#scotty site

[henrycavillcumdump]

Scotty Sire via Instagram

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From @littleoldrachel

From @littleoldrachel to @sofasurf

Let your heart be light

“I just don’t understand why you leave it to the last minute every year, Allie.”

Alan’s bedroom is an explosion of wrapping paper in a garish glitter snowman print. Every attempt to manoeuvre it has only cascaded silver glitter into every crevice of the fluffy carpet—or worse, burrowed into Alan’s palms, no matter how many times he’s scrubbed them. Strings of gold ribbon, webs of sticky tape, and an assortment of gifts lie tangled at the centre of the mess, with at least four pairs of open scissors perfectly positioned to do some damage. 

The paper he’d thought was so cute when he ordered it online is now haunting him—most disturbing were the trails of glitter that swilled around his shower water earlier. (He also doubts that it fills his rescuees with reassurance when he leaves sparkly handprints on them as he lifts them out of whatever horrifying situation they’ve found themselves in. Although… the little girl who’d asked him very earnestly if he was a fairy since he was leaving such a shimmery trail made the whole thing rather more cute than annoying.)

Still, curse Gordon for encouraging Alan's poor wrapping paper decisions. 

“Please, Scott,” Alan wheedles. He hesitates, then pulls out the big guns and widens his eyes to pouting proportions. “I'll never get this done in time without you.”

Scott rolls his eyes, but he does inch forward from where he's leaned against the door jamb, his crossed arms loosening slightly. 

“It's ten to midnight. Christmas Day is literally minutes away, Allie,” Scott says, and Alan can tell he's trying to channel Commander Tracy—if only he could contain his fond smirk. 

“It'll be faster if we work together!” Alan blinks slowly and deliberately, puppy-dog eyes unwavering. 

“Quit trying to be cute.” 

“It's a lost cause!” Gordon's voice calls out from the hallway, and Alan is so intent on flinging himself across the room to hide the squid's present from view that he doesn't even have the time to be indignant. 

Scott frowns and turns. “Why aren't you in bed?”

Gordon's unruly mop of golden curls appears in the gap. “The mother-henning again, Scotty? Really?”

Scott ignores this. “You're usually first in bed on Christmas. I remember this because you were always the first one to come bounding into my room at four in the morning, shrieking about what Satan had brought you.”

“Satan?” Alan yelps.

“Hey, dyslexia is a cruel mistress!” Gordon scowls. “I liked it better when we were making fun of Allie-”

“I didn't-”

“But if you must know, I was checking on Virg.”

Scott straightens at once, every bit the soldier he once was. (Alan sort of hates it, if he's honest; it feels painful how easily the Commander comes out, even in the one place they are supposed to get to be soft and safe.)

“What's wrong with Virgil?”

“Stand down, soldier.” Gordon yawns so hard his jaw crackles. “Virg is fine. He took a few knocks on this afternoon's rescue, and I just wanted to check he wasn't doing his usual stoic thing.”

Scott frowns. “He didn't mention that in the debrief-”

“Virg hiding injuries? Gee, I wonder where he learned that,” Gordon says dryly, and Alan snorts. “He's fine, Scott. Just bruised and cranky.”

“I'll check in on him in a bit,” Scott says, more to himself than anyone else, and Gordon shoots Alan an exasperated eye roll that has him grinning. Then, Gordon's eyes rove over the disaster site that is Alan's room, and his eyes widen. It's a mark of how tired he must be that he doesn't even quip, just slowly backs away from the mess. “On that note, g’night!” 

Alan waits till Gordon's door has closed before he clambers up off Gordon's gift: a truly hideous Christmas jumper decorated with a Santa Claus riding a flamingo float. 

Alan's gifts to his brothers are always the most heinous jumpers he can find - after all, what on earth do you give a family made up of billionaires? - and the public loves the annual auction of the jumpers as part of the Tracy family charity drive. He's pretty proud of himself for this year's effort. 

“The sooner you help me, the sooner you can go and bother Virg,” Alan says sweetly, holding up the scissors to Scott. 

Scott lets out a put-upon sigh, but he's never been able to resist his littlest brother – as Alan well knows – and he takes the scissors reluctantly. 

“Fine, but I'm tagging you in on helping Grandma with the lunch tomorrow.”

Alan pulls a face. He adores his grandmother with his whole heart and soul, and yet her incompetency in the kitchen is nothing short of deadly. Still, if it means an end to the scratchiness of glitter on his skin, he'll go for it. 

“Deal.”

*

Twenty minutes later and faced with a wrapped jumper that looks more like a piece of crumpled trash than a gift, Alan is regretting his recruitment choices. They’d massively underestimated the size of the paper they would need and had been forced to attach another sheet at a strange angle to cover the gift, leaving the snowmen oddly distorted.

“I thought you'd be good at this,” he says despairingly, poking at where the wrapping paper has bunched and torn. “Isn't the army big on neatness?”

Scott slaps his hand away. “You're making it worse! I'm just out of practice.” He has glitter smeared in his eyebrows from his constant head-in-hands-exasperation, and it's the kind of ridiculousness that pours warmth into his chest; they may all be public figures, and they may have had their grief made an aching, public thing, but only Alan and his brothers get to witness Scott Tracy being silly. 

“Scotty, you have five siblings; how can you possibly be out of practice?”

There's an awkward pause as Alan tries – to no avail – to fold down the corners of the lumpy package. When it finally clicks that Scott hasn't come back with a witty retort (and Alan's tired, okay? Three back-to-back rescues and his brain has turned to soup), Alan looks up sharply. 

“I usually get Virg to do mine,” Scott admits grudgingly, and Alan gapes. “He likes it!” Scott adds defensively, shuffling his stance in a very un-Scott-like move. “Says he finds it ‘mindful’ or whatever.”

“Great! Then I'll ask him to do mine!” Alan scoops up an armful of crumpled wrapping paper and tangled ribbon, making to stand. 

Scott laughs. “Not so fast, kiddo. Virg may or may not be injured—and even if he weren't, he has a strict deadline for wrapping applications.”

Alan's mouth moves silently, trying to catch up. “How long has this been going on?”

“About… five years?” Scott scrunches his nose. “Maybe longer?”

“And why am I only hearing about it now?”

Scott shrugs. “It didn’t start as a whole thing; I was getting more and more stressed about not being ready for Christmas with all the Tracy Industry stuff, and it was when he was following me around like a shadow because he was worried, and then he just helped… and kept helping.” Scott shifts his weight again and places the next jumper – John’s – in the centre of a fresh sheet of paper. “And then Gordon cottoned on, and–"

“What?!” Alan’s outrage is like the sharp sting of a torn-off scab. “Gordon knows and he didn’t tell me?”

Scott blinks at him. “We all know, Allie. John found out… somehow, because he’s John. Kayo walked in on Virg wrapping all her birthday presents. Didn't you always wonder why the presents we give Virg are wrapped like shit, and ours belong in a gallery?”

“I can't believe there's been an underground present-wrapping operation this whole time.”

Scott grins and shakes his head. “I can’t believe you didn’t figure it out, Mr Built-A-Damn-Rocket-At-Twenty-Years-Old.” He’s folding the paper around the jumper more carefully this time, creasing sharp folds instead of simply rolling it. “Hold,” he says, and Alan obediently presses his hand over where the paper meets. Scott places a tiny square of tape over the join, and Alan frowns.

“We’re going to need more than that, Scotty. You know we can afford more tape if we run out?”

“Do you want my help or not?” Scott says, elbowing him. He does grudgingly place another piece alongside it, though.

There’s a brief lull between them as they focus their efforts on the present, which is looking considerably less Frankenstein’s monster-like than their first attempt, even if they have reams of paper left over.

“You’re right, though, I did use to be better at this,” Scott says quietly. “Someone had to be after mom—well… let’s just say that dad wasn’t exactly great at being there to pick up this kind of thing.”

Alan’s heart clenches, the familiar wounded creature that it is. Scott rarely talks about the time after mom’s death—and usually, only in relation to the impact it had on Virgil (an all-consuming, terrifying depression) and John (vicious intrusive thoughts and anxiety). He and Gordon had been too young to remember things being any different, but with the benefit of hindsight, Alan can recognise how tough it must have been. It’s uncommon for Scott to talk about what that was like for him: the lynchpin to bind them together with too young hands for such a burden. Alan feels a little like he’s handling a frightened animal in the face of Scott’s pain, but he makes an interested noise in his throat, allowing Scott to shift his hands wherever he’s needed.

“It was rough, sometimes,” Scott allows. His voice is soft and his expression distant. “I didn’t want you and Gords and Johnnie to miss out on any of the Christmas build-up stuff – and Grandma tried to be there – but I was only a teenager. Sometimes, even now when I’m wrapping gifts, I can feel that stressed boy, juggling nativity plays and gifts for teachers and Christmas jumper days–" He cuts himself off sharply. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear all this.”

“I do,” Alan says, and the desperation bleeds into his tone more than he wishes. “I do want to hear it—I’m… I’m sorry we didn’t realise how much it was for you to manage.”

“You were four, Allie, I didn’t want you to realise.”

“Still.” His arms tingle with the urge to fling them around his oldest brother, to brush his thumbs under the eyebag-crevices he’s too young to have, to smooth the crinkle of his brow. Instead, he stares down at the paper beneath his hands and swallows.  “I wish you talked about it more.”

Scott pauses, fingers hovering over where he’s poised to place the final strip of tape. “I’m trying to. Virg tells me I shouldn’t keep it all bottled up.”

“Yeah well. He’s pretty smart, you know?”

Scott laughs, and the movement softens his forehead and creases the lines around his mouth. It’s lovely. It’s as it should be. “I know.” He sits back on his haunches and the two of them survey their handiwork.

It’s a great improvement on their first attempt, even if all the extra paper ended up bunched and bulky around the edges. Scott ties a ribbon around it lengthways, and Alan slaps on a sparkly bow.

“I think we nailed it,” Scott says, eyes twinkling.

The bow promptly falls off the parcel.

Alan scowls, reattaching it more forcefully—enough that he feels the centre of it click and then a horrid, tinny version of Jingle Bells starts playing. Alan and Scott stare at it in horror as a children’s choir begins yowling over the top of the music, and Alan reaches out to try and stop the caterwauling.

“No!” Scott seizes his wrist, eyes wide. “Don’t make it start again!”

As the final line rings out, the bow plops off the parcel again and Scott’s eyes narrow. “It’s fucking with us.”

“Language!” Alan says gleefully, and Scott nudges him.

“It’s cursed, Allie, I’m telling you—”

“Don’t be silly.” He applies featherlight pressure to the bow this time, but as his hand moves away, the song starts up again. “I didn’t even press it!”

The music plays through once… and then immediately starts up again.

Scott and Alan exchange a look, and then the corner of Scott’s mouth twitches and it’s enough. Alan bursts out laughing – loud, hysterical sounds that frankly improve the awful music – with Scott close behind him. The music chunters on cheerfully in the background, but Alan is warm with sheer delight at the expression on Scott’s face, the way he’s bent double with the force of his laughter, how light he seems for the first time in months.

“You’re right – it’s haunted,” Alan manages, which only sets Scott off again. In the background, the song stutters on way-ay-ay-ay-ay, like some crazy club remix.

“Why – did you get – singing ones?” Scott wheezes through laughter, and all Alan can do is shake his head.

Eventually, as the music grows tinnier and tinnier, Scott staggers up and flings the cursed decoration through Alan’s balcony doors, until it lands with a plop in the pool. He turns back to Alan, grinning so wide and wild that Alan feels giddy all over again.

Seeing his brothers happy fills his heart to the brim, but seeing Scott happy—it’s molten gold flowing into every last crack and chip in his chest, leaving him warm and light and whole. He wants to capture this moment in a glass jar and hold it close on his darkest nights. He wants to lock away this memory and protect it against the future versions of Scott who will be stern and burnt out and beaten down. He just wants Scott to be happy.

It’s an impossible dream. Or at least, an impossible consistent dream; after all, Scott has surely the most stressful job in the world and sends his brothers out into the field every single day without being able to know for sure that they will return. He plays both mother and father, presents the perfect CEO, offers the ideal PR needed—it’s too much for anyone to hold and be happy. Scott is the first to admit that there are always people they can’t save, always situations they can’t control, and always moments that are missed (even if his hypocritical arse won’t accept that itself).

But Alan can start with this—with Christmas. With family and presents and ridiculous wrapping paper. And maybe – maybe – it will be enough for now.

*

BANG!

Alan jolts awake so fast that black spots burst in his vision as he sits up. Scott is already on his feet beside him, ever the soldier, tiredness cast off like a cloak.

“Whoops.” Their grandma’s voice floats up to them, and the brothers exchange a look before Scott offers a hand to Alan.

“My money’s on a cooking disaster,” Scott says conspiratorially, and Alan sort of hates him for being so awake at this moment.

Alan groans as he accepts the proffered hand, his own free hand rubbing at his aching neck. The two of them had finally fallen asleep around two in the morning, slumping into a messy pile surrounded by wrapping paper and decorations. Alan feels considerably worse for wear as he rubs glitter from his eyelashes, but he allows Scott to pull him from the room in the direction of their grandma’s mumbled cursing.

“What time is it?” he yawns, wincing as his thumb hits a particularly sore knot in his neck.

Scott casts him a pitying look. “You’re too young to be aching like this, Allie.”

“Yeah, Allie. Spare a thought for the old man over here,” Gordon’s voice is gleeful as he slings an arm over Alan’s shoulder and nods at Scott. “And it’s just gone eight.”

Scott flips Gordon off over his shoulder, which only makes Gordon grin wider still. He’s just in swimming trunks and still drips pool water across the corridor, skin cool against Alan’s sleep-sensitive arms.

Their smiles fade as they round the corner to the kitchen, where they see Grandma staring helplessly at the oven – a scary enough prospect on its own – from which black smoke is pouring. The glass has shattered inwards, and a thick, acrid stench fills the air. The three boys freeze for a fraction of a second before Scott and Gordon leap into action, flinging open the oven door and yanking out a charred and blackened unidentifiable mess.

Grandma blinks in confusion. “I was just preheating the oven for the turkey,” she says. “What’s my Christmas cake doing in there?”

Gordon widens his eyes at Alan from behind Grandma’s back, his message clear: DO NOT SPILL THE BEANS. Alan does his best to blink innocently back at Grandma—to pretend that he and Gordon didn’t hide it in the oven earlier this week to avoid having to eat any and risk their stomach linings.

“Well?” Grandma turns to look at Gordon, who quickly schools his features into something bewildered. “Care to explain?”

Thankfully, Virgil chooses that moment to stumble into the kitchen, beelining for the coffee machine. He stabs blearily at the buttons before Scott takes pity and sorts his espresso. Virgil blinks dopily at Scott in response, patting his head tiredly and slinking over to the island stools.

“Morning, Virg,” Gordon says brightly, and Virg grunts something in response.

“I’m very well, thank you so much for asking. And a merry Christmas to you, too!” Gordon continues, and Alan sees Scott bite back a smile.

“What happened to the oven?!” John joins them, pale and sleepy-looking but far more awake than his older brother.

“Someone ruined my Christmas cake—and now the oven is broken!” Grandma says, and her gaze flits to the turkey sitting on the side, ready to be roasted.

Alan frowns. “But how will we roast the turkey now?”

There’s an awkward pause. “Are you sure it’s broken?” Scott asks, crouching to examine the nobs and dials. He twists a few experimentally, and the oven belches out an almighty groan of more black smoke. “Okay! Message received!”

Scott stands and glances over at Virgil. “Virg, can you take a look at it?”

Virgil shoots Scott a look over the rim of his mug. “You want me to glass-blow a new oven door?” Alan had forgotten how sarky early morning Virgil can be and he loves it.

“Virg.”

Virgil downs the remainder of his piping hot coffee and stands. It takes him all of two seconds to declare the oven out of action: “It needs at least three replacement parts, even if the door were reparable,” he tells them, the wonders of coffee returning a sharp precision to his tone. “I can make a version of those parts, but it’ll take too long for today.”

“What are we going to do?!” Alan yelps, flushing as everyone turns to look at him.

“We could… have a barbecue?” Gordon suggests, squinting at the prepared turkey. “We could slice it into strips, set up on the beach…”

Scott snaps his fingers at Gordon, smiling wide. “Yes! Great plan—”

“What can I say? Here to save Christmas,” Gordon smirks, grin only widening when his brothers roll their eyes in unison.

*

Several hours later, they have hauled the barbecue down onto a quiet strip of beach, with Brains and Virgil talking quietly as they man the barbecue and bicker about the most effective use of space on the grill. Almost everyone else, bar M.A.X and Grandma (who are lounging on blankets on the sand), has been recruited for a game of chicken fight, with the added challenge of battling the current of the tide as it sweeps in and out.

From atop Kayo’s shoulders, Alan takes out John with ease, grinning as his brother falls off Scott like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Grub’s up!” Virgil yells, and the four of them scatter, hurrying towards the shore. Alan can’t help the bubble of laughter that escapes him as Kayo and Scott become entangled and flop together in the foamy edge of the water.

By the time the two of them are back on dry land, everyone else is tucking into their Christmas lunch, appreciative hums echoing across the group.

“There’s sand in my turkey,” John says with a frown, and Scott laughs.

“Better that than Grandma’s special stuffing recipe. Nearly cracked my tooth with that a while ago.”

John rolls his eyes, but obediently chomps down on the sandy turkey sandwich. He’s a little paler and thinner than his brothers like him to be, but his smile is bright and lovely even through a mouthful of chewed bread and meat.

By nine, the sun has begun to creep towards its bedtime, pouring pink and gold across the sky in a beautiful cascade of colours. The smell of barbecued meat blends with the salty sea air, undercut with the coconutty scent of John’s suncream.  

The Tracy family shows no such sign of calling their celebration to an end—Gordon and Scott have roped Kayo and M.A.X into a game of volleyball, with the little robot strangely nimble across the loose sand, whilst John, Brains and Grandma alternate between roasting marshmallows and playing increasingly competitive card games.

It’s nothing like the Christmases Alan grew up watching in movies and on TV, nor is it like the ones his schoolfriends used to wax lyrical about.

Somehow, it’s even better.

(Alan thinks that has a lot to do with how loud Gordon’s laughter booms across the beach, how bright Scott’s smile is, and John’s playful smirk that only ever comes out around those he’s truly comfortable with.)

And yet, despite how pleasantly full he feels and how much happiness sings in the air, there’s a weight on his chest that he cannot shift. It prickles with wrongness in the face of so much joy, and Alan feels like he’s dragging their celebrations towards misery as he sits by himself and gazes out at the ocean.

At that moment, as if he can sense Alan’s rising distress (and perhaps he can; Virg has always been weirdly perceptive about these things), Virgil plops down beside Alan and offers him a soft smile. “You good, Allie?”

Alan nods, then leans his head against Virgil’s shoulder, allowing his older brother to tuck him tighter into his side. All his brothers hug differently, but none of them truly envelop him as Virgil does. “Just thinking.”

“Warned you about that,” Virgil murmurs and Alan can hear the smile in his voice even though he can’t see it. His hand comes up to the back of Alan’s neck, and he begins massaging out the knotty tension in Alan’s neck. The relief trickles warm and grateful down Alan’s spine and he sags further into his brother, trusting and knowing that he will be held.

“I wish it could always be like this,” Alan says after a beat or two.

Virgil pauses. “Like this?”

“Like…” Alan waves a hand. “I wish Scott could always be this relaxed. And John could always be here. And we could always be this happy.” A sharp longing ache lodges in his throat, and he has to fight to get the next words out without it catching. “I wish we didn’t have to give up so much to have these moments.”

Virgil is silent for a long time, his grip tighter around Alan. “Me too,” he says at last, and it’s so un-Virgil-like to admit something even vaguely selfish that Alan would pull away to stare at him if he weren’t so damned comfortable. “But Allie—I think that’s also what makes these moments so, so precious. That we know what it is not to have them. That we know what they cost.”

“That doesn’t feel fair,” Alan says, hating the petulance in his own voice.

If Virgil were replaced by Gordon, there would be a quip about life’s not fair and a joke to distract him from the ache of it. Scott would be frantic to try and fix it, and John’s analytical mind would identify all the illogical and untrue aspects of that statement.

Virgil just holds him impossibly tighter still and meets him with an empathy Alan didn’t know he needed. “I know.”

Virgil holds him together as the aching grief of all that has been lost – all that continues to be sacrificed, and all the moments to be missed in the future – spreads and crashes over Alan—

Then all at once, the grief ebbs away like the tide retreating.

Virgil presses a kiss to Alan’s crown. “You good. Allie?” His voice is soft and warm, and Alan knows that he’ll stay as long as Alan needs him to—that he doesn’t even have to ask.

This is what makes it easier for him to nod and mean it this time.

“Want a marshmallow?”

Alan hesitates and nods, allowing Virgil to pull him up and tug him back towards the makeshift campfire. Scott, Kayo, Gordon and M.A.X have abandoned their game at last, and have squished themselves around the fire too, though they shuffle over to allow room for Virgil and Alan to squeeze in beside Scott.

“Alright?” Scott murmurs to Alan, and Alan nods. The prickling fades, tucked between his two oldest brothers, across from the jokey antics and quiet intelligence of his other two brothers, beneath the protective gaze of his sister and grandmother—and under the twinkling light of his mom’s star. He’s so damned lucky, despite it all, to be so loved like this.

“Happy Christmas,” he says softly, and Scott smiles.

“Happy Christmas, Allie.” He ruffles Alan’s hair and Alan laughs.

Christmas may not look the way he thought it would be growing up, and it may be a long time before they get to be together like this again. Another Christmas may be full of injuries or loss, and it may feel harder still to rise above the weight of their collective grief.

But Alan vows that he will do everything in his power to keep giving them Christmases like this, full of light and laughter and love.

For this Christmas is theirs and Alan will hold it tight and precious against his heart.

[rbr4c1ng]

Hii! I was wondering if you could maybe explain the bus bros fallout or p2p gate or pretty much all of the McLaughlin-Newgarden lore to me since I'm only getting in to IndyCar now and I want to be caught up before the 500. I understand this is a big ask but I've seen that youve posted about it and I just NEED to know. Any links to other pieces of lore would also be much apreciated. Completely understand if you don't want to write anything though so thank you so much I advance!! <3

YES ABSOLUTELY I WILL EXPLAIN! this is my special interest dw i could write an 18 page essay about their lore.

SO basically scott came into indycar from supercars in 2020-2021 ish and him a josef started getting along like super well, which is honestly a bit odd bc josef is known to not really let people get so close to him, so scotty is a bit of an outlier in that respect.

eventually! they make bus bros!!! wooooo everyone loves it etc etc they have fun making it…. until they don’t! leading up to their breakup there were QUITE a few clues that they knew it was gonna end in flames like scott talked about it on off track (see audio excerpt below) and on hot seats with hinch if i remember correctly?

there’s also a fair share of articles that mention it. they basically knew it was inevitable but i don’t think anyone thought it was gonna happen so quickly??

so then the winter break leading into the 2024 szn happened! this is about when i started getting really into bus bros and was honestly pretty present for some of this shit (i was at the daytona 24 and st pete so i’ve got some first hand evidence but we will get to that later)… anyways so the rumors start going around that bus bros is over around?? st pete time i think??? a little bit earlier. which is odd given that they seemed okay with each other at the daytona 24, even though i thought it was strange that they weren’t both on tower motorsports anymore cause josef switched to penske porsche but GENERALLY it seemed okay (although based on this pic idk their relationship seems a little charged atp but it’s all speculation really)

then after the rumors come out i think it was jenna fryer’s article that did it in? (idk it has a paywall on it for me right now and i don’t care enough to find it here but there’s definitely excerpts floating around) now i do recommend to take anything jenna fryer says with a grain of salt bc she is essentially a gossip columnist for all intents and purposes. but the article basically said that josef and scotty were done and scott wouldn’t answer any questions about it and was only saying that they’re fine or to ask josef about it (tea from todays 100 days to indy episode actually…). they promptly took down the bus bros merch site and have been relatively quiet since then. at st pete they talked on the podium and didn’t seem too bad but i’ve seen other clips where they won’t even sit next to each other or speak to each other so take that as you will. podiums are pretty much just publicity, cameras everywhere, you’d probably want to seem at least cordial with your teammate.

(pic 1 is mine, pic 2 is a pic of my tv from todays episode LMFAO)

so heres where most of the speculative stuff comes in. Josef dissolved his media company, unfollowed everyone, and cancelled bus bros leading into the 2024 season because he wanted to “get rid of distractions”, and really we could leave it at that, but i find it hard to believe that that’s the only thing that happened.

Josef is the dictionary definition of Penske Perfect, you won’t get any closer to it than him. he’s fucking OBSESSED with this idea of being perfect. perfect season, perfect body, perfect car, perfect team. obviously this isn’t feasible, but scotty seemed to have broken through that block in his little Penske Perfect brain and got him to LIGHTEN UP A BIT. and then the 2023 season happened. sure, josef won the indy 500 but it was one of his worst season finishes in a while and, to make matters worse, scott BEAT him. little scotty mac, supercars champion transplant from 2021 beat josef newgarden at his own fucking game after breaking down his walls and making him soft. i can see how that scared josef honestly. so he ended it. Scott doesn’t see things on a plane of winning/losing imo, everything is just experience for him. hell, he didn’t even know if he would end up in indycar and he sure as hell didn’t think he’d win races so soon AND beat his teammate. to josef, it’s JUST winning/losing. if he’s losing, he needs to be better. and he lost sight of that for the 2023 season. that’s why he had to come back and put an end to the shenanigans bc he knows scott makes him soft.

but that’s just my speculation!!!!! literally could just be nothing. maybe it is to josef, but i know for a FACT it isn’t to scott.

OH and with the p2pgate stuff! basically they had a component in their car that. was not supposed to be there! that prevented race control from turning off their push to pass like normal. (marshall pruitt has a rlly good article explaining it all here) and they were caught in long beach when race control forgot to turn on the push to pass during the sunday warm up and HMMMMM why do the penske cars still have it???? when has this happened before??? oh ok st pete! now they’re disqualified. josef used 9 seconds of p2p when it was not enabled and scotty only used 1.9 and will used none. so i’m led to believe that it was a josef-centered choice IF it was intentional to use the p2p when it was supposed to be inactive.

now josef really laid down the water works for that press conference at barber to the point that i was having a VERY hard time watching it. i felt bad for the guy. he seemed really fucking upset and i almost believe that it WASNT on purpose but. it’s just too good to be true right?

honestly i think this all could tie back to the downfall of bus bros in that scott maybe didn’t want to do the p2p thing but josef was willing to? and maybe that caused some sort of divide between them bc then again for josef it’s about Winning No Matter What, and yes scott wants to win but cheating isn’t the way for him. idk.

for more of their lore when they WERE friends, watch bus bros (duh), admit one, 100 days to indy, scott learns america: nashville, hot seats with hinch, and listen to scott’s episode on off track with hinch and rossi! also there are some very brief interactions between them on some older penske games videos before bus bros was even a thing but it’s not much. there are more but i can’t think of them rn…

sorry for rambling, if you have any more qs feel free to ask!!! i’m always available for brain picking :)

[bluespinksyellows]

Does anyone have any good fic recs for a rich stiles au?

I've had this one idea where his grandma on his mom's side is a billionaire but he doesn't know her because his mom ran away from home but then his grandma died or something and all of the money goes to him and he inherits all of her assets and properties and cars and stuff.

He doesn't tell the pack or anything but he also doesn't hide it and always just buys things for everyone.

When him and Scott go to dinner he pays. When he goes shopping with Erica he pays for everything. After Derek gets the loft Stiles buys a bunch of IKEA furniture or something and stocks the kitchen with a bunch of cooking tools like pots pans all that stuff. And he pays for all the groceries too(he likes cooking for his boyfriend). Also he pays the bills for the sheriff and Melissa but without them knowing somehow.

They don't realize that anything is weird until they see him walking out of a huge construction site while signing papers or something. They tell him to stop bothering the construction workers and that he needs to stop trespassing before he gets arrested. And he's just all nonchalant like "actually I own the property and I'm signing these papers to approve a few things".

As it turns out Stiles noticed that Isaac was having a hard time in foster care and was basically homeless. He had overheard Isaac talking to Boyd about how he was lucky he could stay with Derek and didn't have to sleep in the streets. He started noticing all the homeless people in town and decided that he would make a homeless shelter for them to stay somewhere and get help to make resumes, get jobs, get clothes and necessities.

And he contacted the local food kitchen and started a partnership so that the people from the shelter could go there for meals and he would help pay for the food and maybe help them buy a better building and stuff.

Stiles then goes in depth about all the things he had done like sponsoring a bunch of small businesses that were starting to blow up(he was really proud of them), investing in green companies to help global warming(those polar bears looked real sad), donating supplies to organizations in remote parts of the world so they can build schools and homes(everyone needs an education Scotty), donating nice clothes and bags, diapers, toys, and baby food to DV shelters(baby stuff is expensive dude), donating money to research centers for epilepsy and other conditions(they gave him a pamphlet if you wanna read it), building a psych ward that actually helps you with mental health(eichen house it terrible), etc.

The pack get more and more surprised throughout his speech, their eyebrows are basically in their hairline. When he finally stops talking he just looks at them like 🙂 with his hands in his pockets just standing there. The pack just erupt and ask him a bunch of questions until someone finally asks how he can afford all that and he explains what happened with his grandma.

Scott then asks him why he didn't say anything and Stiles is like "I thought you knew" he then tells the pack about all the ways he most definitely wasn't hiding it and the pack just realize that they were idiots.

[astranite]

Love is Stored in the Pasta

Scott, John and pasta.

This started off from a tumblr post 'cause somebody needed to cook that guy some pasta!!

Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, really very mild scott is hangrysad, ft john's space issues, Chronic Illness, as thats what im treating it as and its not the focus here he's just living with it, Scott Tracy has ADHD, this is important, Autistic John Tracy, lowkey here but also Important to me, this is fun and fluffy and i love them, i hope this is like a warm comforting bowl of pasta to you too

---

“We need to talk,” John said.

On the other side of the call, Scott’s hologram slumped over his desk, his head landing in his hands. “Oh God.”

“I found your search history…” John began.

Scott peered out sheepishly from behind his fingers. “I can explain!”

“It’s just pages and pages of pasta?” 

John was puzzled, honestly. Five to ten recipe blogs and that was Scott trying to decide what to make for dinner during a meeting or while he was struggling to concentrate on work. During lulls between callouts, he and John would sometimes debate options together. More than forty separate sites visited at 3:12pm on a Tuesday afternoon and Eos had flagged it for John, on suspicion that Scott’s computer had been hacked by a malicious entity or some other AI virus.

Scott went from double facepalm of despair to full on faceplant, his head hitting the desk with an audible thunk.

“Why so much pasta?” John questioned. Now his curiosity was piqued, he couldn’t let it go or he’d be doing EVA work later, still turning over possibilities in his mind, which wasn’t conducive to the constant concentration needed while floating around in the vacuum. Outside, any misstep would be your last.

“I dunno. I just feel like pasta,” Scott mumbled into the wood.

Scott sounded…weird. Like he was about to start laughing, or coming down with a cold.

“Scott? Are you okay?”

It had better not be another flu; corralling Scott to take care of himself was hard enough even if he wasn’t feverish. John wouldn’t be able to come down either, quarantined up in Five unless he already had it. Was the slight tug of a headache at his temples from his sinuses beginning to clog up too?

Scott hadn’t looked up yet; his shoulders were shaking. John wiggled his fingers anxiously.

“Scotty?”

Big brother’s head shot up at the nickname John so rarely used. Had John intended to provoke that reaction? The name had been a slip of the tongue but if he was was honest, he sort of had meant to jar Scott out of his thoughts. He never called Scott, Scotty unless he was scared though. And Scott not answering him did tick tick tick up his system from yellow alert into red.

“I’m fine, it’s okay. Don’t worry about me.” Scott’s words ran over each other in an attempt to come first. His voice sounded oddly wet.

Tears, yes those were indeed tears dulled by holographic format, tumbled down Scott’s cheeks.

As soon as he saw John looking, Scott turned away.

Suddenly, John landed on the spark of insight that he had a hunch would crack the code to his big brother’s distress. “Have you eaten anything all day?”

Scott dug around for tissues in a drawer of the desk and gave a half shrug. “I guess not—not really? I tried to before you say anything. Got a mouthful of breakfast in and then there was a call out. Lunch didn’t happen, there was a meeting, I had to make coffee, I ran out of time. I don’t really feel hungry though…”

That did explain a few things. It was well known family lore that Virgil and Alan got hangry, and Gords went all sad and mopey. Scott and John himself though, they got …really, unstably emotional. 

So yeah, hence the unexpected bursting into tears. John got the whole shit interoception and not even noticing if you needed to eat while you were buried in work thing; Scott was way too used to ignoring his body too. 

John took a deep breath. “Scott, and I’m one-hundred percent serious about this, do you want me to come down there and make you some pasta?”

Thunderbird Five systems whirred around John in the quiet as Scott hesitated.

“Maybe,” he whispered. “Or you don’t have to, I’ll wait, Virge’ll be doing dinner in a bit anyway.”

“Virgil won’t be up until past sunset after the hours Thunderbird Two was out yesterday and into this morning,” John said gently. “You need to eat before then.”

Nor would an overwhelmed Scott and the kitchen be a good combination at this point, and John saw the moment Scott realised this, while fidgeting with the rubix cube on his desk. 

“I want to do this for you,” John told him.

Scott dashed at his eyes, sniffled a few times and finally capitulated. “Okay. Thanks, Jay.”

John smiled and signed off, heading for the space elevator. He was usually so far away, he was right now, but it was in his power to close off that distance when he needed to and today he could use that. 

He farewelled Eos; she so often missed him but the opportunities to run the space station on her own that weren’t emergencies where he was incapacitated excited her. They showed how much he had come to trust and rely on her. Plus she got full reign of their virtual chess set.

On Earth, Scott was waiting for him as the elevator docked, his hands stuck casually in his jeans pockets but looking as pale and wobbly as John felt. His face was still tearstained.

“Hey.”

“Hey to you too.” John took a few heavy steps before throwing himself at Scott, wrapping his arms around his brother tightly, all the while careful not to knock him off balance. Scott stiffened then melted into John. 

Usually that interaction went the other way around. 

Scott used the extra height space gave John to rest his head on him without having to duck down like with everyone else. John hugged him close and comfortingly as his fingers tap tap tapped their rhythm at Scott’s shoulder. All of it meant I love you.

“Pasta time?” John said eventually.

Scott nodded silently, following when John started off towards the kitchen. The raw rock wall of the hanger was rough and vividly solid in its three dimensions, as John ran his hand along it for balance as he walked that initial part. He was touching the Earth, he was in the Earth, he was on Earth.

With cold water from the fridge dispenser and the fizzy, brightly coloured tablets shook out of their tube, John made up lidded cups of electrolyte drink for himself and Scott. John needed to be sculling the stuff perpetually to stay upright down here, and he would not be at all surprised if Scott was dehydrated too. It might to something for John’s headache, could go either way for the nausea coming on.

He put a large pot on the heat. One advantage of having a stove so high powered that it could nuke anything it touched was that any volume of water boiled fast. 

An entire packet of fettuccine got tipped into the enthusiastic cacophony of bubbles. John poked at it with a pasta scoop, regretting that he hadn’t snapped the long pieces to actually fit in better. Ah well. 

He shook in an excessive-to-anyone-not-him amount of salt with a shrug ‘cause he needed it, before having another go at separating the pasta. The pasta scoop was quite an effective implement for that, there were reasons after all it was Gordon’s favourite utensil as John remembered from previous discussions. One could also use it to mash potatoes when held vertically, if one so pleased. His second favourite was the tongs as they could be clicked like crab claws and used to pinch unsuspecting siblings. 

Scott watched from his place slumped over the kitchen bench on a stool, chewing on the ragged skin at the edge of his thumbnail. He was trying to work on a couple of screens pulled up as holomonitors, as unsuccessfully as could be expected. John came over and hopped up to sit on the bench, clipping through the projected email inbox and meeting minutes so Scott dismissed them. It was with a sigh of relief.

They smiled tiredly at each other.

The pasta! John tapped at his uniform comms watch. “Eos, set a timer for the pasta, please?” John shaved the minute that had already passed off of the box time and then another couple to ensure it wouldn’t come out mushy.

“So what sort of stuff on pasta do you feel like? There’s a good lot of options you were looking at earlier.”

“We don’t have the ingredients for most of those, I checked. No eggs and no mushrooms so no carbonara. Technically that wouldn’t be authentic carbonara though. No cream cheese. We missed this week’s supply run so we don’t even have any frozen peas!” Scott threw his hands up in the air.

“Hmmm. You feel like something creamy?”

“Yeah. Honestly at this point I’d eat anything.”

John swung his legs and tapped his fingers on the counter while he thought.

“I believe some bacon is hiding in the bottom of the freezer so that’s something. And…” he trailed of as he moved his head too fast and set off a wave of dizziness as he looked around the kitchen.

“Avocado!” Scott exclaimed.

“Avocado?”

“Funny story, we ended up with several cases of them after that rescue on that farm where we saved the whole village and nearly all their trees from catastrophic flooding. They really need eating too and there’s only so much toast you can stand.”

“I have heard theoretically of putting avo on pasta and it does sound good. Mmmm bacon and avocado, John hummed. “Worth a shot?”

Scott reached towards the fruit bowl in answer, grinning at John. “Soon we will have pasta!”

John peeled off the upper half of his uniform and tied the arms around his waist in preparation. In the subtropical summer down here he was already getting too hot and while the temperature regulation built into his suit would do its best to make up for his own body’s lack thereof, it felt weird to have everything covered up from fingertips to neck down here while he was cooking.

Scott began to giggle.

“Huh?” John said, extremely eloquently.

Scott gestured at him. 

“My suit?” Was something up with his suit? The full gloved hands and sleeves flopping about without John in them had been known to amuse the lot of them on occasion, ever since he’d used the empty suit as a phoney decoy of himself to trick Eos. It was pretty funny now no one was in mortal peril and Eos was his friend.

“Your face!” Scott exclaimed.

“What’s wrong with my face?” 

John frowned. Was it his fringe that never could survive true gravity? He hadn’t gotten freckles while he’d been down all of half an hour and inside, had he? Then he looked down.

His t-shirt had a photograph of his face printed on it, and across the chest, emblazoned in neon orange read the words ‘Space Face’, courtesy of one particular fish brother. Ah yes. That.

John sighed, resting his chin on his hand to hide the smile he couldn’t quite control. “Not exactly subtle, is it? In my defence this was the only one in my closet that was clean and you can’t exactly see it beneath my suit. It’s all Gordon’s fault anyway!”

Scott was still laughing, albeit a touch hysterically and at him, but John took it as a win regardless.

Eventually Scott grabbed himself a cutting board and knife to get to work on the avocados as John carefully slipped off the bench, steadying himself on the counter as his ankles went noodley so he could handle the bacon. 

Bacon, bacon, now where had he seen that bacon? He had the image of it in his head, but that was only one piece of the puzzle, a photograph, humanly imperfect, memory woven out of instinct. Digging about in the deep freeze which the evidence pointed to as best John could tell had his fingers feeling like he’d stuck them out in space with out gloves on. They ached sharply as John cursed his crappy circulation. 

He gladly found the bacon though, lurking at the second darkest depths. He would not be willing to venture into the midnight zone of Unidentified Frozen Objects and charred dinner leftovers put away for ‘later’. He chucked the packet into the microwave and thawed out his hands by running them under lukewarm water, wincing all the while. If he’d thought this through, if he’d been smart enough, he would’ve put his suit gloves back on—his space rated, cold proof, most definitely impervious to domestic appliances gloves— and saved himself the pain.

Scott came over to rinse his avocado green hands. He dried them off then wrapped his arms around John’s waist so he could lean on him, giving in for a moment in face of daunting gravity. With Scott, he could because Scott got him; they both could.

“You alright?” And there was big brother smotherhen coming out.

John flexed his defrosted fingers. “I will be.” He turned and smushed his face into Scott’s neck for a little bit, hugging back, Scott rested his head on John’s, and they stayed there for a while.

They were both fading. The pasta would help with that, Scott really needed to eat and so did John at this point, the half a dry bagel for breakfast and another at lunch hadn’t really been enough. The trick now was finishing the task that felt as if it expanding faster by the second than the Universe, as measured by the Hubble Constant was. They could do this though. Together.

Scott chopped up the bacon roughly and John cooked it, hissing back when it spat hot oil at him. 

When Eos notified them the timer had gone off, and John had very scientifically tested the pasta was done by nomming on a bit, he called Scott over carry the large pot to the colander in the sink to strain. 

“Gravity plus boiling water plus my space noodley arms are probably not a good combo,” he laughed. 

He was getting better at knowing his limits. Scott’s smile was small and proud, he saw John.

Scott stared at the bacon with the intensity of a starved wolf with its mouth watering, then stole some pieces hot from the pan and burnt his mouth. Scoff Tracy strikes again. 

They dumped the pasta in a big mixing bowl with the mashed avocado, a little lemon juice, the bacon, and a whole lot of salt, pepper and parmesan cheese, mixing it together with the big pasta scoop.

John swayed on his feet then, grabbing onto Scott to stay upright for long enough to decide actually the best place for him right now was sitting on the kitchen floor just here. John folded himself down to the ground in a slithering pile of too long, too bendy limbs, Scott wordlessly guiding his descent. 

“You want me to grab some sporks to eat with?”

“They’re splayds, technically,” John remarked. He gave Scott the thumbs up anyway, while he rested his spinning head on his knees.

Scott waved about his ‘sporks’ acquired from the cutlery draw with a victorious grin before he sunk to the ground to join John.

John took one, passing the pasta to Scott once he was settled, lanky legs stretched out for miles, bumping into John’s.

“We forgot plates,” Scott said.

John shrugged. “At this point, who cares. We have pasta.”

“We do.” Scott blinked for a moment. “I didn’t before and I wouldn’t’ve but now we do.”

He hugged the warm pasta bowl to his chest, and when John observed more closely he saw the tears collecting on Scott’s eyelashes, sparkling in the kitchen light as he looked up at John.

“Thanks. I love you so much, Jay.”

John gave him a gentle smile, ducking to knock his forehead against his brother’s shoulder like a cat. “Love is stored in the pasta.”

Scott smiled back at him and they both dug in.

It was good pasta.

Really good pasta, because he was here with Scott and through everything they had made it, together.

[edutainer2022]

In commemoration of that time, recently, when I delivered a conference keynote in a ridiculous o'clock timezone, after having been up and neck deep in other energy draining university commitments for three days straight on four hours of sleep at best, here's a little thing. I couldn't remember what I was talking about the minute the presentation ended. Scott Tracy is a public speaker extraordinaire on bingo sleep and adrenaline overdose. His brothers are worried and have to think on their feet. Special thanks to @astranite for nudging my muse in this direction.

AUTOPILOT

The trick was to get him off the stage. Scott Tracy, the Tracy Industries CEO, giving an opening keynote at the New Frontiers Expo had been scheduled a year in advance (involving the program committee begging on hands and knees for a year prior, Scott's annual commitments shuffling, some major security concessions, up to and including Kayo's team practically taking over the venue security altogether, as well as meeting a hard line of excluding any tech associated with Langstrom Fischler from the exhibits or conference talks).

Nobody could predict a mine collapse and Scott Tracy, the Commander of IR and Thunderbird One, being involved on site for the past thirty six hours (a good portion of that time spent underground without sleep).

The family medics' quorum, in full agreement with the family extended quorum, voted for canceling his public appearance and putting him on mandated rest. For a week. But Scott Tracy gave his word. So Scott Tracy gave his talk.

As keynotes go it was a huge success. Scott was passionate, funny and inspired, engaging the audience with dimples, moving personal touches and heartfelt convictions. The listeners were just about ready to "boldly go" wherever Scott would lead the way to a better, technologically enhanced and kinder tomorrow.

They divided forces in case the predictable worse actually came to pass. Virgil was behind the podium with a med kit and med scanner at hand. Gordon unironically got a tranq gun, which earned him a side-eye, but knowing Scott it might as well come handy.

John was in the audience, vigilant and listening to the keynote (and rather enjoying biggest brother public speaking prowess - seriously, how did Scott do it, half-dead on his feet?), ready to step up and take over if need be. That wouldn't be what the hundreds of Expo attendees payed and donated to R&D funds for, but they'd be getting A Dr. Tracy, at least, if The Mr. Tracy collapsed mid-sentence.

That was just the problem at the moment. Scott didn't. He concluded the speech, got a standing ovation, and was now just sort of hanging out on stage, swaying slightly. It was obvious he was running on dregs of fumes of an adrenaline high, refusing to crash on sheer willpower. It was also obvious Scott was completely unfocused and unaware where he was and what he'd been doing the minutes prior. The brilliant blue eyes were getting telltale glassy.

John had a FRANTIC Virgil booming in his earpiece. The public spotlight made the logistics of what needed to happen next tricky: they couldn't just drag him off the podium in a firefighter hold or tranq him - and spoil the profound impression of the speech; they also couldn't wait much longer till Scott fainted in front of everyone (and possibly injured himself by the fall). John was half on his way up to try and steer Scott bodily off the stage. Gordon would have been a better man for the job - dressing the thing up with a quip and some theatrics, but the Fish was still in uniform. IR on site, crashing the keynote, might have set off unwelcome panic, dangerous in a crowded space.

In the end, it was still Gordon's out-of-the-box thinking that saved the situation. They could all hear a boy's voice through their earpieces - Alan went for the highest littlest-brother-in-distress pitch he could master:

"Scotty, could you come here? I'm right behind you! Scotty, please!"

Scott could hear it too. A less exhausted brain would have remembered Allie was on the island still. They agreed Scott would take him the next day on a tour around the Expo and to several talks the kid wanted to attend.

But Scott's bandwidth capacity at the moment was reduced to the most rudimentary parent-brain instincts. So he started slightly, turned on his heel and marched backstage. It took a bit of flailing to placate a wild-eyed Scott that a) Allie wasn't in danger; b) Allie wasn't there immediately available for inspection and protecting from danger.

It came as close as Gordon clicking the safety off the tranq gun. But finally, the blue eyes stopped searching the perimeter behind Virgil's shoulder and rolled back. Scott slumped as a ragdoll in Virgil's hold.

John rushed to join the brothers the moment he heard Alan on comms. In between the three of them they settled the Commander on a hoverstrecher. Virgil insisted on a quick scan on the spot. Nothing more serious beyond bruises, exhaustion, stress and dehydration. Small mercies. Every single one of them had a private itemized inventory of possible injuries Scott might have "forgotten" to mention in order to be cleared for the keynote commitment.

Kayo's security team were clearing the path for them, off the Expo busy routes, to leave for Thunderbird Two discretely.

John lingered to brush the fringe off Scott's now noticeably pale forehead. His original intent was to go straight back to orbit after the biggest brother was sorted out. But now, there was no way Grandma or Virgil would let Scott out of the infirmary for the next forty eight hours at least. Nor would Virgil let biggest brother out of his sight for at least twice as long after. So it would fall to John to take Alan to the Expo and show the boy around.

John didn't favor crowded bustling places on a good day, but it was crucial not to disappoint or worry the kid. Scotty unconscious, sedated and grounded would have him anxious enough. It was also a great bonding opportunity with the baby-brother and a way to lift a bit of weight off Scott's shoulders. John knew biggest brother enough to foresee he'd beat himself up for succumbing to weakness and letting Alan down. John couldn't have that. So he landed a hand for support on Gordon's shoulder and all together they started the way home.

[rocknbolan]

Not at all comprehensive list of rock star relationships.

Skid Row: (Cause that's MY band bishes.)

Sebastian Bach: Axl Rose, Rachel Bolan Rachel Bolan: Sebastian Bach, Scotti Hill Scotti Hill: Snake Sabo, Rachel Bolan Snake Sabo: Scotti Hill Rob Affuso: Not on this site. Do not let him on this site he is innocent. (we're a little insular here if you can't tell)

Guns 'n' Roses: Axl Rose: Sebastian Bach Steven Adler: Duff McKagan Duff McKagan: Steven Adler Slash: Nikki Sixx Izzy Stradlin: Letti

Hanoi Rocks:

Razzle Dingley: Michael Monroe Michael Monroe: Razzle Dingley Sami Yaffa: Nasty Nasty: Sami Yaffa

Motley Crue: Vince Neil: Tommy Lee Tommy Lee: Vince Neil Nikki Sixx: Slash Mick Mars: ??? (Maybe the hookah smoking caterpillar knows.)

Cinderella: Tom Keifer Eric Brittingham Eric Brittingham: Tom Keifer Fred Coury: ??? (Go ask Alice, I think she knows.)

Poison:

Bret Michaels: C.C. Deville

Bon Jovi:

Jon Bon Jovi: Ritchie Sambora Ritchie Sambora: Jon Bon Jovi

Nirvana:

Kurt Cobain: Courtney Love Krist Novoselic: Melissa Auf de Maur Dave Grohl: ??? (An anon maybe?) Hole:

Courtney Love: Kurt Cobain Melissa Auf de Maur: Krist Novoselic

Metallica: James Hetfield: ??? (I'm not asking he bites I hear.) Ron McGovney: ??? (An enigma wrapped in bacon) Lars Ulrich: Kirk Hammet Kirk Hammet: Lars Ulrich Jason Newstead: Marcus Marcus (last name?): Jason Newstead Cliff Burton: Nancy Burton Nancy Burton: Cliff Burton

Megadeth: Dave Mustaine: Marty Friedman Nick Menza: ??? (Tell me for the Vine.) Marty Friedman: Dave Mustaine

If there are others I don't know! Enlighten me so I can add it here.

[puckpocketed]

Published on The Coaches Site Live 24th May 2024: How Barry Smith’s Left Wing Lock changed hockey forever - author unclear ?? (link // archive link)

In a system similar to the trap, as your opponent breaks out with the puck, the left winger drops back from his normal position, almost lining up as a third defenseman, and moves the other defenders to their right – creating a 2-3 alignment. The centre moves over towards the spot where the left winger would be and the right winger is coming across to push the puck to the left side of the ice and try to create turnovers. The entire unit would have to read off each other, knowing exactly where everyone was going to be and being able to cover if things broke down. If the left winger has a chance to go at the puck carrier to create a turnover, the centre drops back and the right winger moves to the middle. It’s seamless when executed properly. It can be a mess if it’s not.

Full text under the cut. Squirelling this one away because I don't want to lose it. Apologies for no image IDs. Some really fun stuff about that era of the Red Wings and the story behind the tactics.

The Detroit Red Wings had to do something.

Detroit had all the pieces to be a championship team. In the 1993-94 season, they finished 46-30-8, totalling 100 points and finishing first in the NHL’s Western Conference.

The two previous seasons ended with semifinal losses, despite regular season point totals of 103 and 98 respectively.

In the first round of the 1993-94 playoffs, Detroit hosted the 8th-seed San Jose Sharks, who were making their first appearance in the Stanley Cup playoffs in franchise history.

Their run would last longer than the mighty Red Wings.

Detroit led the series 2-1, then trailed it 3-2, before scoring a 7-1 victory at home to force a Game 7.

As it turned out, their win in Game 6 was their last of the year.

Jamie Baker scored at 13:25 of the 3rd period and the Sharks eliminated Detroit with a 3-2 win at Joe Louis Arena.

It was the first time an eighth seed beat a top seed in NHL history.

I remember it well.

I was a 13-year-old, who was just really starting to get into hockey, living in Windsor, Ontario.

At the risk of sounding like Sarah Palin’s ill-fated line about Russia, I could see Detroit from my house.

The Red Wings had endured, at that time, nearly 40 years without the Stanley Cup. They had a Hall of Fame Head Coach, a line-up as deep as any in history and a fan base starving for something to celebrate.

The Detroit Red Wings had to do something.

A visit to Sweden that summer by Red Wings Assistant Coach Barry Smith set off what would be the Team of the Decade, the birth of a system that changed the way Detroit played and altered the history of hockey.

“I went over to Sweden, I had some friends over there, and there were a couple of systems I was looking at,” Smith recalls. “With European hockey, playing on the big ice sheet, there are a lot of things they can do there that we can’t do here, but what they were doing was interesting.”

Detroit was a very offensive-minded group, yet Scotty Bowman, their Head Coach, knew defence won championships.

As Smith remembers with that team, they could win 6-4 or 7-5 but had no way of winning 2-1, and a 1-0 victory was completely off the charts.

They did not have the mentality for that.

“If you can’t play defence, I don’t know how much success you’re going to have,” Smith admits. “There are only so many track meets you can win with, so this gave us a chance to play good two-way hockey.”

“I wanted to offset our offence with better defence,” he continues. “We figured out if we did a better job in the neutral zone, our defence would have a much easier job of identifying what the rush was and because we had a good offensive team, we were looking for turnovers and that quick strike mentality.”

“With our left D being as good as they were, we could play those two guys 30 minutes each, so we were good on that side of the ice,” Smith boasts. “I sat down with Scotty that summer, and we talked about this system and called it Left Side Back, which sets up, so you’ve got your left defenseman in the middle of the ice.”

In a system similar to the trap, as your opponent breaks out with the puck, the left winger drops back from his normal position, almost lining up as a third defenseman, and moves the other defenders to their right – creating a 2-3 alignment.

The centre moves over towards the spot where the left winger would be and the right winger is coming across to push the puck to the left side of the ice and try to create turnovers.

The entire unit would have to read off each other, knowing exactly where everyone was going to be and being able to cover if things broke down.

If the left winger has a chance to go at the puck carrier to create a turnover, the centre drops back and the right winger moves to the middle.

It’s seamless when executed properly. It can be a mess if it’s not.

Roots of the Left Wing Lock appear to have originated in Czechoslovakia, as a way to survive games against the dominant Soviet Union teams of the 1970s.

Taking pieces from the neutral zone trap, the left wing drops back in line with the defenseman, where the trap would force the puck carrier out of the middle of the ice and seal off the boards, which not only made it hard to make passes in the neutral zone but also prevented teams carrying the puck into the offensive end – resulting in a lot more dump and chase.

“Teams in Sweden,” Smith says, “were playing a torpedo system at the time, which was two wingers racing out of the zone and playing way up by the offensive blueline was a bit too much and I wasn’t sure the guys would buy into it.”

Barry Smith and the coaching staff brought the system into training camp in the 1994-95 season and he says the transition was pretty easy to teach.

The players, Smith says, weren’t skeptical of it at all.

“The left D loved it because it gave them a chance to freewheel, go back and create offence,” Smith expressed. “It also put the centre in the middle of the ice a lot, which they liked, so if you can have the middle of the ice-covered by your two best players, you have something positive happening.”

As Smith explains, coaching-wise, there is no one single system that is successful. A system just means where you are trying to line up and play off each other.

“It helped us create turnovers and create scoring chances off those turnovers, have less shots in our end, it helped us not play in our zone very much,” Smith highlights. “If the left wing has a chance to pressure and go, he’s gone, and we immediately have to take that spot. In the D zone if the right D stood up at the blue line and the puck got into the right corner, now the left D has to go and the left winger has to move into the middle, which is not normal for him, and the centre plays in the spot. Everyone had to be in sync.”

Smith emphasizes it’s the execution and it’s the players that have to understand the teaching points that make it work.

“Nothing works if the players don’t buy in,” Smith points out a few times in our talk. “We had a great leadership group, and we couldn’t have done anything without them being ok with it or understanding it so when we first brought the idea to them, they jumped on. I know the two left D were smiling.”

The team had the benefit back then of the two-line pass, a rule the NHL eventually removed in 2005.

At the time, teams could not pass the puck directly across two lines coming out of their own zone – the defensive blueline and the centre ice redline.

With a shortened neutral zone passing rule, the Left Wing Lock was even more formidable.

“Whatever team you have, whatever they think they are going to use, you have to understand what your players can do, and you have to honestly evaluate your team,” Smith continues. “In a football analogy, if you’re deciding you want to go to a West Coast offence, but your quarterback can’t read past one pass pattern, you have no chance.”

The system started working.

In the strike-shortened 1994-95 season, Detroit once again finished first in the Western Conference and cruised through the playoffs, beating Dallas in five games, sweeping San Jose and stopping Chicago in five before crashing to a halt in the Stanley Cup Final, being swept by Martin Brodeur, Scott Stevens and the New Jersey Devils.

The left-wing lock, despite the major shift in entertainment value for the fans, was turning things around.

“At that time, there was no redline, so that really stymied teams that tried to stretch you and honestly, we could sometimes go an entire period without the other team getting through our blueline,” Smith details. “I think the opposition got stymied because they had pressure on the forecheck and the neutral zone, it wasn’t like the 1-3-1 where you are sitting back a bit, we were on top of you, creating chances in the offensive zone because both guys could pinch hard along the boards, it really worked for what we were trying to do and it was extremely effective.”

Another famed part of Detroit’s hockey history was born from this system.

With all the offence these teams had – guys like Sergei Fedorov, Steve Yzerman and Brendan Shanahan – it was three hard-nosed, lunch bucket players, like the city itself, that became fan favourites.

The Grind Line.

“It was our secret sauce in the 1990s,” shares former Red Wings right winger, Darren McCarty. “Scotty Bowman knew his team so well and what he had and when it was Kirk Maltby and Kris Draper and I, it was so much more important for us to not allow goals than it was to score goals. We took a lot of pride in that.”

The three, along with Joey Kocur, became as formidable a group as the top scoring units. As an opponent, if you were matched up against the Grind Line, you were in for a long night.

McCarty looks back fondly on when the system was installed.

“I loved it because as the right winger, I didn’t have a lot of responsibility other than chasing the puck,” he remembers. “I’m not the best skater, I had good hockey IQ, but Draper and Maltby were the best penalty killers in the era, so I got to open up some physicality and really jump into it. Especially in the playoffs, we would just shut teams down, there was no answer to it.”

Maltby agrees.

“Obviously, we had success with it. It didn’t take a real long time to get used to it, but you had to learn sometimes you want to finish a check or run around a bit but at times that wasn’t the role, you had to be patient and allow your linemates to do what they were doing, but once the puck was turned over, especially in the offensive zone, it was time to go.”

Maltby was a latecomer to the Detroit run, he joined the team for the 1995-96 season after a trade from Edmonton but would spend the next 14 seasons wearing the Winged Wheel.

“Coming from Edmonton, we were a young team, so I was learning the NHL game and then ended up in Detroit, which was a well-coached team with a ton of talent and expectations,” Maltby explains. “We didn’t play Detroit that much and I don’t remember seeing the lock very much to be honest, because they had the puck the whole time.”

“The first thing I remember with Barry, I was new, and I didn’t really know anyone on the team, but he came up to me and we were talking and his first question to me was “Can you skate backwards?” Maltby laughs, “I thought it was a bit of a joke because at the NHL level, everyone can. I didn’t really know how to answer it, I thought I was almost being set up for a joke or something.”

Smith was quick to credit The Grind Line for their adaptation of the lock.

“We had good players in Detroit and they weren’t just good players because of their skill, they were good players because they had hockey sense and hockey IQ,” Smith highlights. “Especially that group, with their reads, it was automatic. If the left winger is gone, the centre comes back. I remember later on, we could play guys like Draper, Maltby and Kocur or McCarty and those guys could all rotate together, that’s how good they were covering for each other.”

Going from a heavily offensive-minded, run and gun team to a defensive lock, a tight system could not have been easy for everyone.

These teams were not only built on skill and speed, the hockey IQ was off the charts.

“It did change some of the guy’s roles from the previous way of playing where we used to freelance. Now there’s more responsibility for the left side and the centre and you gave your right wing a little more freedom because he was the pressure guy,” Smith admits. “I think the simplicity of it helped because there weren’t a lot of rotational reads to it.”

“The less you make a player think, the more likely you are to have success. You can’t play thinking, you have to be ready to go in microseconds, so I can’t screw up their reads or their anticipation of the actual game.”

Trust is a word that came up a lot in these conversations.

Darren McCarty hit on it a couple of times.

“The biggest thing when you are introduced to a new system is that it just takes time, but we had such great skill it caught on really quick,” McCarty says. “It gave us an extra weapon, we trusted the system and we trusted the other guys would be in the right spot and I didn’t have to think, I can just go because those guys know what I was thinking.”

Kirk Maltby was no different.

“I feel like part of it was hockey sense but a good part of it is chemistry and trust,” Maltby reiterates. “You need all that to go along with any system you’re playing. For me, once we got playing a few games we just complimented each other the way we all played, how Scotty wanted us to play that system and we read each other well, we knew what we were trying to accomplish as individuals playing a team sport.”

The Detroit Red Wings broke through in 1996-97.

They took down St Louis in six games, swept the Mighty Ducks in the semifinals and then, in a series that may have meant more to Red Wings fans than the Cup itself, knocked off Patrick Roy, Claude Lemieux, Peter Forsberg, Joe Sakic and company, finishing Colorado in six.

I remember watching that goal in the sunroom of my parent’s house.

Poor Janne Niinimaa.

Just this past year, my son and I went to Little Caesars Arena on a night that ended up being Darren McCarty Night.

They showed his two crowning moments over and over, the Stanley Cup goal and the Claude Lemieux turtle.

I couldn’t pick a favourite, but the goal still gives any Red Wings fan chills.

“You can’t sustain any system if you aren’t having success,” Smith states. “If it’s not working for you, I don’t know how long you are keeping with that system until someone says ‘time out, there must be a better way to play.’”

Smith brought the system to Assistant Dave Lewis and Head Coach Scotty Bowman and they had found their missing piece.

“One of the most amazing things about Scotty was his ability to ask questions to everybody. He goes and gets a haircut and comes back with a new forecheck,” Smith chuckles. “He hears a lot of people and he’s not afraid to try new things. Once he understood the nuances of it, he’s got such a good hockey mind – and still does – and so if you bring him something where we are able to put our best players in a position to be successful and we can create defence so the opposition can’t get into our zone, he’s all for that.”

Could it work in the NHL now?

The consensus is split.

“I don’t know if it would work in today’s NHL without the clutching and grabbing, but my responsibility was just to lock a guy up, wrap your stick around his waist or chase the puck and try to create havoc,” McCarty chimes in.

Maltby doubles down on that thinking.

“I don’t know if it would work with every team in the league but with this group, we had so much skill, guys who were good skaters and we had elite defensemen, this system just allowed us to have the puck more and then create turnovers or force teams to make plays they don’t want to, which allowed us to get the puck back.”

Smith’s take is a bit different.

“In today’s game it’s easy because everyone is 1-2-3 now, if you take a look at Colorado right now and what Cale Makar can do, he would be in the rush all the time, which is great because he’s better than most of your forwards.”

The game is constantly evolving.

Detroit evolved too.

“For the longest time, the league couldn’t figure it out,” McCarty boasts. “But when they did, we evolved, and it became the Russian Five. The Grind Line was the same though, we didn’t want the puck because we wanted to hunt after it and when we got it, we’d give it back so we could hit guys.”

Detroit took a very similar path the next season.

Mission accomplished.

The Detroit Red Wings did something.

The left wing lock turned out to be the final piece of the puzzle.

As I put this article together, I watched some old games and highlights and scrolled through name after name of some of the most elite players that came through The Joe at that time, I had to ask Barry Smith:

Could the whole system have even worked if Detroit didn’t have a Hall of Fame roster?

Smith laughs.

“I don’t know. If we would have had great right defence, maybe we would have called it Right Side Back.”

[anonymousewrites]

Logos and Pathos (AOS Edition) Chapter Twelve

AOS! Spock x Empath! Reader

Chapter Twelve: Manhunt Mission

Summary: Kirk is given an assignment to find Harrison, but Spock and (Y/N) are not fans of it, even with their desire to honor Pike's memory.

            “(Y/N),” said Spock.

            (Y/N) hummed noncommittedly as they stared out the window as the Starfleet HQ building was reconstructed. The sunlight made it all seem so normal, everyday. But everyone knew that the tragedy had occurred. (Y/N) blinked away the ghost of Pike’s deathly emotions.

            “Mister Scott found something in the wreckage of Harrison’s ship,” said Spock.

            (Y/N) faced him. “Found something?”

            “I already called the Commander,” said Spock, referring to Kirk.

            “Let’s go,” said (Y/N), standing. They refused to let Pike’s killer go without facing justice. They’d help Kirk and Spock find Harrison, and then they’d bring him to court to face the consequences of his actions.

l

            Kirk, Spock, and (Y/N) sprinted to the crash site, ignoring the strange looks some people gave them. Scotty looked up as he noticed them.

            “Captain! I found this in the crashed jump ship, sir!” He handed over a piece of machinery.

            “What do you mean?” asked Kirk, looking at it.

            “It’s a portable transwarp beaming device,” explained Scotty.

            “Well, can you figure out where he went?” asked Kirk.

            (Y/N) glanced at Kirk as his anger burned along his skin. (Y/N) was attempting to find peace and focus on justice for Pike’s death, but Kirk…he was furious at Harrison.

            “I already did, sir,” said Scotty. “And you’re not gonna like it.” He pointed at the coordinates. “He’s gone to the one place we…we just can’t go.”

            Klingon space.

            Kirk frowned, and his frustration flared. (Y/N) furrowed their brow.

            “I’m going to speak to Admiral Marcus,” said Kirk, turning and hurrying away.

            “What?” said (Y/N), moving after him.

            “Commander, we cannot cross into Klingon space,” said Spock, following him.

            But Kirk was determined to speak to Marcus anyway.

l

            As straightforward as ever, Kirk barged into Marcus’s meeting. “Admiral, sir, he’s not on Earth. He’s on Kronos, sir.” He stared at the admiral. “I request my command be reinstated and your permission to go after him.”

            Marcus was silent before looking at the men he was with. “Give us a minute.” The men got up, and Marcus walked towards his office. Kirk, (Y/N), and Spock followed. “Kronos.”

            “Yes, sir,” said Kirk.

            “So Harrison’s gone to the Klingon homeworld,” said Marcus, biting the words out in frustration. “Is he defecting?”

            “Uh, we’re not sure, sir,” said Kirk.

            “He has taken refuge in the Ketha Province, a region uninhabited for decades,” said Spock.

            “He’s gotta be hiding there, sir!” said Kirk. “He knows if we even go near Klingon space, it’d be an all-out war. Starfleet can’t go after him, but I can.”

            Spock and (Y/N) looked at each other before staring at Kirk as he continued. This anger, this desire for revenge, it was so bright. (Y/N) worried Kirk would be blinded by it.

            “Please, sir,” said Kirk.

            Marcus was quiet, clearly thinking, before responding. “All-out war with the Klingons is inevitable, Mr. Kirk.”

            (Y/N) was unsettled with the confidence of Marcus’s words. Why would he believe a war was coming? Nothing had happened in years…

            “If you ask me, it’s already begun…” he trailed off darkly. Marcus paced his office and examined his model starships. “Since we first learned of their existence, the Klingon Empire has conquered and occupied two planets that we know of and fired on our ships half a dozen times.” He stared at the biggest model, a dark blue-grey, bigger than the Enterprise-style model beside it. “They are coming our way.”

            (Y/N) frowned. Marcus’s emotions were a cloud around him, understandable for the topic, but that didn’t change the fact that his certainty of war was disconcerting.

            Marcus faced them. “London was not an archive. It was a top-secret branch of Starfleet designated Section 31. They were developing defense technology and training our officers to gather intelligence on the Klingons and any other potential threat who means to do us harm.”

            But we do not have people seeking to harm us. The Klingons have not actively sought battle in years, thought (Y/N). This preemptive desire for weaponry reminded them of incidents throughout planets over centuries where wars for precisely these reasons raged and destroyed countless lives. (Y/N) didn’t want Starfleet to become a part of that.

            “Harrison was one of our top agents,” said Marcus, looking at Kirk.

For a second, his eyes flicked to (Y/N), and they didn’t mistake the ever-so-slight twinge of nervousness—almost fear—accompanying the words. More fear of Harrison? What he’s capable of? What he knows? (Y/N) didn’t like how much was secret about the situation.

            “Well, now he’s a fugitive, and I want to take him out,” said Kirk coldly, his anger flaring.

            “ ‘Take him out?’ Captain—” began (Y/N), not liking the murderous implications of the words. That wasn’t the right thing to do.

            “Pike always said you were one of our best and brightest,” said Marcus, smiling. “You should have heard him defend you. He’s the one who talked you into joining Starfleet, isn’t he?”

            (Y/N)’s stomach twisted as positive emotions swirled in Kirk at the comparison. He wanted to pay Harrison back for killing Pike, and Marcus knew that. It felt almost…manipulative. But Marcus was a Starfleet admiral. He didn’t…he couldn’t have bad intentions. He knew protocol and understood what was at stake. Perhaps he was just encouraging Kirk legitimately.

            Still…(Y/N) felt their instincts go cold.

            “Yes, sir,” replied Kirk.

            “Did he ever tell you who talked him into joining?” remarked Marcus. He sighed. “His death is on me. And yours can’t be.”

            “Sir, please,” said Kirk. “All I—”

            “Mr. Spock, you said the province where Harrison is hiding is uninhabited?” said Marcus.

            “Affirmative, sir,” said Spock.

            Marcus considered before speaking. “As part of our defense strategy, 31 developed a new photon torpedo.” He pressed a button, and a hologram popped up. “Long-range and untraceable, it would be invisible to Klingon sensors. I don’t want you hurt, but I want to take him out. You park at the edge of the neutral zone, you lock onto Harrison’s position, you fire, you kill him, and you haul ass.”

            “Sir, isn’t Starfleet protocol to only use deadly force if necessary?” said (Y/N).

            “It is,” said Marcus.

            “Then shouldn’t capturing Harrison and returning him for judgement in the eyes of the law be our priority?” asked (Y/N). “Sir,” they added.

            Marcus’s now-familiar fear regarding Harrison flashed, and he straightened. “He has been deemed too dangerous to be approached now. Deadly force is necessary against him to keep more people from being killed.” He narrowed his eyes. “Is that understood, Lieutenant?”

            (Y/N) was silent for a pointed amount of time. “Yes, sir.”

            “Permission to reinstate Mr. Spock as my First Officer,” said Kirk instantly.

            Spock furrowed his brow, but Marcus nodded and said, “Granted.”

            “And I want Mx. (L/N) for Communications and Negotiations,” said Kirk.

            Marcus hesitated, and (Y/N) was tempted to narrow their eyes. Clearly, their hesitancy to go along on an assassination mission had upset him.

            “If someone goes wrong near Klingon space, their expertise is invaluable. I know of no better officer,” said Kirk.

            Marcus nodded curtly. “Very well. Granted.”

l

            “What do you think of this mission?” asked (Y/N) as they and Spock walked towards the shuttle to go to the Enterprise.

            “I understand it is necessary due to Harrison’s danger, but it feels like quite a risk,” said Spock.

            (Y/N) nodded. “He needs to be apprehended, but this feels like a lot.” They frowned. “And Admiral Marcus…I don’t know, there was just something weird about his emotions.” They sighed. “I was probably reading too much into them.”

            “Section 31 was highly classified,” said Spock. “It is possible there are variables we aren’t sure of. However, I do not know why the Admiral would want to keep any vital facts from us.”

            “I don’t know, either,” said (Y/N), shaking their head and sitting down. “And I’m worried about Kirk. His anger is deep, and I don’t want it to keep him from making good decisions.”

            Spock sat down beside them. “I agree. We should try to keep an eye out for further warning signs. I do not want to accuse him of such, but undue emotional responses could put the crew at risk.”

            “I don’t think Kirk will do that. He cares about all of us too much,” said (Y/N) decidedly. Even if his anger was blinding him, Kirk wouldn’t put the people he cared about in harm’s way. No way. “But I also don’t like this mission. It goes against who Kirk is and what Starfleet stands for.”

            Spock nodded. “It is against common regulation. And it goes against what Federation law stands for in the case of justice.”

            Speaking of Kirk, he and Bones entered the shuttle a moment later. His anger still burned in him, and Bones looked more displeased than usual. Clearly, Kirk’s emotional distress was still spiraling.

            Alright, so that did concern (Y/N).

            “Status report, Mr. Spock,” said Kirk, sitting down next to them. Bones sat behind him and tried to scan him sneakily.

            “The Enterprise should be ready for launch by the time we arrive,” confirmed Spock.

            “Good, good,” said Kirk.

            “Captain,” said Spock, and Kirk looked at him. “Thank you for requesting my reinstatement.”

            “And mine,” said (Y/N).

            “You’re welcome,” said Kirk, smiling.

            “As I am again your First Officer, it is now my duty to inform you that I strongly object to the mission parameters,” said Spock.

            “I do, too,” said (Y/N), nodding firmly.

            “There is no Starfleet regulation that condemns a man to die without a trial, something you and Admiral Marcus are forgetting,” said Spock.

            Kirk blinked but ignored them.

            “And preemptively firing torpedoes at the Klingon homeworld goes against—”

            “You yourself said the area’s uninhabited,” said Kirk. “There’s only going to be one casualty. Our orders have nothing to do with Starfleet regulation.”

            “Wait a minute, we’re firing torpedoes at Klingons?!” said Bones, alarmed.

            “That makes us nothing more than a rogue ship looking to hunt someone down and kill them. It makes us a military operation, and that’s not who we’re supposed to be.” (Y/N) frowned. “This shouldn’t be a revenge mission, Captain. This should be a mission to deliver a man to court to face justice.”

            “It is morally wrong,” said Spock firmly.

            “Regulations aside, pulling your ass out of a volcano was morally right,” snapped Kirk. “And I didn’t get any points for that. I’m not gonna take ethics lessons from a robot.”

            “Jim,” hissed (Y/N), narrowing their eyes at the insult.

            Kirk looked away from them and winced.

            Spock glanced warmly at (Y/N), surprised by their instant defense of him. Fortunately, he could also handle this and was not offended. He’d been called far worse.

            “Reverting to name-calling suggests that you are defensive and therefore find our opinion valid,” said Spock matter-of-factly.

            “I wasn’t asking for your opinion,” snapped Kirk, still on edge. He glared at Bones, still scanning him. “Bones, get that thing off my face.”

            Bones rolled his eyes and glanced worriedly at Kirk before pulling back.

            “Captain, our mission could start a war with the Klingons, and it is still extremely immoral, no matter how you slice it,” said (Y/N).

            “Perhaps you should take the requisite time to arrive at this conclusion for yourself,” said Spock.

            Kirk took a deep breath and was about to respond when someone stepped up.

            “Captain Kirk,” said a woman with short blond hair. She smiled, but there was nothing but nervousness in her emotions. “Science Officer Wallace.”

            (Y/N) cocked their head. They had never met her, so it was a new officer on the Enterprise. That would explain the nerves since meeting a new captain could be intimidating.

            “I’ve been assigned to the Enterprise by Admiral Marcus,” she said, still accompanied by nerves somewhat. She held out a holopad. “These are my transfer orders.”

            “You requested an additional science officer, Captain?” said Spock, a bit offended. (An offense to his lineage he could take, but his intelligence? Outrageous.)

            “I wish I had,” said Kirk, all smiles and pleasant emotions now that the pretty person stood in front of him. “ ‘Lieutenant Carol Wallace.’ ”

            Wallace glanced furtively at Spock and (Y/N) as her name was spoken, and the nerves shot through her again. Now it was suspicious. (Y/N) didn’t give away their suspicions by looking at Spock, but they knew he felt the same. He was as observant as they were.

            “ ‘Doctor in applied physics, specializing in advanced weaponry,’ ” read Kirk.

            Weaponry like the torpedoes? Wondered (Y/N).

            “Impressive credentials,” said Spock.

            “Thank you,” said Wallace.

            “But redundant now that I am back aboard the Enterprise,” said Spock.

            “And yet, the more the merrier.” Kirk could get back at Spock in this tiny, petty way. “Have a seat, Doctor.”

            “Thank you,” said Wallace.

            “Welcome aboard,” said (Y/N), and Wallace smiled before walking away. (Y/N) patted Spock’s arm encouragingly. “Don’t worry, dear, we all knew who the best Science Officer here is.”

Spock straightened, encouraged despite the boost being more towards his ego rather than facts. (Y/N) always had such an effect on him. He touched their hand in thanks and a small kiss.

            “Oh, god, we’re never going to humble him if you keep being so nice,” grumbled Bones, as grouchy as ever despite his emotions holding no real anger.

            (Y/N) chuckled. “Bones, one day you’ll find someone to love and support you, too.”

            “If I ever become as sappy as you two, shoot me into space.”

            “Doctor, that would be murder. We cannot agree to it.”

l

            When Kirk, Spock, and (Y/N) walked into the Engineering section, they weren’t expecting to see Scotty on a warpath huffing and puffing and arguing with the delivery workers on board.

            “No! I’m not signing anything! Now get these bloody things off my ship!” Scotty noticed them and threw his hands up. “Captain!”

            “Is there a problem, Scotty?” asked Kirk.

            “Aye, sir.” Scotty calmed enough to speak clearly. “I was just explaining to this gentleman that I cannot authorize any weapons on board this ship without knowing what’s inside them.” He gestured to the sleek torpedo.

            (Y/N) looked at it. Admiral Marcus’s “gifts” had arrived. “Captain, Scotty makes another point you should consider. We have no idea what these are. We can’t fire these without knowing—”

            “Report to the Bridge, (L/N),” said Kirk, turning back to them. He looked at Spock. “You, too, Spock.”

(Y/N) pursed their lips. “Yes, Captain.”

“Captain,” acknowledged Spock fairly coldly.

He and (Y/N) exchanged glances as they walked towards the elevator. Yet again, Kirk was ignoring warning signs about this mission.

l

            “Captain on the Bridge,” announced Chekov as Kirk arrived. Everyone was dressed and ready for departure.

            “Sulu,” greeted Kirk, but (Y/N) noticed the exhaustion and sadness of his emotions. Something else had gone wrong, and his emotions remained spiraling.

            “Captain,” said Sulu, taking his seat.

            Kirk leaned over Chekov’s seat. “Mr. Chekov, you’ve been shadowing Mr. Scott. You are familiar with the engineering systems of this ship?”

            “Affirmative, sir,” said Chekov, nodding.

            “Good,” said Kirk. “You’re my new Chief. Go put on a red shirt.”

            “Aye, Captain,” said Chekov, surprised but rising to get ready.

            (Y/N)’s head snapped towards Kirk. “Captain? Did something happen to Scotty?”

            “He left,” said Kirk, swallowing as sadness clouded his emotions.

            He didn’t want to let the torpedoes come on board… (Y/N)’s eyes creased in worry. Oh, Scotty. Let’s hope your warnings don’t go to waste.

            “Retract all moorings, Sulu,” said Kirk, sitting in his chair.

            “Yes, sir,” said Sulu.

            The Enterprise moved into space.

            “Lieutenant Uhura, open a shipwide channel,” said Kirk.

            “Yes, sir,” said Uhura, taking her seat after squeezing (Y/N)’s shoulder comfortingly.

            After everything that had happened, (Y/N) needed the support and smiled at Uhura in thanks.

            “Mr. Chekov, how are we looking down there?” asked Kirk while Uhura prepared the channel.

            “All systems normal, Captain,” said Chekov. “Warp available at your command.”

            “Thank you, Mr. Chekov,” said Kirk. He nodded to Sulu. “Alright. Let’s ride.”

            “Yes, sir,” said Sulu. He pushed the level forward, and the Enterprise went into warp.

            “Channel open, sir,” said Uhura.

            “Attention, crew of the Enterprise,” said Kirk. “As most of you know, Christopher Pike, former captain of this ship and our friend, is dead.” He swallowed as the anger and grief washed over him again. “The man who killed him has fled our system and is hiding on the Klingon homeworld, somewhere he believes we are unwilling to go. We are on our way there now. It is imperative that our presence remains undetected. Tensions between the Federation and the Klingon Empire have been high. Any provocation could lead to an all-out war.”

            He paused, emotions clouded and confused. He looked around at his Bridge crew, his people. Kirk swallowed. He turned back to Spock and (Y/N), gazing back at him evenly. He turned back and took a breath.

            “I will personally lead a landing party to an abandoned city on the surface of Kronos where we will capture the fugitive, John Harrison, and return him to Earth so he can face judgement for his actions.” Kirk chose justice over vengeance. He knew, deep down, that’s what Pike would have wanted him to do.

            He cleared his throat. “Alright. Let’s go get this son of a bitch. Kirk out.”

            Hesitantly, Kirk glanced back at (Y/N) and Spock as they walked up behind him.

            “Captain, I believe you have made the right decision,” said Spock. “If I can be of assistance, I would be happy to accompany you on the way away team.

            “You? Happy?” Kirk smiled wryly.

            “I was simply attempting to use your vernacular to convey an idea,” said Spock.

            “Thank you, Spock,” said Kirk.

            “I’m always here to help. If I came down with you, I could track Harrison with his emotions,” said (Y/N).

            Kirk smiled. “Thank you, (L/N).”

            They nodded, and Spock turned away. (Y/N) paused, though, and touched Kirk’s shoulder. “Captain. Pike would have been proud.”

            Kirk smiled sadly. He hoped so.

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[nightwriter357]

I made something horrible and also amazing

sooo.. I kinda wanted to record Spencers cover of "scotty dosen't know" from my series "Are you just playing with me" but I ran into some trouble..

I don't sound like spencer (and I don't know how to make myself sound like I do in the mixing), or even like a man.

I don't really know who to record and don't own any software or equipment.

I recorded some awful versions but it did not work, which sucks because it was so fucking fun to put in audio from smosh videos to use as the casts reactions to the song.

So before I just gave up and went to bed, I found this site https://app.songr.ai/ and it's the best this ever. I put in the lyrics and chose the only male voice so NOW, we have a song. But it's the wrong voice and it's not addepted to the music I had in mind. It sounds horrible but it's also sooo funny I HAD to share.

Also, for those of you who haven't read the series but are planning to, please read it before you listen to this song, it will ruin it for you.

[ambrossart]

Writing Update (12/28/2024)

Paper Men

I almost have the preview finished, but now I don't know what to do with it.

I'm trying to lay low in the fandom right now, so maybe I'll just post it with very limited tags? Would that work? I don't know.

I love having discussions about the story and about the Bowers gang in general, but now... now I just feel weird about it.

Anyway, since AO3 is now my primary site, I'm gonna be changing the way Paper Men is structured there. I'm gonna turn it into a series and each season/part will be its own story within the series.

That way, people can read each part/season without being overwhelmed by the enormous chapter count and finished parts can be marked as complete.

I'm also gonna be restructuring Season 1 once it's finished because I hate the way some chapters are laid out, but that’s a matter for another day.

Dancing with Myself

Same goes for this series. I’m gonna be changing it to a series on A03, so all the one-shots and AU fics can have their own summaries and warnings and tags.

I don’t know why I didn’t do that from the start, but… better late than never, right?

So if you read on A03, you’ll probably notice “chapters” gradually disappearing and reemerging as individual works in the series.

Some, like all the stories about Scottie’s campaign, are gonna be kept together in multi-chaptered works, but most are just going to be individual one-shots.

I’ll have it all reorganized before I post the next short story.

[storyweaverofgondor]

I THINK I FIGURED IT OUT!

I was running the little blurbs on the site through google translate and i got this:

which translates to:

“Image and Communication” is the group coordinated and organized by Laura Poletti, who deals with the management of the photographic, graphic and media aspect and social management of the company, and Simona Scotti for the video part.

Which seems to suggest the Cats we see in the promos are these people.

One of the primary promo images is this!

Which brings the performers who played Bomba, Skimble and Victoria down to six.

Now i think its pretty safe to say the Guy is Skimbleshanks . . . Or maybe Munk??? Munkustrap was in a lot of the video promos. Hmmm . . . Well, one the two at any rate!

I think . . . i think the last lady is Bomba. Jaeenia P(squiggle)e(a or o)letico. (Someone who can read this handwriting help me!)

I think, considering her mention in the blurb, Simona Scotti is a prominent character. Since she is listed among the dancers instead of the singers as i think she'd be if she was Grizabella,I'm leaning towards her probably being Victoria. (stares intently at promo Vic) ehhh . . . but she doesn't have the cheekbones. OP Vic has intense cheekbones. But maybe that's a makeup illusion . . . the chins might match.

The rest of these ladies is most likely either Grizabella, Tumble/Bill Bailey, Exotica, Misto or Jemima considering they also feature quite heavily in promo pieces/interview videos like these on the youtube channel.

@statisticalcats2 @whitmerule

[startrekucast]

SDCC 2024 Star Trek News + Trailer Reviews

Maybe it's like self check-out, maman. If we're the ones promoting and begging for what we want, they can spend less on marketing. But I'm so tired of begging, maman. We have a whole laundry list of Trek stuff we want, maman. It's a big list. But let's talk about what they're giving us instead, as revealed at SDCC:

Lower Decks Season 5 Teaser Trailer and synopsis

Star Trek: Strange New Worlds’ Season 3 SDCC Clip

Dr. Roger Korby Returns!

‘Strange New Worlds’ Season 3: More Romance, Genres, And Scotty

‘Prodigy’ Season 2 Coming To VOD On Monday, DVD/Blu-Ray In November + Panel Highlights

Kate Mulgrew Thoughts On Janeway Returning To Live-Action

Live-Action Star Trek Comedy In Development From Tawny Newsome And Justin Simien

SDCC Teaser For ‘Star Trek: Section 31’

‘Section 31’ Movie is 'Guardians of the Galaxy' on Steroids (or Life Support)

New ‘Starfleet Academy’ Cast Members Announced

Robert Picardo, Tig Notaro, Mary Wiseman, And Oded Fehr Join ‘Star Trek: Starfleet Academy’

Chris Pine Suggests ‘Star Trek 4’ Should Have “Less S#!t Exploding”

Star Trek & Doctor Who Get Game Crossover; Showrunners Say Canon Crossover Up To Fans

Hosts: David C. Roberson Matthew Carroll

Note: This episode of Star Trek Universe continues Dave and Matt's ongoing journey discussing Star Trek as they have since they were 6 years old during the early '90s.

Join Us: Site: http://startrekucast.com Apple: http://bit.ly/StuCast Spotify: http://bit.ly/StarTrekUCast Spreaker: http://bit.ly/StuCastSpreaker

[sgt-scottymoreau]

No title for this one as it's 3 small short fics I wanted to share just for fun and a little bit out of the main series. The short stories were written after I finished MWIII back then. It has a lot of mix feelings in them and maybe some OCC. I really needed to get some stuff out of the system. Also mostly posting them because I finally got the courage to write my own fic about the game with a lot of changes lol Ain't no way Soap remain dead nope! He will be save in my version! So technically these short are not canon for me (had tem with the note Fake Canon in my files)

Enjoy!

Goodbye Soap (Words: 975 / Warning: Mention of death)

She rushed through the crossover with Gaz and Ghost. The urgency was high. The police agents with Price and Soap were KIA, Makarov's bomb was still armed and the Russian was on his way to the two men. Never in her life did she feel out of breath like she did right now. It wasn't the running or constant shooting at Konnis. No, it was something different. A bad feeling that had her by the throat. When they finally reached the bomb site, Scotty's mind went on auto-pilot at soon as she saw him. The corner of her eyes catched Malarov fleeing with his Konnis, the other saw Price to the bomb. Gaz shouted at the captain to get on the bomb. "Soap said we need to cut the red wire. Only red!"

The rest of the conversation went into a blurr. She kneeled next to Soap, Ghost also by. He called out his name. "Johnny!" Her eyes trailed on the pool of blood, the injury on his head. Her hands let go of her gun, instinctively rested on his shoulder and her fingers clenched on his jacket. 

"Soap…" The knot in her throat gew thighter. Her hand clenched till her knuckles went white. Her eyes meet Ghost's. They both saw it in each other; the pain. The sadness. Scotty barely paid attention to what was being said from Gaz or Price. They were probably telling Laswell about the one KIA and how Makarov escaped. Her breathing got heavier, her vision blurred. It wasn't the first time she lost a friend on the field. It happened in the army. But it has been a while since. And after all they went through together, she never expected it to happen. 

"Scotty! Hey! Camille!" Ghost's voice finally reached her and brought her back to reality. But her mind only had Makarov. Without a word, she grabbed her gun back, ran to the door he had escaped and threw the weapon at it. Pointless as the door was massive and made of metal, it was made to resist in case of flood in the tunnel.

"Fucking Makarov! You fucking bastard!" She screamed followed by another scream of pure rage and pain that echoed in the tunnels. It was chilling. She took back the gun and banged on the door with it. Scotty still had enough clarity to know bullets would only ricochets. Till Gaz came to stop her. He looked at her with as much sadness as she was filled with. The rage in her eyes slowly died down. "He killed him… he killed Soap." Her voice was weak. 

"I know. We know." Gaz whispered. Her gun fell to the ground. "Come here." He opened his arms and she buried herself in them. Ghost watched in the distance, Price standing next to him. None of them ever saw her like this before but they all understood her pain. Ghost also lost a friend, one of the very few people he trusted. They all knew the risks, yet… they couldn't shake off those feelings. Ghost looked at Soap. His friend… family was gone. Again, he had lost his family. 

"I'm sorry Johnny." He whispered, emotion taking him by the throat as well. 

****

A few days later, the four of them were standing on the edge of the hill. Sunset in the distance. Somewhere on the coast of Scotland. They knew Soap would have agreed with this place. They stood in silence for a moment. Even Gaz had removed his cap. Scotty held Ghost's hand. Her fingers softly squeezed it from time to time. Her eyes kept looking forwards, she heard Price's voice in the wind. Ghost's fingers gently slipped away from hers. From the corner, she watched as he bent to pick up the urn in the bag. One by one the men said something. When her turn came, her eyes filled with tears again. She couldn't stand seeing the urn. But she had to say something. "My best friend, the brother I never had." Her lips quivered, her voice cracked on a few words. Ghost opened the urn and the ashes scattered in the wind. The four of them stood there to watch. Scotty felt the emotions grow bigger and bigger, but she didn't want to break down in front of Gaz and Price. Not again. She did enough on the day itself and at the funeral. Her eyes remained glued to the horizon, till Gaz and Price left leaving only her and Ghost. 

"Camille?" Ghost worried. Her face was turning red, she was holding her breath and the silent tears rolled down. "It's alright, love. You can let go."

No scream. Only sobbing as she crouched. Standing felt like too much. Ghost kneeled to her height and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. The past days had been hard for both, but at least they still had each other. "Why. Why him!" She sobbed loudly. "Motherfucker like Graves fucking lives, but life as to take good guys like Soap! Fuck! Fuck everything! Simon… it fucking hurts and it won't stop… I want it to stop." 

"I know, love. We all want it, trust me." He pulled her closer into his arms. His grip tightened as he also felt some tears on the back of his eyes. She always reminded him of Soap, these two were so much alike. Seeing her like this, broken, it only made it worse for him. He wanted to see her back to her old self. Hear laugh and smile. But this would only come with time. For now, they had to grief their best friend. They stayed in each other arms till she calmed down, till their body ached from remaining in the same position for so long and when Price came to tell them it was time to go home. 

Revenge (Words: 1k / Warning: Violence)

This was the last stretch. After another long game of cat and mouse, after having Makarov slipping away so many times, they had him pinned. The 141 finally got the upper hand, they were two steps ahead of him. Even if they were running after him right now. 

"Ghost, Scotty, take the left! Gaz with me on the right!" Price shouted. 

They will corner him. Makarov found himself running in the old building's hallway, alone with no back up, only a pistol with no mag left. He wasn't the kind of man to be afraid, far from it, but he knew when he was about to be beaten. That enraged him. They ruined his plan back then in London, and they did again here. He swore that if he could make it, Price and his task force would win again. The russian quickly found himself in a dead end. He cursed. 

"Drop your fucking weapon!" Ghost shouted, his own gun pointed at him. 

Makarov did not. He didn't back down, instead firing what was left of ammo to the lieutenant. Ghost fell back, as a few bullets hit him. Scotty grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back to cover. "You good?" Panic was obvious in her tone. There was no denying that this brought back unpleasant memories. 

"I'm good, plate stopped most of them." Most as one did graze his upper arm and he was bleeding. More unpleasant memories, that one time in Las Almas. Scotty felt all emotions boiling up. She had to keep them in control. She leaned from cover and pressed the trigger. Nothing. She kept pulling it but no firing. She let out a curse. The worst moment for a stuck gun. If they didn't do anything now Makarov would escape. She looked for her side gun, forgetting she lost it earlier when they took down all the remaining Konnis protecting their boss. She turned to Ghost to use his, however he had dropped it when the bullets hit him. The sergeant leaned out of cover to see it, just as Makarov did. Their eyes met. In a fraction of second both jumped towards it. Scotty slid on the ground, actually kicking the gun out of reach for both. Makarov turned on his heel to attempt a second time to get it, but her feet locked around his leg and he tripped. He flipped on his back, kicking her on time before she could jump on him. Scotty stepped back holding her stomach. It did hurt. Makarov pushed himself up ready to make a run for it. She quickly reacted by throwing herself at him. They struggled again, till she eventually had him pinned down under her. 

"What now, Moreau?" He taunted. 

"Don't say my name you fucking son of a bitch!" She raged between her teeth. A feeling she thought she had buried long ago, seemed to surface again. 

"Why jump on me, when you could have used your knife?" She realized almost too late what he meant, when his hand reached for her throwing knife. Scotty grabbed his wrist, flipped his arm away, swiftly took her knife and stabbed him in the palm. Makarov groaned in pain. 

"No… No, that would be too easy." The light in her eyes grew darker. "A bullet or a knife in the heart? Too easy. Choking you would be the same… You are a monster for what you did. Sacrificing your own people for a war? Disgusting."

"Lecture me as you want, we both know it won't change a thing."

"Indeed. It won't bring them back. It won't bring back Soap..."

"MacTavish?" Pain jolted in his jaw as she punched him.

"Don't say his name!" She shouted. "Don't you dare! You killed him! You killed my best friend!" Another hit on the opposite side. "And just now you almost killed Ghost!" 

Makarov spat blood, a cocky smile on his face. "Afraid to lose Riley? I wonder why. You are close, right."

She yelled at him to shut up. Rage boiled in every inch of her body. Then, her mind snapped. The memories of Soap lying down in a puddle of blood, motionless, glassy eyes, all while Makarov was running away. "You killed my best friend…" She said softly. But the look she had in her eyes sent chills down his spine. There was no emotion, no life in them. 

Ghost watched in the distance. He saw it all. How her back straightened, how the atmosphere felt heavy and then the noises of punches. The cry from the russian as his bones broke under the impact. Her ragged breath, her cries as the pain from a few months prior resurfaced. He saw the blood tainting her first, splattering everywhere. Price and Gaz finally joined up. The sergeant made sure he was ok, the captain went to check on her. "Scotty? Scotty! Hey!" He tried to approach, but he risked getting hurt. "Camille!"

Hearing her name seems to snap her out of her trance. Scotty's fist lowered down and she slowly turned to face her captain. Price's eyes widened, so did Gaz and Ghost's. They knew she was capable of many things. Just like Soap, she did fight the whole world if needed. But none ever saw such a display. Her face was covered with blood splatter, knuckles were red, her clothes were also tainted. Tears mixed with the red on her cheeks. Under her, Makarov lay still, motionless, in a very bad shape. Price placed two fingers on his neck to find no pulse. He turned back to Scotty who was shaking. He put his hand on her shoulder and forced her to look at him, to have her anchored to reality. "It's alright, lass, it's all over. Take a deep breath." He was surprised that she was capable of killing a man with her bare hands. It was a mess. 

Ghost, with the help of Gaz, lowered himself to her height. What she just did was horrifying, at least in the eyes of a commoner. He was still unsure, but… "Johnny would like that." He said with a smile behind his mask. Despite the injured arm, the blood covering her, he pulled her into a hug. Makarov was dead, but it would never change what he did. 

Dumb move (Words: 938 / Warning: None)

Scotty, Gaz and Ghost were casually talking. Joking around, remembering their lost friend. It took them a while to be able to talk of him without feeling an atrocious pain. It still left them with a bitter feeling, but it was bearable. Price joined their table. "What are you talking about, lads?"

"We were talking about Soap." Gaz said with a faint smile. 

"He would have loved to kick Graves." Scotty added. 

"I guess we have to do it for him now." Ghost finished. "And Shepherd as well."

"That won't be a problem." Price muttered. Or he thought so, he swore he said it softly enough but the look on the three operatives made him realize. They heard him. 

"What do you mean boss?" Gaz wondered. Price knew that he wouldn't be able to keep the secret from them. Not for long anyway. So he explained to them what he did. Gaz and Ghost didn't react too much. This was not surprising coming from their captain and Scotty knew that as well. But something didn't quite sit right with her. The execution of his plan. 

"So you put a target on all of us then?" Her tone was dry. Her face was serious and she glared at the Captain. 

"He put a target on himself the moment he sent Graves after my team." He replied in the same tone. 

"Sure. But isn't entering the pentagon or whenever Shepherd was, walking, shooting him and walking out was a brilliant idea? I don't fucking think so."

"Camille?" Ghost frowned behind his mask. That was unusual from her. 

"Oh please Simon! For fuck sake! Never crossed your brain that they will investigate? That they will check who's the last person who had access to his office? They will check camera footage. Fingerprint even! He was a fucking 4 star general for fuck sake!"

"I had to do it." Price growled. He leaned against the table, his hand clenching in a fist. "He betrayed us, lied to save his ass in front of the congress. He got his fucking job back like nothing happened. Nothing would have been done about what he did! He could have done whatever shady thing he wanted again. We don't play by the rules anymore."

"Then we are not so different from our enemies." This sent a cold around the table. Ghost and Gaz glanced at each other unsure where to put themselves. 

"Don't you fucking dare say this." Price stood from his seat. Scotty did the same, not afraid of him. "We don't kill innocents! We don't go for civilians like most of them."

"But killing people just because you feel like it, is as disgusting. Make me wonder if you are not gonna kill one of us because we don't agree with you."

Price inhaled loudly. Ghost had stood by then, a hand carefully pressed on Scotty's shoulder. "Ok take it easy you two. That's enough."

"It's a little hypocrite coming from you. If I recall you were willing to kill your own commander back then."

"It was fucking self defense Price! He would have killed me! He almost did! If I had killed him I was in all my right! You and Laswell were there, you saw it!"

"And you were there when Graves and Shepherd betrayed all of us. Fuck, you kno-"

"Yes I was in Las Almas!" She cut him in a shout. "I was there with Soap and Ghost as we were running for our life to fucking make it to the next day! It still doesn't give the right to shoot the man in his office, to risk the team being tracked like war criminals!" 

"Then you didn't truly care for Soap." This washed over Scotty like ice cold water. Even Gaz and Ghost looked at the captain in disbelief. The captain was now a few inches away from her. Gaz placed his hand on his shoulder, applying just enough pressure to tell the captain he wouldn't hesitate to push him away. "You know he would have agreed with me. He would have even helped if I had asked!"

"You take that back… You take what you just said back, Price." 

"What? You didn't care about Soap? Call yourself his best friend and yet you let him down even after death." 

"Shut your fucking mouth!" She screamed at him, tears of rage rolling down her cheeks. Ghost pushed her backwards and so did Gaz with Price.

"Come on Price, this way out of line." Ghost warned. 

"She is the one out of line! No respect for her superior."

"If Soap died because of you! You should have let him kill Makarov back then! His death is one you and killing Shepherd and Graves won't change that! You didn't care about him! And now you don't care about any of us! You are willing to target us as war criminals and I won't have this! This is not what I signed for!"

"Then quit. Like I care! If you can’t get your precious hands dirty then maybe you are not fit for the 141!"

Scotty glared at him, not saying a word. She was beyond hurt at this point. But what would happen if they connected Shepherd's death to Price was not something she wanted to see. "I can do the dirty work, but you captain. Can you take one for the team? Can you own up to your mistake if they catch you? Or will everyone drag one of us with you to the death row?" 

She moved away from Ghost grip, leaving the conversation here, before blood would spill.

[edutainer2022]

This came out of the blue, as I don't usually do the de-aging AU. Don't ask me about the physics of it - something, something Fischler is an idiot. It's mostly about the the emotional reactions and ramifications. So, in a flash of explosion Scott is three... again. The family navigate their feelings about it, dealing with a confused child. Virgil and John discuss the what-ifs and what-nots. Scotty gets better eventually, or maybe worse... From a certain point of view.

A bow to @janetm74 , whose takes on the trope are always fascinating.

WAY LEADS ON TO WAY

It took some coaxing and a promise of pie to pry the child away from Virgil. Blue eyes, too big for the small face, were full of fear and reoccurring tears. The tiny body was trembling and skinny arms clung to Virgil's flanel shirt ever since the device blew up. Virgil didn't mind one bit, but they needed to run scans and tests making sure the boy... Scott was okay. Or as okay as could be, considering he was now about 25 years younger than should be.

Everyone froze as the boy asked for "Momma and Virgie" the first time and burst into tears. It, surprisingly, took Virgil's voice to dissuade the meltdown, as he was gleefully identified as "Dada" and got a little limpet attached to his torso. The flash of pain in Dad's, actual Dad's, eyes was not lost on either Virgil or Grandma. Virgil hugged the child closer, suddenly self-conscious.

Brains was already deep in the schematics of the malfunctioned device, confiscated earlier that day from a disaster site that happened to be one of Fischler's labs. Kayo was looking stormy, plotting possible bodily harm, although, knowing Fischler, not even enhanced interrogation could  yield reliable information on what happened and how to reverse the effects asap.

John watched Virgil with a now three year old Scotty, his expression unreadable. Eos was already tasked with simulations for reverse engineering the device. It being a Fischler's concoction, they couldn't risk hurting Scott as they would try to get him "back". Alan was shocked and looked a lot younger himself. Grandma hugged him with a reassuring word.

Gordon's natural skill with small kids proved handy, as he was quick to whip out Alan’s old toys from Neptune knew where and produced a heap of his own plushies. The little boy was suitably distracted and involved into play, making vroom-vroom noises with a dinosaur on a Lego plane. The window of calm didn't last long, though, as now little Scotty, obviously tired and confused, became cranky again and cried for Momma and Virgie. Virgil looked up at Dad, at a loss. The child obviously didn't remember much beyond being  'cotty, "this many fingers" old, Mom, and having a baby brother. Jeff, watching the boy with anguished yearning so far, as he got scared and ran to Virgil the first time around, stepped up again. The gruff words got the child shy at first, but Dad was patient explaining to Scotty "Momma and Virgie" were away on a long walk, so Scotty was left in charge at home, like a big boy. There's was a fair measure of tears in the rough gravel that strained Jeff's voice. All colors of eyes around were bright with tears too.

But the trick worked and after a moment of the tiny face frowning and considering more crying, Jeff was declared "Gan'pa!". The boy climbed into his lap, where he was now asleep, wrapped in Alan’s favorite childhood blanket. The small face relaxed from the strain and tears dried out - Scotty looked so sweet and happy.

It was decided to settle the child in Dad's room for the night. The infirmary, barren and unfamiliar, could scare him. And it would be more comfortable for Jeff to watch over the boy - a duty he vehemently refused to yield to any of his sons, who all volunteered readily. Gordon whisked Alan away for some brotherly soothing, as the kid was visibly shaken in the face of loosing biggest brother to the child he once was.

John squinted, eyes darting between Dad, doting and cooing over the tiny bundle of blankets, space-worn features softened and instantly younger too, and Virgil, clearly hesitant to leave. In the end, Jeff softly shooed the elder sons away - even at three Scotty had been a light sleeper.

John was headed to Brains' lab to assist with rebuilding the hapless device. Virgil tagged along, but for the moment they found themselves lingering in the dim hallway, outside of Dad's rooms. The events of the day were A LOT to absorb and to even begin to process. John caught Virgil stealing a glance back at the room, where the child was sleeping peacefully, deep in thought. John braced himself, as he was fairly certain he knew what his brother was thinking. As much as he knew he could never agree.

Virgil looked back, sadness mixed with hope in brown eyes.

"John, don't you think we should..."

"No!"

John didn't expect himself to yell and started, having to gulp down the rest of the protest, lest the child woke up. But Virgil was looking up at him, gaze already frantic with a fast assembling plan.

"I could adopt him! Or Dad. There won't be a legal problem! He's happy, Johnny! We can make sure he never gets hurt! Can you imagine?!"

Hope shone brighter over doubt in brown eyes, but John shuddered and stepped away from Virgil's reach. Because he COULD imagine. That pathway of probabilities was the first one through his mind, as a little boy crawled out of the dust and debris where their biggest brother was standing seconds ago. John COULD imagine. A Scott who had never held them all after Mom's funeral, a Scott, who never rocked Allie to sleep, crying for Mommy, a Scott, who never packed their lunches or picked them up from after-school clubs, because Dad was unavailable, floating in a sea of grief and work. A Scott they never lost to the horror of That Place. A Scott that never came back as a broken shell. A Scott that didn't give up every shred of himself to uphold Dad's legacy and step into Dad's shoes for them all. A Scott that wasn't blaming himself even now that Dad was back. A Scott that wasn't in pain. A Scott they could all see grow up and live a happy life he deserved.

John could see it all too well. It broke his heart to see Dad grasp at the impossible second chance to do right by the eldest son. He saw the eager plea in Virgil's eyes. And John near hated himself as every part of his soul was screaming in protest. Every selfish, terrified little brother part that was in agony at the prospect of losing the very foundation rock of their world - Scott the biggest brother, who loved them, and saw them, and cheered for them, and accepted them all for who they were, and shielded them in a world otherwise cruel and unyielding, a Scott who made sense of everything they were doing, of everything Dad was doing, even when they all drowned in hurt, grief, and resentment. A Scott who could tell them they could do it and they would believe it.

Making sure Scott got a chance at happiness meant loosing him for good. John squeezed his eyes shut against hot angry tears.

Virgil was still looking up at him, hesitant to offer unwarranted touch, and deeply worried. John took in a long stabilizing breath.

"Do you think... Do you think he'd want to never know us all, growing up?"

Virgil's face fell and John felt another pang of remorse.

As if on cue to that thought, the door to Dad's room slid open and tiny feet padded along the hallway. Virgil made a step to intercept the little fugitive, and crouched in front of the child, not to scare.

"What is it Scotty? Do you want some water?"

The boy was obviously drowsy from sleep, small hands rubbing the eyes.

"Wan'Virgie! Didn't say nite-nite t'Virgie! Where'Virgie?"

Big blue eyes were brimming with tears again, confused and desperate. Virgil picked up the feather-light frame and stood up, cradling the boy close and bouncing softly, whispering soothing nonsense to calm the child back to sleep. Brown eyes met a loaded gaze of the turquoise ones. Virgil knew John had a point. But it hurt to consider either way.

John stepped up closer, ruffling the boy's hair. Thunderbird Five, the Voice That Answers, was speaking now, but it was a brother's kiss on the child's temple:

"We'll help you find Virgie, Scotty! I promise! We'll help you get home! We've got you!"

The adult brothers exchanged another Look as the sniffles subsided and Scotty was falling asleep again.

John's comm pinged with a message from Brains. He got something on the device functions. It was quickly decided John would head to the lab. Dad obviously succumbed to the ever lingering fatigue and the stress of the day, so a woken up Scotty could escape. Virgil would stay in the lounge with the boy, watching over for more signs of distress or to mitigate more runaway attempts. Come morning, Gordon and Alan were to take over the babysitting duty. The villa was hopelessly NOT child-proof since Allie was past ten and Scotty's propensity for creative and agile jailbreaks was a significant part of family lore. Even if Brains was close to a reverse effect, they still would need to run tests and simulations, before even considering risking a child.

***

The last thing Scott remembered was a bright flash as the device he brought back for Brains to inspect heated up in his hands, vibrated and exploded. Now he was sitting flat on the floor in the hangar, ears ringing. A blur of motion in his periferal vision materialized in two bodies tackling him further down in a hug. Oomph, make it three bodies. Four. Alright, okay, he LOVED THEM TOO, but he needed to breathe. His ribs creaked. There were more pats down his shoulders and back, a brandished med scanner - unsurprising.

A bit more surprising was another hug, as he finally made it up off the floor and untangled gently, if wobbly, from the pile of brothers - Dad gathered him close in a fierce motion and held tight with no obvious intention to let go. It felt nice, of course, safe. But also worrisome. So for a moment Scott struggled with the conflicting urges to melt into the hug and to FIX whatever got Dad so scared. Jeff just tightened the embrace in response and Scott gave in, relaxing into being held.

He'd have to get to the bottom of it, as more arms joined the hold around him again, especially as he clearly heard Dad whispering "I'm so sorry, Bluejay! I love you so much, son". But for now he was warm, and snug, and obviously so welcome. He was home. Nothing ever felt better.

[infectiouspiss]

the captions on this piracy site cannot keep up with a scottish accent they're butchering everything scotty says