#Duke who doesn’t hide in the shadows despite his ability to

[starlooove]

Still on my short king Duke trip

[norabrice1701]

The Duke & The Witch - Ch. 4

Charles Brandon x Fem!OC, A The Tudors Slight-AU fic

Series Main List

Ch. 4 Warnings: Kinda-stalker Charles; discussion of witchcraft; period-typical attitudes towards everything (women, religion, witchcraft, etc.); fantastical squinty science/alchemy

With phantom flashes still plaguing his eyesight, Charles returns to the garrison. What other choice does he have? How does he possibly contend with lightning in the dead of night?

Upon his return, the Captain of the Guard most eagerly surrenders his quarters - the finest in the whole garrison - to the visiting Duke. As exhaustion seeps into Charles’ bones, he’s in no mood to dissuade him. 

A surprisingly pleasant breeze blows through the open window and the bed covers don’t reek, but he barely sleeps. His mind buzzes, replaying the encounter in the woods over and over as the implications ceaselessly work in his mind. At first, he’d been willing to write her rumored abilities off as nothing more than those of a glorified physician. Not unlike those who prepare all the potions and poultices and tablets that Henry is so fond of. 

But that one flash of lightning changes everything.

How has she come by her ability to summon the ether at will? Through some unholy alliance with Satan? But is lightning not a product of the heavens, so perhaps she’s an angel instead? Or is she neither, and this is now a matter for the university men of science, rather than the clergy?

But for all the questions that consume him, he knows one thing with absolute certainty. She wields a power beyond any man and he cannot allow it to run unchecked. He rolls over on the animal fur pelt, sighing into the hay-stuffed pillow. It won’t be long now until dawn. 

Thick clouds hide the bright colors of sunrise, but he rises and dresses when he knows the hour to be right. He wolfs down a quick breakfast before venturing back out to where the village edge meets wild woodland. A dampness hangs in the air that promises rain to wash away everything that he seeks on the forest floor. 

He follows the signs of disturbance - footprints, mud scuffs, trampled leaves - until he returns to the clearing. A chill runs down his spine at the sight of the charred tree limb in the pale, grey light. A quick glance at the tree above confirms the matching burn marks, and his mouth curls with unbidden awe. The physical evidence reinvigorates him - proof that it hadn’t just been some spell to make him think he saw a bolt of lightning come from her hand. 

His heavier footsteps on the leafy ground are easier to distinguish than her airier steps, but he picks up her trail on the opposite edge of the clearing. While debatable if he commands powers from an unholy source, she can’t disguise her human nature from a well-trained eye. 

Her trail leads him deeper into the woods. The distance that she travels to reach St. Edmunds surprises him - does she only go there when the villagers need her help? Or does she trade in market wares? But she must. How else could she procure the means for survival?

A dwelling emerges from the grey shrouded trees. Made of thick earth and felled trees for walls, the roof covering is a thick mat of forest brush, wild grass and tree branches. The rough and primitive quality of it strikes him, and… goodness, it must be hell in the bitter winter winds despite the crude stone chimney that leaks a thin stream of smoke. 

He crouches low as he approaches, taking in the dwelling’s surroundings and looking for any evidence of movement. The scent of smoke carries on a gust of wind that disturbs the tree leaves and further obscures the hazy shadows from the cloudy light. It feels heavy with moisture as it brushes his cheeks, heralding an approaching storm. A low peal of thunder rolls across the sky as if summoned by his thoughts. Much as he doesn’t enjoy getting soaked by rain, he has waited out worse weather conditions and at least right now, the temperature is tolerable. 

Another rumble of thunder sounds as a shadow moves off to his right. The woman emerges from behind a tree, arms laden with tree branches of varying thicknesses and age. She moves with calm ease - carefree, even - as she stops to gather another piece of wood. He marvels at her in this natural setting, clearly so at ease in what no doubt has to be her home. 

He takes a step out of the shadows, unable to hide a triumphant smirk. “So, it’s here that I find you.” 

She freezes, eyes going wide as her startled gaze meets his. Looking not unlike a deer startled by a wolf’s hunt, her grip tightens on the firewood. He doesn’t know if she means to use it as a weapon or protection, but he watches a visible swallow work down her throat. Even in the garrison dungeon, she never displayed such open discomfort. But while true that nothing introduces vulnerability quite like the invasion of one’s home, if she can summon lightning at will, then what does she really have to fear? 

Unless that isn’t the case. 

Her face hardens with begrudged resignation. “It was my mistake to have misjudged you. None have previously been so brave. Or, if they were, they were not so successful in their hunt.”

He tips his head in mock-appreciation. “Such praise.”

She hefts the wood against her hip, eyes wary. “I do not entirely mean it as a compliment.”

“Of course, you do.” He flashes what he knows to be a charming grin. The same that has won him many a warm night in the beautiful arms of courtly ladies. He hasn’t yet tried using his charm to lure her in, but it’s another option open to him. While her looks are far from the beauty standards held by ladies of the court, he can’t deny there is a wild beauty about her. Feral, mysterious, untamed. So unlike his beloved wife.

He hasn’t played the role of shallow, callous lover for several years now, but it’s easy to slide back into a bad habit. “You know what I think?” He moves towards her, keeping his movement casual as he closes the distance. “I think that - secretly, of course - you wanted me to find you. How many years have you played this game now? Appearing and retreating to the woods? Living alone in such a place…”

“Your Grace thinks far too highly of himself.” She holds her ground as she insults him even though her gaze is skittish. “My home is my own. And if last night’s warning wasn’t enough… I think you see yourself as a courageous crusader, coming here to wield God’s righteous hammer. But all I see is that you are merely a moth drawn to the flame of his own downfall.”

He lunges forward, surprised and satisfied as his hand wraps around her throat. The firewood falls from her arms with a startled cry as he stares up at him, stunned for a breath. Her neck feels so delicate in his grasp, and whatever game they’ve played to date suddenly shifts. He tightens the press of his fingers, pulling a choked gasp from her as he steps in close. 

“Despite all of your posturing,” he whispers, low and firm. “Despite all of your blustering, do you see how easy this is?” He leans in, leveraging his height. “You would do well to remember that you are only still breathing because I allow it.” In a quick movement, he releases her throat and jars her with the motion. 

Another sharp gasp leaves her as she draws a deep inhale, but she ducks low and extends her left arm. A cloud of lavender dust bursts forth to envelop his face. 

Rage and astonishment twist his face as the powder invades his nose and clings to the back of his throat. “Damn you, woman!” He coughs as he waves at the air to dispel it. 

“Your uninvited touch was not welcome in the cell yesterday, nor today. And certainly not so near my home!” She hisses through clenched teeth, anger blazing in her eyes. “And if you really thought you had divested me of my arsenal yesterday, you are sorely mistaken.” 

Lethargy creeps into his limbs, spreading beneath the skin and eating deep into his muscles. His legs tremble and he tries to fight it. He brushes off the fine spray of purple powder against the shoulder of his black tunic. “What is it this tim-” His knees buckle, cutting off his voice as he falls to the leafy forest floor.  

Another rumble of thunder carries through the trees, announcing the storms’ impending arrival as he struggles. What was… why can’t he move? His legs, his arms – everything grows sluggish and unresponsive. No matter how much he thrashes. Or tries to. He glares up at her, seething. “What have you done?!”

She moves in a slow circle around him, watching the powder take effect. “It’s only a little venom from the brown and white-spotted spider for weakness. Powder of the violet for potency.”

“You will pay for this, witch!” His arms weigh too heavy to move as his strength deserts him. Even the force of his words diminishes as his muscles go slack. His eyes burn with rage at her insolence, but his physical body remains imobile to act on it. A quiet voice of fascination whispers beneath his raw anger – what potential could such a powerful powder hold?

“We all will have deeds to answer for in the next life.” A clap of thunder follows her words, drawing her attention skyward. “We should get under cover.”

***

A chill ripples down Avian’s spine as the wind intensity increases with the darkening clouds overhead.

The duke’s indignant snort draws her attention back to him, watching the wind catch in his dark curls. “As you have robbed me of my strength and ability to move, I doubt that I shall be seeking cover.”

“I would have to agree with you. This was not opportune timing for either of us.” She sighs, surveying the fallen collection of wood. This is enough wood in the cottage to see through the storm, and while she could probably regather the fallen wood and return for him in time… well, the howling wind gives her pause. Especially as the flash of lightning illuminates the trees. 

Decision made, she steps over the scattered firewood and sighs heavily. “This will not be a graceful moment, Your Grace. For either of us.” She kneels down, reaching for his shoulder to laboriously roll him onto his back. A grunt escapes her at the solid feel of him, threading her arms under his and pulling his back against her chest. Taking a deep breath, she struggles to find her feet and haul him with her. With a stooped back and dragging his lower half across the forest floor, she takes staggering steps towards her cottage. 

Her arms shake from his heavy weight as she grunts with exertion. The heel of her shoes catches on the hem of her dress, tripping her feet and stealing her balance. With a soft cry, she crumbles to the ground with his weight heavy atop her legs. His distinctly amused chuckle carries on the wind, stoking her frustration. 

“A fitting comeuppance, I dare say.” He says, voice rich with equal delight. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before giving a man a nose-full of spider venom dust.” 

Huffing a determined breath, she shuffles out from under him and finds her feet. As she stares down at him, catching her breath, it strikes her that someone immobilized at her feet shouldn’t look so proud and defiant. Thunder rumbles through the air as she bends down to again hook her arms under his. “I shall gladly reap as I sow.” Her words strain with exertion as she starts dragging him again. “You are the first person I have doused that has subsequently required assistance.” 

The first drops of rain wet her face as he approaches the cottage door, turning to a steady downpour to soak her clothing and hair. Reaching out for the door, it pushes open and she drags him fully inside as another bolt of lightning flashes in the sky. With one last burst of strength, she hauls him inside and sets him down. Her arms tremble from overuse as she turns back to secure the door against the raging storm. Wiping the wet hair from her face, she braces against an ache in her lower back. She braces a hand against her hip with a wince as more thunder cracks in the air. 

“I suppose manners dictate that I should thank you.” His mirthless words rise up from where he lays on the cottage’s worn earthen floor. “But since you reduced me to this state, I would expect nothing less. And this will not go overlooked once my strength returns.”

“You continue to threaten me, but I did not run before. And I have no intentions of running now.” Frustration bleeds into her words as she walks back over to him, bending over to take a wrist in each hand. With a groan, she pulls him along the floor around the main table and over to the animal pelt floor covering in front of the rough bed of rocks where a fire burns low. She can feel his gaze on her all the while, unnerving in its steady stare.

“I have to say,” he says, voice grating with a teasing edge. “There is a certain satisfaction in watching you haul me around.”  

She stops beside the fire, laying him down so his head rests against the pelt while his boots do not. “There is no satisfaction to be had,” she replies. “Your tunic conceals a more solid person than I had anticipated.”

“If you were curious about my person, you should have asked before rendering me motionless.”

Heat blooms in her cheeks at the outright brazenness of his words, but nothing about the male body surprises her anymore.  She turns to fetch a cloth. “If you’re attempting to fluster me, your efforts are in vain.”

“Is my witch also a harlot?”

“A woman may know a man’s touch without comporting herself as a harlot.”

“But you don’t mind being my witch.”

She kneels down beside him, frowning as she wipes the rainwater from his face, attempting to dry him off. “As you said – I’m still breathing because you allow it. And you’re not drowning in the storm because I allow it. Whether or not I am your witch is of no consequence as you’re my guest for the time being.” An unbidden wince from the ache in her back pinches her face as she rises and runs the cloth quickly through her wet hair before drying her face. The wet dress will just have to do for now.

His voice comes softly again. “You denied me your true name in dungeons.”

“It did not matter for that conversation. I was a prisoner, not a guest.”

“And now that I am your guest? Will you still deny me?”

The skin of her neck still burns with the phantom touch of his hand. The strength in his fingers had been palpable and it wouldn’t have taken any effort for him to crush her. Her hand absently rises to her throat as if to protect herself. He may be immobile for the time being, but his strength will return and this game has irrevocably changed. 

She sighs in resignation. “My name is Avian.”

“Avian.” The grin sounds in his words. “That’s a pretty name.”

She scoffs as she turns to stare out the mottled glass pane. “No need for false flattery, Your Grace. You have nothing to prove.”

“Very rarely is my sincerity taken as falsehood.”

“If you think I can take you at your word – earnest or false – then you are a fool.”

“Is that so?”

She shakes her head, more disappointed with herself than anything. “I recognize this for what it is. The cat playing with a mouse before the final kill. There’s only one way this will end eventually.” She swallows nervously. “You can’t deny it.”

“I never have. You will be brought to account and face judgment. Maybe not today or tomorrow. But in truth, this game will not last.”

She casts him a sidelong glance, the acknowledgement of the truth stark between them. She’s already lost several advantages - especially now that he knows where she lives. Not even the lightning proved enough to keep him away. Eventually, she will run out of her defenses, and she can’t hold an indefinite charge from the ether. No, this game only ends one of two ways - her capture and incarceration, or his permanent incapacitation. In whatever form it takes.

She crosses her arms about her chest, not favoring either outcome.

“How long will I remain unable to move?” His words shake her from her thoughts as she turns back to face him.

“At least the better part of midday, I should think.  It does change between people. You look strong and hardy, so it might return sooner.”

Thunder booms low, covering up his resigned sigh but the annoyance on his face still remains. “Midday.” He repeats, arching a brow in consideration. “I suppose that gives you until midday to start building your case why you’re not a witch.”

She looks down at him as thunder fills the silence for the space of a breath. “Will anything I say here really spare me from being returned to the garrison?”

“No. But my influence will weigh heavily.”

She scoffs in disgust. “I will not bribe you to weigh in my favor.”

He chuckles softly. “Your pride is quite surprising. But if I were a betting man – I’d say it’s your defense to hide your fear.”

“As you will, Your Grace.”

“Goodness, but you’re exasperating.” His eyes close as he sighs again. Prominent dark circles appear under his eyes, or perhaps the low firelight just plays tricks on his visage. But she can’t shake the feeling that he hasn’t slept well in days. Or months? Maybe he can just content himself to sleep while the powder’s effects fade and she can retreat to a safe hiding place before his strength returns? 

With another sigh, she takes a seat at the table. With idle interest, she rests her hand on the large knife nearby, scraping her thumb lightly over the sharp edge.

His voice, soft and reverent, breaks the silence. “The lock on the dungeon cell door. It wasn’t old, but another one of your powders rendered it ancient and brittle. How?”

She nibbles her lower lip before responding. “A salt mixture.”

“Salt? As in table salt?”

“A rawer form, but the basic element.”

He snorts, huffing in disbelief. “An alchemist, as well as a witch.”

“Maybe I’m only an alchemist.”

“I’ve never heard of an alchemist summoning lightning.”

She glances up with a sharp challenge. “But you have not heard of everything.”

He laughs softly, as if conceding her point, but she refuses to trust it. “So, you spit on this salt mixture,” he clarifies. “And it weakens metal?”

“Yes.”

“Ingenious.”

“Careful, Your Grace. Such talk can count for heresy.”

“Your powders are of this earth. I’m sure even the King’s personal physicians could concoct something similar. It’s not heresy to marvel at the science of our world.”

“No, but it is a fine line between alchemy and witchcraft.”

“Which is why we must determine where you toe the line.” His casually conversational tone grates on her, and she drags her thumb against the blade again, not breaking the skin as he continues. “What about the mud man in St. Edmunds?”

“The mud man?” Her brow pinches. “You mean… the flour miller who burned a while ago?”

“The same.”

“Is that what the villagers call him?” Her lips lift in an incredulous smile. “The mud man?”

“They say you made a man of mud walk and talk amongst the living.” His mocking tone supports her own notion - how could anyone believe such foolishness?

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing so fantastical – as it sounds like you already know.”

“I did visit the man and saw his wounds for myself. It looked like nothing more than mud and cloth to make a second skin while his own skin heals.”

“Have you a physician’s training?”

“No, but I have seen similar after-care given to men who are burned on the battlefield.”

She can’t stop the impressed lift of her lips as she gazes over at him. “That is indeed where the mixture comes from. Not many know that.”

“Oh, I’m much more than just a pretty face.”

A laugh threatens to form in her throat, but she quickly swallows it. Thunder rattles the cottage walls, shaking the table. The storm grows in strength as it passes, and the air positively crackles with potential. It would be so easy to reach her hand out, to draw it in and finish him off so quickly. He probably wouldn’t even know it was coming. The threat would be eliminated and she could return to her business with little more than a scorch mark on the floor.

His voice draws her attention back. “Though now that I think about it – having seen what I saw last night. That explains the story about the lightning and the raven. And of all the tales about you – that was the one that I least believed.”

Her cheeks burn on the unwanted memory. “That one was… a mistake.”

“Yes, it didn’t sound like you really helped anybody with that one. The poor creature.”

In truth, the bird didn’t deserve it. Her own anger had built to an uncontrollable hurt, and she lashed out. But seeing the bird drop dead from the sky, leaving only a trail of smoke behind, had done little to bring her satisfaction.

A rustle of cloth sounds across the cottage, sparking a wave of fear down her spine. His right hand twitches against the animal pelt, brushing against the fur and his own tunic.

Satisfaction lights his face, a small laugh on his lips. “Would you look at that? I might be restored well before midday.” He arches a teasing brow. “Does this make me heartier than your powders?”

“They’re not a measure of precision,” she cooly returns. “And if you’re restored well before midday, then you can be well on your way before midday.”

“A shame, really. I’m rather enjoying our conversation.” His smile softens with something genuine that shouldn’t tug at her heart. “Won’t you tell me more about your lightning and the raven?”

She depresses her thumb against the blade, still not breaking the skin before applying distracting pressure. “There’s nothing more to be said.”

“How do you do it? Like you did last night. Could you do it now, with the storm?”

She pulls her hands back into her lap, reaching for her wrists with protective instinct. The purposeful long sleeves of her dress hide the truth of the matter that she has no intentions of sharing. “The storm makes it easier. And yes, I could do it now. If I had a mind.” 

Thunder booms as he slyly wets his top lip. “Show me.”

“No.”

“That was not a request.”

“You’re still immobile on my floor.”

“Not for much longer.” He grimaces with effort, his right hand flailing loosely at his side. The movement carries further up his arm than it had before, and her stomach sinks as the powder’s effects fade so quickly.

His left foot twitches in telltale warning, and she rises from the table. Rain still falls in a steady curtain, but she has no other choice. She won’t let him haul her away again, and he has already surprised her once this morning.

She pulls a thick woolen cloak down from a hook on the wall, sliding it onto her shoulders.

He laughs softly, the sound of it mingling with the rolling thunder. “Are you really going to run away now?” He pauses as she ignores him, instead reaching for her gathering basket. “Just because I asked you to show me how you conjure lightning?”

She shakes her head. “I have no intention of returning with you to the dungeons today, and your strength is returning sooner than I expected.”

The scrape of his boot against the dirt floor further confirms her suspicions, not helped by his smug grin that glints with mischief. “What if I give my word that I shall not incarcerate you today? Would you still stay?”

She exhales, frustrated as she reaches for the hood of the cloak. The woolen material won’t do much to repel the rain, but it will slow the further seepage of water into her dress. Wet clothes aren’t that much of an inconvenience anyway. Especially in the warmer temperatures.

She steps up to the cottage door, glancing out at the falling rain. “I hope you can find your way home. Further pursuit of me today will not work in your favor. And if Your Grace decides to rummage through my home before you leave, I’ll tell you right now that there is little of value to be found here.”

“I’m no thief, but I am insulted that you think so little of me.”

An uneasy swallow works down her throat as she looks down at him. “I wouldn’t put it past you to use every means at your disposal to see me undone.” She watches his brow furrow, unable to tell if indignation or hurt creeps into his eyes. Either way, it won’t be the last time they meet. “Until next we meet.”

She pushes out into the rain and doesn’t look back.

[sanktnikolais]

this is what love does

A/N: so here is your friendly neighbor zoyalai who rewrote that scene in the Os Kervo main hall (Rule of Wolves chapter 46). Idk man this is what I have in mind and I just wanted to put more monologue and make some drastic changes KJHASDFLKHASDF 

i think their scene in this chapter could have gone better ngl ahjsfkajsf but if you’re okay with canon, i’m absolutely glad you are. I just needed to make this bc my zoyalai heart said so HHAHAHA

as always @wafflesandkruge enabled me again and volunteered to edit this mess so thank you ily  🥺

contains some spoilers for Rule of Wolves so pls beware before reading :> 

Word count: 4169

When the doors to the hall finally closed, Zoya released a breath of frustration. She wanted a moment of total silence, where she could shut out the voices of the people chanting her name or the affirmative tones of the dukes that agreed with Nikolai in nominating her as Ravka’s new queen. A bottle of brandy would be good too, and yet it didn’t materialize out of thin air just as she wanted it to.

          She put a hand to her forehead, feeling the fatigue from the war slowly drain what was left of her strength. This was madness—everything that had happened in the past few weeks. Headache after headache, they kept coming like the barrage of Fjerdan firepower they had just encountered in the battlefield hours ago. 

          But the biggest headache of all was standing right in front of her in all his confident glory, the small grin never leaving his lips even as Zoya scowled at him. Nikolai Lantsov was a royal through and through. And despite the dirt that still smudged on his face, or the dried blood on his collar, he never lost that spark in him, no matter what he said about not wanting to claim the Lantsov bloodline. 

          How could he suddenly expect her to do this on her own terms? 

          "Are you out of your saintsforsaken mind?" Zoya hissed at the smiling king. He still was the king, and would continue to be as far as she was concerned. "I could strike you with lightning right now but I don't think I have the energy left for that."

          Nikolai's grin turned into a wince. "Ah, but I'm always in the right state of mind," he said as he approached her with rather careful steps as if he was testing the waters around her. "And I have never been more sane and sober than now, Zoya."

          The urge to summon lightning at him was still strong, but she shoved the thought down. Ravka didn't need another funeral right now, and especially not for its king. 

          "Say something spiteful." 

          Zoya furrowed her eyebrows. "What?" 

          "You're scowling again, and I think the only way to really know you're angry is when you combine your scowl with harsh words." 

          “Do you really have a death wish?" 

          The infuriating king pretended to think for a moment, his eyes narrowing curiously as he scratched the spot behind his ear. “I think we’ve had enough of staring down death today—”

          Thunder rumbled in the skies as Zoya’s anger flared, and Nikolai flinched. But Nikola, being himself, recovered quickly with a grin. She looked at him in disbelief. It was both baffling and amazing how fast this man could change into one of his masks in just a matter of a second and then he was another person entirely. 

          It was their difference—Zoya didn’t have that skill. She’d never had the capability of pretending. Where she had walls around her heart to hide the girl who once believed in fairy tales and love and other nonsense, Nikolai wore his masks like they were his second skin, and it blended with the boy who just wanted what was best for his country, until he didn’t know who he was anymore. 

          She had never shown any signs of weakness or vulnerability, and even if she did, she would still deny it until she convinced her heart it had never happened. But he was different. He was ready to wear his heart on his sleeve if he wanted to, displaying his emotions at all times. And if he didn’t get anything out of it, he would put his mask back on like nothing happened.

          Zoya hid; Nikolai pretended. If she were to look at it, pretending was better than hiding. 

          “Is it really that bad?” Nikolai asked softly. 

          Yes. 

          No.

          I don’t know.

          If she were still the same person she had been three years ago, she knew she would have accepted the offer right away. But things had changed and progressed since then, and whoever she once was, someone who wanted so much power, was long gone. 

          “We both know I’m not cut out for this, Nikolai,” she replied.

          He didn’t say anything else, and just waited. Zoya huffed in frustration.

          “You’re the diplomat, the charmer.” She gestured in the air vaguely. “Even if you’re not of the royal bloodline, there is no denying that you’ve always had the knack for this. I’m just—”

          She was just what? A general? A Grisha who broke the boundaries of the Orders and achieved the impossible? An actual living saint? 

          Zoya let out a breath. A shadow passed on Nikolai’s face, his expression darkening to some kind of disappointment as if he already knew what she was going to say. But considering everything they had been through, it was definitely safe to say he knew her no matter how good she was at hiding. 

          She still said it anyway. “I’m just no one.”

          “Don’t even go there.”

          “You know I wouldn’t say anything I don’t mean, Nikolai. I was meant to be a soldier, to train and lead armies to their victory and be with them until our very last breaths. It was always like that.” And when Nikolai looked like he was about to contradict her, Zoya beat him to it by raising a finger to silence him. “Don't. There's nothing to say. And don’t start with me by saying you were never meant for the crown, nor the throne. That may have been the case, but you are what Ravka has needed for a long time. You fought for it instead of selling it. Hurt for it, bled for it, almost dying twice just to keep it from the mud. If that’s not what a king does, then I don’t know what I should call it.”

          “A job well done?” he offered, laughing lightly when she gave him a glare that could silence the Second Army in a heartbeat. “I’m merely joking, Nazyalensky.”

          “Can you be serious for once?” Zoya shook her head, heading over to one of the benches and slumping down on it. 

          It was only then she felt the weight of today’s war come back to her, and she found herself not wanting to stand up for a moment. Maybe she would just stay here until  the madness outside passed, though she knew it would take a while. 

          She hunched forward with her eyes trained on her hands clasped together on her knees. She couldn’t bear to look at him as of the moment, and it irked her as it felt like she was hiding yet again and she was already tired of doing that. But when an enormous responsibility was suddenly presented to her, along with the ability to hold power over everything else, didn’t she have the right to hesitate or even think about it? 

          It felt like being appointed to the Grisha Triumvirate again after the war the Darkling waged that almost took Ravka down with it, and they were forced to stand up on their own feet to save the country from drowning right after fighting for their lives. It was never fair, but they braved through it. 

          But at what cost? 

          It doesn’t stop with us. It never does.

          It was what David always used to say, and Zoya found those words haunting her every night after his death, knowing all too well she could have done so much better to protect him and save Genya from her pain. If it didn’t stop with them, what difference would it make if it was her seated on the throne? 

          Ravka was finally free, even if not completely yet, but the light at the end of the tunnel they had long since walked through was already bright as any star could have been. 

          A shadow on the marbled floor caught her eyes, and she looked up just in time to see Nikolai kneel in front of her, taking her hands in his. She almost—almost—wrenched away from him, but then she realized that it was him, the boy who wore his heart on his sleeve and bared everything to her without a second thought. He was looking up at her with such a soft, understanding expression on his face that she wondered if she was seeing right. 

          She blinked, and then she felt as if she was back at the ship again, hearing his confession that took the breath out of her lungs and made her heart beat like it had never been before. 

          And for the past years of her life and the rest that would still come, Zoya was sure she would never feel as frightened as she was now. 

          You promised yourself you would speak your heart when you had the chance, didn’t you? she scolded in her mind. Only the saints knew how much she had waited for this moment between them after the war. She almost didn’t have the chance. So why was she trying to run away from it again?

          He was so, so near, and yet she was still terrified to reach for him. 

          "I can't do this, Nikolai," she said instead. 

          "I will be by your side." Always, was what hung at the end and not said aloud, but she knew he meant it. 

          Zoya felt a small smile on her lips, the urge to touch his face becoming stronger than her will to fight it. What was stopping her? Her pride? Maybe it really was that, but her damn pride had already cost her enough. 

          So she reached a hand up to his cheek, her touch gentle as the breeze that fluttered in the room when her skin met his. 

          Nikolai learned in her hand almost immediately, a content sigh coming from his lips. 

          "I would give my life for Ravka over and over again, as I know you would too," she whispered, her thumb gently brushing his cheekbone. She dropped her hand and put it on top of his. "But I don't think this is what's best for Ravka. We have fought and lived through the wars it suffered. We vowed to drag it from the mud it had fallen into until our last breaths, and now that it can finally stand up on its own, I think it's had its fill of kings and queens and wars. Ravka now needs to listen to its people."

          Zoya knew it sounded ambitious and audacious, but it could be a start, a beginning of a new age. The journey would be a tedious one, as always, but she knew it was worth the try. Ravka was always worth the try, no matter how much it took from them. 

          Silence stretched between them for a moment, and Zoya was thankful for it being a comfortable one rather than a tense pause. She searched his eyes, trying to find the stubborn glint in them as a sign that he was thinking of arguing back. But she didn't see it. 

          There was only the look he had always sent her way, the same one he had when he bared his heart to her in the airship, and she felt her breath hitch in her throat. She really ought to strangle him for making her feel this way. 

          "Spoken like a true queen, I'd say," said Nikolai with a laugh. 

          Zoya scoffed, grateful for the sudden distraction. "I remember that I didn't agree with the proposal of me being the new queen, so that means you're still the king, Your Idiocy." 

          There was a hint of an amused grin at the corner of his lips. "What can I say? When I thought of what's best for Ravka, my mind instantly thought of you." 

          "Didn’t I ask you to be serious even just for once?"

          "You speak as if I were making those words up." 

          "If you know what's best for you and Ravka, you would stop trying to change my mind because my decision would remain the same."

          Nikolai smiled ruefully. "I know." He paused, turning his attention to their joined hands. There was an unusual slump in his shoulders, something she rarely saw him have. He sighed, and then slowly pressed his forehead to her knuckles. "I thought I lost you today," he said quietly. 

             Her heart clenched at the pain in his voice, but she understood it. She almost lost him today too. "You won't be rid of me that easily, Nikolai," Zoya said. 

          He chuckled, and it sounded more in pain than in amusement. Then he drew in a shaky breath before looking back up at her. "When I saw you fall, I thought the worst and I—" He stopped with a dry laugh. "But I guess you're right, I won't be able to get rid of you that easily." 

          She felt a smile curl on her lips. "I should be the one telling you that, but I figure it can go both ways," Zoya said, and before she could make herself hide away again, she gave in and lowered her forehead to touch his. In a soft whisper, she said, "But I've never been more grateful you're still here with me." 

          They were still here, alive and breathing, and she was glad they both got to see the end of the day. When she felt herself plummeting to the ground, she thought that it was her end, and she had accepted it. Exhaustion crept in her bones, her own strength not enough to whip up a draft to cushion her fall. But there was a gust of wind—from Nadia or from Adrik—that caught her, saving her from the deadly impact. 

          And then a voice. His voice, full of worry and hurt and pain, pleading her to wake. He was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes again, and it was during that moment she allowed herself to wish that he would be the one she would wake up to every morning, and the last one she’d see when she fell asleep at night. 

          It had reminded Zoya of the time she saved the king from falling once, back when they were just soldiers fighting for their lives in the Fold, and she wondered if he had been glad to see her when he opened his eyes.

          Nikolai reached a hand up to touch her cheek, his fingers light as if she were the most important thing in the world that he was finally allowed to touch. His eyes never wavered from hers. 

          "I would still choose you, you know," he suddenly said, his voice trembling. "Even if you didn't want to do anything with me anymore. Even if you were in some place else, reassigned to another position. Even if you didn't want me." He tried to smile, but it seemed to take more effort than just not. "I'd still want you. I'd still want you with everything in me."

          Zoya already knew how he felt for her beforehand, his confession back in the ship sharpening into focus in her mind. And yet she still felt like she heard him bare his heart to her for the first time, even when he had already been doing it for years. 

          It would be so easy to tell him that she felt the same; those three words that were hanging between them for a long time begging to be set free. But still a small, terrified part of her held back, and she realized that it was the girl she had once been, the girl who believed in everything before the cruel world took that magic away from her and replaced it with fear. 

          This is what love does. It took away everything, blinded one's logic and reasoning, and even brought pain that no one should feel. Why should people hurt when all they ever wanted was to have and feel the love they deserved? 

          “I know I’ve already told you this on the ship,” Nikolai continued, the rueful smile returning to his lips. “But I wanted you to hear it again, as I almost didn’t have the chance today. No prince and no power could ever make me stop wanting you.” 

          Zoya felt her breath get knocked out from her lungs again, but her doubts and insecurities continued to cloud her, lingering in her as if they were the only ones her heart knew of. “Maybe for now you will want me.” She paused, unexpected tears stinging her eyes. She closed them instead; she didn’t think she could bear looking at him. “But soon enough you will grow to hate me. I’m too sharp. Too angry. Too spiteful.” And you deserve so much better than that. “That’s who I am, Nikolai.”

          “Zoya,” Nikolai murmured.

          She felt his breath ghost over her skin, and yet she still refused to look at him. She couldn’t. But if there was one thing she knew about Nikolai Lantsov, it was his persistence for everything. 

          “Zoya, my love. Look at me,” he said softly, and this time Zoya finally obliged him. 

          An unwanted ache clogged her throat as she met his gaze, bright and warm and open. There was nothing in them except the sincerity he always had around her. In this light, his hazel eyes looked almost golden. He had a golden spirit. Then it struck her, as she remembered the words from a memory a long time ago, that maybe she was finally looking at that boy in her aunt’s story. He had been in front of her all along.

          Nikolai grinned, his eyes brighter than she had ever seen them, and there were tears clouding them as well. “You speak as if I haven’t seen you at your worst,” he said. 

          “You will grow tired of me, Nikolai.”

          “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. A tear escaped his eye, and she felt it land on her hand. He let out another breathless laugh. “I’d want you for the rest of my life, Zoya.” 

          Something broke inside her chest, and then a tear fell from her eye as well. Her fingers intertwined with his, their hold on each other’s hands tightening as if the other would disappear if they let go. He brought her hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. A few tears slipped on her hand as he did, but he had a look of contentment on his face, like he finally felt he was home. 

          More tears fell from her eyes as she pressed her forehead back to his. For years, she had let herself believe that she wasn’t worthy of being loved, that she was only made to be a soldier, a weapon to be used by her own country. 

          This is what love does. Zoya had been wrong from the start. Because in the end, Nikolai’s love for her was what made him see past her worst self. Every flaw and every scar, he accepted them wholeheartedly. She didn’t know how he’d come to love her, someone who had avoided any signs of kindness and sincerity he gave her, thinking that it would be used against her later. 

          There was no denying the pain they had caused each other through the years, when their words were too sharp and they wounded their hearts and pride before they could even have the chance to think of it. And yet they always came back to each other, their faith in each other still there if not stronger before. 

          Love was never without pain. It would still be felt over and over again because it was real. 

          And if tearing down the walls she had built around herself and giving her heart away would make her vulnerable to hurting, then perhaps it was something she was willing to do. 

          Because Nikolai Lantsov was worth every pain.

          So Zoya took the leap, drawing him up to her and pressing her mouth to his, and everything felt like it finally clicked into place. He acted immediately, and she could almost feel his smile against her lips. After the long days of wanting, her heart was at peace for once. The Fjerdans could have come back and waged war against them again, but she didn’t care about anything but the warm press of his lips.

          When the need for air became stronger than the need for each other’s lips, Zoya pulled away and rested her forehead against his. Her eyes were still clouded with tears when she finally said, “I love you.”

          To say that Nikolai’s grin was bright would have been an understatement. In the dull colored room they were in, he seemed to be glowing. He let out another breathless laugh. “I never thought I would hear those words come from you,” he said, his eyes alight with utter bliss. “But for what it’s worth” —he wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb— “I love you too.”

          Silence fell around them and everything focused on the man in front of Zoya. Perhaps she could stay here in his arms for another while and ignore the looming responsibilities standing right outside the doors. 

          She was his, and he was hers. For now, that was all that mattered. 

          “Is there really nothing that can change your mind?” Nikolai said, breaking the comfortable silence between them, and Zoya wanted nothing more than to strangle him right now.

          “You really had to ruin the atmosphere, didn’t you?” 

          He laughed lightly. “My ruthless Zoya, I am merely joking,” he said, and then his face became serious. For a moment, a small twinge of fear clawed at her heart. “Then what do you think about being a regent? At least until we find someone to rule properly, or until we could transition the monarchy towards something else.” He wrinkled his nose. “I mean, I said I would give you a crown, and this is my last chance to make good on my words even just for a short time. Besides, Regent Nazyalensky does have a nice ring to it.”

          Zoya raised an eyebrow, the idea not occurring to her until now. She furrowed her eyebrows. “You actually suggested something reasonable,” she said, earning a pout from the king. She looked at him with mild concern then, realizing the meaning of having a regent. “Are you really abdicating the throne?” 

          “I’m not joking when I said that the crown was never meant for me, and I think my bloodline really solidified that fact. I realized I was only fighting for this country, not the throne.” He shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And if that’s really your decision, I would be with you in every step of the way. But I hope we can stabilize Ravka until we can have a solution to my....sudden resignation.” 

          “What’s your plan if ever that time comes?” Zoya knew she was asking so many questions, but she couldn’t help it. This man continued to surprise her with his declarations and she had no idea what could come next. “Play pirate again?”

          Nikolai scowled at her, and she wanted to laugh at his expression. “Privateer,” he corrected like always. Then he smiled, his eyes suddenly having a faraway look. “For once, I don’t know. But maybe I would play privateer again as I’ve missed the seas terribly.” Then he turned to her, his expression gentle. “If I ask you to come with me as my first mate then, would you agree?”

          Would she? Zoya had never known anything outside her life in Os Alta. For years, it had been a continuous battle for the freedom of the country that took everything from its people, and she had no time to think about her freedom if she ever did retire from being a soldier. 

          But she could already see glimpses of a future ahead, a quiet and easy life, without any fear of having to go back to war. And in those glimpses, she could see him. 

          Zoya huffed, making it sound as disbelieving as possible. But she already knew her answer. “I’d make a horrible first mate as I easily get seasick,” she said. 

          “Ah, but I don’t mind. As long as you’re there with me,” Nikolai said, taking her hands in his again. He pressed another kiss to her knuckles. “So what do you say, Regent Nazyalensky?”

          The future was something she had no control over, she always knew that. The only way to know what it held was to continue fighting until she reached it, and as long as she had the right person beside her, she knew she would be alright.

          They had always been a team, she and Nikolai, and they would continue to be like that for as long as they lived.

          So without another hint of doubt, Zoya intertwined her fingers with his, squeezing his hand gently. “Alright, dearest privateer,” she said. “Let’s keep this country standing upright until then.”

          And they would. Together.

[mydeardeath]

Forever mine

TimDamiWeek day two : League of Assassins

Sorry for any mistakes, this was not proofread.

Also on AO3

¤

Tim is no longer a vigilante, not really. He still worked as the new oracle on a regular basis, but he was rarely on the street himself. Most of his time was dedicated to WE and to creating a better future. He had abandoned his role as CEO to work for the research department, putting his brain to good use. While most of his projects were for clean energy, he also worked on better equipment for the bats. 

It had been weird to hang up his cape, for him and the family. He had been the first one to abandon the R peacefully and chose his own replacement. He hadn't known Duke that well at the time, but he never regretted choosing him. The man had easily fit into the family, Bruce hadn't complained much, and Jason had been accepting of the new Robin.

A few years had passed since he had hung up the cap, and he had picked up his habit of following the dynamic duo at night. He did not indulge in it that often, but they were nights where he would climb on rooftops and watch the action from afar. Tonight had been one of those nights. Tim had finished his most recent project and had taken a few days off. He sat upon a building overlooking the diamond district, offering a great view of the fight going on below. It still amazed him to see Dick flying through the air, even after so many years spent working alongside the man.

A few months back, he would have been tempted to jump in to fight alongside Dick, but now he just appreciated the show. Dick is going up against a major threat, just kicking the ass of a few wannabe robbers.

The night is somewhat calm for Gotham, and Tim doesn't see the attack. One minute his eyes were on the street below, the next he's swaying dangerously on the roof's edge. He had barely time to regain his footing that another blow came to hit him in the back. He thankfully managed to avoid the next one and rolled back to a safer place.  It doesn't take long for his attacker to come at him again, but this time he's facing him. It took a split second for Tim to identify his opponent as League of assassins. His memory takes him back to his meetings with Pru, Z, and Owen. He had not hesitated to fight them. This man, even standing alone, seemed more dangerous than they were. It's obvious by his stance that the guy has proper training, but what made Tim anxious were his own abilities. Tim was still dangerous himself, but he imagined that this man trained more frequently than him recently. Probably studied Tim's fighting style before attacking him, knowing the level of preparation the league put behind its assassination attempts. Tim can't afford to make a mistake. Hell, he should call Bruce or someone, but he doubted the assassin would let him make a call or even reach for his phone. 

They danced around each other, exchanging a few blows. Tim could see that the man was holding back as if he was playing with his prey and waiting for him to get tired. He needed to find a way out of it, quickly.

His biggest hope might be to catch Dick he was still near him, but that would mean giving his back to that guy, and Tim didn't like that idea much. He still decided to attempt it. He packed a powerful punch toward his assailant before taking off to the next building's roof. Tim had never been the strongest in the family, but he was fast. He also had the advantage of having spent years on those rooftops and knew them better than this man. In the end, it didn't matter at all. The man didn't try to catch up to him, just threw a small knife to his leg that made him lose his balance. Then the man jumped after him. He was on Tim in no time, katana in hand. He managed to avoid the first slash but, soon, he felt the blade sliced through his skin. The wound wasn't deep, but the assassin kept going, covering his body in cuts. 

Tim retaliated with a few blows of his own or attempted to anyway. The man was more than good. He could read him so easily, and Tim stood even less chance as time passed as his movement became slower and sloppier while his assailant was moving with grace, dancing around him. Tim fell to the ground a few minutes later, hitting his head hard on the floor. He tried to stand, but a harsh blow to the head made his vision blur, and all he could do was try to crawl away. 

That was not how he had imagined dying. 

 ***

 Tim startled awake to the sound of his alarm clock. He attempted to reach for his phone, but searing pain stopped him midway. Yesterday's fights came back to him, and Tim wondered how he was still alive. It had looked like an assassination, not a kidnapping.

Tim slowly pushed himself in a sitting position in the bed, in arms straining under the effort of carrying his aching body. His wounds had been tended to and bandaged. Some painkillers were even waiting for him on the nightstand, next to his phone and some clean clothes.

Somebody had taken him to what seemed to be a hotel suite and taken care of him. Whoever it had been, wasn't part of their family or they would have taken him to the batcave. It didn't seem that Tim would have an answer quite yet about his mysterious savior. He couldn't hear a sound in the suite, and unless his savior was hiding, he was completely alone.

Tim didn't want to stay in bed too long and force himself up despite his body's protests. He needed to inform Bruce of what had happened. He wasn't a fool, the league didn't like to leave jobs unfinished, and the whole fiasco of the previous was proof enough that Tim couldn't protect himself from that threat. The realization had not been pleasant. But keeping in shape was apparently not enough, not against that kind of opponent.

Once he managed to gather the energy to get dressed and inspect the room(to no avail, there was no clue of who had brought him here), he hailed a taxi to drive to the manor. He was far too tired to make the trip to his own house and take his car.

Tim hoped that the driver hadn't recognized him, he didn't need to make the front page while looking beaten up. That would be hard to explain to the press, and Tim still didn't like dealing with them despite how many times he had to. 

Tim gave him a good tip before exiting the car, hoping he would keep silent about dropping off a beaten up man at Wayne Manor. Then he made his way to the front door where Alfred had appeared. The butler led him straight to the medbay with a somber expression. He knew that Tim wasn't the kind to get in a fight. That was not supposed to happen to him now that he was retired.

The cave was empty at this hour. Bruce was probably sound asleep at this hour, and nobody else was living at the manor nowadays. Tim let Alfred examine him in silence, still tired and preferring to wait for Bruce to start speaking. He was sure to get a thorough interrogation, so he didn't see the need to tell Alfred every detail right now, simply informing him that it was the league of assassins.

Tim was glad to learn that he didn't have any kind of internal injury. He had hit the ground pretty hard, but he was not concussed. The only problem Tim could have to face now was septicemia because of his weaker immune system. Alfred would keep an eye on him to check he didn't forget his medication, and that would give even more of an excuse to make him stay at the manor for a while.

 ***

 Tim couldn't shake off the feeling that he was being watched. He had already checked his room twice for cameras, and even though he had found none, he still felt observed. It was hard to tell if the presence if was feeling was a friendly one, watching his back, or an enemy waiting to strike him down.

He knew that Bruce was worried about the league of assassins. Batman hadn't run into Ra's Al Ghul in a while, and Bruce couldn't decipher why he would send his men after Tim now. Tim's works with Wayne Enterprise didn't interfere with any of the league business. There was nothing he could think of that would explain the sudden interest in Tim.

Everyone was worried about him. Bruce had demanded that Cass came home. She was by far the best fighter in the family and had been assigned as his unofficial bodyguard. Wherever he went, she was never far.

Usually, Tim would appreciate the time spent in her company, but he could tell she was tense. She was better at hiding than most, but they had known each other for a while, and Tim had been getting good at reading her microexpressions. 

Not that Tim was faring better. Barely a day after he had gotten to the manor, he had received a gift elegantly wrapped. Bruce had been the one to open it in the batcave, not trusting a mysterious package arriving shortly after the attack.

The box hadn't exploded as they opened or anything of the kind. It simply held a dagger on a velvet pad. A very ancient and beautiful one, that was still sharp and ready to use. Guessing the origin of the dagger wasn't a hardship, especially considering the note that accompanied it. "You should always be prepared, Timothy."

That was a warning, Tim was sure. The assassin was playing with him. He wanted Tim to offer a bit more of a challenge. 

Bruce had taken the note and analyze it thoroughly, from the type of paper to the handwriting. It was a lot of effort for nothing. It was unlikely that any of Ra's assassins would be in the cave database. Bruce didn't like not knowing why Tim was suddenly targeted by the league and not being able to predict when the next attack would come.

The next days passed in a tense atmosphere. Tim tried to relax and appreciate the time he got off work, but there were always shadows or doors creaking that made him jump to his feet, ready to fight for his life. That was not the greatest time off Tim could have had.

Tim was glad to be back at his office, finally able to take his mind off the attack to concentrate on his work, even if it meant waking up thirty minutes earlier than usual to put on make-up to cover his bruises.

Tim smiled at his secretary as if he was perfectly rested and had an awesome time during his break. She returned it with a knowing smile as if she was on a secret. Tim was pretty dumbfounded. He didn't think he had fooled her enough that she would actually think he had had that sort of fun while he was away. She seemed pretty excited nonetheless and Tim finally understood why when he entered his office. There was a beautiful bouquet of red tulips waiting for him in his office. Tim wasn't an expert when it came to the language of flower but it was pretty sure that red was the color of passion or something like that. It was doubtful that it was the company or a client sending it to him to say "good job".

Tim dismissed his secretary and gave a suspicious glare at the flowers. He had not been on a date in a while or even flirted with anyone recently. There was no reason for him to receive such a thing. Tim was almost tempted to send the flowers to be analyzed in case there were hiding poisonous spores but he would most likely pass as a madman to his employees. Still, he put in a far corner of the room, near the windows with the prepared excuse that flowers needed the sun to thrive. In a few days, it would be deemed acceptable for him to throw them away without generating gossip about him turning down an affectionate lover.

Tim spent most of his time working in the labs instead of his office, all to avoid the bouquet. Maybe he was just paranoid, but he preferred to be careful. Plus, that allowed him to also avoid his secretary who seemed to make him want to spill interesting details so that she could report them to the rest of the employees. Not that there was any to give. Tim just preferred to avoid the subject.

 ***

 A week after he had gone back to work, Bruce deemed it safe enough for him to go back to his own loft. Alfred had dropped off some casseroles while Tim was still in his office, so Tim could sink onto his couch to eat a delicious meal while watching some shitty tv show.

It's only the following morning that he noticed the flowers in his room. A bouquet of purple hyacinth this time, according to the quick search he made. 

Somehow, he doubted those had been from Alfred too. There was a note accompanying it this time, still handwritten in the same beautiful calligraphy. "Please accept my sincerest apologies, Timothy."

That had Tim wondering. Had the assassin not been sent by Ra's? He hadn't thought of one of Ra's agent going rogue. It could explain why he had never come back. Betraying Ra's often meant death.

Ra's Al Ghul wasn't the kind to lie, not like that anyway. If he had been the one threatening Tim's life, he wouldn't have tried to pretend otherwise. And the man did have a weird obsession with Tim at some point that could explain the tulips.

Tim wasn't one hundred percent sure that his life was no longer in danger, but he did finally start to relax.

Three weeks after the initial attack, Tim's peace was once again shattered. It was a different assassin this time. Not one trained by the league or with any real experience, Tim was sure of it as the man started to taunt him instead of doing his job, telling him how much money he would make from killing him and what he would do with that much in his pocket. His obvious excitation was short-lived as a bullet pierced his skull right in front of Tim. Tim saw the man's eyes widen suddenly in stupor just before he fell to the ground, lifeless.

Assassins were a daily occurrence after that, Tim having up to three attempts to his life in the span of twenty-four hours. Not that Tim expected anything else when he learned how much his head was worth. It seemed that if Ra's hadn't been behind the first attempt to his life, then it had given him an idea. 

Weirdly enough, it seemed that all his attackers were taken down by the league's own agents before they could do any harm to him. It was as if Ra's was trying to eliminate all competition. But, Tim hardly understood why he had to be involved in that business.

It went on for weeks. Weeks spent worrying about an attack that may never come. Tim didn't understand why the league was stalling this much to finish the job. So he decided to finally act instead of waiting for assassins to attack again.

Without warning anyone of his intentions, Tim boarded a plane headed to Ra's latest known location. The probability that the man was still in a known base was very low, but Tim would try nonetheless. 

Tim hesitated once he landed. He didn't have much of a plan, beyond demanding an audience with Ra's. He could be killed as soon as he crossed the threshold, and none would be the wiser. Tim wondered if he had really been the smarter Robin once upon a time, sure didn't felt like it now.

Tim took a hesitant step out of the plane before steeling himself. Showing weakness would do him no good, the least he could do was appear confident.

Guards watched him climb up the stairs without a word, not showing any signs that they would try to stop him even going as far as opening the door for him, slightly bowing as he passed. Tim's face was blank, seeming emotionless, but he was freaking out. It was almost as if his arrival had been expected, awaited even.

The White Ghost himself came to greet Tim quickly. It was yet another one. Ra's had gone through a few in past years. None had last long since his son's death.

Tim was lead to a grand room where a man that on a throne. The first thought when Tim's eyes felt on him was that the man looked regal in his green robe.  The second he said aloud: "You're not Ra's Al Ghul." 

The man seemed familiar even if Tim couldn't pinpoint from where, but not the leader of the league Tim knew. Definitely too young, the pit never made Ra's rejuvenated that way. Could be that Ra's soul had been transferred to a new body. He really hoped not.

"Ra's Al Ghul is the title of the one leading the League of Assassins, which I am. The man that preceded me is dead. For good."

"Did you kill him?" The question was out of Tim's mouth before he could stop himself. But the man didn't seem offended by the accusation.

"I did. Grandfather wanted to use my body as a vessel for himself. I choose to take his empire instead. It was my birthright, after all."

"You are Talia's son." They hadn't been aware that the Al Ghul family had expended. Tim hoped that hadn't been done with just the idea to provide a new body to Ra's. That would be twisted and horrible for the guy to be born for that sole purpose. And despite the moral instilled by his mentor, Tim found it hard to condemn Ra's murder.

"And Bruce's. I think you know my father rather well."

"What?"

Tim was having a hard time processing that bit of information. The man didn't seem to be lying, but how could the 'greatest detective' have ignored that bit of information.

"I believe you did not come to talk of my lineage, Timothy. I would like to reiterate my apology for hurting you the first time we met."

"That was you?"

"I'm afraid that yes. I had just taken control of the league, and I wanted to consolidate my power by eliminating all that Grandfather had seen as potential successors. Thankfully I saw your mark before my mistake became irreparable. I see now that you are not a threat to my reign. I will never again cause you harm. And I doubt any other will after all that tried in the last few weeks and failed. The world must have gotten my message."

"I'm not quite sure I understand."

The man stood to cross most of the distance separating him from Tim, stopping only a few feet away. His face only showed determination as he took the hem of his clothes in his hands and started to divest.

"Ra's." Tim stammered out, not quite knowing how to refer to the man.

"You may call me Damian, habibi." 

Tim didn't react to the pet name, his eyes fixated on his mark adorning Damian's skin. Their soulmark.

Tim gaped inelegantly, short of words to express his emotion. He was beyond shocked. He hadn't given much thought to his mark in years. Not many had one, and finding one's match was rare as most people preferred to ignore it to make their own choices.

"I would like to offer you a place at my side to lead the league."

Tim was about to answer but Damian shushed him.

"Do not think of what the league had done so far, but what you could do with its many resources. Take your time to think about it. I will in Gotham in a few days, you can tell me your answer over a date."

Damian escorted back to his plan, bidding his goodbye to Tim with a single blossom of red salvia. A token of his intentions.

Tim was quite relieved that Damian didn't insist he stay longer. He had a lot to think about and some time alone would do him some good.

A true partner of Batman should have said no right away, but Tim saw all the possibilities, all the changes he could bring to the world with the league shaped to his image. The proposition was tempting and Tim was already making plans in his mind.

Tim wasn't quite sure what to make of Damian. The man's apparent desire to date, since he was not based on anything relevant. But Tim's love's life had been non-existent since Tam and he could admit that sometimes he got pretty lonely. He could even admit that Damian was easy on the eyes when he wasn't trying to kill him. It wouldn't hurt to go on a date. 

The only problems were Damian's role as the leader of a criminal organization that his family had often fought against. And that he was Bruce's son.

Tim rolled the flower between his fingers, a soft smile on his face. For once, he would take time to enjoy his life and worry later. He didn't have to tell anything to his mentor and let Damian deal with it when the time came. It sounded like a good plan.

[m00nslippers]

Saw the Jason eye color headcanon. Loved it. Grey-eyed Jason is very striking. Can we have the BatBoys, BatGirls, and Bruce’s eye colors?

Alright, you got it!

Bruce

Bruce’s eyes are blue in canon, I like to think of them being a dark, dusky blue.  Most of the time it’s a shadowed smoky color and you might think they are a dark grey or even a black, but then the light hits them and your realize, no they are blue, like a smoky sapphire. Black as an eye color is sometimes associated with being inscrutable, unknowable, like eldritch beings. And Bruce as Batman tries to project that when he’s Batman. His eyes are deep set and often shadowed by his brows that are usually clenched with worry. There’s hints of bright color but it’s obscured unless you get it in the right light or he’s wearing the right clothes. Probably most people see him on the news or in magazines all the time and don’t really take note of his eye color and then all of a sudden here will be a picture where his eyes are just like woah, a bright, deep blue and it’s so beautiful.

Dick

Dick also canonically has blue eyes. He really fits the trope of a blue-eyed, hopeful, righteous ‘hero’ so blue eyes make sense for him. he’s also the Robin who is associated with birds and flight and the sky, and blue is also associated with sky deities or people with air powers. I feel like they are noticeably very blue, very bright, the kind of blue you think doesn’t actually exist in real life until you see it. He tends to wear a lot of blue clothing so that just makes them look that much bluer. I feel like unlike Bruce, whose eyes go smoky and stony when he’s angry or upset though, Dick’s somehow get deeper and brighter, warmer and hotter. You can really see his emotions in his eyes, he doesn’t hold back.

Jason

The post I did on just him.

Tim

Tim’s eyes are canonically blue, again. I think of him as having much paler eyes than Dick or Bruce. I would describe them as cornflower-blue eyes. It’s a color that in the right light sometimes even looks lavender. Purple as an eye color is associated with a character being ‘special’ in some way especially to their writers, and I feel like that fits Tim because he’s always been written as ‘the relatable Robin’. But Tim is also much more calculating and in control of his emotions most of the time, and I feel there are Tim’s when the paleness of his eyes can look unnerving and penetrative, when he’s angry or staring at something, they look icy. Pale blue eyes are often associated with people are cold and calculating, which Tim can be when he’s fixated on something.

Damian

Damian’s eyes change with the canon but I like him having green eyes, like his mother. Green as an eye color is associated with magic and the earth or nature. Green eyes shows his difference from Bruce, shows the ‘mystical’ nature of his heritage in the League, but also hints to the way that the League and also Damian value nature and animals. And green is their color so him having green eyes works on a lot of levels. I think of his eyes as being a dark smoky green. They have the same smoky quality as Bruce’s but the color underneath isn’t blue but green. So they tend to look dark, almost black and then the light will hit the right way and they are like dark emeralds.

Duke

Duke is the only batboy that doesn’t canonically have light eyes, but brown eyes. Brown as a color is often associated with commonness and a certain down-to-earth quality. I think this works for him because until recently he was a regular kid, he didn’t fight villains, he ran the streets with his friends. He was ‘ordinary’--until he wasn’t. I like to think Duke’s eyes look a normal, average sort of brown until the light hits them or he’s using his powers and then they look bright amber-gold. He was a diamond in the rough, seemingly average but both because of they way he stood up to help people and because of the powers that lay dormant in him, he was actually far from ordinary. he’s like gold plucked from the dirt. Gold is associated with being special or valuable though as an eye-color it can also be associated with being evil, which...unfortunately kind of works with that’s going on with him in the comics right now.

Barbara

Canonically Barbara’s eyes are green. I think of her eyes as the pale sort of color that can’t decide if it’s light blue or light green. Not blue-green, just one or the other, but it’s constantly changing. She considers them green, though. Again the paleness of her eyes lends themselves to the same piercing, analytical quality that Tim’s has. She’s always watching, observing, calculating, trying to keep her emotions in check (doesn’t always work, but she tries). The ‘Magic’ aspect of the green eyes trope fits too, especially with her persona of Oracle. Not only is the name magic-based, but the way she’s magic with tech and surveillance and sees everything fits pretty well with green eyes.

Cassandra

Cassandra’s eyes change a lot with the canon, blue, green and even brown. Her dad has blue eyes though and her mom has green so she should really have blue or green eyes, genetically. I think of her eyes as being a hazel-green, on the outside is more of a warm amber but the inside ring is a bright leaf-green. A lot of people associate Asian features with small eyes, but just because you have monolidded eyes, doesn’t necessarily mean they have to look small. I think of Cass as having big, earnest looking eyes that are intimidating with how they seem to stare right into you and see everything. You can see all the emotion trapped inside her that she has trouble communicating. Like Damian, she has ties to the League, and to her mother Lady Shiva who is the mystic ‘One Who is Above All’. She has her own sort of ‘magic’ power, in her ability to read people’s body language to a degree that is almost supernatural. So green works for her. The brown comes in when you look at her warm, caring quality. It fits the trope of brown eyes associated with being earthy and empathetic. And both the brown and green also fit with the fact that she’s kind of feral. And the green, especially a spring-ish green you could see as her being ‘new growth’ or ‘turning over a new leaf’. She changed and remade herself into someone good, despite being raised as a weapon.

Stephanie

Stephanie’s eyes are canonically blue. I like to imagine them as a blue-hazel. The inside ring is an ashy light brown but the outside ring is a pale blue that sometimes looks gray. The brown fits for the same reasons as it fits Duke, with her common origins as a girl from the wrong side of the tracks, and her down-to-earth ordinariness. Hers is on the inside ring, because even when she’s being amazing she still feels ordinary and not good enough. The blue fits with her hopeful, heroic qualities, but sometimes they looks a bit grey and washed out--that’s her no bullshit wise side coming out. Like Jason, she has that wisdom to see what other people try to ignore or hide about themselves. But in the end her eyes are still blue and not grey because she still has that hope that he’s lost.

[vlightndarkv]

Reactions to Yu-Gi-Oh: Dark Side of Dimensions

Okay so, this started as one reaction to something, but then I had more reactions and just kept adding on aaaand... Yeah. XD

Now obviously there will be some spoilers, but most should be fairly out of context.

I have no idea if this will even be of any interest to anyone, probably not, but I had fun doing it so eh. *shrug*

I'll keep the first few visible but will hide the rest under a read more cause this got kinda long. Whoops. >.>

Also, I intend to write a proper review of this movies because I have many thoughts on things, but that will be tomorrow. Is quite late, much later than I had intended on staying up, and I need sleep.

(Also I will apologize now to anyone who likes Kaiba that happens to read this. I distinctly am NOT a fan of Kaiba and it very much shows throughout this.)

---

"It's true, I went through a great deal of trouble recreating the Pharoah's deck, strategies, even his perfectly quaffed hair. In fact that part is what took the longest."

Oh my god what even is this movie??? XDXD

(Quick note, this was the original reaction I was going to post on it’s own, but shortly after I had another and that’s how this whole thing came about. After this they’re in order as the occurred in the movie, it’s just this one that’s out of place since it started the whole thing.)

---

*movie opens with us flying through space, comes to a space station with the letters KC on the side*

Me: Oh dear god, his ego had reached space!

---

Uh... Excuse me what? Why do you have that???

---

*people digging stuff up, dude has a picure of the Millennium Puzzle on his phone*

Me: Uh... Okay... So are these Kaiba’s guys or...

---

*Yugi and his grandpa talking about Tea*

Me: Oh? Will there finally be some eluding to Yugi and Tea?

*little further along*

Me: Guess not.

---

Sploosh!

---

*Bakura surrounded by girls, completely flustered*

Me: XDXDXD

(I’m glad they included this because it’s never played up in the show despite being canon)

---

*gang goes around, talking about what they’re going to do after graduating*

Me: But what about Bakura? (No I’m not a Bakura fangirl, no not at all >.>)

---

*Aigami is introduced, gang standing around trying to remember his name*

Me: He hasn’t been in their class the whole time has he.

---

Geh, what is up with these character designs? What’s with that dude’s head??

---

What is this these characters and jumping off things?

---

*Joey tumbles into his landing*

Me: *snort* Nailed it.

Joey: Dat was on purpose!

Me: Close enough. XD

---

Aigami: You’re Joey right? And Tea? And you... You’re Yugi Moto, am I right?

Yugi: Yeah but, don’t we already know each other?

Me: Yeaaah... He definitely hasn’t been around this whole time.

---

That whole thing was a set up wasn’t it?

---

Joey: How do we know him and not know him at the same time?

Yugi: I wish I had an answer.

*conspiracy theory continues to grow*

Dirty water dogs...

---

Seriously this dude’s head!

---

Well. They certainly didn’t waste any time revealing you as the villain did they?

---

*shadow people start showing up*

Is... Is that Bakura??? The hell???

---

Aand the whole thing was recorded.

*Aigami picks up the camera after having been seen walking away through it*

Wait. How did-But you just- HUH???

---

Pharaoh? Uhhhh... what?

---

*Kaiba immediately summons three blue-eyes*

Me: Doesn’t anybody know the rules of this game? (Throwback to Yu-Gi-Oh abridged. XD)

---

*Kaiba internal monologuing about how he’s better, how he’s done so much to get to this moment, how he’ll finally show he’s the best*

Me: *groans and rolls eyes so hard it’s a wonder they didn’t pop out of my skull*

---

Kaiba: You set me up. *attack happens, things explode, Kaiba still stands* But I knew you’d set me up.

Me: Aand of course. Wouldn’t be Yu-Gi-Oh if there weren’t constant, “But wait!” moments.

---

*Kaiba unleashes attack, Pharaoh doesn’t try to counter, things explode*

Me: ... This wasn’t real was it?

*world begins to fade away*

Me: Yup. Only way he’d actually beat the Pharaoh.

---

Crystal cloud network... How far does that go exactly? Dear god that’s a terrifying thought...

---

Okay so wait he... doesn’t... have it yet? Then what was up with the beginning of the movie?

---

Duke! Wasn’t expecting to see you.

---

Kaiba: It is I! Seto Kaiba and once again I am about to change your lives.

Me: Oh lord here we go...

---

Huh... Well that’s certainly interesting how they played this.

(This was in reaction to Diva and his friend overlooking Yugi and his friends at the mall. I went into this movie having seen a rather key scene involving Diva and Bakura so was impressed at how they mislead us early on)

---

Kaiba can't you just wait for the plane to land like a normal person? You really had to jump out of it? Seriously, the characters in this series and jumping from things.

---

The guns aren't invisible!

---

Kaiba... Only you would be extra enough to have an automatic trap door build into your coat.

---

"There are no limits when you're as brilliant as Seto Kaiba!"

Me: Ugh...

---

How may different types of Blue-eyes White Dragons does this guy have???

---

*Kaiba internal monologuing about how it can't end here, I've come too far done too much*

Me: I swear to god if he says something about the heart of the cards I'm done.

---

Uh... Whut.

Whut

Kaiba you're breaking the world.

---

What is that? Wait... Is that...

Aigami: It's Obelisk the Tourmentor!

Me: WHUT. He still has that???

---

*glowing coming from the hole the items fell into, dude teleport down, Millennium Ring is poking out of the rubble*

Oh dear.

---

Huh. So they're actually graduating.

---

Kaiba why... WHY do you need a space station?

---

*computer goes through a bunch of techno babble*

Kaiba: Don't you think I know that? I invented the blasted thing.

Computer: Affirmative. But my AI has recognized your affinity for being reminded of your genius.

Me: UGHHH!!! MY GOD YOUR EGO.

---

Huh. Well THAT just threw a bunch of my Bakura head canons out the window.

---

Oh dear. Well that's not good.

---

Tristan: Come on! Something's happened to Joey!

Me: How do you know that?!

---

*Aigami’s friend shows up acting all creepy*

Oooh snap.

---

Okay so is the ring manipulating this dude's emotions or is this the spirit talking and he's pissed at Bakura.

---

Aigami: The ring didn't do it it was you!

Aigami: *2 minutes later* Manny the ring is doing something to you!

Me: Dude! Make up your mind!

---

*Yugi and co. running around, calling for Joey*

Me: No concern for Bakura though. As usual. *sigh*

---

Friendship is magic!

---

Kaiba. Go. AWAY.

Seriously, I feel like I'm watching two different movies here.

---

HOW DO YOU KNOW HE HAS THE PIECES?!?!?!

---

Mokuba: Hey Yugi what's up? Lookin good!

Me: How are these two related...

---

Mokuba: *cocky* We know were the second piece is and it's practically ours.

Me: ... Okay now I see the family resemblance.

---

I swear to god just when I start to think Kaiba can't get any more extra...

---

*Kaiba goes through long-winded, ego boosting speech that I've already forgotten most of*

Me: Ughhhhhh......

---

Kaiba: Behold! The Millennium Puzzle!

Me: Dude, you are LITERALLY one of 7 people in that entire stadium who even knows what that thing is.

---

Yeah Yugi! Put that egotistical prick in his place!

---

These poor people have NO IDEA what's going on.

---

Yugi: Dimension dueling? Guess I'll have to learn as I go.

Me: Ladies and gentlemen, Yu-Gi-Oh in a sentence.

---

Must we do the DBZ power up scream?

---

Oh boy, these things again.

---

Ah... But... He... Hm... *me trying to work out a plot point*

---

Kaiba: (card name)'s ability allows me to to summon Blue-Eyes White Dragon!

Me: Of course it does.

---

Seriously, HOW MANY DIFFERENT BLUE EYES DOES THIS GUY HAVE???

---

APPLE Magician Girl??? Dafuq?

---

And now Lemon Magician Girl. He's got a magical fruit salad in the works here.

---

*Diva comes across Millennium Ring*

Me: Oh shit.

---

*Kaiba plays Monster Reborn*

Me: Oh hey, a card I know!

---

Geehh.

---

EIGHTH Millennium Item??? Sure why not.

---

Yugi and Kaiba having a back to back bad ass moment to team up against the bad guy... Not sure how I feel about this.

---

*Kaiba shows concern for Yugi, Kaiba sacrifices himself for Yugi*

The ease in which he changes his focus depending on the situation is... Something else. Because I know when this is all over he'll be right back to, "Yugi I will defeat you!" mode.

---

When did you pick that up?!

---

Heart of the cards. Knew that had to come up at some point.

---

Return of the Pharoah! (?)

---

He's... Not gonna say a word is he?

*Pharoah poofs*

Nope.

---

HIS SPACE STATION IS SHAPED LIKE A K AND A C. HOW DID I MISS THAT. Dear lord this guy...

---

*Kaiba is shown to have Diva's cube thing*

Me: Uh oh...

---

... Whut...

SERIOUSLY DUDE??? DEAR GOD GET A LIFE!

---

*credits roll, remixed version of original theme plays*

Me: *cackles*

---

*credits scroll through songs, three of which were on the shows soundtrack*

How did I miss those??? (Though to be fair its been a LOOOONG time since I last listened to that soundtrack)

---

THERE WAS NO POT OF GREED.

On one level, I’m relieved. Back when I watched the show I came to despise that card because despite it being played ALL THE DAMN TIME they STILL felt the need to explain that it, “Allows me to draw two cards” EVERY.FRIGGIN.TIME.

But on the other hand, because of that it became such a part of the series that it almost seems wrong for it to have not been included.

[itsclydebitches]

RWBY Recaps: Ruby Rose

This is a reposting from Sept. 22nd, 2017 in an effort to get all my recaps onto tumblr. Thanks!

I am combat ready! Or at least writing ready. For ages now I've wanted to tackle a comprehensive recap/analysis of each RWBY webisode and what better time to start then a few weeks before Volume 5? Though I'll mostly be sticking to plot points as they occur chronologically, any new RWBY viewers should be aware that recaps will include spoilers, mostly in the form of referencing foreshadowing and parallels. Read at your own risk. 

Let's get started.

Our series technically opens with four trailers (which you can no more skip than Doctor Who fans can skip Nine), but for the purposes of this recap we're saying that we start the show off with an origin tale. A fairy tale, if you will. Our very first shot is of a high tower decked out in green, beacon-like lights that I'm sure are in no way symbolic standing atop it.

Our narrator, an unknown woman, begins with a cryptic message:

“Legends, stories scattered through time. Mankind has grown quite fond of recounting the exploits of heroes and villains, forgetting so easily that we are remnants, byproducts of a forgotten past.”

Obviously not everyone has forgotten these legends, considering that she's the one telling us them, but right from the start there's a dichotomy set up. There are people, humans, who view the past as something that inherently includes them. Any myths that are passed down are about humans--they're the "exploits of heroes and villains." However, this woman reminds us that there was an existence long before mankind was created; that the world, its history, and its power is far more vast than we're willing to acknowledge. Or able to. 

We're small in comparison. We're just "remnants" of something far larger.

(Also, interestingly, note the "we" in "we are remnants." We learn a lot about Salem later on and no matter how she might look or act, she seems to view herself as human.)

From there on we're given the story of man's creation. Born from dust into an "unforgiving world" already populated by monsters, were it not for their discovery of certain elements--a power that they named "dust" after their own origins--they never would have survived, let alone flourished. Power allowed for civilization. As the story supposedly resolves, we get a change in animation style, moving from the story-book imagery to the real world. The focus on a shattered moon suggests that, despite humanity’s success, things are not all peachy-keen.

Also, enter these guys.

This is Roman and I just love his entrance. RWBY is a show that is very overt in its tropes and homages, and though there's complexity later on, for now Roman and his goons are pretty straight-forward. They're Bad. How do we know they're Bad? Because they're creeping out of the shadows late at night. We've got this guy smoking in an age where the habit is thoroughly demonized. All his goons are pretty identical in true, gangster fashion and Roman himself is the most flamboyantly dressed, drawing on a long (and very problematic) tradition of queer-coding villains. He's wearing a bowler hat for heaven's sake, which is basically just a step up from a fedora.

He's also a redhead. That'll be important.... later.

For now, Roman struts down the street (giving us a hilarious first-look at RWBY's silhouette background characters) and Salem changes her tone, suddenly sounding far more menacing as she lays out humanity's inevitable destruction. All lights "flicker and die" and we're warned that "there will be no victory in strength." The only thing that keeps the scene from becoming depression central is the introduction of a new voice, a man's that--if you're paying attention--you'll recognize later in the episode:

"But perhaps victory is in the smaller things that you've long forgotten. Things that require a smaller, more honest soul."

Pan down to this cutie.

Wow! I wonder who the small, honest soul could be? 

(Also take note of the ad on the back of the magazine: the Schnee logo with the tagline "The Finest of them All." Weiss, based off of Snow White, is therefore "the fairest of them all." Or at least she thinks she is.)

Roman barges in and starts talking about how hard it is to find a dust shop open this late which... raises a number of questions for me? Like why they're looking for a dust shop that's open at all. Why not just wait until everything is closed down and then rob the place? It certainly wouldn't be hard to break in. Given what we know of the villains' larger plans in Volume 3, it could be that they want to sow fear in the people of Vale by committing robberies in plain sight (recall the horrified background characters as Roman walks by), but if so why not actually attack in broad daylight? Overall it just seems like a strange comment.

We're given our first glimpse of Roman as an ambivalent villain as he refuses the shopkeeper's money. He's here only to complete his mission of stealing dust, not entirely wipe the guy out so... yay, I guess?

One of the goons notices our little red riding hood and pulls a sword on her, which is kind of hilarious. I'm not even sure why. Maybe it's because right after that a different goon pulls out a gun which is obviously the more logical weapon here. But no. Goon #1 needs his massive, red sword to threaten the small child with.

Small Child is not impressed.

"Are you robbing me?"

"Yes!"

"Ooooh."

And she proceeds to kick him from the back of the store all the way into the far wall.

Let's take a moment to appreciate Roman's dafaq face here:

This is a technique nearly two decades old. Everyone knows the story of how Buffy got started. Whedon wanted a stereotypical heroine--small, cute, blonde--but who, rather than getting killed by the monster in the alleyway, ends up being the very thing that the monster should fear. It's an oldie now, but a goodie. We're presented with this tiny, adorable girl who is characterized as a victim, only to find that she's the one with the most power. Not only can she kick a full-grown man across a room, she's got some crazy weaponry tucked away too.

This is, by definition, a badass moment.

As we see in the ensuing fight this little girl is very proficient with her scythe. There's a great moment as her headphones play "This Will Be the Day" diegetically, only for the song to move into non-diegetic soundtrack, and then back to diegetic music as she turns off her headphones and... they disappear? Presumably she has pockets.

Iffy animation aside, RWBY seems like the kind of world that would give its girls pockets.

Roman: "Okay... get her."

That little moment of confusion--Roman's disbelieving "Okay?"--seems a little like inconsistent world-building. Certainly he knows that Signal and Beacon aren't too far from here, meaning that there are lots of teenagers around, Huntsmen and Huntresses in training that are capable of kicking his henchmen's ass. Is he just thrown off guard by this girl's (even younger) age? Who can say.

Regardless, she handles all the goons with ease. Ruby (yeah, let's just use all names for simplicity's sake) has a direct and efficient fighting style. This is our first glimpse into the maturity hiding behind a seemingly immature outer shell. Ruby doesn't take the time to taunt the goons or get all flashy with her fighting, she just takes them out, pure and simple, something that young and confident heroes often struggle with. Roman proves a little harder though when his cane turns out to be a gun.

Lesson One: pretty much everything in RWBY is a gun. Cane? Gun. Scythe? Gun. Thermos? Gun! That lamp? Probably also a gun.  

As Roman escapes we get another glimpse of Ruby's priorities when she asks the storekeeper, "Are you okay if I go after him?" It's a small but wonderful moment that tells us Ruby isn't a hero who wants to fight for the sake of fighting, at least outside of friendly competitions. Had the storekeeper been injured or needed her for some other reason, Ruby would have held his needs above just catching the bad guys. That's important.

So, having gotten the a-okay, Ruby chases Roman up to the rooftops and we hear his annoyed (yet impressed?) mutter of, "Persistent." Just as they're about to duke it out again an airship arrives that Roman boards, throwing out a dust crystal that explodes when he shoots it. It looks like Ruby might have been caught in the blast, but at the last possible second Glynda Mother-F***ing Goodwitch arrives to save the day.

Why was she out in town this late at night? How did she feel seeing some tiny child fighting a notoriously wanted criminal up on the rooftop? These are questions only fanfic can answer. The point is that Glynda saves Ruby not once, but twice, all while exhibiting a truly impressive amount of power. It's here that we first get to see not just fantasy weapons, but what we might term magic (in what will quickly become a fairly convoluted magical system). It isn’t until later that we realize others don’t consider Glynda’s abilities to be magic, though given what we now know about semblances and their assumed connection to Humanity 1.0, it’s perhaps no coincidence that the audience is meant to think this is magic at first glance. But telekinesis--the ability to manipulate anything from objects to the weather itself--is staggering nonetheless and the show should really give Glynda something else to do with her power besides fixing craters and broken buildings. Or just bring her back, period. 

Glynda even makes a little "Humph" sound when she blocks the blast like, "Please. You'll have to try harder than that."

They do.

Roman yells to the pilot that they have a "Huntress" to deal with and we're given glimpses of a more important villain: fancy dress, high heels, strange tattoo on her back, and an affinity for fire. She's deemed important simply by the fact that the 'camera' always keeps her face hidden from view, inviting speculation as to who she is and what her motives are. Though she and Glynda seem pretty evenly matched (with Ruby joining in to help), Roman flies them out of there before things get more heated. Pun intended.

As a side note, it’s worth pointing out that, in retrospect, we did just see magic with Cinder... which we then assume for a very long stretch was her semblance given what we quickly learn about Glynda. You can see why this stuff gets muddled. The fact that Ruby, a bright and fighting obsessed girl, doesn’t seem to think it odd that someone can shoot fire just hammers home how not magic-y these abilities read to characters in world. Until the plot suddenly wants them to. AKA bird anger. 

Regardless, as the viewer cheers at the rarity of three women dominating a fight scene, Ruby has bigger things to think about. Like the fact that Glynda is a Huntress and Ruby just has to have an autograph.

Cut from this:

To this:

Humor aside, this actually does a lot for situating what a Huntress is in the viewer's mind. We might not have an exact definition yet, but we know two important things: they're on the side of our small hero (Glynda protects Ruby) and they're regarded as at least minor celebrities. In short, they're the Big Good to the mysterious Big Bad.

They’re also, as we’re about to see, subject to the law. 

But back to Ruby. See that spotlight? Glynda has this 15yo girl in an interrogation room, prowling about while lecturing that she "put herself and others in grave danger." Interesting. What others were in danger? Civilians? Looks like everyone else cleared the streets once Roman showed up. The shopkeeper? As said, Ruby was very careful about making sure he was okay. Normally I’d be 100% on Glynda’s side here, but I think Ruby actually acted very maturely given the circumstances. Especially considering that she’s right: they started it. Glynda’s generic reprimands might imply that there are many non-Huntsmen trained fighters out there making a mess of things (at least by Glynda's standards). Certainly we later see conflict between trained Huntsmen/Huntresses and those who learned to fight "outside the kingdom." 

Also... just reminding everyone... that Glynda uses a riding crop. Rooster Teeth had to know the can of worms they were opening with that little choice. If you don't want porn of the deputy headmistress and various other characters, don't dress her like a dominatrix and give her lines like, "I'd have sent you home with a pat on the back... and a slap on the wrist!"

Glynda is very serious that Ruby would be in big trouble if it weren't for the fact that a certain someone wants to meet her. Enter my trash fave:

Ozpin.

He's basically Dumbledore if he actually had better justifications for his iffy decisions and looked like a hot 30yo. My priorities aside, more fascinating questions start cropping up. How long has Ruby been held in this room? What was that conversation between Glynda and Ozpin like--Hey, I found this random child who nearly took out a whole criminal gang, that seems like your kind of thing? Why does Ozpin arrive with a full plate of chocolate chip cookies? Did he bake them himself? Does Ruby ever get Glynda’s autography?

These kinds of questions are the lifeblood of fandom.

As an aside, I'm a complete animation snob. I've been spoiled by too many great artists to immediately accept just anything you throw up on screen. When I first watched this episode and saw Crunchy Roll's review that RWBY is "lovely to look at" my response was, "...seriously?" This moment, when Ozpin gives Ruby the cookies and they proceed to just disappear as they approach her mouth was my breaking point for a while. I had to be talked into watching more... and I'm so glad I was. Now, after years with these characters, I have a much deeper appreciation for the art style and the beauty that RWBY contains. Now the cookie scene is just straight up funny to me.

Back to plot though. Ozpin introduces himself by introducing Ruby. We get her name for the first time and as Ozpin peers down at her he says, "You have... silver eyes," which confuses Ruby and has the viewer nodding sagely. Yep. That'll come back later.

Ozpin reviews Ruby's fight and wants to know where she learned all that. More specifically, he wants to know who taught her to use "one of the most dangerous weapons ever designed," which is another fascinating moment that I think is largely overlooked by the fandom. Ruby is living in a world chock-full of crazy dangerous weaponry. Already we've seen a gun-cane and a riding crop used as a wand. The fact that Ozpin labels Ruby's sniper-scythe as one of the most dangerous not only re-emphasizes her skill, but hints that the scythe may be a particularly powerful weapon... one even he might favor. Though we later get to see Ozpin fight with his cane and he clearly prefers that form, we've yet to get a full explanation for those gears in it:

In retrospect after Volume 6, there’s little evidence that his cane turns into a full other weapon, but it was an cool theory for a while. 

Ruby says proudly that her Uncle Qrow taught her everything and that she's currently a student at Signal Academy.

Ozpin: "And what's an adorable girl like you doing at a school designed to train warriors?"

Ruby: "Well... I want to be a Huntress."

Ozpin: "You want to slay monsters?"

Ruby: "Yeah."

Ruby launches into an excited speech about following in her big sister's footsteps, looking for a career that's more "romantic" than the police, and above all getting to help people. Watching Ozpin in this scene gives us a pretty clear view into his thoughts: his shock at Ruby's proficiency with the scythe, making sure he's reading the situation correctly (this small, adorable child wants to fight evil?), his look of approval as Ruby tries to explain her thinking. There's even what I read as a little test. "You want to slay monsters?" A major theme in RWBY is that people are the real monster, the biggest threat, and it takes Ruby a long time to learn that. To semi-quote Sirius, the world isn't split into good people and Grimm. Though Ruby doesn't realize this yet--she just implies that she wants to fight Grimm--her skill and pure intentions (which will come into play later during "Mountain Glenn") are enough for Ozpin to offer her a place at Beacon two years early. As we learn later, as an added bonus this also helps keep her safe. Those with silver eyes are hunted and Ruby has not been keeping a low profile. 

"You want to come to my school? Well... okay."

One of these teachers is happier about this situation than the other.

It’s pretty amazing though.

Yang thinks it's amazing too. We jump ahead an unspecified amount of time to meet Ruby's half-sister on the airship to Beacon. I adore their interaction here because so often media limits sibling relationships to arguing and competition. Not so with these two. Yang isn't at all jealous that her little sister is getting special treatment. Ruby is the only one with issues:

Ruby: "I got moved ahead two years... I just don't want people to think I'm special or anything."

Yang: "But you are special."

Ruby just wants to be a normal girl with normal knees. No bee's knees allowed.

As Ruby begins struggling with her new situation we get Roman's name in a news bulletin, along with a hilariously different art style.

We also get reference to people called "Faunus" who possess animal traits, their civil rights movement, and the violent organization called the White Fang that recently interfered in a peaceful protest. The bulletin is cut off by a holographic Glynda's welcome.

Yang: "Who's that?"

Glynda's hologram introduces herself immediately after, but I find it funny that Ruby doesn't even look like she's going to try and answer. As if she hadn't met and fought alongside Glynda just a little while ago. Also. Ruby knew exactly who Ozpin was. Didn't have a clue about Glynda. Poor Professor Goodwitch does all the work around Beacon and receives none of the credit lol.  

I actually really like Glynda's speech here though. She's welcoming to the students without coddling them. Like other shows with children entering combat, RWBY lets the viewer know that we can't always apply our real-world morality to these situations. These kids might be young--17 years old and 15 in Ruby's case--but they're going to be treated like adults for as long as that’s logical. As we’ll see later though, there’s a distinct difference between responsibility inside school and out... 

Right before our pilot ends we're introduced to Jaune, or the name we know him by so far, "Vomit Boy." The webisode ends on a light note with Jaune getting puke on Yang's shoes and the two sisters freaking out about it. We're also given our first, gorgeous look at Beacon:

Now that’s animation I can get behind. Everything is light and happy. Ah, they have no idea the horror that's coming for them. Just wait until Volume 3.

Until then, 💚

[awkwardtimezone]

Sparring Practice (Caspira/Laz’ab)

((Another oooooooooooooooold RP log I should have gotten around to editing way sooner. Following his doctor’s orders, Laz’ab needs to prepare his body for the upcoming stress before he can receive his new cybernetics. Caspira, as usual, becomes his reliable punching bag.

Really just an excuse to see these two duke it out.))

The shadows were long and the sun had since dropped below the horizon of cramped buildings, cliffs, and ramshackle lots by the time the hooded figure made his way down the boardwalks of Rishi. Despite the pirate hub’s tireless energy he mostly ignored the jeers of the locals, the hawking of the marketplace, walking with purpose through the labyrinth of sordid characters. Somewhere a merchant heckled him for refusing to glance at his wares, a man barked offense but was met by his retreating back when attempting to goad a fight, and a Kowakian monkey-lizard brought a brief flash of familiarity to those red eyes before they swept past.

Finally, he found it.

The last glimmer of sunset had bruised the sky a thick blue-black by the time he pulled up in his speeder, having left the heart of the city behind him. She’d done a right good job disguising the exterior of the cave, lush foliage and old transport crates hiding the gleam of a ship’s sleek sides beneath. It’s once impeccable slopes had dulled over the years, marred by filth and paints. But it was her ship alright, and Laz’ab always found his Shadow.

There was a knock at the door that Caspira wasn’t expecting. Visitors were not only rare but entirely unwelcome, and she’d gone to great pains to be as unfriendly as possible short of some serious stabbing incidents out on the docks. Less-than-serious seemed to serve a good enough indication that she wanted to be left alone. Nobody had bothered her in weeks and the knock at the door had her hackles up almost immediately.

Rishi had been the safest place to relocate and it had been with a serious amount of thought that she had grounded her Phantom years ago. It avoided unwanted attention from the major powers of the current galaxy, but put her in a more vulnerable position. Swiveling away from the medbay’s workbench she pulled her beaten jacket over her shoulders and shoved her hat down over her head, grabbing up the blaster set on the hook near the door, and flipped the safety off as she reached the handle.

“Piss off!--Oh.”

Tattooed brows arched upwards as he shot her a dry glare. “... Your hospitality is somewhat lacking since last I remember it.”

Caspira decided not to touch that one, instead flicking the safety back on and opening the door wider by way of invitation. “I wasn’t expecting anybody worth offering hospitality.”

He followed her into her ship as she set the weapon back in its handy spot by the door. “Nice place. The smell of grophet shit almost completely drowns out the odour of unwashed pirates.”

“The locale isn’t ideal, but it is out of sight from those who might cause trouble. Pirates are far easier to deal with than Skytroopers.” It had been a little while since she’d seen the Sith, and last time he had been little more than a skeleton propped up on wires. Laz’ab up and about on his own feet once more was … well, she wasn’t entirely sure. Good, yes, but until she could shake loose his intentions and goals she wasn’t sure how to take his little visit.

“It’s good to see you up and about, my Lord.” It was sincere enough, and as she closed the door behind him she took the opportunity to give him a brief once-over. “What brings you to this corner of the system?”

“You, as always,” Laz’ab drawled. The sarcasm was strong with this one. “What, can’t a Dark Lord visit his Shadow just because he misses her?”

Caspira had briefly forgotten how close his call in the tombs had been. She was reminded sharply of the limb he’d lost when his single remaining arm reached out and ran a hand over the walls of her ship, his other shoulder ending in a folded sleeve. Though looking much healthier than he had been in the recovery ward, his plain black robes did little to hide his ribs, and his spine appeared like rows of small spikes when he arced.

His sharpened nails traced over panels and curves as though checking they were actually there, basking in the ship’s familiarity.Things had been so up in the air since he was pulled out of Korriban he’d hardly had a moment to rest. His estate on Dromund Kaas was a ruin at best, and his chief of security saw them constantly uprooted in an effort to remain undetected.

With a hint of a smile the twi'lek made his way to the sofa in the far corner. He’d spent more than a few sleepless nights on this thing … it seemed like forever ago now, but he could still see the stitches where she’d had to repair it following one of his more extreme episodes. After a moment of indulgence to soak in the memories he turned to face her, leaning against the couch.

“Looks like you’ve been doing well for yourself.”

Caspira had trailed him into the ship like the Shadow she was, watching him circle through the main room. He seemed calm, collected, put together … her eyes inevitably roved to the shoulder of his missing arm but the robes disguised whatever loss he still suffered. Deliberate, she knew, and wondered how he might be faring with that particular detail.

Eyes moving to his own she shrugged out of the beaten jacket and hat she kept around to better look the part of the pirate. “I’m faring well enough. I’m alive, I’m safe, and I’m off the radars for the most part. The downside to remaining this quiet means I haven’t accomplished anything either, though. Whispered information, small actions. It doesn’t seem enough.”

There was no reason to be evasive with him. What she had to say was mostly the truth. “Helping little rebellions, hoping they’ll grow into larger ones. In any case, you look like you’re adjusting well to being back in action.”

“Being confined to a sickbed for months does make the body jittery,” he muttered in wry agreement. If he felt any loss at the absence of his arm he masked it well enough, though the shoulder would occasionally shrug as though attempting to perform a gesture it no longer could.

His remaining arm swept out in a broad arc. “In any case, this is good news for me, because if you’re not up to anything then maybe you have time to help me with something …”

“Inactivity can be a challenge.” Lips pursed thoughtfully, Caspira stepped towards him while staying outside of the personal bubble he always maintained. Clasping her hands behind her back she assumed a relaxed position of attentiveness. “You know you can always count on me to assist. What is it you need me to do?”

Laz’ab’s lips cracked into a grin. “I have a cure for inactivity, but I need your help finding a place. I’ve been instructed to train in preparation for receiving the cybernetic replacement for my arm, but my base is little more than a crater in the ground. Sorvik and I have yet to find a new location suitable for our needs.”

A finger tapped thoughtfully at his chin. “You must keep in shape, Cipher, despite severed loyalties. Show me where.”

“New arm?” Her expression shifted to curiosity as she leaned to the side, as if looking from another angle might afford her a better look. Knowing Laz’ab she was prepared to see any manner of monstrosity attached to the stump of his missing arm, something nightmarish and metal, maybe with an arachnid theme.

He squirmed a little under the gaze, wiggling his stump beneath the robes. “It’s not with me. I had my first appraisal from the new doctor, Sorvik and I just got done commissioning it,” he explained somewhat dejectedly, clearly hoping to have resolved the issue sooner. “She doesn’t seem to think my current … physique will be able to handle the extra weight. I’ve got all sorts of fun supplements to take and homework to do.”

Clearing her throat she straightened back up. “I don’t have as much space here as I did in my apartment on Kaas, but the cargo bay does double duty as open space to keep in practice.” Giving him a small wave to follow, she turned and headed back down the hall to the back of the ship.

The Sith slunk after her, his footfalls barely audible as he utilized his training on Korriban. He peered around the corner, appraising the room. It was typically a very cluttered cargo bay, but there was some order to it now, crates and boxes stacked wall to the ceiling while the open floor was padded with thin training mats. With the ship stationary for so long there was no need to anchor anything, and a few bits of equipment were scattered about the open space. It was a lot smaller than he had hoped for, but it would serve its purpose.

“Though if you’re feeling in need of a more realistic target, the wilds out there are full of all sorts of beasts. Those on two legs and otherwise.”

He followed Caspira into the bay and unclipped his cloak from his shoulders, tossing it into the corner on top of some of her things. Out there the planet was crawling with all manner of nasties, he wanted to control the variables as he eased himself back into the fight.

“That’s alright,” he said, “I have a realistic target right here.” A flash of red eyes and a grin.

“Hm, I suppose that makes enough sense, though a mock-up might be more helpful in assisting you, regaining ability and balance with that side of your body.” She moved to the other side of the room and began some warm-up stretches, eyes on Laz’ab as she dipped and bent. “But you know you can count on me to help you regain some of your former limber speed.”

Grinning in return, she scuffed her feet on the mats and flexed her fingers. “I’d recommend doing a bit of stretching first if your goal is to avoid undue strain.”

“She only just got the blueprints. I was only satisfied once I’d handed them over in person.” Circling around the room, he took a place opposite the former Cipher agent and stretched, imitating some of her routine. It felt awkward at times, and his lips curled absently with every sensation from his phantom limb.

He was still still clad head-to-toe in his long robes, brushing just past his ankles. Despite the extra maneuverability of Caspira’s more practical ensemble--flexible pants and loose shirt--Laz’ab was stubbornly fond of his robes and insisted on fighting in them, though he pulled off his boots. He set them to one side and swept up a long wooden staff from among the bundle of practice dummies and weapons.

“What do you think, Twelve? Think you can take me?”

Caspira bit her tongue as the first acidic response came in reference to his missing arm. While they were typically almost ruthless with their conversational sparring that seemed a mark too far just yet. “Is Rishi full of pirates?”

Kicking off her boots, she grabbed up a shorter sparring blade more representative of a standard length saber, giving it a quick twirl to gauge the balance. “I think this will probably benefit the both of us, it’s been a while since I’ve gone up against anyone of your particular talents and skills.”

Giving him a quick little beckoning gesture to begin, she lunged in first. Starting slow a bit easy to give him the opportunity to find his balance, she swept the blade toward him a smooth arc. He ducked away easily, twirling backwards in a graceful half-pirouette but for a slight stumble in footing. Easily rectified and hardly noticeable, the twi’lek flicked his wrist and brought his own staff up to knock hers aside with a quirky little sneer of his own. He crossed his legs in another sidestep and threw a few more jabs in her direction. They were short, harmless passes intended to get them both in the motion, slowly acclimatizing to using his non-dominant hand.

Unencumbered by a missing limb and time lost in limbo, Caspira was still rather well in her prime so far as fitness and ability went, sidestepping and bringing her blade up to block his own, sliding it harmlessly off to the side as she flowed into a familiar old fighting stance. Gradually working toward full speed, she kept slashing and swiping at the Sith lord with the practice blade.

“Better than I thought, keep at it.”

Laz’ab bared sharpened teeth despite himself when the practice staff wobbled with the blow, the unfamiliar weight cumbersome in his untrained hand. The frustration was only compounded by his inability to reach out with the other, to grip the handle with both and attack as he would have. The rest of his skills, however, had only been sharpened in his fight to survive in the tombs. His feet moved with a mind of their own and fell back on memorized feints and steps. He ducked beneath an oncoming blow, racing past the former agent before spinning, straightening up in the same movement, and lashing out with the staff at her unprotected back.

“Thank you, I did practice. Five years is a long time to go mad with boredom.”

The movement was not entirely unexpected, Caspira had sparred and fought with Laz’ab before, but she hadn’t figured he would move into that sort of combative aggression quite so soon. Bringing her blade up and about, she managed to catch the edge of his staff, clipped by the blow instead of taking it fully. Hissing, she crouched and slid back away, practice blade flashing toward him with an expert twist of the wrist. Bringing her free hand around to lock to the hilt, she increased the ferocity of her blows bit by bit.

“That makes sense of course …”

That arrogant smirk was slowly creeping back across his face when she came at him more aggressively, though he was forced to take a step back as he found himself struggling with the parry. The edge of her blade nicked him more than once and he lunged to press the attack, and if he still had both hands he might have lashed out with his claws by now on impulse. As it was he was forced to rely on his training, and was breaking out in a sweat.

“You’re not bad yourself, for a former agent with a penchant for firearms. Been practicing with your trophy lightsabers while I’m not around?” That sounded a tad dirtier than he’d intended.

Two arcing blows on either side, aiming to knock her arms before he spun, locked the staff under his arm, and shoved it backwards into her chest.

“No, without the Force using a lightsaber is a danger,” Caspira huffed as she backpedaled and dodged the first of his blows. “I’m as likely to hurt myself as achieve anything--”

If she’d meant to say anything else it was lost when his staff struck her square in chest, driving her back a few steps but more importantly driving the air out of her lungs in a sharp ‘whuff’ of breath. Even so she backed off with a quick snap of a counter-blow, batting his staff away with her blade and ducking down to draw in a lungful of air.

He pranced away to the back of the room like an elated child when his blow struck home, watching with a glint in his eye as the former agent caught herself, hands on knees, sucking down air. “You never were one to let risk stop you,” he grinned. “You throw yourself head-first into danger all the time!”

“Good hit,” she wheezed, holding a hand in a gesture of timeout as she stopped to catch her breath. He used the time to better acclimatize with the staff, hewing it through the air. Perhaps jumping straight to the saberstaff had been a bad idea, he usually needed both hands even when he was using his own saber, but he wanted to prove so badly he was still just as capable as before.

After a moment Caspira dropped back into a ready posture and nodded at the Sith--point to Laz’ab. Her eyes narrowed as she took a good look at him, grinning faintly. Time to step it up. And once he was ready she lunged in with a rapid series of feints and strikes, attempting to drive him back and get past his strained guard.

All future thoughts were dashed out of his mind when she came at him again, landing a few knocks on his arms and smacking his knuckles so he hissed and twirled back, feeling his fingers ringing. They were doing well, both of them calm and collected and holding their tempers evenly. Even as she drove Laz’ab back, the agent kept an eye on him, gauging his mood with each pressing swing even as she kept herself in check. There was no need to escalate things emotionally when all they were doing was a bit of practice, a bit of training.

Distracted as he was by holding her off, he didn’t notice how far he was backing him up until it was too late and his back came up against the wall. Struggling with the weight of his weapon there was no room for comebacks, he had to lock one end of the staff under his arm for stability and huffed as he just barely blocked another blow. Pinned against the wall and desperate for space, he brought up one foot, planted it on her chest, and shoved.

Braced against the wall as he was, his foot caught her square in the chest and she rolled with the kickback, hitting the ground at her hips, rolling to her shoulders, and off in a practiced little hop that landed her a bit unevenly on her feet. Hissing, she straightened and took a moment to stretch sore muscles. He was certainly providing her with a good workout. Blade at the ready, she began to circle about his position on guard and waiting for when he threw himself into action once more.

“Calculated risks, yes …” Her eyes remained on him, grip changing to one hand as she rolled her wrist and the blade with it. “But not careless risks …”

Laz’ab, for his part, found it interesting to experience first hand how Caspira moved. He rarely got to witness her at work in the field, if ever, and it had been such a long while since they last sparred. He could see at once what an asset she would have been to any of her previous Lords, such a pity it had never been him.

He also made mental notes of her techniques, similar to his own training in some regards but less … erratic? Her movements were precise, practiced, and calculated, her recovery elegant and fluid, not at all surprising considering the individual she was and her line of work. He got the sense some Sith relied too strongly on the Force and let their technique get sloppy.

Well, he wouldn’t be like them. After circling each other he sprang at her once more, cleaving downward through the air in an arc that made the staff whistle with frightening speed. He cleared the room in a single leap that betrayed the agility hiding beneath the loose robes and skinny physique.

Laz’ab always had been a dangerous mix of Force and fury, Caspira thought, more apt to unpredictability than what she (or anybody, really) could consider classical fighting. What he practiced and used as a fighting style should never have been quite so successful but it had always served him well. There was something new to it now, though, whatever order and finesse he’d picked up during his later training on Korriban had honed that wildness down into something dangerous.

She darted back as he cleared the length of the room, cursing herself for so trained a reaction when she could have gone forward instead. There was no blocking the staff but she diverted the full energy of the blow off an angled guard and fell back a step before trying to press in and take away whatever he may have used as recovery time. Blade shifting, she came in low and swung at his legs, dropping an elbow to try and get in past his guard.

The Sith hissed when she swung, cussing audibly as once more the weight of the staff and his missing limb culminated in a clumsy defense. He just barely stopped himself from lashing out with the Force out of reflex, instead blocking at the last minute. He was unable to stop both their staves from knocking him behind his knees, dropping to the floor before swerving and locking her staff in the crook of his leg. In pain from the attack but quick to recover, he twisted himself into a roll that disarmed them both.

If he had both hands he would have taken up her weapon. As it was he merely kicked them both aside and got back to his feet, using the quick break to wipe a claw across his brows.

“Not bad,” he huffed, visibly warmer beneath all his layers. He tugged at his collar for air, which hugged his neck right to his jaw, grimacing when he was unable to undo his own clasps. His form may have been streamlined in Korriban, but his anger and unpredictability was still very much there and cracked through the façade with each inconvenience.

Shoulders hunched and knees braced, Caspira was grateful for the break herself, huffing out a flat chuckle and glanced over to where her blade sat off to the side of the room. “You’re doing well. I don’t think we need to spar much. We might be going about it the wrong way.”

Moving off to the side of the room, she kept in motion. Stretching, hopping on the balls of her feet and bouncing her steps. “We don’t want to get you too used to fighting one-armed when you have a replacement coming, and if that doctor you saw just wants you to be in shape maybe a bit of target striking or stationary physical exertion will be enough to get you into whatever physical shape you wants you in.”

Pacing along the side of the room, she rifled through some of the other gear she had stockpiled. There would certainly be something close enough to a strike pad for her to wave around at him while he struck out at it. Making sure her intentions were casual, she gestured to the clasps he couldn’t quite get on his own.

“Would you like me to get those for you?” It was an easy offer, passing, easy for him to accept or decline.

“You want me to hit you without fighting back? That’s a first.” Still fumbling and scraping with his clothes he shot her a sharp little glare, pursed lips tight. Then his shoulders sagged in a submissive gesture. “Fine. I could use the Force but that would defeat the purpose of me being here,” he added almost defensively. “You’d think my time in the tombs would have helped me get used to this … problem.”

That was about as much heart-to-heart as Caspira was going to get. He allowed her to help him out of his shirt, discarding it with the rest of his effects. He retained his headgear, a vital piece he rarely took off. She knew vaguely that it was supposed to subdued the noises in his brain to manageable levels, but that was all he had told her. It also helped dampen the feeling of nakedness that washed over him for a moment. He kept his elbow-length wrap on the left arm, ending in his signature fingerless gloves, and his lower robes and belt. The rest was a jumble of straps, rings, clips, and fabric designed to make him look more imposing, small wonder he struggled to dress himself.

Now the agent could see for the first time the full extent of the damage. His torso was riddled with fresh, pink scars so large they were still in the process of healing even months after his stint in the hospital. They interrupted several tattoos, upsetting the symmetry of his body, but the Sith’s markings had never been a point of pride with him. Just another form of torture his master had subjected him to, nothing he earned, and they served as a constant reminder of his past. The most noticeable scar twisted through his right side, mutilating his flesh into a lumpy knot where presumably one of the creatures had literally bitten off more than they could chew. Despite numerous grafts it would take several more reconstructive surgeries to avoid hardening into a fleshy, uneven mass.

And then of course there was his right arm, missing almost entirely but for a superficial stump that twitched with some phantom gesture. It was wrapped in specialized gauze that stretched across his chest, keeping whatever tourniquet in place as he moved. And he was thin. Far too thin. No doubt this was what concerned the doctor, and it was clear he would need to put on much more weight before he could dream of attaching cybernetics. Caspira could practically count each rib and vertebrae on his back. His clothes hid his emaciation well enough, with his headpiece giving the illusion of broadening his shoulders, but without the rest of his ensemble it just made him look even more disproportionate.

The agent took her time taking in the Sith’s appearance, though didn’t linger so long as to make him uncomfortable, something that would have ended poorly for them both. Folding the shirt across a forearm, she moved to the other side of the room and laid them atop some stacked crates, digging into the contents until she found a chest plate that was light but still thick enough to do double duty as a strike pad. Turning back to him, she cracked a smirk and tossed her head a touch.

“You look as though you’ve been trying to survive my cooking,” she quipped, and hooked her arms into the plate’s back straps, bracing it in front of her. Despite being a whiz with a centrifuge and chemical compounds, the agent was an abhorrent cook … something Laz’ab had learned earlier in their partnership. A good portion of the stacked crates were standard bagged and canned survival rations: high calorie meals that would keep a person well fed if not gourmet.

“I’m not going to make myself a stationary target, but you should get a bit more of a beneficial workout this way than trying to learn to manage one-handed. That’s going to change soon enough. Once you’ve got your other arm set, come on back and we’ll go put it through the motions.” With the armor padding positioned in front of her chest and vital organs, she began to circle about the scarred twi'lek, inviting him to action. “Maybe even go wipe out some of the scum lurking about in the jungles.”

“Your cooking would have been preferable to the shit I had to eat in those caves,” he muttered, shooting the staves a morose look before reluctantly taking position across from her.

Though his previous saber ‘technique’--or lack thereof--had consisted mostly of desperate flailing, scratching, and savage mauling for his life, Laz’ab had returned to Korriban to complete his training prior to Zakuul’s invasion. He had taken his studies very seriously, actively improving both his understanding and connection to the Force and practicing his technique with a lightsaber every day. It felt odd going back to physical sparring now. Nevertheless he hunched down, bounced light across the balls of his feet, and lurched out with the first few hits.

“Raw k’lor’slugs … tuk’ata … shyrack or … squellbugs!” He lashed out and struck the pad with each name, a grimace on his face. “If I was lucky I could keep the corpse of the bigger creatures for maybe two days before drawing unwanted attention.”

Caspira made a face as she sidestepped about the area, giving Laz’ab a slowly moving target to strike at. Each swing he made, she braced for, at times shoving back with the padded plate to spice things up a little.

“I was stuck on this godless little swampland planet over the occupation,” She huffed, braced her arm up to absorb a strike and continued to move. “Just myself and one other agent for weeks. Supplies ran out, Skytroopers and Knights all over the place so no chance for extraction or resupply. Ended up eating these nasty little local bugs.” Another strike, another grunt. “Hard shells, slimy meat.” It wasn’t even close to the near-five-years of horror the twi’lek had suffered through, but those close calls and long missions had stacked up over time.

“How are you feeling? Sore, tired … ?”

Laz’ab grimaced briefly at her story, swiping and swinging and occasionally missing. He recovered quickly and corrected his mistakes. “At least you got out of there.” It sounded like the closest thing to genuine concern she was going to hear. The Eternal Empire had screwed everyone over and he wasn’t sure if he could quite come to terms with it. It still felt like he was standing in the middle of the fallout, his home and everything he knew in pieces around him, and yet some corners of the galaxy remained untouched, and life went on.

“I wasn’t in any fatal danger, not like you,” she explained between parries, finding little comparison between her own strained missions and the hell he had survived trapped in those old catacombs and tombs. “I had another agent there to watch my back for me. It was a relief when you were finally found.”

The Sith pursed his lips, lapsing into momentary silence as their separate fates mulled over in their minds. Eventually he changed the subject. “I see you’ve learned from your mistakes.” He nodded towards the stacks of preserved rations, and when she was slightly distracted he thrust his weight into his leg, landing a swift kick in the centre of the plate.

“I feel fine,” he added with a cheeky grin.

His kick connected with enough force to send her staggering back, feet scuffing on the hard flooring as she caught her balance once and let the plate drop, rubbing the sore spot at her chest with a wry smirk. Though he was itching to move after so long in a medical bed, Laz’ab relented, taking a step back and giving her time to recover. He was a little out of breath himself but, apart from the few snags with the staves, was satisfied that his form hadn’t completely gone to shit.

“Yes, you certainly seem fine. Is there anything specific that you’d like to work on or practice so long as we’re here?”

He idly picking at a scab on his chest. “Did you just say it was a relief to see me? Never thought I’d hear you say that … except if maybe you were held at gunpoint.”

He flashed teeth. “Force knows they tried. As for exercise, I don’t know. I’m supposed to be building muscle and putting on weight before the doctor will even consider fitting me with implants. Can I even put on weight?” He’d always been a waif of a Lord, something other Sith sometimes mistook for weakness. And paid for dearly.

“How much weight does that doctor expect you to put on before she gives you this arm of yours?” Scuffing the pad aside with the toe of a boot, Caspira turned to regard the always dangerously-thin-looking twi'lek with raised brows. “Or muscle for that matter?” Knowing at least a moderate amount about cybernetics and limb replacement, she moved to sit on one of the shorter crate stacks and rubbed her knuckles thoughtfully against her breastbone. “Enough to support the weight of a new arm, certainly, but unless it’s made of some truly heavy alloys it shouldn’t be too much.

“I would think that some nutritious food, a bit of physical exertion here and there in the form of workouts, sparring or even hunting would be enough to help you regain some of your former ability and mass. If she’s expecting you to bulk up to standard proportions for a male twi'lek, she’s going to be waiting quite some time.”

He looked less than enthused. “That’s what I was hoping to avoid. The sooner I’m whole again, the sooner I can focus on more important things. But it’s one of my own designs with several internal components. Doc reckons she’ll need to reinforce certain bones and muscles for me to even move the thing without tiring myself out.”

“Augmentation cybernetics should help to solve some of the weight distribution problems, and there are adjusters that you can map to nerves and tendons. It’s invasive though, I don’t think you’d want that sort of deep-surgery done. Which is likely why this doctor didn’t bring it up.” His torso was scarred enough, she doubted anybody that elected to put him under the knife really knew the entirety of what they would be dealing with. Replacing a missing limb was one thing, opening him up to install cybernetics would go beyond what was necessary and edging into excessive.

Rummaging through his utility belt, Laz’ab tossed a data chip her way. “If you’re curious, that’s the full design. I haven’t trusted her with it yet, she’s got a modified version of the file without the insides. The fewer who know of my intent, the better.”

Catching the chip, she pulled out one of her many datapads from around the room and fed it into the system. The three-dimensional hologram of a mechanical arm flittered into focus in front of her. It was sleek, mostly made of reflective materials overlapping and fitting together while imitating the direction and shape of where his muscles should be. Several indentations and patterns were etched across its surface, callbacks to the twi’lek’s deadly Widowmakers, and no doubt intended to glow their same warning colours. The design was simultaneously sharp and jagged, and sleek and practical. It boasted an optional shoulder piece capable of expanding or collapsing, that he could manipulate based on mood or intimidation tactics.

The hologram then deconstructed before her eyes and the plates fell away, revealing the intricate internal workings Doctor Odolys had not been privy to. The main hand, already constructed to resemble a claw and armed with spring-locked blades for nails, fell away and was interchanged with a series of even more brutal blades, needles, and hooks. It looked like he intended to carry some sort of poison or hallucinogen inside the compartment, and all the weapons could splay out at once in a grotesque bastardization of arachnoid horror. The entire structure was a weapon in and of itself.

Caspira opted for casual optimism. “That’s a lot lighter than the average models, but I can see why you would want to keep it that way. I’m not an expert in construction or installation of course but it seems entirely capable of meeting any needs you might have.” She set the datapad aside once more, ejecting the chip and offering it back.

Laz’ab caught the chit in midair, fingers folding around it. “That’s the intent. It has to be light, I need to be quick and quiet when I work. But all the special modifications could mean that by the time the insides are done I may need special counterweights just to balance it." He briefly considered his stump, as though mentally mapping the cybernetic horror on top of it. “I designed it with feedback from my engineers. I knew what I wanted but how to make it all work, that’s all them.”

“A shoulder harness will probably be a necessity for a while anyway, something to keep it comfortably in place without it pulling on all those newly altered muscles and nerves. I’m certain the Doctor already discussed that with you.” Caspira wasn’t a pro when it came to cybernetics, far from it. But she’d watched and observed a certain mercenary Commandant renew and adjust and even add to his collection over the years. Though Jean’s arm hadn’t been severed so close to the shoulder, there was still a lot of work that gone into proper seating, balance and functionality.

Not that she was going to bring up Jean here, no sir.

Knuckles brushing across her jaw as she considered, her glance dropped to the gaudy looking bracer she always wore. “Have you considered adding alchemical means to it? A little bit of Force anchored here and there might make it lighter or at least easier to handle.”

The Sith tilted his head and considered her with renewed interest. “You know about such things? The doctor we sought is Force blind. She seemed to think relying on the Force to would be tiresome and might risk an accident. If there was some way of doing that without maintaining a constant link to the Force, though …”

“There are all manner of different artifacts and talismans dealing with the Force, I’m sure there’s something that could be applied to the arm or the design to help it function in the way I’m thinking. Though she does have a point, there could be involved risk if you were to get over-stressed. Building in some sort of failsafe may help.”

Inquisitor Craiken had one of the largest collections of old antiquities she could think of, it would be possible he might have something she could use for this very purpose. “Sith of the past were fairly creative when it came to solutions for problems and considering that infighting, war and the injuries caused by both have been around forever … it’s not too far fetched to think there could be a focus or even an alchemical design that already exists. And if not, given time, one could probably be made.”

Laz’ab hugged his chest despite himself, absentmindedly seeking comfort as uncomfortable memories came trickling back--darkness, the echoes of his own screams ricocheting down writhing corridors, purple smoke seeping from shards of artifacts like claws as their secrets leaked into the air. They filled the room, filled his mind, crawling into his eyes, creeping down his throat to smother him.

A lekku twitched.

“Probably,” he echoed, as if he was elsewhere. He blinked and the red glaze cleared from his eyes, straightening up. “All the more reason to recover quickly. I’m going to need a proper base of operations before I can even start to research this. I haven’t been back to Dromund Kaas yet, but from what Sorvik tells me, there isn’t much to go back to.”

Caspira watched carefully as the twi’lek divided out from himself, dragged back to something she could only guess at. It wasn’t too difficult to think of what he might have been thinking about or even reliving and she mentally kicked herself for not considering his past versus her proposal. Hard times for them all. But he snapped out of it without much more than one little twitch, and she continued on as if nothing had happened.

“Dromund Kaas is the same as it always is and always will be. From the outside nothing has changed and the leadership pays the Eternal Throne their dues while Sith jockey for position and power. Darth Acina has a tight grip on the Imperial Throne.” Caspira sighed, an old and familiar frustration building. “Everybody goes about their lives pretending that we aren’t being watched, observed, searched. Pretending the Empire is still in charge of their own fate.”

Jaw clenched, she glanced up at Laz’ab. “I might suggest Tatooine, or even Alderaan. Zakuul’s glance isn’t so keen there anymore. Or here, of course. As long as you don’t mind the occasional interruption or attempt at piracy.”

Sitting now on a crate across from her, the twi’lek arranged his head-tails around his shoulders while she spoke, idly tracing over the patterns of his tattoos “Tsssk--typical of the Empire,” he hissed. “From what I’ve been told my compound was pretty much wiped off the map after Zakuul thought they finished me on Korriban, just tying up loose ends no doubt.

“Tatooine or Alderaan you say … pirates wouldn’t be a problem, at least I’d get frequent target practice. I doubt they give much stock here if their civilians go missing or turning up with their body parts rearranged.”

A poor attempt at a joke or dead seriousness, it was hard to tell.

Even knowing his sense of humor, Caspira was prepared to take the remark at face value. “I think it depends,” she hazarded with a faint little grin. “If they’re stupid enough to blunder into danger without taking proper precautions … well, I don’t think they spend too much time searching. If you start making a spectacle of the deaths and disappearances though, that might prompt somebody to start looking deeper. Still, it might be worth it to see.”

The last was a bit more hesitant. She’d seen what Lazab could do and had done to people during her stays and visits to the compound. It was a shame that it had been so badly damaged, over time it had almost become a second home.

“Pirates are predictable. Either nobody misses them and you never hear of it, or you get their crew suddenly out for blood but mostly too dumb to plan beyond a forward, head-on ambush. Eventually they wise up and leave you alone.”

“Sounds like the voice of experience,” he remarked dryly. “Do you need someone taken care of, Twelve? Been bothered by the locals?”

“Not anymore, no. You know how it is, I’m sure. Pirates operate quite a bit like Sith: a newcomer arrives on the scene and you need to test their ability, their drive, their willingness to defend themselves. Find out where they sit in the pecking order.” Caspira shrugged and absently nudged a bit of garbage away from the crates with a toe. “I was an unknown. Now they know that I’m a fixture here, not to be messed with but I’m not aggressive or planning expansion either.”

“Still,” she sighed with a touch of amusement. “You do get the dumb ones that can’t take a hint. They tend to come around every now and then. Hence my greeting you with a blaster earlier.”

He smiled wryly. “That could have ended badly. You’re lucky I’m so fond of you.” That one was definitely sarcastic.

With a groan Laz’ab stood up and stretched, feeling his muscles complain as they were finally put to good use. He folded back into his usual posture when his scar tissue tugged, hunched over with his hands like claws fidgeting by his sides.

“Since you don’t seem so keen on facing me again I guess we could call it quits tonight. Score one for Laz’ab,” he added under his breath.

Caspira chuckled as he finished and took the opportunity to stretch as well. “I could go on sparring with you if you wanted, but I don’t think it would benefit you. Why get you used to fighting one-armed only to have to do it all over again when you got your cybernetics?” Her wry smile was a little teasing.

“You’re welcome to the couch if you don’t want to trouble yourself with navigating this place at night, although I don’t think you’d be bothered if you did. I’d only watch out that you don’t hit a grophet. Those things can destroy a speeder, the dense little pigs.”

“You mean the target practice I saw dotting the landscape?” He raised a brow, collecting his clothes from the crate. He struggled to pull them on, using his teeth as he tried to maneuver his arm through the sleeve. For a while there he was little more than a flailing hand wriggling about as he gnawed and pulled at the fabric. “Fey fidn’t loof life fusch!” he grumbled.

Stepping over decisively, she hooked Laz’ab’s shirt up and over his skinny frame with much the same detached professionalism as she’d shown when she helped him get rid of it earlier. “You’ll rip something, either that shirt or a muscle.” A wry half-smile sneaking into place, she helped him wrestle the shirt into place before stepping back to let him rearrange it. “And yes, the little ones aren’t much a problem but they get large. Mostly they’re just too dumb to move when you come at them.”

“So like you when you’re sparring,” he drawled, returning her dry wit. “But since you offered, I will stay here. Remember that you have only yourself to blame when you wake up in the morning to a Sith sleeping on your sofa.”

“I move!” she quipped back and folded her arms across her chest, fingers tightening around her biceps as she thought briefly back to some of their old sparring matches, and the less friendly attacks of opportunity that seemed to happen when they got onto the wrong foot.

Smirking, she shifted her arms about and deftly curled her braid back around her neck as the coils snaked loose. “It’s been nearly half a decade since I woke to that particular sight. I might even be convinced to go out and net us some of that greasy dock chow.” Better than rations, anyway.

“Ooh, you really are settling down! First the cuisine, next showing me the sights … I don’t know if I trust your taste, after that sludge you call ‘food’.” He tapped his jaw mockingly, as though weighing the pros and cons of accompanying her.

“Keep that up and you’ll be having rations instead.” Moving to the stacked crates, she rifled through several of them until she came up with a spare blanket. Still bantering, she led the way down the hall and into the common area. That too had seen better days since being grounded, though it was still in good condition. The entire ship had taken on the loose-item clutter of a stationary home. “I’ll even be nice and let you pick out which flavor of protein bar you want.”

“Something fruity,” he drawled, trailing after her lazily as she made her way around the ship until she had finished setting everything up. “I’ll stay here and continue practicing with one of your dummies, let you pick tonight’s mystery meal.”

Caspira shrugged. It was almost starting to feel like old times with the bickering and snide remarks. “Alright. I’m taking my rifle, I’ll leave the blaster at the door in case it’s needed.” Her jacket and hat were where she’d left them and in short order she was suited up and looking very little like the capable agent she was. Looking ‘local’ in the somewhat battered clothing, she slung the rifle over her shoulder and looked back at the ship with a thoughtful frown.

“Just don’t dry anything electrically while I’m out.” Smirking, she left on that note and headed out toward the docks.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She paused at the door, looking unconvinced. It sounded like there was more to that sentence.

A flash of teeth, but one could hardly call it a smile. “ ... It’s much more fun to mess with your things and watch you try to figure out what’s changed.”  He wiggled his fingers in a sarcastic goodbye.

“Good hunting, Twelve!”

[flauntpage]

The Outlet Pass: Kyrie's Evolution, Schroder's Speed, and Selfless Pelicans

The NBA season is finally kinda sorta taking shape! Here's a deep look around at what's going on.

1. Why Doesn’t Brandon Ingram Shoot Threes?

The most simple (and obtuse) answer to this question is “he doesn’t have to!” At 20 years old, Ingram already averages about as many drives per game as LeBron James and Giannis Antetokounmpo despite logging about five fewer minutes, and once near the rim he’s able to unwind his gangly limbs in a way that makes blocking his shot almost impossible.

Almost half of his shots occur right near the basket—still the most valuable real estate on a basketball court—where he’s quickly learning how to finish through contact and draw fouls. Ingram can score downhill, too. He has silky footwork in the open floor, with a Eurostep that looks like Super Mario hopping from one block to the next.

Ingram owned the entire second quarter of a recent win against the Memphis Grizzlies. Nobody on that team could stop him without grabbing or hacking. His first step always put him either past or even with his man, and at that point he already won. On one play he was smart enough to fake a dribble handoff with Kentavious Caldwell-Pope, let his defender (James Ennis) relax on his heels for a split second, then drive the opposite way for a layup.

And then there was this sequence:

Normally a master of angles and space, Marc Gasol doesn’t shift down a level on the switch, believing he can either contain Ingram and force a long two, or at least bother his shot at the basket. But last year’s second overall pick has already realized that in most situations he doesn’t need to settle.

Plays like it are wonderful to see, but Ingram’s shot chart doubles as a frustrating development that makes life harder than it has to be for his spacing-starved teammates. For every three he attempts, he also launches 2.5 mid-range jumpers. That’s an ugly ratio for a prospect who shot over 40 percent beyond the arc at Duke.

His three-point rate is half of what it was as a rookie, down so low it’s only above two percent of wings in the entire league. Why? Heading into Thursday’s game against the Boston Celtics, he canned an impressive 39 percent of them. It’s too early to worry about all this, and signs of life found elsewhere in Ingram’s game are critical for the development of the entire Los Angeles Lakers organization. Still, he needs to turn a few of those long twos into three-point tries sooner rather than later. There’s no reason for him not to.

2. Dennis Schroder’s Speed is Officially Uncalled For

If you scan the entire NBA roster pool, you'll find dozens of unteachable physical advantages that allow players to thrive at the highest level. Schroder’s speed is one such example. His game isn’t based on deception or keen floor surveillance. No. The guy just has really long arms and is fast enough to beat just about anybody alive in a 35-foot speed dribble contest.

Schroder leads the NBA in drives per game by an extremely wide margin (his 20 per game are over seven more than Isaiah Thomas's league-leading total last season). That is absurd, and suddenly possible thanks to a jump shot defenses now have to respect. Schroder is shooting 40 percent beyond the arc and about 45 percent from the mid-range.

His speed doesn’t require a screen and only needs one dribble from the three-point line to the rim. There’s really nothing flashy about it. If you’re not down in a defensive stance when he has the ball a few feet in front of you, good night.

Defenses that switch bigs or even mobile wings and expect to keep him at bay are a special kind of toast. When this happens, Schroder will back up a few feet and build himself a makeshift runway. He almost always gets either an open three or a clear path into the paint. (Whenever Schroder blows by a defender and scores at the rim, Hawks PA announcer Ryan Cameron chants “GOT EEEEEM” and even though it kind of sounds like “SCOTTY” that doesn't make it any less awesome.)

Now averaging an efficient 22.6 points with one of the highest usage rates in the league, is it too early to start an All-Star campaign?

3. Trevor Ariza’s Ball Denial

This seems minor, but Houston Rockets wing Trevor Ariza is so good at identifying when his man is about to rise up and retrieve a swing pass on the weakside. He makes the extra effort to shadow him, deny the ball, and prevent the offense from utilizing both sides of the court early in the shot clock. It’s a subtle, winning play smart defenders (like Andre Iguodala) are known for, and Ariza does it as well and as often as anybody.

4. The Outlet Pass's Very First Twitter Mailbag Question is About Celtics Legend Kyrie Irving. Yay!

The short answer is it’s really hard (and besides the point) to wrack up a bunch of assists in an equal opportunity offense.

Here’s the long answer. Much of what made the first six years of Irving’s career so marvelous was the spontaneous ingenuity behind (almost) every bucket. His live dribble was oil spattering on a hot pan. Uncontrollable, wild, and dangerous. Those characteristics cut both ways, though, and criticism spilled from the same mouths that his crossover dribble routinely left agape. Astonishment and disgust went hand in hand. He was selfish and spectacular, traits that helped create a polarizing figure whose flaws and strengths could seemingly never be disentangled.

Basic per game numbers are useless as standalone metrics to analyze any player, but especially one who’s now playing in such a completely different system than before. It’s early, but what we’ve so far seen from Irving in the dozen games he’s been a Celtic is someone who’s bottling all the effortless skill that made him an unstoppable scorer in Cleveland into a more measured attack.

So while none of his assist numbers have shot up to an obvious career high, his decisions are undeniably more charitable than they were on the Cavaliers. And altruistic players are forever more difficult to curb than those who’re one-dimensional.

Irving remains a basket-devouring highlight reel who can take over games at will in ways only three or four other dudes can, but in situations where, in year’s past, he’d take his man off the dribble and then pull up for a long two, now he’s going off the bounce to whip a perfect pocket pass to a popping Al Horford. Irving is more patient. After Horford does his damage for a few possessions, he’ll take advantage of a defense that’s now forced to tilt away from his constant threat.

Irving is working the ball from side to side, screening, cutting, flying off picks, and making defenders abandon principles they normally wouldn’t dare. Here’s an example from a recent win against the Atlanta Hawks. Irving convinces Kent Bazemore to help off the strongside corner—shattering one of the 10 Commandments of NBA defense—with a spin move, and Jayson Tatum makes him pay.

Irving leverages his mystical scoring ability to momentarily demolish a truth Bazemore already knows: an open corner three is a better shot than an off-balance, contested floater. It’s a brilliant setup.

He was always a capable passer, able to survey pick-and-roll coverages and then identify the correct read, but his decisions in Boston have been more fluid and unpredictable. He’ll catch a pass off a baseline cut and then, knowing every single defender on the opposing team has his full attention, whip a perfect pass with magnetic precision to an open shooter along the perimeter.

This answer is getting long, but one more point. Heading into this season, Irving’s inability to fling a cross-court jump pass to the opposite corner—much like James Harden, John Wall, and, of course, LeBron James do so well—was viewed as a concern. But in Brad Stevens’ offense, where on-ball screeners hardly ever roll to the basket and suck defenders in from the weakside, that specific tool is unnecessary.

Boston’s assist rate as a collective is higher when Irving is on the court than off it; even though individual numbers don’t reveal much change, he’s steadily embracing life as someone who values a superb pass over a merely satisfactory shot.

5. Kelly Olynyk’s Gravity

Whatever you think of Kelly Olynyk (he's a Greek God hiding amongst mortals), when he’s the lone big in a small lineup there’s almost nothing any defense can do. Quietly draining 50 percent of his shots from deep and ranking seventh league wide in True Shooting, Olynyk’s great NBA skill remains the ability to drag opposing rim protectors from the rim.

Sometimes he’ll force a center to hesitate on help, allowing one of his slash-happy teammates to make unimpeded progress towards the rim. And sometimes his man won’t even budge, stubbornly refusing to let Olynyk beat him from downtown, regardless of what’s happening elsewhere on the court. He Medusa’s Los Angeles Clippers center Willie Reed into a statue on this play.

The Miami Heat are nearly a top-five offense when Olynyk’s frontcourt partner is someone like James Johnson or Justise Winslow. When it’s Bam Adebayo or Hassan Whiteside, help on drives like the one seen above is able to come from other areas of the floor, and the offense doesn’t run nearly as smooth. In limited doses, Olynyk is one of those role players you can plug into any team in the NBA, and so far he’s having a blast in Miami.

6. Tyreke Evans is My President

The need for some NBA players to avoid, at all costs, an end-of-quarter half-court heave, so as not to disrupt their pristine field goal percentage, is such an artistic habit. Earlier this season, Carmelo Anthony purposefully waited until the buzzer went off before he launched up a prayer...and it went in.

But Evans recently decided subtlety wasn’t for him, and painted an even more elaborate masterpiece last week.

The ball might as well have been literally made of lava the way Evans reacted to its touch. The effort made to avoid this shot is magical, from a guy who, going back to last season, is making 43.4 percent of his attempts from deep over the past 25 games.

Semi-related: Despite those numbers, defenders still give Evans all the space and time he needs to fire away, and gravity tends to be more of a reaction to reputation than production—Evans’ reputation is deservedly that of a very bad outside shooter.

7. No Offense to Dwight Powell But I Do Not Enjoy Watching Dwight Powell

Photo by Jesse Johnson - USA TODAY Sports

What I’m about to write has almost nothing to do with Dwight Powell, but, at the same time, it has everything to do with Dwight Powell. The Dallas Mavericks look so much worse than I thought they’d be. Two unforeseeable reasons (among countless others) help explain why: 1) Seth Curry is hurt, 2) Nerlens Noel is basically not on the team.

I was naive enough to think Rick Carlisle would embrace his future by unleashing Dennis Smith Jr. in small lineups that pit Harrison Barnes at the four and Noel at the five. Instead, Noel has only started six games, while Dirk Nowitzki has started five games at center, and Dallas’ offense executes most of its action inside a jar of molasses, with a league-high 83.7 percent of their possessions taking place in the half-court.

Barnes battled Marcin Gortat for the opening tip on Tuesday night because Nowitzki cannot bring two feet off the ground at the same time. They won that game, and in Noel’s 206 minutes the Mavs have been outscored by a team-low 20 points per 100 possessions. But apart from the gravity Dirk still provides (mandatory disclaimer: Dirk is a hero and every letter of criticism is painful to type), ceding some of his minutes (and basically all of Powell’s) to Noel is probably the right move.

At this stage, deploying Nowitzki at center for 10 minutes a night is like attempting to climb Mt. Everest in a windbreaker. The Mavericks have allowed 122.6 points per 100 possessions with those lineups, per Cleaning the Glass. That’s not great. They’re 2-10, rank 28th in point differential, and even though his minutes seem to be taking a downturn, every time I watch Powell play it reminds me how decent this team maybe can still be if they give Noel more than 15 minutes of playing time a night and embrace their youth.

8. The Pelicans are Passing!

New Orleans has emerged as one of the best passing teams in the NBA. They rank fourth in secondary assists and assist opportunities while averaging over 20 more passes per game than they did last season. (The increase is even higher when compared to how they played after the All-Star break, when they acquired DeMarcus Cousins.)

According to Synergy Sports, the Warriors are the only team that’s attempted more shots off of a cut than New Orleans, and only six have been more efficient from such possessions. Much of this is because Cousins is one of the boldest passers at his position (non-Jokic division). It’s also because with so little outside shooting surrounding two Goliaths, passing is their best route to success.

Here’s a pet play New Orleans loves to run that’s almost always good for a bucket. Cousins and Anthony Davis are interchangeable in the action, but for this example we start with AD at the right elbow extended and Boogie thumping down low towards the opposite block. Everything looks simple at first: E’Twaun Moore passes to Davis and then races to pick Cousins’ man, allowing him to flash open across the paint for an easy two.

But stopping something so straightforward would be too easy, so in order to occupy Indiana’s attention and freeze its help defenders, Cousins opens the possession up by setting his own down screen on Ian Clark.

The Pelicans are bludgeoning teams by 10.2 points per 100 possessions when Davis and Cousins share the floor, with an assist rate that would’ve ranked third last season. Precarious three-point shooting be damned, nobody will want to play the Pelicans in a seven-game series if they qualify for the playoffs.

9. Alex Abrines Makes The Thunder Clap

November has not been kind to the Oklahoma City Thunder. With the NBA’s worst offense, they’ve now lost three straight games and face the rapidly improving Denver Nuggets on Thursday night. We’re dealing with in an incredibly small sample size, but one possible correlation to their sudden malaise may be the decrease of Alex Abrines’ playing time. (He spent 42 minutes on the bench in a humiliating loss against the Sacramento Kings.)

Even though he’s not shooting the ball well and contributes in almost no other way, Oklahoma City has been deadly with Abrines on the floor. For the season, his net rating ranks first among all players who don’t play for the Golden State Warriors (minimum 10 appearances with a 15-minute average).

In their last three games, Thunder head coach Billy Donovan has cut Abrines’ minutes in half, and eliminated any late-game overlap where he can share the floor with Russell Westbrook. The reigning MVP has been a beast in limited time with Abrines by his side, but the rotation has yet to give them much of an opportunity to shine together.

With so few outside shooters on this roster who can complement Paul George, Carmelo Anthony, and Westbrook, Donovan should try and have arguably his best three-point threat on the floor as often as he can.

10. Jusuf Nurkic and the Power of Context

If I could build a team from scratch with any starting center in the league, Jusuf Nurkic would not crack the top 10. But if I had to pick a center to blend with the Portland Trail Blazers, he’d sit near the top of the list. (Of course they can do better, but we all could. This is real life.)

A bunch of Nurkic’s production is the result of defenses restricting Damian Lillard and C.J. McCollum in the pick-and-roll, but at the end of the day how much does that really matter? He’s a fine decision maker who ranks in the 81st percentile in assist rate at his position. When opponents trap high screens and allow Nurkic to attack in a 4-on-3 situation, good things usually happen.

He hasn’t been efficient scoring the ball—especially around the basket—and Portland’s offense has hummed when he’s on the pine (partly because the Blazers have a slew of big men who’re playing great), but Nurkic’s all-around presence is beneficial in so many different ways.

Not a rim protector per se, Nurkic’s positional defense has been rock solid. Here he is stopping one of the harder actions in the league: a Paul George pindown.

The Thunder run this knowing the strain it puts on an opposing big who, more likely than not, suddenly finds himself responsible for his own man (the screener) and George (a natural flamethrower). It’s uncomfortable. Come up too close and Adams rolls free for a pocket pass. Sag back too far and grant George with an open teardrop. But Nurkic covers enough ground to take both options away—with some help on the backside thanks to Andre Roberson having less gravitational pull than Mercury—and is able to force a tough floater.

Later on in the same game Oklahoma City tried a similar action, except this time they ran George off a stagger that involved Carmelo. It ended even worse, with Nurkic anticipating the same move and rejecting George at the rim.

11. A Random Appreciation of Goran Dragic

Few are as relentlessly no-nonsense, overlooked and underappreciated, as Dragic. Year after year, all he does is get to the basket on demand. No big deal. The 31-year-old attacks with the rage of a blustery oceanside. Wave after wave after wave. There are no brakes.

Turn the ball over and allow him to streak up the left side and the smartest defensive strategy instantly becomes “cede two points and get ready for the next possession.” There’s more to him, though, even beyond the wonderful 40 percent three-point shooting. Dragic constantly probes in the half-court, dipping behind defenses along the baseline and emerging on the other side with a passing lane, open shot, or advantageous switch. It’s very Steve Nash-ian of him.

But buried beneath all the strong qualities he brings to the table on a nightly basis is the unfortunate reality that Dragic is merely “very good” at a bunch of different things instead of “standalone great” at one thing he can be applauded for. He’s lost in a revolving door of virtuosity at his position, and every so often we should all acknowledge just how awesome Dragic is at all the difficult things he does.

12. A Few Words About Devin Booker

Photo by Jennifer Stewart - USA TODAY Sports

Devin Booker is a schismatic figure, which is stupid and sad. He turned 21 last week and has spent his entire career in one of the most egregiously dysfunctional environments that the NBA knows. The more I watch him, the more I wonder what he'd look like on a different team, developing in a more structured, professional, and satisfying environment, under great coaching and beside players who know what they're doing.

What happens if he's drafted by the Miami Heat or Utah Jazz? Sure, the opportunity to play would not have been the same in his first two years, and his role when on the floor would be far less colorful than it is, but, again, he's still only 21! He scored 70 points in—an admittedly sketchy environment—one game!

Not all Booker's flaws are Phoenix's fault, but it's fair to wonder how much further along he'd be as a defender within a setting where he's forced to keep up on that end. Let's celebrate the good he's accomplished in spite of his surroundings instead of condemning all he's yet to learn.

The Outlet Pass: Kyrie's Evolution, Schroder's Speed, and Selfless Pelicans published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[amtushinfosolutionspage]

The Outlet Pass: Kyrie’s Evolution, Schroder’s Speed, and Selfless Pelicans

The NBA season is finally kinda sorta taking shape! Here’s a deep look around at what’s going on.

1. Why Doesn’t Brandon Ingram Shoot Threes?

The most simple (and obtuse) answer to this question is “he doesn’t have to!” At 20 years old, Ingram already averages about as many drives per game as LeBron James and Giannis Antetokounmpo despite logging about five fewer minutes, and once near the rim he’s able to unwind his gangly limbs in a way that makes blocking his shot almost impossible.

Almost half of his shots occur right near the basket—still the most valuable real estate on a basketball court—where he’s quickly learning how to finish through contact and draw fouls. Ingram can score downhill, too. He has silky footwork in the open floor, with a Eurostep that looks like Super Mario hopping from one block to the next.

Ingram owned the entire second quarter of a recent win against the Memphis Grizzlies. Nobody on that team could stop him without grabbing or hacking. His first step always put him either past or even with his man, and at that point he already won. On one play he was smart enough to fake a dribble handoff with Kentavious Caldwell-Pope, let his defender (James Ennis) relax on his heels for a split second, then drive the opposite way for a layup.

And then there was this sequence:

Normally a master of angles and space, Marc Gasol doesn’t shift down a level on the switch, believing he can either contain Ingram and force a long two, or at least bother his shot at the basket. But last year’s second overall pick has already realized that in most situations he doesn’t need to settle.

Plays like it are wonderful to see, but Ingram’s shot chart doubles as a frustrating development that makes life harder than it has to be for his spacing-starved teammates. For every three he attempts, he also launches 2.5 mid-range jumpers. That’s an ugly ratio for a prospect who shot over 40 percent beyond the arc at Duke.

His three-point rate is half of what it was as a rookie, down so low it’s only above two percent of wings in the entire league. Why? Heading into Thursday’s game against the Boston Celtics, he canned an impressive 39 percent of them. It’s too early to worry about all this, and signs of life found elsewhere in Ingram’s game are critical for the development of the entire Los Angeles Lakers organization. Still, he needs to turn a few of those long twos into three-point tries sooner rather than later. There’s no reason for him not to.

2. Dennis Schroder’s Speed is Officially Uncalled For

If you scan the entire NBA roster pool, you’ll find dozens of unteachable physical advantages that allow players to thrive at the highest level. Schroder’s speed is one such example. His game isn’t based on deception or keen floor surveillance. No. The guy just has really long arms and is fast enough to beat just about anybody alive in a 35-foot speed dribble contest.

Schroder leads the NBA in drives per game by an extremely wide margin (his 20 per game are over seven more than Isaiah Thomas’s league-leading total last season). That is absurd, and suddenly possible thanks to a jump shot defenses now have to respect. Schroder is shooting 40 percent beyond the arc and about 45 percent from the mid-range.

His speed doesn’t require a screen and only needs one dribble from the three-point line to the rim. There’s really nothing flashy about it. If you’re not down in a defensive stance when he has the ball a few feet in front of you, good night.

Defenses that switch bigs or even mobile wings and expect to keep him at bay are a special kind of toast. When this happens, Schroder will back up a few feet and build himself a makeshift runway. He almost always gets either an open three or a clear path into the paint. (Whenever Schroder blows by a defender and scores at the rim, Hawks PA announcer Ryan Cameron chants “GOT EEEEEM” and even though it kind of sounds like “SCOTTY” that doesn’t make it any less awesome.)

Now averaging an efficient 22.6 points with one of the highest usage rates in the league, is it too early to start an All-Star campaign?

3. Trevor Ariza’s Ball Denial

This seems minor, but Houston Rockets wing Trevor Ariza is so good at identifying when his man is about to rise up and retrieve a swing pass on the weakside. He makes the extra effort to shadow him, deny the ball, and prevent the offense from utilizing both sides of the court early in the shot clock. It’s a subtle, winning play smart defenders (like Andre Iguodala) are known for, and Ariza does it as well and as often as anybody.

4. The Outlet Pass’s Very First Twitter Mailbag Question is About Celtics Legend Kyrie Irving. Yay!

The short answer is it’s really hard (and besides the point) to wrack up a bunch of assists in an equal opportunity offense.

Here’s the long answer. Much of what made the first six years of Irving’s career so marvelous was the spontaneous ingenuity behind (almost) every bucket. His live dribble was oil spattering on a hot pan. Uncontrollable, wild, and dangerous. Those characteristics cut both ways, though, and criticism spilled from the same mouths that his crossover dribble routinely left agape. Astonishment and disgust went hand in hand. He was selfish and spectacular, traits that helped create a polarizing figure whose flaws and strengths could seemingly never be disentangled.

Basic per game numbers are useless as standalone metrics to analyze any player, but especially one who’s now playing in such a completely different system than before. It’s early, but what we’ve so far seen from Irving in the dozen games he’s been a Celtic is someone who’s bottling all the effortless skill that made him an unstoppable scorer in Cleveland into a more measured attack.

So while none of his assist numbers have shot up to an obvious career high, his decisions are undeniably more charitable than they were on the Cavaliers. And altruistic players are forever more difficult to curb than those who’re one-dimensional.

Irving remains a basket-devouring highlight reel who can take over games at will in ways only three or four other dudes can, but in situations where, in year’s past, he’d take his man off the dribble and then pull up for a long two, now he’s going off the bounce to whip a perfect pocket pass to a popping Al Horford. Irving is more patient. After Horford does his damage for a few possessions, he’ll take advantage of a defense that’s now forced to tilt away from his constant threat.

Irving is working the ball from side to side, screening, cutting, flying off picks, and making defenders abandon principles they normally wouldn’t dare. Here’s an example from a recent win against the Atlanta Hawks. Irving convinces Kent Bazemore to help off the strongside corner—shattering one of the 10 Commandments of NBA defense—with a spin move, and Jayson Tatum makes him pay.

Irving leverages his mystical scoring ability to momentarily demolish a truth Bazemore already knows: an open corner three is a better shot than an off-balance, contested floater. It’s a brilliant setup.

He was always a capable passer, able to survey pick-and-roll coverages and then identify the correct read, but his decisions in Boston have been more fluid and unpredictable. He’ll catch a pass off a baseline cut and then, knowing every single defender on the opposing team has his full attention, whip a perfect pass with magnetic precision to an open shooter along the perimeter.

This answer is getting long, but one more point. Heading into this season, Irving’s inability to fling a cross-court jump pass to the opposite corner—much like James Harden, John Wall, and, of course, LeBron James do so well—was viewed as a concern. But in Brad Stevens’ offense, where on-ball screeners hardly ever roll to the basket and suck defenders in from the weakside, that specific tool is unnecessary.

Boston’s assist rate as a collective is higher when Irving is on the court than off it; even though individual numbers don’t reveal much change, he’s steadily embracing life as someone who values a superb pass over a merely satisfactory shot.

5. Kelly Olynyk’s Gravity

Whatever you think of Kelly Olynyk (he’s a Greek God hiding amongst mortals), when he’s the lone big in a small lineup there’s almost nothing any defense can do. Quietly draining 50 percent of his shots from deep and ranking seventh league wide in True Shooting, Olynyk’s great NBA skill remains the ability to drag opposing rim protectors from the rim.

Sometimes he’ll force a center to hesitate on help, allowing one of his slash-happy teammates to make unimpeded progress towards the rim. And sometimes his man won’t even budge, stubbornly refusing to let Olynyk beat him from downtown, regardless of what’s happening elsewhere on the court. He Medusa’s Los Angeles Clippers center Willie Reed into a statue on this play.

The Miami Heat are nearly a top-five offense when Olynyk’s frontcourt partner is someone like James Johnson or Justise Winslow. When it’s Bam Adebayo or Hassan Whiteside, help on drives like the one seen above is able to come from other areas of the floor, and the offense doesn’t run nearly as smooth. In limited doses, Olynyk is one of those role players you can plug into any team in the NBA, and so far he’s having a blast in Miami.

6. Tyreke Evans is My President

The need for some NBA players to avoid, at all costs, an end-of-quarter half-court heave, so as not to disrupt their pristine field goal percentage, is such an artistic habit. Earlier this season, Carmelo Anthony purposefully waited until the buzzer went off before he launched up a prayer…and it went in.

But Evans recently decided subtlety wasn’t for him, and painted an even more elaborate masterpiece last week.

The ball might as well have been literally made of lava the way Evans reacted to its touch. The effort made to avoid this shot is magical, from a guy who, going back to last season, is making 43.4 percent of his attempts from deep over the past 25 games.

Semi-related: Despite those numbers, defenders still give Evans all the space and time he needs to fire away, and gravity tends to be more of a reaction to reputation than production—Evans’ reputation is deservedly that of a very bad outside shooter.

7. No Offense to Dwight Powell But I Do Not Enjoy Watching Dwight Powell

Photo by Jesse Johnson – USA TODAY Sports

What I’m about to write has almost nothing to do with Dwight Powell, but, at the same time, it has everything to do with Dwight Powell. The Dallas Mavericks look so much worse than I thought they’d be. Two unforeseeable reasons (among countless others) help explain why: 1) Seth Curry is hurt, 2) Nerlens Noel is basically not on the team.

I was naive enough to think Rick Carlisle would embrace his future by unleashing Dennis Smith Jr. in small lineups that pit Harrison Barnes at the four and Noel at the five. Instead, Noel has only started six games, while Dirk Nowitzki has started five games at center, and Dallas’ offense executes most of its action inside a jar of molasses, with a league-high 83.7 percent of their possessions taking place in the half-court.

Barnes battled Marcin Gortat for the opening tip on Tuesday night because Nowitzki cannot bring two feet off the ground at the same time. They won that game, and in Noel’s 206 minutes the Mavs have been outscored by a team-low 20 points per 100 possessions. But apart from the gravity Dirk still provides (mandatory disclaimer: Dirk is a hero and every letter of criticism is painful to type), ceding some of his minutes (and basically all of Powell’s) to Noel is probably the right move.

At this stage, deploying Nowitzki at center for 10 minutes a night is like attempting to climb Mt. Everest in a windbreaker. The Mavericks have allowed 122.6 points per 100 possessions with those lineups, per Cleaning the Glass. That’s not great. They’re 2-10, rank 28th in point differential, and even though his minutes seem to be taking a downturn, every time I watch Powell play it reminds me how decent this team maybe can still be if they give Noel more than 15 minutes of playing time a night and embrace their youth.

8. The Pelicans are Passing!

New Orleans has emerged as one of the best passing teams in the NBA. They rank fourth in secondary assists and assist opportunities while averaging over 20 more passes per game than they did last season. (The increase is even higher when compared to how they played after the All-Star break, when they acquired DeMarcus Cousins.)

According to Synergy Sports, the Warriors are the only team that’s attempted more shots off of a cut than New Orleans, and only six have been more efficient from such possessions. Much of this is because Cousins is one of the boldest passers at his position (non-Jokic division). It’s also because with so little outside shooting surrounding two Goliaths, passing is their best route to success.

Here’s a pet play New Orleans loves to run that’s almost always good for a bucket. Cousins and Anthony Davis are interchangeable in the action, but for this example we start with AD at the right elbow extended and Boogie thumping down low towards the opposite block. Everything looks simple at first: E’Twaun Moore passes to Davis and then races to pick Cousins’ man, allowing him to flash open across the paint for an easy two.

But stopping something so straightforward would be too easy, so in order to occupy Indiana’s attention and freeze its help defenders, Cousins opens the possession up by setting his own down screen on Ian Clark.

The Pelicans are bludgeoning teams by 10.2 points per 100 possessions when Davis and Cousins share the floor, with an assist rate that would’ve ranked third last season. Precarious three-point shooting be damned, nobody will want to play the Pelicans in a seven-game series if they qualify for the playoffs.

9. Alex Abrines Makes The Thunder Clap

November has not been kind to the Oklahoma City Thunder. With the NBA’s worst offense, they’ve now lost three straight games and face the rapidly improving Denver Nuggets on Thursday night. We’re dealing with in an incredibly small sample size, but one possible correlation to their sudden malaise may be the decrease of Alex Abrines’ playing time. (He spent 42 minutes on the bench in a humiliating loss against the Sacramento Kings.)

Even though he’s not shooting the ball well and contributes in almost no other way, Oklahoma City has been deadly with Abrines on the floor. For the season, his net rating ranks first among all players who don’t play for the Golden State Warriors (minimum 10 appearances with a 15-minute average).

In their last three games, Thunder head coach Billy Donovan has cut Abrines’ minutes in half, and eliminated any late-game overlap where he can share the floor with Russell Westbrook. The reigning MVP has been a beast in limited time with Abrines by his side, but the rotation has yet to give them much of an opportunity to shine together.

With so few outside shooters on this roster who can complement Paul George, Carmelo Anthony, and Westbrook, Donovan should try and have arguably his best three-point threat on the floor as often as he can.

10. Jusuf Nurkic and the Power of Context

If I could build a team from scratch with any starting center in the league, Jusuf Nurkic would not crack the top 10. But if I had to pick a center to blend with the Portland Trail Blazers, he’d sit near the top of the list. (Of course they can do better, but we all could. This is real life.)

A bunch of Nurkic’s production is the result of defenses restricting Damian Lillard and C.J. McCollum in the pick-and-roll, but at the end of the day how much does that really matter? He’s a fine decision maker who ranks in the 81st percentile in assist rate at his position. When opponents trap high screens and allow Nurkic to attack in a 4-on-3 situation, good things usually happen.

He hasn’t been efficient scoring the ball—especially around the basket—and Portland’s offense has hummed when he’s on the pine (partly because the Blazers have a slew of big men who’re playing great), but Nurkic’s all-around presence is beneficial in so many different ways.

Not a rim protector per se, Nurkic’s positional defense has been rock solid. Here he is stopping one of the harder actions in the league: a Paul George pindown.

The Thunder run this knowing the strain it puts on an opposing big who, more likely than not, suddenly finds himself responsible for his own man (the screener) and George (a natural flamethrower). It’s uncomfortable. Come up too close and Adams rolls free for a pocket pass. Sag back too far and grant George with an open teardrop. But Nurkic covers enough ground to take both options away—with some help on the backside thanks to Andre Roberson having less gravitational pull than Mercury—and is able to force a tough floater.

Later on in the same game Oklahoma City tried a similar action, except this time they ran George off a stagger that involved Carmelo. It ended even worse, with Nurkic anticipating the same move and rejecting George at the rim.

11. A Random Appreciation of Goran Dragic

Few are as relentlessly no-nonsense, overlooked and underappreciated, as Dragic. Year after year, all he does is get to the basket on demand. No big deal. The 31-year-old attacks with the rage of a blustery oceanside. Wave after wave after wave. There are no brakes.

Turn the ball over and allow him to streak up the left side and the smartest defensive strategy instantly becomes “cede two points and get ready for the next possession.” There’s more to him, though, even beyond the wonderful 40 percent three-point shooting. Dragic constantly probes in the half-court, dipping behind defenses along the baseline and emerging on the other side with a passing lane, open shot, or advantageous switch. It’s very Steve Nash-ian of him.

But buried beneath all the strong qualities he brings to the table on a nightly basis is the unfortunate reality that Dragic is merely “very good” at a bunch of different things instead of “standalone great” at one thing he can be applauded for. He’s lost in a revolving door of virtuosity at his position, and every so often we should all acknowledge just how awesome Dragic is at all the difficult things he does.

12. A Few Words About Devin Booker

Photo by Jennifer Stewart – USA TODAY Sports

Devin Booker is a schismatic figure, which is stupid and sad. He turned 21 last week and has spent his entire career in one of the most egregiously dysfunctional environments that the NBA knows. The more I watch him, the more I wonder what he’d look like on a different team, developing in a more structured, professional, and satisfying environment, under great coaching and beside players who know what they’re doing.

What happens if he’s drafted by the Miami Heat or Utah Jazz? Sure, the opportunity to play would not have been the same in his first two years, and his role when on the floor would be far less colorful than it is, but, again, he’s still only 21! He scored 70 points in—an admittedly sketchy environment—one game!

Not all Booker’s flaws are Phoenix’s fault, but it’s fair to wonder how much further along he’d be as a defender within a setting where he’s forced to keep up on that end. Let’s celebrate the good he’s accomplished in spite of his surroundings instead of condemning all he’s yet to learn.

The Outlet Pass: Kyrie’s Evolution, Schroder’s Speed, and Selfless Pelicans syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

[flauntpage]

The Outlet Pass: Kyrie's Evolution, Schroder's Speed, and Selfless Pelicans

The NBA season is finally kinda sorta taking shape! Here's a deep look around at what's going on.

1. Why Doesn’t Brandon Ingram Shoot Threes?

The most simple (and obtuse) answer to this question is “he doesn’t have to!” At 20 years old, Ingram already averages about as many drives per game as LeBron James and Giannis Antetokounmpo despite logging about five fewer minutes, and once near the rim he’s able to unwind his gangly limbs in a way that makes blocking his shot almost impossible.

Almost half of his shots occur right near the basket—still the most valuable real estate on a basketball court—where he’s quickly learning how to finish through contact and draw fouls. Ingram can score downhill, too. He has silky footwork in the open floor, with a Eurostep that looks like Super Mario hopping from one block to the next.

Ingram owned the entire second quarter of a recent win against the Memphis Grizzlies. Nobody on that team could stop him without grabbing or hacking. His first step always put him either past or even with his man, and at that point he already won. On one play he was smart enough to fake a dribble handoff with Kentavious Caldwell-Pope, let his defender (James Ennis) relax on his heels for a split second, then drive the opposite way for a layup.

And then there was this sequence:

Normally a master of angles and space, Marc Gasol doesn’t shift down a level on the switch, believing he can either contain Ingram and force a long two, or at least bother his shot at the basket. But last year’s second overall pick has already realized that in most situations he doesn’t need to settle.

Plays like it are wonderful to see, but Ingram’s shot chart doubles as a frustrating development that makes life harder than it has to be for his spacing-starved teammates. For every three he attempts, he also launches 2.5 mid-range jumpers. That’s an ugly ratio for a prospect who shot over 40 percent beyond the arc at Duke.

His three-point rate is half of what it was as a rookie, down so low it’s only above two percent of wings in the entire league. Why? Heading into Thursday’s game against the Boston Celtics, he canned an impressive 39 percent of them. It’s too early to worry about all this, and signs of life found elsewhere in Ingram’s game are critical for the development of the entire Los Angeles Lakers organization. Still, he needs to turn a few of those long twos into three-point tries sooner rather than later. There’s no reason for him not to.

2. Dennis Schroder’s Speed is Officially Uncalled For

If you scan the entire NBA roster pool, you'll find dozens of unteachable physical advantages that allow players to thrive at the highest level. Schroder’s speed is one such example. His game isn’t based on deception or keen floor surveillance. No. The guy just has really long arms and is fast enough to beat just about anybody alive in a 35-foot speed dribble contest.

Schroder leads the NBA in drives per game by an extremely wide margin (his 20 per game are over seven more than Isaiah Thomas's league-leading total last season). That is absurd, and suddenly possible thanks to a jump shot defenses now have to respect. Schroder is shooting 40 percent beyond the arc and about 45 percent from the mid-range.

His speed doesn’t require a screen and only needs one dribble from the three-point line to the rim. There’s really nothing flashy about it. If you’re not down in a defensive stance when he has the ball a few feet in front of you, good night.

Defenses that switch bigs or even mobile wings and expect to keep him at bay are a special kind of toast. When this happens, Schroder will back up a few feet and build himself a makeshift runway. He almost always gets either an open three or a clear path into the paint. (Whenever Schroder blows by a defender and scores at the rim, Hawks PA announcer Ryan Cameron chants “GOT EEEEEM” and even though it kind of sounds like “SCOTTY” that doesn't make it any less awesome.)

Now averaging an efficient 22.6 points with one of the highest usage rates in the league, is it too early to start an All-Star campaign?

3. Trevor Ariza’s Ball Denial

This seems minor, but Houston Rockets wing Trevor Ariza is so good at identifying when his man is about to rise up and retrieve a swing pass on the weakside. He makes the extra effort to shadow him, deny the ball, and prevent the offense from utilizing both sides of the court early in the shot clock. It’s a subtle, winning play smart defenders (like Andre Iguodala) are known for, and Ariza does it as well and as often as anybody.

4. The Outlet Pass's Very First Twitter Mailbag Question is About Celtics Legend Kyrie Irving. Yay!

The short answer is it’s really hard (and besides the point) to wrack up a bunch of assists in an equal opportunity offense.

Here’s the long answer. Much of what made the first six years of Irving’s career so marvelous was the spontaneous ingenuity behind (almost) every bucket. His live dribble was oil spattering on a hot pan. Uncontrollable, wild, and dangerous. Those characteristics cut both ways, though, and criticism spilled from the same mouths that his crossover dribble routinely left agape. Astonishment and disgust went hand in hand. He was selfish and spectacular, traits that helped create a polarizing figure whose flaws and strengths could seemingly never be disentangled.

Basic per game numbers are useless as standalone metrics to analyze any player, but especially one who’s now playing in such a completely different system than before. It’s early, but what we’ve so far seen from Irving in the dozen games he’s been a Celtic is someone who’s bottling all the effortless skill that made him an unstoppable scorer in Cleveland into a more measured attack.

So while none of his assist numbers have shot up to an obvious career high, his decisions are undeniably more charitable than they were on the Cavaliers. And altruistic players are forever more difficult to curb than those who’re one-dimensional.

Irving remains a basket-devouring highlight reel who can take over games at will in ways only three or four other dudes can, but in situations where, in year’s past, he’d take his man off the dribble and then pull up for a long two, now he’s going off the bounce to whip a perfect pocket pass to a popping Al Horford. Irving is more patient. After Horford does his damage for a few possessions, he’ll take advantage of a defense that’s now forced to tilt away from his constant threat.

Irving is working the ball from side to side, screening, cutting, flying off picks, and making defenders abandon principles they normally wouldn’t dare. Here’s an example from a recent win against the Atlanta Hawks. Irving convinces Kent Bazemore to help off the strongside corner—shattering one of the 10 Commandments of NBA defense—with a spin move, and Jayson Tatum makes him pay.

Irving leverages his mystical scoring ability to momentarily demolish a truth Bazemore already knows: an open corner three is a better shot than an off-balance, contested floater. It’s a brilliant setup.

He was always a capable passer, able to survey pick-and-roll coverages and then identify the correct read, but his decisions in Boston have been more fluid and unpredictable. He’ll catch a pass off a baseline cut and then, knowing every single defender on the opposing team has his full attention, whip a perfect pass with magnetic precision to an open shooter along the perimeter.

This answer is getting long, but one more point. Heading into this season, Irving’s inability to fling a cross-court jump pass to the opposite corner—much like James Harden, John Wall, and, of course, LeBron James do so well—was viewed as a concern. But in Brad Stevens’ offense, where on-ball screeners hardly ever roll to the basket and suck defenders in from the weakside, that specific tool is unnecessary.

Boston’s assist rate as a collective is higher when Irving is on the court than off it; even though individual numbers don’t reveal much change, he’s steadily embracing life as someone who values a superb pass over a merely satisfactory shot.

5. Kelly Olynyk’s Gravity

Whatever you think of Kelly Olynyk (he's a Greek God hiding amongst mortals), when he’s the lone big in a small lineup there’s almost nothing any defense can do. Quietly draining 50 percent of his shots from deep and ranking seventh league wide in True Shooting, Olynyk’s great NBA skill remains the ability to drag opposing rim protectors from the rim.

Sometimes he’ll force a center to hesitate on help, allowing one of his slash-happy teammates to make unimpeded progress towards the rim. And sometimes his man won’t even budge, stubbornly refusing to let Olynyk beat him from downtown, regardless of what’s happening elsewhere on the court. He Medusa’s Los Angeles Clippers center Willie Reed into a statue on this play.

The Miami Heat are nearly a top-five offense when Olynyk’s frontcourt partner is someone like James Johnson or Justise Winslow. When it’s Bam Adebayo or Hassan Whiteside, help on drives like the one seen above is able to come from other areas of the floor, and the offense doesn’t run nearly as smooth. In limited doses, Olynyk is one of those role players you can plug into any team in the NBA, and so far he’s having a blast in Miami.

6. Tyreke Evans is My President

The need for some NBA players to avoid, at all costs, an end-of-quarter half-court heave, so as not to disrupt their pristine field goal percentage, is such an artistic habit. Earlier this season, Carmelo Anthony purposefully waited until the buzzer went off before he launched up a prayer...and it went in.

But Evans recently decided subtlety wasn’t for him, and painted an even more elaborate masterpiece last week.

The ball might as well have been literally made of lava the way Evans reacted to its touch. The effort made to avoid this shot is magical, from a guy who, going back to last season, is making 43.4 percent of his attempts from deep over the past 25 games.

Semi-related: Despite those numbers, defenders still give Evans all the space and time he needs to fire away, and gravity tends to be more of a reaction to reputation than production—Evans’ reputation is deservedly that of a very bad outside shooter.

7. No Offense to Dwight Powell But I Do Not Enjoy Watching Dwight Powell

Photo by Jesse Johnson - USA TODAY Sports

What I’m about to write has almost nothing to do with Dwight Powell, but, at the same time, it has everything to do with Dwight Powell. The Dallas Mavericks look so much worse than I thought they’d be. Two unforeseeable reasons (among countless others) help explain why: 1) Seth Curry is hurt, 2) Nerlens Noel is basically not on the team.

I was naive enough to think Rick Carlisle would embrace his future by unleashing Dennis Smith Jr. in small lineups that pit Harrison Barnes at the four and Noel at the five. Instead, Noel has only started six games, while Dirk Nowitzki has started five games at center, and Dallas’ offense executes most of its action inside a jar of molasses, with a league-high 83.7 percent of their possessions taking place in the half-court.

Barnes battled Marcin Gortat for the opening tip on Tuesday night because Nowitzki cannot bring two feet off the ground at the same time. They won that game, and in Noel’s 206 minutes the Mavs have been outscored by a team-low 20 points per 100 possessions. But apart from the gravity Dirk still provides (mandatory disclaimer: Dirk is a hero and every letter of criticism is painful to type), ceding some of his minutes (and basically all of Powell’s) to Noel is probably the right move.

At this stage, deploying Nowitzki at center for 10 minutes a night is like attempting to climb Mt. Everest in a windbreaker. The Mavericks have allowed 122.6 points per 100 possessions with those lineups, per Cleaning the Glass. That’s not great. They’re 2-10, rank 28th in point differential, and even though his minutes seem to be taking a downturn, every time I watch Powell play it reminds me how decent this team maybe can still be if they give Noel more than 15 minutes of playing time a night and embrace their youth.

8. The Pelicans are Passing!

New Orleans has emerged as one of the best passing teams in the NBA. They rank fourth in secondary assists and assist opportunities while averaging over 20 more passes per game than they did last season. (The increase is even higher when compared to how they played after the All-Star break, when they acquired DeMarcus Cousins.)

According to Synergy Sports, the Warriors are the only team that’s attempted more shots off of a cut than New Orleans, and only six have been more efficient from such possessions. Much of this is because Cousins is one of the boldest passers at his position (non-Jokic division). It’s also because with so little outside shooting surrounding two Goliaths, passing is their best route to success.

Here’s a pet play New Orleans loves to run that’s almost always good for a bucket. Cousins and Anthony Davis are interchangeable in the action, but for this example we start with AD at the right elbow extended and Boogie thumping down low towards the opposite block. Everything looks simple at first: E’Twaun Moore passes to Davis and then races to pick Cousins’ man, allowing him to flash open across the paint for an easy two.

But stopping something so straightforward would be too easy, so in order to occupy Indiana’s attention and freeze its help defenders, Cousins opens the possession up by setting his own down screen on Ian Clark.

The Pelicans are bludgeoning teams by 10.2 points per 100 possessions when Davis and Cousins share the floor, with an assist rate that would’ve ranked third last season. Precarious three-point shooting be damned, nobody will want to play the Pelicans in a seven-game series if they qualify for the playoffs.

9. Alex Abrines Makes The Thunder Clap

November has not been kind to the Oklahoma City Thunder. With the NBA’s worst offense, they’ve now lost three straight games and face the rapidly improving Denver Nuggets on Thursday night. We’re dealing with in an incredibly small sample size, but one possible correlation to their sudden malaise may be the decrease of Alex Abrines’ playing time. (He spent 42 minutes on the bench in a humiliating loss against the Sacramento Kings.)

Even though he’s not shooting the ball well and contributes in almost no other way, Oklahoma City has been deadly with Abrines on the floor. For the season, his net rating ranks first among all players who don’t play for the Golden State Warriors (minimum 10 appearances with a 15-minute average).

In their last three games, Thunder head coach Billy Donovan has cut Abrines’ minutes in half, and eliminated any late-game overlap where he can share the floor with Russell Westbrook. The reigning MVP has been a beast in limited time with Abrines by his side, but the rotation has yet to give them much of an opportunity to shine together.

With so few outside shooters on this roster who can complement Paul George, Carmelo Anthony, and Westbrook, Donovan should try and have arguably his best three-point threat on the floor as often as he can.

10. Jusuf Nurkic and the Power of Context

If I could build a team from scratch with any starting center in the league, Jusuf Nurkic would not crack the top 10. But if I had to pick a center to blend with the Portland Trail Blazers, he’d sit near the top of the list. (Of course they can do better, but we all could. This is real life.)

A bunch of Nurkic’s production is the result of defenses restricting Damian Lillard and C.J. McCollum in the pick-and-roll, but at the end of the day how much does that really matter? He’s a fine decision maker who ranks in the 81st percentile in assist rate at his position. When opponents trap high screens and allow Nurkic to attack in a 4-on-3 situation, good things usually happen.

He hasn’t been efficient scoring the ball—especially around the basket—and Portland’s offense has hummed when he’s on the pine (partly because the Blazers have a slew of big men who’re playing great), but Nurkic’s all-around presence is beneficial in so many different ways.

Not a rim protector per se, Nurkic’s positional defense has been rock solid. Here he is stopping one of the harder actions in the league: a Paul George pindown.

The Thunder run this knowing the strain it puts on an opposing big who, more likely than not, suddenly finds himself responsible for his own man (the screener) and George (a natural flamethrower). It’s uncomfortable. Come up too close and Adams rolls free for a pocket pass. Sag back too far and grant George with an open teardrop. But Nurkic covers enough ground to take both options away—with some help on the backside thanks to Andre Roberson having less gravitational pull than Mercury—and is able to force a tough floater.

Later on in the same game Oklahoma City tried a similar action, except this time they ran George off a stagger that involved Carmelo. It ended even worse, with Nurkic anticipating the same move and rejecting George at the rim.

11. A Random Appreciation of Goran Dragic

Few are as relentlessly no-nonsense, overlooked and underappreciated, as Dragic. Year after year, all he does is get to the basket on demand. No big deal. The 31-year-old attacks with the rage of a blustery oceanside. Wave after wave after wave. There are no brakes.

Turn the ball over and allow him to streak up the left side and the smartest defensive strategy instantly becomes “cede two points and get ready for the next possession.” There’s more to him, though, even beyond the wonderful 40 percent three-point shooting. Dragic constantly probes in the half-court, dipping behind defenses along the baseline and emerging on the other side with a passing lane, open shot, or advantageous switch. It’s very Steve Nash-ian of him.

But buried beneath all the strong qualities he brings to the table on a nightly basis is the unfortunate reality that Dragic is merely “very good” at a bunch of different things instead of “standalone great” at one thing he can be applauded for. He’s lost in a revolving door of virtuosity at his position, and every so often we should all acknowledge just how awesome Dragic is at all the difficult things he does.

12. A Few Words About Devin Booker

Photo by Jennifer Stewart - USA TODAY Sports

Devin Booker is a schismatic figure, which is stupid and sad. He turned 21 last week and has spent his entire career in one of the most egregiously dysfunctional environments that the NBA knows. The more I watch him, the more I wonder what he'd look like on a different team, developing in a more structured, professional, and satisfying environment, under great coaching and beside players who know what they're doing.

What happens if he's drafted by the Miami Heat or Utah Jazz? Sure, the opportunity to play would not have been the same in his first two years, and his role when on the floor would be far less colorful than it is, but, again, he's still only 21! He scored 70 points in—an admittedly sketchy environment—one game!

Not all Booker's flaws are Phoenix's fault, but it's fair to wonder how much further along he'd be as a defender within a setting where he's forced to keep up on that end. Let's celebrate the good he's accomplished in spite of his surroundings instead of condemning all he's yet to learn.

The Outlet Pass: Kyrie's Evolution, Schroder's Speed, and Selfless Pelicans published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[flauntpage]

The Outlet Pass: Kyrie's Evolution, Schroder's Speed, and Selfless Pelicans

The NBA season is finally kinda sorta taking shape! Here's a deep look around at what's going on.

1. Why Doesn’t Brandon Ingram Shoot Threes?

The most simple (and obtuse) answer to this question is “he doesn’t have to!” At 20 years old, Ingram already averages about as many drives per game as LeBron James and Giannis Antetokounmpo despite logging about five fewer minutes, and once near the rim he’s able to unwind his gangly limbs in a way that makes blocking his shot almost impossible.

Almost half of his shots occur right near the basket—still the most valuable real estate on a basketball court—where he’s quickly learning how to finish through contact and draw fouls. Ingram can score downhill, too. He has silky footwork in the open floor, with a Eurostep that looks like Super Mario hopping from one block to the next.

Ingram owned the entire second quarter of a recent win against the Memphis Grizzlies. Nobody on that team could stop him without grabbing or hacking. His first step always put him either past or even with his man, and at that point he already won. On one play he was smart enough to fake a dribble handoff with Kentavious Caldwell-Pope, let his defender (James Ennis) relax on his heels for a split second, then drive the opposite way for a layup.

And then there was this sequence:

Normally a master of angles and space, Marc Gasol doesn’t shift down a level on the switch, believing he can either contain Ingram and force a long two, or at least bother his shot at the basket. But last year’s second overall pick has already realized that in most situations he doesn’t need to settle.

Plays like it are wonderful to see, but Ingram’s shot chart doubles as a frustrating development that makes life harder than it has to be for his spacing-starved teammates. For every three he attempts, he also launches 2.5 mid-range jumpers. That’s an ugly ratio for a prospect who shot over 40 percent beyond the arc at Duke.

His three-point rate is half of what it was as a rookie, down so low it’s only above two percent of wings in the entire league. Why? Heading into Thursday’s game against the Boston Celtics, he canned an impressive 39 percent of them. It’s too early to worry about all this, and signs of life found elsewhere in Ingram’s game are critical for the development of the entire Los Angeles Lakers organization. Still, he needs to turn a few of those long twos into three-point tries sooner rather than later. There’s no reason for him not to.

2. Dennis Schroder’s Speed is Officially Uncalled For

If you scan the entire NBA roster pool, you'll find dozens of unteachable physical advantages that allow players to thrive at the highest level. Schroder’s speed is one such example. His game isn’t based on deception or keen floor surveillance. No. The guy just has really long arms and is fast enough to beat just about anybody alive in a 35-foot speed dribble contest.

Schroder leads the NBA in drives per game by an extremely wide margin (his 20 per game are over seven more than Isaiah Thomas's league-leading total last season). That is absurd, and suddenly possible thanks to a jump shot defenses now have to respect. Schroder is shooting 40 percent beyond the arc and about 45 percent from the mid-range.

His speed doesn’t require a screen and only needs one dribble from the three-point line to the rim. There’s really nothing flashy about it. If you’re not down in a defensive stance when he has the ball a few feet in front of you, good night.

Defenses that switch bigs or even mobile wings and expect to keep him at bay are a special kind of toast. When this happens, Schroder will back up a few feet and build himself a makeshift runway. He almost always gets either an open three or a clear path into the paint. (Whenever Schroder blows by a defender and scores at the rim, Hawks PA announcer Ryan Cameron chants “GOT EEEEEM” and even though it kind of sounds like “SCOTTY” that doesn't make it any less awesome.)

Now averaging an efficient 22.6 points with one of the highest usage rates in the league, is it too early to start an All-Star campaign?

3. Trevor Ariza’s Ball Denial

This seems minor, but Houston Rockets wing Trevor Ariza is so good at identifying when his man is about to rise up and retrieve a swing pass on the weakside. He makes the extra effort to shadow him, deny the ball, and prevent the offense from utilizing both sides of the court early in the shot clock. It’s a subtle, winning play smart defenders (like Andre Iguodala) are known for, and Ariza does it as well and as often as anybody.

4. The Outlet Pass's Very First Twitter Mailbag Question is About Celtics Legend Kyrie Irving. Yay!

The short answer is it’s really hard (and besides the point) to wrack up a bunch of assists in an equal opportunity offense.

Here’s the long answer. Much of what made the first six years of Irving’s career so marvelous was the spontaneous ingenuity behind (almost) every bucket. His live dribble was oil spattering on a hot pan. Uncontrollable, wild, and dangerous. Those characteristics cut both ways, though, and criticism spilled from the same mouths that his crossover dribble routinely left agape. Astonishment and disgust went hand in hand. He was selfish and spectacular, traits that helped create a polarizing figure whose flaws and strengths could seemingly never be disentangled.

Basic per game numbers are useless as standalone metrics to analyze any player, but especially one who’s now playing in such a completely different system than before. It’s early, but what we’ve so far seen from Irving in the dozen games he’s been a Celtic is someone who’s bottling all the effortless skill that made him an unstoppable scorer in Cleveland into a more measured attack.

So while none of his assist numbers have shot up to an obvious career high, his decisions are undeniably more charitable than they were on the Cavaliers. And altruistic players are forever more difficult to curb than those who’re one-dimensional.

Irving remains a basket-devouring highlight reel who can take over games at will in ways only three or four other dudes can, but in situations where, in year’s past, he’d take his man off the dribble and then pull up for a long two, now he’s going off the bounce to whip a perfect pocket pass to a popping Al Horford. Irving is more patient. After Horford does his damage for a few possessions, he’ll take advantage of a defense that’s now forced to tilt away from his constant threat.

Irving is working the ball from side to side, screening, cutting, flying off picks, and making defenders abandon principles they normally wouldn’t dare. Here’s an example from a recent win against the Atlanta Hawks. Irving convinces Kent Bazemore to help off the strongside corner—shattering one of the 10 Commandments of NBA defense—with a spin move, and Jayson Tatum makes him pay.

Irving leverages his mystical scoring ability to momentarily demolish a truth Bazemore already knows: an open corner three is a better shot than an off-balance, contested floater. It’s a brilliant setup.

He was always a capable passer, able to survey pick-and-roll coverages and then identify the correct read, but his decisions in Boston have been more fluid and unpredictable. He’ll catch a pass off a baseline cut and then, knowing every single defender on the opposing team has his full attention, whip a perfect pass with magnetic precision to an open shooter along the perimeter.

This answer is getting long, but one more point. Heading into this season, Irving’s inability to fling a cross-court jump pass to the opposite corner—much like James Harden, John Wall, and, of course, LeBron James do so well—was viewed as a concern. But in Brad Stevens’ offense, where on-ball screeners hardly ever roll to the basket and suck defenders in from the weakside, that specific tool is unnecessary.

Boston’s assist rate as a collective is higher when Irving is on the court than off it; even though individual numbers don’t reveal much change, he’s steadily embracing life as someone who values a superb pass over a merely satisfactory shot.

5. Kelly Olynyk’s Gravity

Whatever you think of Kelly Olynyk (he's a Greek God hiding amongst mortals), when he’s the lone big in a small lineup there’s almost nothing any defense can do. Quietly draining 50 percent of his shots from deep and ranking seventh league wide in True Shooting, Olynyk’s great NBA skill remains the ability to drag opposing rim protectors from the rim.

Sometimes he’ll force a center to hesitate on help, allowing one of his slash-happy teammates to make unimpeded progress towards the rim. And sometimes his man won’t even budge, stubbornly refusing to let Olynyk beat him from downtown, regardless of what’s happening elsewhere on the court. He Medusa’s Los Angeles Clippers center Willie Reed into a statue on this play.

The Miami Heat are nearly a top-five offense when Olynyk’s frontcourt partner is someone like James Johnson or Justise Winslow. When it’s Bam Adebayo or Hassan Whiteside, help on drives like the one seen above is able to come from other areas of the floor, and the offense doesn’t run nearly as smooth. In limited doses, Olynyk is one of those role players you can plug into any team in the NBA, and so far he’s having a blast in Miami.

6. Tyreke Evans is My President

The need for some NBA players to avoid, at all costs, an end-of-quarter half-court heave, so as not to disrupt their pristine field goal percentage, is such an artistic habit. Earlier this season, Carmelo Anthony purposefully waited until the buzzer went off before he launched up a prayer...and it went in.

But Evans recently decided subtlety wasn’t for him, and painted an even more elaborate masterpiece last week.

The ball might as well have been literally made of lava the way Evans reacted to its touch. The effort made to avoid this shot is magical, from a guy who, going back to last season, is making 43.4 percent of his attempts from deep over the past 25 games.

Semi-related: Despite those numbers, defenders still give Evans all the space and time he needs to fire away, and gravity tends to be more of a reaction to reputation than production—Evans’ reputation is deservedly that of a very bad outside shooter.

7. No Offense to Dwight Powell But I Do Not Enjoy Watching Dwight Powell

Photo by Jesse Johnson - USA TODAY Sports

What I’m about to write has almost nothing to do with Dwight Powell, but, at the same time, it has everything to do with Dwight Powell. The Dallas Mavericks look so much worse than I thought they’d be. Two unforeseeable reasons (among countless others) help explain why: 1) Seth Curry is hurt, 2) Nerlens Noel is basically not on the team.

I was naive enough to think Rick Carlisle would embrace his future by unleashing Dennis Smith Jr. in small lineups that pit Harrison Barnes at the four and Noel at the five. Instead, Noel has only started six games, while Dirk Nowitzki has started five games at center, and Dallas’ offense executes most of its action inside a jar of molasses, with a league-high 83.7 percent of their possessions taking place in the half-court.

Barnes battled Marcin Gortat for the opening tip on Tuesday night because Nowitzki cannot bring two feet off the ground at the same time. They won that game, and in Noel’s 206 minutes the Mavs have been outscored by a team-low 20 points per 100 possessions. But apart from the gravity Dirk still provides (mandatory disclaimer: Dirk is a hero and every letter of criticism is painful to type), ceding some of his minutes (and basically all of Powell’s) to Noel is probably the right move.

At this stage, deploying Nowitzki at center for 10 minutes a night is like attempting to climb Mt. Everest in a windbreaker. The Mavericks have allowed 122.6 points per 100 possessions with those lineups, per Cleaning the Glass. That’s not great. They’re 2-10, rank 28th in point differential, and even though his minutes seem to be taking a downturn, every time I watch Powell play it reminds me how decent this team maybe can still be if they give Noel more than 15 minutes of playing time a night and embrace their youth.

8. The Pelicans are Passing!

New Orleans has emerged as one of the best passing teams in the NBA. They rank fourth in secondary assists and assist opportunities while averaging over 20 more passes per game than they did last season. (The increase is even higher when compared to how they played after the All-Star break, when they acquired DeMarcus Cousins.)

According to Synergy Sports, the Warriors are the only team that’s attempted more shots off of a cut than New Orleans, and only six have been more efficient from such possessions. Much of this is because Cousins is one of the boldest passers at his position (non-Jokic division). It’s also because with so little outside shooting surrounding two Goliaths, passing is their best route to success.

Here’s a pet play New Orleans loves to run that’s almost always good for a bucket. Cousins and Anthony Davis are interchangeable in the action, but for this example we start with AD at the right elbow extended and Boogie thumping down low towards the opposite block. Everything looks simple at first: E’Twaun Moore passes to Davis and then races to pick Cousins’ man, allowing him to flash open across the paint for an easy two.

But stopping something so straightforward would be too easy, so in order to occupy Indiana’s attention and freeze its help defenders, Cousins opens the possession up by setting his own down screen on Ian Clark.

The Pelicans are bludgeoning teams by 10.2 points per 100 possessions when Davis and Cousins share the floor, with an assist rate that would’ve ranked third last season. Precarious three-point shooting be damned, nobody will want to play the Pelicans in a seven-game series if they qualify for the playoffs.

9. Alex Abrines Makes The Thunder Clap

November has not been kind to the Oklahoma City Thunder. With the NBA’s worst offense, they’ve now lost three straight games and face the rapidly improving Denver Nuggets on Thursday night. We’re dealing with in an incredibly small sample size, but one possible correlation to their sudden malaise may be the decrease of Alex Abrines’ playing time. (He spent 42 minutes on the bench in a humiliating loss against the Sacramento Kings.)

Even though he’s not shooting the ball well and contributes in almost no other way, Oklahoma City has been deadly with Abrines on the floor. For the season, his net rating ranks first among all players who don’t play for the Golden State Warriors (minimum 10 appearances with a 15-minute average).

In their last three games, Thunder head coach Billy Donovan has cut Abrines’ minutes in half, and eliminated any late-game overlap where he can share the floor with Russell Westbrook. The reigning MVP has been a beast in limited time with Abrines by his side, but the rotation has yet to give them much of an opportunity to shine together.

With so few outside shooters on this roster who can complement Paul George, Carmelo Anthony, and Westbrook, Donovan should try and have arguably his best three-point threat on the floor as often as he can.

10. Jusuf Nurkic and the Power of Context

If I could build a team from scratch with any starting center in the league, Jusuf Nurkic would not crack the top 10. But if I had to pick a center to blend with the Portland Trail Blazers, he’d sit near the top of the list. (Of course they can do better, but we all could. This is real life.)

A bunch of Nurkic’s production is the result of defenses restricting Damian Lillard and C.J. McCollum in the pick-and-roll, but at the end of the day how much does that really matter? He’s a fine decision maker who ranks in the 81st percentile in assist rate at his position. When opponents trap high screens and allow Nurkic to attack in a 4-on-3 situation, good things usually happen.

He hasn’t been efficient scoring the ball—especially around the basket—and Portland’s offense has hummed when he’s on the pine (partly because the Blazers have a slew of big men who’re playing great), but Nurkic’s all-around presence is beneficial in so many different ways.

Not a rim protector per se, Nurkic’s positional defense has been rock solid. Here he is stopping one of the harder actions in the league: a Paul George pindown.

The Thunder run this knowing the strain it puts on an opposing big who, more likely than not, suddenly finds himself responsible for his own man (the screener) and George (a natural flamethrower). It’s uncomfortable. Come up too close and Adams rolls free for a pocket pass. Sag back too far and grant George with an open teardrop. But Nurkic covers enough ground to take both options away—with some help on the backside thanks to Andre Roberson having less gravitational pull than Mercury—and is able to force a tough floater.

Later on in the same game Oklahoma City tried a similar action, except this time they ran George off a stagger that involved Carmelo. It ended even worse, with Nurkic anticipating the same move and rejecting George at the rim.

11. A Random Appreciation of Goran Dragic

Few are as relentlessly no-nonsense, overlooked and underappreciated, as Dragic. Year after year, all he does is get to the basket on demand. No big deal. The 31-year-old attacks with the rage of a blustery oceanside. Wave after wave after wave. There are no brakes.

Turn the ball over and allow him to streak up the left side and the smartest defensive strategy instantly becomes “cede two points and get ready for the next possession.” There’s more to him, though, even beyond the wonderful 40 percent three-point shooting. Dragic constantly probes in the half-court, dipping behind defenses along the baseline and emerging on the other side with a passing lane, open shot, or advantageous switch. It’s very Steve Nash-ian of him.

But buried beneath all the strong qualities he brings to the table on a nightly basis is the unfortunate reality that Dragic is merely “very good” at a bunch of different things instead of “standalone great” at one thing he can be applauded for. He’s lost in a revolving door of virtuosity at his position, and every so often we should all acknowledge just how awesome Dragic is at all the difficult things he does.

12. A Few Words About Devin Booker

Photo by Jennifer Stewart - USA TODAY Sports

Devin Booker is a schismatic figure, which is stupid and sad. He turned 21 last week and has spent his entire career in one of the most egregiously dysfunctional environments that the NBA knows. The more I watch him, the more I wonder what he'd look like on a different team, developing in a more structured, professional, and satisfying environment, under great coaching and beside players who know what they're doing.

What happens if he's drafted by the Miami Heat or Utah Jazz? Sure, the opportunity to play would not have been the same in his first two years, and his role when on the floor would be far less colorful than it is, but, again, he's still only 21! He scored 70 points in—an admittedly sketchy environment—one game!

Not all Booker's flaws are Phoenix's fault, but it's fair to wonder how much further along he'd be as a defender within a setting where he's forced to keep up on that end. Let's celebrate the good he's accomplished in spite of his surroundings instead of condemning all he's yet to learn.

The Outlet Pass: Kyrie's Evolution, Schroder's Speed, and Selfless Pelicans published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv