I could never conquer, my heart fell steadfast into corruption and sin. Captivating and keeping hold of the rebellion that would cause mankind to leap from ignorant innocence to full blown understanding. I do suppose that if my life had taken a left instead of a sharp right, I would never have found myself in this position, but then again, I also suppose that I wouldn’t be happy, I’d be stuck working at my father’s company, lumbered with a healthy pay-check and all the cuttings and trimmings that went with it. At least this way I was gifted with a substantial pay-check for doing what I love. I wasn’t just put on this earth to work and pay bills, that was not a life. Just an existence. There were other places I could have chosen to work, other industries I could have pursued but not everyone finds the labouring of a nine to five exciting and appealing but rather tedious. This line of work is for the ones that don’t have any advanced education or a set of degrees, for the ones that don’t have the looks or the luck, or the ones that don’t have enough gumption to be a pimp; they live a life of has beens and recent regrets. It doesn’t require sets of specific skills and it’s readily available in any city that you step your foot in. Have you guessed it? When the clock hits twelve we deal; cards and crack. Yes! The drug industry, let’s not call it that. That brings unwanted negative connotations, disastrous assumptions to those involved. Instead, I oppose we call it a free trade on the very large capitalism scale. Distributing and supplying to those who live the life in the fast lane, the ones that search for a kick, the ones that become solely dependent on the next hit. I would say I was sorry but I’m not. As long as their struggles line my pocket, I would continue to benefit from transactions, grant them another five gram, ten, the amount is limitless when you have the money. I feed their uncontrollable addictions to illicit drugs, I destroy families; people all alike. There is no age, no specific gender. It is whoever is willing to pay. Drug dealing requires no real hard work, but it’s no fun when you lose, and your balls are in the blender. Your pay-check comes from the clientele and if you slip up and squander your batch, you’re the one that suffers then. You have no income until your next run. It’s all a muddle of colours, a twisted web of lies. To say I had simply lost my way was quite the understatement. To be brutally honest, I had become adrift the many other souls settled in the ruins of their independency. People observe the streets just as people observe the sky, in one single hour a multitude of colours can paint the sky; blues, greys, oranges, yellows. In my line of work, it is crucial that I notice these. I may approach you genially, by no means am I nice. Granted I can be affable when I please, but please; do not ask me to be a friend. I simply can’t. Pick a colour and chose your path. Drug smuggling, runner, courier however you please to perceive. It is my job and as a right in doing so, I notice trends throughout rife city life. When demand is low, I simply move on. I cannot recount a single moment where I have remained in a place for longer than six months, that is until now. New Orleans has become my home, or perhaps I should say my place of work. An advantageous opportunity I could never resist. If I had known what I know now, it is almost probable my deterioration in to crime and misdemeanours would certainly have happened more rapidly. Would you believe me if I told you witches were real? Would you believe me if I told you I work for them? No, no, what if I told you my very purpose in this is to run errands where vampires cannot go? Would you believe me? Of course not. You’d only but believe I am a woman turned insane from her reckless use of narcotics or perhaps an insensate pursuit of an old crazy woman way before her time, my time. However, consider this there isn’t just one monotheistic being – Humans. We are only a minute percentage of the world’s population. Forever persecuting other people, killing them because they’re far more superior than anything mortality is capable of. But immortality, immortality is something else altogether. Creatures of brief season that remain for an eternity. Wherever you look in history, you cannot escape the record of inquisition, they have always been a part of our world. Undertaking, preceding and strengthening what we mortals are unaware. I once claimed loneliness and freedom were my downfall, I believed them to be a disadvantage of no plausible use, but as it turns out being in this new reality grants me the greatest asset of invisibility. Slipping from sunset to sunrise unseen, unnoticed. Free.

#DourChicanery solos

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junker-town · 5 years ago

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The death of long-term planning in the NBA

Lindsay Mound

How to team build in the Player Empowerment Era.

It’s late September on the eighth floor of Brooklyn’s ultra modern HSS Practice Facility in Sunset Park. Seated behind a podium that overlooks a room full of reporters, Sean Marks is beaming. Just a couple months ago, his Nets signed Kevin Durant and Kyrie Irving, in effect executing one of the biggest free agency coups in recent NBA history.

For the next 35 minutes, Marks handles the crowd with thoughtful answers, occasionally sidestepping more delicate topics with playful sarcasm. Even though the mood is mostly jubilant, this preseason press conference is bit with a very real tension. Marks must balance his team’s high expectations with the fragility of his own good fortune. Deep down, he, and every other front office executive in the NBA, knows one thing right now: there’s no time to stop and celebrate because everything can — and probably will — change in a year. Or three months. Or the blink of an eye. For some general managers, franchise-altering decisions are being made outside of their control and over their head.

Marks is eventually asked about this topic, how challenging it is to see any long-term vision through in an NBA that feels more volatile by the day. He starts to chuckle as his eyes widen.

“There’s never really those opportunities to take a deep sigh and say ‘OK, great’. It’s a player’s league. Players have shown that. They’re dictating really more than GMs, coaches, how and when, where they want to go and so forth,” he said. “All we can do is put out the best environment that we see fit for these guys … and hopefully [they] gravitate and want to be part of it.”

A few minutes later, Marks circles back to the topic: “These guys want to have ownership. They want to have ownership in, you name it, how we fly, the hotels we stay in, what plays we’re running out of an ATO … things are different now.”

Even though the Nets are located in a vibrant metropolis, they have zero NBA championships and only one playoff series win in the last 12 years. This did not faze Durant or Irving, two billion-watt all-stars most recently employed by universally-respected organizations that know how to win. They left objectively beneficial situations for themselves as basketball players to explore the unknown. When studied within an offseason that changed the NBA forever, they were indicative of an era that’s tilting the league on its axis. One defined by complete and total unpredictability. Seriously, nobody knows anything.

Lindsay Mound

In addition to Durant stepping away from arguably the greatest team of all time as Irving’s officially backtracked on the Boston Celtics, Kawhi Leonard fled the Toronto Raptors a few weeks after he won Finals MVP, Paul George had second thoughts about Oklahoma City despite signing a four-year contract just 12 months prior — a move that caught every executive interviewed for this story off guard — Anthony Davis sacrificed a season of his career to strong arm his way out of New Orleans, and Jimmy Butler took less money to be a lone wolf in Miami.

Players are well within their right to make these decisions, but a few still liquified traditional norms by showing even more control over their own careers; as growing trends collide with the NBA’s established guidelines — including but not limited to: shortened contracts, the wave of new ownership, a rising salary cap, and the overwhelming influence of social media — the ability for any team to accurately forecast its own future has all but evaporated.

When Leonard left the champs it wasn’t a shock, but it did come without precedent. A splash of cold water still feels like a splash of cold water, even if someone gives you months to prepare for it. “[Kawhi’s decision] just basically told me OK, now we’re in a league where you can’t expect anyone to stay,” one assistant general manager in the Eastern Conference told SB Nation. “It opened up the floodgates. Anything is possible.”

And even though George’s trade request netted the Thunder plenty of ammo to build themselves back up, it still sent a chill down the spine of several front-office executives who know they could be next. Coming out of the summer we just had, approaching a season that reflects just how fluid the league is, the question of how front offices will wade through it all is both timely and worth exploring. How is long-term planning even possible in the face of constant change?

With the caveat that contingencies, luck, and the ability to adapt on the fly has always mattered, in several hours of conversation with over a dozen front office employees, nearly all acknowledge that it’s never been more difficult to strategically build than it is right now.

That said, it’s so hard to make a blanket statement about 30 franchises at any given time. Even though all work with the same Collective Bargaining Agreement, they also operate with different budgets, based on dissimilar abilities to generate revenue. Not all teams have the same goals, either. But all are vulnerable to evolution. The NBA’s hastening pace of change brings new challenges, and how they respond in the years ahead will be as fascinating as it is important.

Some teams that used to project six, seven, eight years down the road no longer try. Three, four, five-year forecasts are standard endeavors, but even with guaranteed rookie-scale contracts as long as they are, long-term plans have become a dead sprint into the abyss. As they were recently described by one general manager in the Eastern Conference: “It’s like building a brand new house around a sink hole.”

The root of this tectonic shift is money. In 2016, revenue from television contracts incited the largest salary cap increase in league history, by a mile. The cap for the 2019-20 season is $109.14 million. Five years ago it was $63.06. According to Spotrac, at the time the average salary signed by a free agent was $4.67 million. That figure more than doubled this past offseason, rounding out at $11.95 million. In total, $3,512,553,423 worth of contracts have been signed since July 1. That’s more than every dollar distributed to free agents in 2011, 2012, and 2013 combined.

What led us here didn’t happen overnight. When a new CBA was ratified in 2011, the maximium length of any contract was cut from six years down to five, luxury tax penalties became more punitive, and cap holds were reduced. Those changes, to say nothing of other revenue streams provided by sneaker companies and other lucrative endorsement opportunities, greased the marketplace.

“The money has gotten so much bigger,” Atlanta Hawks general manager Travis Schlenk told SB Nation. “You see guys willing to part with the super max, but they’re still signing $150 million deals. I don’t want to say [the difference in money] doesn’t matter because it obviously does, but they’re still going to be well taken care of for the rest of their lives, and still be able to take care of their families.”

If neither winning nor money are the be all end all as a star’s charts his career, how can any team understand what a player wants, much less provide it? Front office members have differing opinions as to why stars are more receptive to change than they previously were. Some put responsibility at the feet of LeBron James. Not in a negative way, but as the very best player of his generation James naturally doubles as a spokesman for his own value system.

James is arguably the most powerful athlete in professional sports, and well over 90 percent of the league’s player pool isn’t fit to behave as he does. But his moves, going back to 2010’s Decision, helped fellow stars better understand their potential sway over a franchise.

Since 2016, he’s repeatedly traded guaranteed money for leverage, and even on his current four-year contract (that has a fourth-year player option) there’s an urgent responsibility for his front office to fulfill his wishes — as Lakers general manager Rob Pelinka told ESPN: “When a player of James’ stature puts his trust in the organization I think there’s an implicit bilateral trust going back saying: ‘We’re going to do everything we can to put you in a position to win more championships, because that’s what you’re about.’”

This goes much deeper than any one player’s individual choice, though. NBA players reflect society. Our world is always moving faster than it once did, technology spurring the rate of acceleration. It’s an irreversible phenomenon that can be attributed to so many different factors, but in all walks of life — including the NBA — impatience is pervasive.

“The days of working for GM, IBM or whoever for your entire life are long gone. The notion of a career with a single employer that results in a gold watch at age 65 are long gone,” Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban wrote in an email to SB Nation. “Today’s 20 somethings expect to be a free agent looking for their next job from the minute they walk in the door of their first job. There is no reason to expect 20 something NBA players to be any different.”

Attention spans are shrinking, and that reverberates through NBA players and fans. To embark on any long-term plan is to use a road map that was drawn with invisible ink. The landscape is constantly regenerating in a different form. “I think for now you can’t count on anyone to stay with you,” ones assistant general manager said. “It doesn’t matter if you’re a rookie or 12-year veteran MVP candidate. That’s just the way the league is. So much uncertainty, so many guys on eggshells, so to speak. Everyone wants instant success and it’s so hard.”

As players become less predictable, the pressure to win that’s placed on general managers is as high as ever. For those guiding teams that have a young all-star, the challenge lies in having to appease him without losing sight of the future. They must balance short-term trades, when it’s the right time to enter the tax, and how many future assets are worth sacrificing. Go all-in too soon and the eventual rebuild will be that much harder, with a clogged cap and forfeited draft picks. Wait too long and said young star may lose faith and seek another home. Screw up that bad and the mess will be somebody else’s to clean up, though.

Nobody’s willingness to be patient is more paramount than whoever bought the team. Several front office executives interviewed for this story believe the increasing strain on their ability to craft a long-term plan can be attributed to the injection of a new type of owner. (Only eight have been with their team for at least 20 years.) Hedge-fund managers, venture capitalists, and those who secured their wealth in Silicon Valley aren’t used to steady, conservative proposals. They want to see the upshot sooner than later.

“It all sounds good in a ball room, until you start playing games and that owner looks bad at the Board of Governors, and his team is losing and he’s in the lottery and his fans are pissed and his season ticket holders aren’t happy and he’s hearing gripes from his sponsors and suddenly that timeline is accelerated,” one general manager told SB Nation. “Whatever plan you give your owner, internally you better know you can pull it off in about half the amount of time.”

About two thirds of the NBA’s general managers have held their position for fewer than five seasons. “The change is always going to come with the GM and the coach, because that’s easy,” he continued. “The disparity between salaries just keeps increasing. If you’ve got a $125 million pay roll, are you really going to be reluctant to fire your GM who’s making $3 or 4 million bucks?”

That doesn’t mean the days of linear, started-from-the-bottom team building are extinct. Not even close. In theory, the advantage patient organizations will have over those obsessed with a quick fix will only swell. But being patient is so much easier said than done. It’s tempting to veer off course, cut corners, and max out a player who isn’t worth it. “Obviously we’d love to push the button sooner than later,” one front-office executive told SB Nation. “But you’ve got to let the process [play out] and not skip steps. The worst thing you can do is sign a — I hate to say it — but sign a Chandler Parsons.”

All this highlights how important it is for ownership and the front office to constantly communicate, have self-discipline, and use cap space in a strategic way. It’s a tricky waiting game, knowing few jobs aren’t 100 percent secure unless your name is Pat Riley or Danny Ainge, while also acknowledging the need to sit tight for the right piece who makes sense on your roster and in your culture.

“We’re going to have $70 million in cap space more than likely this upcoming summer,” Schlenk said. “Just because you have it doesn’t mean you have to go spend it and sign a bunch of guys. We’re an instant-result society now, with everyone having phones in our hands and they can get any answer to any information they want immediately, and so it’s something we spend a lot of time talking about, more macro level, just with our guys and trying to get our young guys that are all 20, 21, 22 to understand that they’re not going to hit their peaks as basketball players until they’re 26, 27, 28.”

Lindsay Mound

The plight of the modern NBA executive can’t be told without acknowledging the growing divide between big and small markets. Leonard, George, and Davis just went to Los Angeles one summer after James signed with the Lakers. Durant and Irving are now in New York. Kemba Walker went to Boston.

“It all comes down to one thing: There are about six or seven teams in the league that have to figure out the free agents, and then there about 23 of us that have to draft well and retain our players,” a Western Conference general manager told SB Nation. “That’s it.”

In an increasingly unstable ecosystem, a narrower margin for error demands an even more strict adherence to certain principles as front offices figure out what they want to be and how long it will take them to get there. Winning a championship is not impossible in a small market, but contending without a stellar draft record is. From Jamal Murray and Nikola Jokic, to Donovan Mitchell and Rudy Gobert, to Damian Lillard and C.J. McCollum, almost every small-market team that’s competitive has hit in the draft and then retained its all-star-level talent. The years between a rookie season and the day a third contract extension can be offered are where a solid infrastructure is more important than ever.

“The small-market teams tend to really go out of their way to accomodate an elite player because they are harder to get,” Indiana Pacers general manager Chad Buchanan said. “From the player’s perspective, they’ve got to think, ‘Hey, the grass isn’t always greener on the other side, this small market team has bent over backwards to take care of me and help me develop,’ and I think the notion is ‘OK I can go play for this other team that’s gonna be so much better,’ and that isn’t always the case.”

Small markets have no choice but to strengthen every aspect of their own environment to the best of their ability. They pour millions of dollars into cutting-edge practice facilities, provide the most convenient travel accommodations, and even make the family room at home games as pleasant as possible. Every detail matters. Every year, with the goal of creating a welcoming, comfortable atmosphere, the Hawks invite their players’ families to a BBQ in Atlanta. Team employees throughout the league attend their player’s fundraisers and support their charities. They use official social media accounts to promote issues players support, and amplify their voices.

“It starts by being sincere with people, being straight up with people,” Washington Wizards general manager Tommy Sheppard said. “It’s not a Stockholm Syndrome, but you do tend to love that first place if it’s a good experience.”

In the end, all of it’s an effort to make players feel like they’re a priority. To invest in nutritionists, massage therapists, mental health counselors, and different post-career initiatives. “The most interesting aspect of this is that it mirrors what is happening in other high skill environments and businesses in general,” Cuban wrote. “To hire and retain the best scientists, entertainers, programmers etc., it is not just salary that matters. Businesses have to create work environments that make people want to go to work at.”

Large-market teams can’t ignore any of this, either. Even after they sign stars to those massive third deals, the window to win big can close once that player re-enters free agency if they didn’t cultivate the right atmosphere. The Nets and Clippers will be tested almost immediately. The Lakers can lose Anthony Davis next summer.

Smart teams, regardless of their market, understand that appealing to star players doesn’t happen overnight, and the various methods they’ve taken to reshape how they’re perceived aren’t new. This has always been important, but never more than today. When he was first hired by the Houston Rockets in 2005, Rafael Stone — now the team’s executive vice president of basketball operations — set out to improve the franchise’s relationship with former players. He scheduled one-on-one dinners with those who still lived in the Houston area, to broaden their familiarity and comfort around the organization. “The selfish piece of that was we wanted to have a reputation as a player-friendly team,” Stone told SB Nation. “Players aren’t dumb, so it’s not just the guys on the team. It’s everybody.”

Two schools of thought materialize for every general manager who wants to keep their star. Are you a caretaker for that one player and trying to deal with them as an individual, keeping them happy so that they don’t end up looking elsewhere? Or are you a caretaker for an organization, and that organization envelops players into a culture they want to be a part of? When asked how much energy is spent committing to one of those two paths in today’s league, one general manager didn’t hesitate: “It’s all consuming.”

Most stars have chosen to emulate James’ off-court behavior to the best of their ability, but what happens if Giannis Antetokounmpo — who’s on track to grab the baton from James sometime in the very near future, if he hasn’t already — decides to stick it out with the Milwaukee Bucks, bunker down and accept the ups and downs that come with loyalty? If he chooses to eschew today’s trend, will other stars follow? Will the chaos level out?

The consensus among front-office executives is split. “Clearly there are a lot of personal reasons why players are going other places,” one assistant general manager said. “Kawhi made a very personal decision. Kyrie clearly was uncomfortable, made a personal decision. And same with Kevin. And I suspect we’re going to continue to see that.”

Some wonder if we may even witness a league where unhappy rookie-extension candidates will try and force their way to a different team, despite the fact that restricted free agency looms on the horizon, as Kristaps Porzingis did last season. But others interviewed for this story believe what we’re seeing is somewhat of an aberration. Everything will eventually settle down. Too many players will leave solid foundations in search of something perfect, and get burned. DeMarcus Cousins, who reportedly declined a two-year, $40 million offer by New Orleans before the Golden State Warriors snatched him up for the mid-level exception, was held up several times as a cautionary tale. No player can know what the future holds, either, and the fear of leaving guaranteed money on the table will act as a deterrent, as it once did. Everything is cyclical.

“I’ve been in the game 40 years and it’s hard to put people in categories or generations,” Boston Celtics general manager Danny Ainge told SB Nation. “Everybody is unique. There’s some guys that think more like guys did in certain eras, and guys in Generation Y or Generation Z — I don’t know what they call it now [laughs] — but I think everybody is unique, and I look at every individual’s circumstance as a unique one.”

That belief is sound and may prove to be true in the long run. NBA players have the same job but that doesn’t mean they’re bound to view life in the same way. Their experiences, families, and principles are different. Their backgrounds are increasingly global.

At the same time, teams aren’t helpless. As long as a player is under contract, he’s a commodity. The Clippers shipped Blake Griffin to Detroit months after they sold him on being “a Clipper for life,” at a time when they were desperate not to lose him for nothing. The New Orleans Pelicans and Oklahoma City Thunder traded their best players where they wanted to go because they just so happened to receive unprecedented asset bounties in return. That’s not a coincidence.

“Look, players are making decisions that affect organizations. Organizations make decisions that affect players as well,” Orlando Magic general manager John Hammond said. “This is not just a one-way street, that we’re sitting here at the mercy of the players.”

Lindsay Mound

But if Giannis leaves for a larger market, what response will the owners spending billions of dollars to buy into the league have four years from now when they can opt out of the current CBA? And what impact will so many alterations to the league’s landscape have on the actual product, where the continuity all general managers desire is replaced by the need to keep options open?

“It’s a team game. We’ve shortened training camp. We’ve shortened preseason. We don’t practice nearly as much as we used to so players can continue to play at a high level,” one assistant GM said. “But the teams that win at the highest level typically have obtained a level of continuity where when they get to the playoffs they’re playing at a level and communicating at a level other teams can’t get to.”

In the meantime, front offices across the NBA will do their best to chart durable plans that allow as much flexibility as possible. They’ll sell owners on how they can climb back to the top by targeting different areas of growth and ways they can make their organization appeal to free agents.

The Hawks are one team that’s firmly committed to a five-year plan, one that requires patience, sharp scouting, and cultural buy-in. But they, too, know they aren’t immune to the winds of change. “Fortunately, just because of where we are, we’re not feeling that right now,” Schlenk said. “But I guess that could change tomorrow.” He paused for a moment and then started to laugh. “All it takes is one of my young guys to say ‘I want out of here.’”

What looms ahead may be a golden age for asset accumulation, filled with opportunities to pounce on situations that otherwise wouldn’t appear in a more rigid environment. One small example being when the Washington Wizards acquired Mo Wagner, Isaac Bonga, Jemerrio Jones, and a 2022 2nd round pick from the Lakers by involving themselves in the Davis trade. (They received all that for $1 million.)

Such fluidity may also create a cycle where non-glamour markets must consider trading their best players as soon as they catch whiff — AKA once an extension gets turned down — that they will explore options in free agency. The more years players have on their contract, the more assets can be asked for in a trade. And if you’re already bad and own all your own draft picks, adding even more may be the best path towards something special, especially if the alternative is overpaying in free agency for a pretty good, but not great, supplementary piece. (Imagine what the Minnesota Timberwolves could extract from another team if they shopped Karl-Anthony Towns instead of going all in on an uphill battle over the next three years to build a contender around him?)

The NBA will never have parity that rivals the NFL, but the days of a super-team juggernaut, a la the Warriors, may not be possible during a time of perpetual disruption. That creates the possibility — as is the case this season — where more teams than has been the historical norm believe they can actually win a championship. And that hope, fresh in the minds of front office members who just saw Toronto win it all, can potentially create an environment where trade-deadline demand for significant upgrades are an annual occurrence. The willingness to tolerate risk will increase dramatically.

It’s depressing to think teams should function in a framework that entices them to constantly surrender elite young talent for future assets, knowing how difficult it is to hit on someone like Towns, Bradley Beal, or Devin Booker in the first place. But losing them for nothing is a death blow. Cultural alignment, and the rising need to ensure your franchise player, owner, GM, and coach are always rowing in the same direction, is the only way to avoid it. That’s much easier said than done, though.

“That’s what makes the NBA so difficult [right now],” one front-office executive said. “Team building takes time.”

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