#that was supposed to make us understand the sheer magnitude of the air fights

[doux-amer]

I had problems with episode 1–3 of MoTA, but episode 4 was great (coming back to edit this because it was riddled with issues, but the bar was low because of how I didn't care for 1–3 so I was taken aback lol) and episode 5. Wow. By far the episode and I'm rendered speechless. It did what they were trying to get across with MoTA, of the insurmountable odds and the intense, adrenaline-lined fear and then numbing horror that engulfed everyone in the air and on the ground. God. This is going to weigh on me for a long time.

[heyheydidjaknow]

So you know when you write about the same character that isn't even yours for almost half a year and you think, “Hey, why not expand a little bit and try writing for a different fandom?” and you end up writing for someone you know very little about because you were too impatient to play through all of the source material and you have to pray that it isn’t a blatant bastardization? Yeah, me too. Anyways, here’s this.

‘They’re going to die someday.’

You are next to him, your legs crossed, sat on the ground as you continue a story that now went in one ear and out the other— something about someone causing some trouble for a personal friend of yours. You were grinning from ear to ear as you orate to an invisible audience in front of the two of you, and as you took a sip from your apple cider, the thought struck him with such an unprecedented, dizzying force that, had he not been seated, he would have stumbled from the sheer magnitude of it.

He had, of course, been aware of your mortality. It was impossible not to be aware of it, given the type of person you were; you spoke often of your own death, laughing about it more often than prematurely grieving, but more noticeably planning for when you would have to die, hopefully, according to you, either by some dramatic and romantic disease— Phthisis— or in your sleep. The god would have been foolish to believe that you would— or, indeed, could— live as long as he would, but as was with the other citizens of his kingdom, he had simply decided to not think of it, to cross that bridge when you got to it.

But at that moment, as you sat there, simply wiping off the blood from sitting on a particularly sharp rock, hardly caring about such a blatant reminder of your mortality, he can not help but be reminded by just how fragile you are.

“Hey, Y/N?”

You glanced over at him. “Yeah?”

“Who do you think will take care of the funeral arrangements?” He fiddled with the buttons on his sleeves, not quite meeting your gaze. “When you die, I mean.”

You thought for a moment, shrugged. “I guess my family. What about you?”

He rested his head on his knees. “If I had to ask someone to perform the arrangement,” he admitted, “I’d probably ask you.”

“Yeah?” You grinned. “I don’t know you held me in such high esteem, Venti.”

“Yeah, well,” he smiled weakly, “it’s not like I have anyone else to ask.”

You pushed him playfully. “Rude.” He heard you rest your head on one of the rocks.”If I die before you, I’ll send you an invite to my funeral.”

“Promise?”

You hummed in confirmation.

The silence that fell between you two was unusually heavy.

“Why do you ask?”

He leaned back, joining you at your side. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “Just been thinking about it more recently.” A rueful chuckle bubbled up his throat. “I’ve probably spent too much time around you.”

“Probably,” you agree, crossing your legs as you stare up at the stars. “But, hey? It gives you things to write about.”

He smiled at that. You are not wrong, he supposed, but a bit out of the know. He was not a stranger to writing songs about grief. It had just been a while since the sting of it was as fresh as it was now, and like a picked scab, he struggled to keep his quiet dread from spilling over. “I guess so.”

“But you know “ you shuffle closer to him, ���if you’re finally going to join the Painfully-Aware-Of-Your-Own-Mortality club, you can’t let it get you too down. You’ll drive yourself crazy if you do.”

“Wisdom coming from you?” He reached down, taking your hand gently in his, thumb on your pulse.

“I know,” you grinned, “terrifying.” The stars swam in your eyes, and you shivered in the cold night air. “Almost as bad an omen as you getting introspective all of a sudden.”

“Is it?”

You closed your eyes. “Yeah,” you yawned. “It’s creepy. Like how right before the inciting incident of a book, the characters talk about death and then one of them dies.”

“Or when right before the climax,” he offered, “right before the battle’s won, one of them dies?”

“There you go.” A smile graced your lips, features highlighted by the moonlight. “You get it.”

His fingers squeezed your hand a second. “It’s lucky we aren’t in a book, then.”

“You don’t know.” Your eyes drifted open a second, closed again. “I heard that some people think that—“ you yawned again— “that we’re all living for someone else’s amusement. It’s a whole thing.”

“Do they?” He rolled over on top of you, resting his head on your chest with his ear pressed against your heart. It thumped so assuredly, unflinchingly, and the impossibility of it stopping made his chest feel hollow.

You nodded. “And they say that, if that’s true,” your other arm wrapped around them, “then it’s a whole deterministic thing, right? Because writers care about how they write stories, so everything’s set up, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

He closed his eyes softly. “I’m not sure how I feel about that. Someone controlling all my actions, I mean.”

“Well,” you sighed, body relaxing against the earth, “you don’t have to believe in it. Isn’t that your whole shtick, not having to do things?”

“It is, but that doesn’t mean I have control over that.”

Your fingers gently played with his hair. “Venti,” you declare, “we don’t have any control over anything ever. We fight an endless stream of uphill battles based on a hollow belief that the grass will be greener on the other side, and when it turns out that it always is, we feel bad about it.” You squeeze his hand back. “We struggle against our bodies to live long enough to do even the most basic of tasks. It’s all we can do not to keel over.”

He laughed dryly and your boisterous delivery. “You are very optimistic.”

“But,” you continue, ignoring his comment, “that’s what makes life so valuable; it’s so hard to live at all that even being able to talk to you is worth more than almost any gem or vision or whatever thing you want to compare it to.”

“Almost?”

“I will kill a man for good hash browns.” Your chest shook with quiet laughter. “But you get what I’m saying.”

He thought for a moment, nodded. “I think so.” He smiled again, more comfortable now. “You are acting very wise tonight, Y/N.”

“Hey,” you protested, “I’m totally wise! Just not most of the time.”

“A broken clock is right twice a day.”

“Don’t push me, little man.” You looked down at him, pressing your hand against his face. “I can and will push you off.”

He wrapped his arms around your waist tightly. “I’m stronger than I look.”

The rest of the night was a pleasant one. There was a lot of quiet laughter about this and that, huddling in each other's warmth. You had to leave him after a while. You offered to walk him home, but he had insisted on staying out a bit longer. “Go on,” he waved you off, smiling after you. “I’ll be there before morning, I promise.” He would be.

His hand stretched out towards the stars, fingers flexing every once and a while as he examined it for the umpteenth time. It was not a foreign object anymore; when he was younger, he had taken a while to get used to the idea that he was attached to it, for his head to wrap around the fact that it was not his. It had taken him a while to get used to that idea, too, that he was gone forever. As an immortal being, that part of humanity was always hard to accept. There were ways, he supposed, that he could keep you from dying. If other beings like himself had become gods, it was certainly possible for you to join him.

But he could not honestly say that he wanted that for you. Immortality was undeniably terrible. It was a long, unending sludge of an existence, being unable to relate to the bare minimum in regards to humanity. He could write thousands of songs, sing a thousand more, but he would never quite understand those he cared about. It was unfair to even consider it. Still… the idea of seeing you, skin pale, cool, eyes wide and glassy and blood dripping—

He shut his eyes, screwed them shut. Even if you had to die, you would not do it like that. You would die quietly, he knew, in bed. There was no reason you would have gotten involved in anything that gruesome.

It was like you had said. He just needed to hold onto you as long as you would allow. Before you slipped through his fingers, he needed to appreciate you as you were

Venti could only hope that you had enough time for him to remember you by.

List of Works

[wordsturnintostories]

show me your rosettes, baby (g)

summary: The world tour is over and the Bangtan Boys finally get their well-deserved break. When Namjoon suddenly can’t find Jimin anywhere, things take an unexpected and pretty unbelievable turn. “Kim Namjoon!” “Hyung. How common is it for people to turn into cats?” word count: 2k note: yay! Surprise! hope you like this. let me know. ✨

masterlist | moodboard masterlist

[ prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven ]

When his door closes, Namjoon stills. He is looking at an empty apartment, quiet now where laughter had been a few seconds ago. He still feels it in his body, the joy that always stays behind when Jackson leaves.

Namjoon smiles, thinking about what to do next when he receives a text from Min Suga.

> I’ll bring takeout for lunch. I’m taking a break.

“Okay,” he texts back.

What was I doing before Jackson came? Oh right, I fed Jimin. And had breakfast. That’s still not cleaned up. Namjoon sighs once, thinking about the messy kitchen, then sighs a second time, because he knows there’s no one else to clean it up other than himself, and a third time just because he’s feeling dramatic. When he looks down, Jimin is looking at him with something like mirth in his eyes, seeming almost - mischievous. Namjoon realizes that everything would look a lot cleaner if Jimin was a person instead of a cat right now. Heck.

“Don’t do that,” Namjoon warns, half-amused, and puts the cat down on the sofa so that the little one can nap or do whatever he wants to do. But Jimin mewls as soon as Namjoon’s big fingers let go of him and no matter what the cat magazines Namjoon has read explain in great detail, about not letting the cat control him, Namjoon wants to accommodate Jimin as best as he can. He supposes the cat magazines don’t know much about cats that are actually your little brother. Jimin is an exception. (God knows how many exceptions the world grants Park Jimin. Namjoon smiles. Jimin has always been special that way.)

“What is it? You wanna help clean up the mess you made?”

Jimin stands upon the billowy sofa cushions and saunters closer to his hyung before jumping on his leg with a squeak, pulling himself up by the sheer strength of his hind legs (which is not much but enough) and thanks to the steady grip of his claws in the jeans material (that’s more like it).

“Shit, Jiminie,” Namjoon curses when the claws prick his thigh, almost like sharp toothpicks against his sensitive skin. As a way of freeing himself, he lifts the cat up by its scruff. Jimin’s body goes lax in the careful hold and that’s decidedly better. It’s a little stupid (impractical) that he can’t talk, that he is dependent on Namjoon’s probably horrible interpretation of the little mewls and meows he makes. However, as bad as Namjoon thinks he is at cat language, he thinks he kind of understands when Jimin wriggles and meows when they walk past the terrace doors that lead outside and straight into the backyard.

“You wanna run a little?”

Jimin is desperate to jump out of the firm grip as soon as Namjoon touches the door handle. All the excitement almost makes him fall past the safe space of Namjoon’s hands and when Namjoon grabs the petite body, he feels like he’s probably crushing Jimin. But when they are outside, Jimin just jumps, not in any way as grateful as any cat in the magnitude of cat food commercials Namjoon has seen in his lifetime. It’s just a jump, a fall, and a rough landing. Jimin rolls off into the grass. And then, he rushes off.

Crap, has he seen a mouse? When Namjoon follows Jimin into the low shrubs and the soft undergrowth, he hears a little growl. To be honest, Jimin is tiny, tinier even than some of the flowers Tae, Seokjin and Namjoon himself have planted here and while it’s their own backyard that isn’t accessible from the outside and where Jimin can’t realistically disappear, Namjoon still worries about losing Jimin. It’s irrational. He knows it. Maybe Jackson was right. They are my kids. And surely at least one of those films with shrunken characters fighting their way through carpet-jungles and backyard-arenas must be at least a little true, right? Surely the world looks different to Jimin now and surely Namjoon is the big soft giant that should protect the cat well. A thought crosses his mind - what if Jimin doesn’t need a protector and would rather be on his own? What if his escape outside was to get away from the human who certainly isn’t a leopard to learn from? Isn’t the baby stage of cats all about learning from the mother? What if the cub wants to be in the wilderness, and learn to fit in there, like he naturally would? What if- ?

Namjoon hears some thudding and when he sticks his head closer to where he thinks Jimin is, he sees earth flying around. Is he digging? Is he hunting? When he notices that some of the earth seems darker than the rest, almost like it’s wet, Namjoon suddenly draws back. Oh. Oh. Okay.

His cheeks go red as he goes a few steps back, just sitting on the grass. He lies down, trying to swallow down his embarrassment about the realization that he had just followed his desperate little dongsaeng who had just needed to relieve himself, and had even bothered him like a creep. Wow, Namjoon, way to go. You’re the best hyung for sure.

When he doesn’t know what to do, he just stares at the clouds. Maybe Jimin won’t talk to him for a little while, as usual when he’s annoyed, maybe Jimin would- A snout presses into his cheek and there’s a small lick following. It feels like a reassurance. When he turns his face, Jimin stands right in front of him, dirt sticking to his fur in clumpy little bits as if he’d rolled around in it. Looking at him like this, Namjoon feels like this is a precious moment. The embarrassment fades away and a rush of light joy swells in Namjoon’s chest. It feels like Jimin can finally just play in the backyard. Like the child he couldn’t be for too long, subdued in dance studios and classrooms.

“Go play,” he says softly and takes the headbutt that follows as a thank you. Or something similar. Maybe he should stop being so sentimental and dramatic. Maybe he shouldn’t interpret so much into what Jimin does because obviously, Jimin doesn’t even listen to his own name when he’s a cat. Maybe- when new sounds travel through the backyard, something other than the regular chirping of the birds that Taehyung and Hoseok love so much and the whispering of the trees that Namjoon admires, Namjoon sits up.

A few feet from him, Jimin is chasing something through the high grass. Every time he jumps, he lets out an excited squeal that actually sounds a little like human Jimin’s squeals when Jungkook or Hoseok tickle him. Namjoon watches the little leopard play with whatever he’s chasing and he giggles, phone on video mode when Jimin sticks his butt in the air to catch the little thing that had jumped away. Inadvertently, his thoughts go back to that little ladybug that had visited them during breakfast.

When Jimin finally trots towards Namjoon, carrying his prey in his snout like a trophy, Namjoon films him. The video will be titled “Jimin’s First Catch In The Backyard” and definitely go into the leather-bound Bangtan family album, where all their most beautiful moments together were being collected.

“What is it, Jimin-ah?”

The little animal plops into his open hand with a wet little plop. It’s a small frog, green and chewed. Ew. Namjoon wants to be proud, really, but he can’t keep the disgust out of his face even if Jimin looks at him expectantly, tail flicking. If it had been a rodent, fine. A bird. Maybe fine. But this frog? No.

“Poor little frog,” Namjoon whispers, more to himself than to Jimin. He jumps when suddenly, someone starts clapping behind him. Jimin’s ears react immediately and turn toward the sound. His little spotted body stiffens, then he lunges, snatching the frog out of Namjoon’s hands and runs towards the new person.

“Good job, baby,” Yoongi’s deep voice praises Jimin and Namjoon sees the younger rubbing himself against Yoongi’s hand. “You caught a frog! Wow, you must have run so fast.”

Jimin preens under the praise and that’s just more proof for how this creature is the same person, cat or not. Attention and praise are Jimin’s love languages and if you add physical affection to the mix, he’ll explode with love. Yoongi easily swoops the cat up in his arms, cradling him against his chest. Namjoon watches how the elder doesn’t even blink at Jimin still holding his frog between his jaws. Will he let him take it inside? Namjoon hopes Yoongi won’t. He sighs. He might have to use the leader card today.

“How long have you been there, hyung?”

“Just a few minutes. Let’s eat.”

Namjoon clears his throat when Yoongi turns to walk toward the house, gently rubbing Jimin’s ears.

“The frog stays outside.”

Yoongi turns with a frown that’s actually right on the edge between confused and indignant.

“What do you mean? Jiminie caught it. It’s his.”

“It stays outside. He can play with it later, but it won’t come into the house.”

“Namjoon, let him have it. I’m your hyung, listen to me.”

“I’m your leader.”

They stare at each other, ignoring Jimin who chews loudly, ears twitching and paws holding his catch, somehow ignorant of the moment.

“If he takes it into the house right now, he’ll always bring dead prey into the house. I don’t want that.”

“I’ll clean it up.”

“No.”

Yoongi shrugs, probably coming to the conclusion that it’s not worth spending so much energy on this argument when his break isn’t that long and the food is getting cold.

“Okay. Then hold him. I’ll be back in a sec.”

Namjoon takes Jimin and watches his hyung walk into the house. The temptation to take that yucky frog away from his dongsaeng is great. Jimin has been busy chewing the poor little animal apart - one of its legs hangs dangling from what looks like sinew and the another is simply not recognizable anymore. From Namjoon’s perspective, he can’t see the underside, but he does feel the (cold and slimy) entrails sticking out of a hole in the frog’s side and touching his index finger. If he could, Namjoon would get rid of it as soon as possible. On the other hand, Namjoon doesn’t want to touch it. He wonders what Yoongi will do. Maybe he’ll bring paper tissues to pick it up. Instead, Yoongi returns with a bite-sized cut piece of chicken.

“Is that raw?”

“You wanna feed him cooked chicken? Ever seen a leopard in the wild with a personal chef? It’s natural to eat it like this.”

There’s no denying that the trade doesn’t work even if Jimin seems hesitant to let go of his prized kill at first. He growls a little when Yoongi grabs the frog (without fussing, as Namjoon knows he himself would have) but Jimin’s growl sounds like a chirp almost. Once again, Namjoon is reminded of how young the leopard cub seems to be, however the magic makes that work in combination with Jimin. After the first couple sniffs, their dongsaeng gives in, whiskers shaking when he sniffs the rosy meat. Yoongi puts the frog somewhere on the grass (by the side, where no one will accidentally step on it, thank God) and scratches Jimin’s neck when he starts chewing the chicken as if he’s never even cared about his prey. Namjoon hopes, really hopes that his memory isn’t that short. Or that it will expand with time, at least. If they want to train Jimin (and they will have to to get him potty-trained), they will need him to not only listen to his name, but follow commands. Or actually understand us.

“All good now?”

Namjoon nods.

“All good.”

“Okay, then let’s eat. I’ve got news to tell you.”

“Mhm. I’ve got news too.”

They enter the house, and Yoongi walks into the kitchen.

“Was Jackson here?”

“Uh, yeah. I made the mess, though.”

“Oh, I had no doubt about that. It looks like a grenade exploded here. I just wanted to give him something. Guess I’ll have to send it then.”

“I’m sure we’ll see him again soon.”

masterlist | moodboard masterlist

[ prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven ]

tags: @xmagicxshopx, @taeshuworld, @justanemptydream, @hoodmeup, @gingerpeachtae

[randomnoteforfuturereference]

Aftermath: Business Dealings

This has been an idea I’ve been mulling over for some time due to thoughts about Nursey’s family and how they’d react to a potential public coming out for Jack. 1800 words and takes place during episode 3.26. In any case, thanks to my ‘swawesome beta @kleeklutch, and I hope you enjoy.

Now has a companion piece that takes place in Maine.

“Thank you for making time on such short notice and during what must be a busy time for you.”

Mama’s words accompany a slow stirring of her tea as the morning rays reflected by the Financial District skyline bathe her in dappled light.

Opposite us, via projection on the drop-down screen, sits Georgia Martin in what I suppose is her office with Providence Harbor as the backdrop. “Don’t worry about it, Dr. Nurse,” she replies with a grin. “It’s a welcome change in pace from the reporters.”

Mama gives a smile of her own over her cup. “No doubt. In any case let me first congratulate you and your team on an amazing and well-earned victory. That was quite a nail-biter the whole way through.”

“Thanks. I have to say that we’re still running on that high.” 

It’s probably all they’re running on. That and coffee. Many probably can’t tell at a first glance, but I’ve been around enough power players to know that she’s probably keeping it all together by sheer will.

“Yes, you could imagine how ecstatic my son was at seeing his old captain make the winning shot. In overtime at that.”

Martin’s eyes aim in my direction. Pretty sure that she’s still wondering what a college kid is doing sitting next to his mother during a meeting of this magnitude. “’Nursey’, right?” she asks. “Number Twenty-eight? That was an impressive slapshot in your last game against Harvard. Amazing synchronization with Twenty-four as well; you two make quite the pair.”

I almost choke on my drink. “Thanks, ma’am.”

“Jack never hesitates to share highlights from Samwell with us.” Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. It would surprise me even less if ninety percent of the highlights involve Bitty.

“We’re quite proud of him,” Mama adds with a smirk. “But you know that just gushing over player performance is not why I called.”

Martin leans back and apprises both of us before putting all of her focus back on Mama. “You’re interested in sponsoring.”

“Or a partnership. Whichever is going to be a more effective use of our resources.”

“Well, I can’t say I’d mind. We’ve had people and companies lining up ever since we went to the playoffs,” she explains before blinking owlishly at us. “But that isn’t the case with your offer, is it.”

“You are correct,” Mama affirms while setting her cup down. “I’m not interested in any offer going into salaries or sports equipment. Overall, it was about the game, I’d have sponsored the Rangers a long time ago. They have history after all.”

“And are the home team,” Martin adds wryly.

That’s dismissed with an airy wave. “Yes, New York is my home and where we are headquartered, but we’re also not bound to a single metropolitan area… or nation for that matter. Some will throw a fuss in regards to us supporting an out-of-town team… but, well, it’s not like this company is a stranger to protests.”

“Hashtag ‘fight the power’…” I mutter under my breath while forcibly keeping my eyes from rolling.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m the first to criticize Mama for her business and r&d practices, but sometimes the vitriol put forward by others are downright ridiculous. That many of those protesters are hyper-privileged white dudes — “kale-munching, latte-guzzling tankies” as a certain ginger loves to say; to his credit, he stopped associating me with them before the end of our first semester — makes their motives all the more suspicious.

If Martin hears me, she shows no sign. “So why are you interested in us?”

Mama simply taps on her tablet to bring a single video up to view. The video is of Jack and Bitty kissing on the center ice; their full attention focused on each other despite being surrounded by strangers and the media.

In the wake of the game’s end, I was infected by the high of the win and dancing with glee. The moment I saw the two embrace however, surprise overtook that elation and—

Well, the details regarding me aren’t important.

What is important was the reaction from my family. Mama and Papa, despite being very hard to shock due to all they’ve witnessed and dealt within the boardroom and courtroom respectively, gaped wide-eyed at the screen. Even Sis, who never ceases to have a sarcastic quip regarding professional sports, was at a complete loss for words.

When they turned their stares towards me, I knew what the unsaid question was. Pretty sure they were legit impressed that we all managed to keep the secret for over half-a-year; not sure if I should be pleased or miffed at that.

In any case, the SMH group chat is still on fire. And it’s not all cheers.

Dex and Chowder, being the rays of sunshine that they are — okay, Chowder is a ray of sunshine a good chunk of the time; though many forget that sunlight burns — have already considered this old news and are now discussing with the older guys strategies to head off those who wish to intrude upon our lives.

Because there is already discussion in the media about the fact that “Zimmermann’s boyfriend” — there is no small amount of entertainment watching some sports commentators struggle saying that — is going to be the first out NCAA ice hockey captain. And with that publicity, there has already been a slew of… opinions.  

“The thing is,” Mama continues, “while this is spectacular news, it in itself is not what prompted me to make the call.”

She switches the footage to show statements from Martin and the older Falconers.

As the vids are muted, Mama asks, “Is Zimmermann scheduled to appear yet?”

Martin’s face goes blank. “Jack and Eric are taking well-earned time to recompose themselves.”

Translation: the Falcs have zero clue where the two are, and it’s probably driving management insane.

Well, we’re just as in the dark.

“Completely understandable, and we wish them all the best,” Mama notes. “So, were you serious about what you said in front of the cameras? It is a risky move.”

“Maybe,” concedes Martin. Then her eyes light up with the kind of fiery passion that must have caused opponents to wet themselves while she was in skates. “But this isn’t just PR. When Jack came out to me, I told him the kind of organization that I wanted the Falcs to be. One that went beyond what should be common decency and actually towards raising the bar for the League as a whole.”

A smile graces Mama’s lips. “And that’s why I’ve expressed my interest,” she states before turning to me. “And I will admit that, beyond general morals and principles, I have a personal reason for throwing in my support.

“Derek?”

Shit, it’s my turn already? Granted, I wouldn’t be here if not for the fact that I came willingly.

Still I turn my chill up to maximum in the hope that my jitters don’t show. “I’ll say off the bat that I’m not straight. Bi… Pan… Personally I’m not attached to labels. What matters is that I’ve been out and comfortable for some time now. Helps that Samwell’s welcoming.” A breath. “Hasn’t always been the case, and even if I was interested in going pro — with no disrespect, I’m not — the nature of the League is a major sticky point. Not just about my orientation but also… you know…” I wave my hand around my face for emphasis.

I know Martin gets the point when she lets her composure slip with a grimace and says, “Yeah. I take you’ve read some of the articles focusing on Thirdy. We crack down pretty hard on such behavior at home, but some away venues are more lenient about what’s said on the ice or from the stands unless the media is breathing down their necks.”

“And the media is sometimes the problem,” I add. After Martin gives a weary nod, I get myself back on track: “I have mad respect and support for groups like You Can Play, which I know the Falcs have been active in. However, considering how many times players have been disciplined, it’s clear that speaking out against bigotry reactively can only do so much. So while I do think advocacy groups are important, teams themselves should take the initiative.

“Ever since Jack came out to the Falcs, you and his teammates have shown it’s a real possibility. You’ve been walking the walk; including by making sure his secret was secure until the kiss. And when that happened, all the statements made so far have been matter-of-fact support.

“So while I’m a fan of the Falcs because of Jack, all of this makes me think that the team is a bar setter in all the right ways.”

I might as well been swimming underwater the whole while, considering the way I end my speech with a gasp for air. Mama uses that as a point to enter back in:

“Some may think that just means there is bias affecting my decision. I counter that bias informs a lot of our decisions. In this case, is it a bad thing?” she posits. “Overall, my hope is that our involvement the Falconers isn’t just to promote greater inclusivity in professional sports, but also to start other social programs.

“And while it may be hard to tell, know that I’m not just doing this for PR points.”

If anything, Mama’s taking a risk with this as not all of her clients may approve of her activism.

“Don’t worry about that, Dr. Nurse. If I thought you were just jumping on the publicity bandwagon, I would have told you to wait with the other potential sponsors as we get our bearings straight,” assures Martin. “So let’s just say you’ve had my attention for some time.”

“Excellent! And I must say, it’s not like we don’t already have the perfect symbol for such a partnership.”

To punctuate her statement, Mama pans and zooms the cam to focus in on one of the office’s windows. As if on cue, one of our Peregrines lands on the ledge with a freshly-killed pigeon to feed her fluffy eyasses.

The sight makes Martin bark out a laugh in wide-eyed surprise and delight. “Didn’t expect that. But you’re right; they are quite appropriate. I’m sure Tater would be delighted to incorporate them into FalcTV.”

“Once we finalize this, your team will be welcome here. Which reminds me: Derek, you may go.”

I take the cue to get right up, say my farewells to the two ladies, and make my retreat out of the office. As I close the door behind me, I hear Mama’s next few words before the rest get muffled:

“So… let’s talk business…”